“Madame.” My voice is low and heavy with the weight of not only what she has asked me, but my recent grief. “This is much to take in and not something I have ever entertained as a possibility. Not to mention, my heart is still mourning Margot’s death. May I have some time to decide if I am worthy of your trust and capable of doing such a thing?”
“Oh, fah!” She waves her hand as if shooing a bug. “I would not have asked it of you if I did not know you were capable of it. I am not such a fool as that.”
She will not take no for an answer. If I do not say yes, I will be summarily escorted from court, losing my chance to approach the king with my own intentions.
“Very well. If this is what you ask of me, and what you think is truly best for the crown, of course I will do it.”
She favors me with a warm smile, a smile that is tinged with triumph. However, just because I have told her yes does not mean that I intend to do what she has asked. Or, not in the way that she wishes.
But by the time she figures that out, I will have already accomplished what I came here to do.
Chapter 86
Sybella
had not expected Pierre’s men to make their move so quickly. Their boldness gives new urgency to my plan, and my conversation with the queen has provided the means—and the permission—to implement it.
There is no point in delaying further.
As I head to the door that will take me to the courtyard, I must pass the regent’s office. I slow my steps, debating whether to turn back around if her door is open. She is the last person I wish to see just now.
When I reach the corner before her office, I stop, pulling quickly back.
The seneschal is escorting a girl from the room, a girl I have never seen before. Something catches my eye. It is not the strong, supple grace with which she holds herself, nor the simplicity of her gown. Rather, it is some paradox in her manner—the way her lips and eyes smile politely and say, “Thank you, Madame,” even as her entire body seems to quiver with resentment—an internal struggle that echoes every encounter I’ve ever had with the regent.
The seneschal closes the door behind her, then escorts her in the opposite direction, and I am left free to pass without the regent seeing me.
* * *
The stable yard is full of mounted knights and soldiers who have just arrived, reminding me of how Pierre got into Rennes. I tamp down my growing unease and go in search of Beast.
I find him in the armory, surrounded by swords and axes, knives and pikes. Plate armor is stacked against the wall, piled high on tables, or sitting on racks. There is a sharp tang of metal in the air, accompanied by the scent of the oil used to keep the armor clean. He sits in the middle of it all, head bent over a long sword as he tests the edge. “They have you squiring in the armory now?”
At the sound of my voice, his head snaps up and he shrugs. “It was better than pummeling the louts who rode in and nearly foundered their horses. Besides, sharpening weapons helps me think.”
“Who are they?”
“One of the king’s generals and his retainers, newly returned from Flanders.”
“Is it the one rumored to have knowledge of Anton?”
“Possibly. But I will wait until their horses”—meaning his temper—“recover before asking.” It would be better to tell him my plan when he wasn’t already in an ill humor, but I do not have time to wait.
I run a finger along the flat of the blade he is polishing. “Pierre’s man—the Mouse—paid a visit to our bedroom window last night.”
Beast’s hand grows still, his gaze leaping to mine, his eyes taking on their eerie feral light. “What?”
“He did not get in—did not even try. It was a scouting mission. But it was far sooner than I would have expected.”
Beast sets the sword aside and places his hands carefully on his knees. “I will kill them.”
“We should. And we will. But not while the lawyer is presenting his case against me. Having four of his men go missing would only cause more attention and closer scrutiny.”
“Have you spoken to the queen yet? What did she say?”
“Two things. Pierre’s lawyer told the king that Pierre visited Rennes to ask for his sisters back and was summarily attacked and escorted from the premises without receiving an audience, much less an answer.”
“An outright lie. Surely the queen told him that.”
“She did. But he was not happy with her and she is not certain she can sway him to her favor.”
Beast’s eyes are bleak, for he knows what is coming. “That is not overly hopeful.”
“No. It isn’t. And with Pierre’s enforcers growing bold, I fear we must get Charlotte and Louise out of harm’s way sooner rather than later. They will be safest at the convent.”
He looks away to stare at the wall. “The queen has offered her full support,” I assure him. “Given me permission to use all the tools and manpower she has at her disposal. That includes you and the queen’s guard, as well as Aeva and Tola.”
He swears, then rises to his feet. “Do not ask me to leave you to face this alone, Sybella. I cannot do that. I will not leave you unprotected with so many who wish you harm. That has been your fate all your life.”
His words fill up the space between us and wrap themselves around my heart, squeezing it painfully. I reach up and place my hand on his rough, scarred cheek. “But my sisters are the most vulnerable parts of me. By getting them someplace where Pierre cannot touch them, you are protecting me.”
The anguish and despair in his eyes feels like it comes from my own soul. “But you are my heart,” he whispers. “How can you ask me to leave that behind?”
I lean my forehead against his. “Why do the gods do this to us? Give us choices that wrench the very hearts from our chests?” I whisper. “We always knew this would not be easy. We knew it would take two of us—and all the skills and courage we possess—to stop Pierre.”
He does not argue. There is no point.
I do not tell him how hard it is for me to send him away. How little I relish being left alone among my enemies. But I am not seven anymore. I no longer need anyone to save me, but Charlotte and Louise do. “You once pulled me to safety through a nest of vipers. You are doing so again—only this time safety just happens to be in the opposite direction of where I’ll be.” The smile I send him feels wobbly at the edges.
“And if the king rules in favor of Pierre?” he asks. “What will you do when it is time to produce the girls?”
“I will stall. Claim that they are ill. Then I will run.”
“They will be expecting that. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” It sits poorly to go hide in Brittany at the convent. As does leaving the queen, but the truth is my presence—and that of the girls—brings dangers to her door. If I leave, that will disappear. And she has other loyal attendants. “Maybe I will go to Cognac,” I tell him, the idea coming to me as I speak. “And see if I can call the other initiates into service. They could return to court and take my place at the queen’s side.”
That is it, I realize. When I leave, I will head for Cognac and the only two people in France who can help me.
“When must I go?”
“Soon?” I whisper. His fists clench, not in anger, but with sorrow, determination, and a love so overpowering that it fills the very air around me.
His pulse beats rapidly in his neck as he reaches out to stroke my cheek. When he touches me, all that I have been feeling in the last hours, days, weeks, rushes through me in one giant wave that leaves me lightheaded, dizzy, wanting.
Everything I feel in that moment is so big and overwhelming that it cannot be contained in one body. I grip his head and bring his lips toward mine.
He does not resist. Indeed, I have barely touched him, and then his mouth is everywhere, hungry and warm, kissing my lips, my cheek, my throat, his wide hands coming around my waist, sliding upward a
nd drawing me closer. I open my mouth to him, pressing my hands against his chest, feeling the heat of him and the racing of his heart.
He pulls his mouth from mine. “Sybella.” It is a wish, a vow, a prayer.
I do not know when I will see him again—if I will see him again. I want my body to remember this—the press of his flesh, the cording of his muscles as he holds his strength in check, the desperate hunger of his mouth that is both gentle and demands my very soul.
Wanting the imprint of this moment to stay with me forever, I reach up to unlace the bodice of my gown, slip my arms from my sleeves and press my body along the length of his.
When our skin touches, I am reminded of the Dark Mother and how she causes life to rise up out of our darkest moments. Surely that is true, for the touch of men once brought nothing but shame and despair. But now it brings hope and light, even when I have no reason to believe in either. I wrap my arms more tightly around Beast’s neck until I can no longer be certain where my soul ends and his begins.
Chapter 87
Genevieve
hen I descend into the grand hall for dinner, I am dressed in Perrette du Bois’s best finery. I try to ignore her as she glares daggers at my back, not only for relieving her of her best gown, but for having come so firmly under the personal attention of Madame Regent.
The hall is aglow with candlelight and flames from the fires roaring in the giant fireplaces. Music plays in the background. The king sits at his high table, and I cannot decide if I am sad or relieved that the queen is not in attendance. I would like to see her for myself, at least once. Through the convent, I have served her all these years. I cannot help but feel that if I could see her face, take her measure, I would better understand why she chose to abandon the convent. If it was her choice.
The fact that she is not present confirms my assumption that she and the king have already grown tired of each other’s company—if they ever cared for each other to begin with. It is admittedly less awkward to pursue my designs on the king in her absence.
I am placed with Madame’s other attendants at one of the lower tables. None of them speaks to me much—offended as they are on Perrette’s behalf and threatened by the favor the regent has shown me. Ignoring them, I pretend to be absorbed in the fine food and the entertainment.
In truth, the food is as tasteless to me as dirt, and the music fair gives me a headache. No, not the music, but the din of the voices and laughter of the courtiers. I have been gone from Cognac for less than ten days, but it feels a lifetime ago, and my taste for the pomp and hypocrisy of court life has run dry.
That I actually prefer the raucous and coarse company of the mummers or even Maraud’s mercenary friends should not surprise me. Those are my roots, after all. And these gathered nobles and sycophants cannot see past their own interests or station. The entire spectacle feels as shallow as a poorly dug grave.
The king, alone at his table, is not as subtle in his interest as he should be. Perhaps it is due to boredom—for who wishes to sit alone at the dinner table? While it is intended as a reflection of the king’s status, to someone who was raised such as he was—shut away in a castle with naught but his mother and a few men of mediocre wit or intelligence for company—it would feel far more like a punishment. One more way to announce to the world his loneliness.
Our eyes meet, and I look away. I do not even have to pretend to blush, for my cheeks grow red at having been caught thinking of him thus.
Our exchange of glances is quickly noted by the other ladies in waiting and does nothing to further endear me to them. I can already imagine their plots to inform the regent of this development.
I smile into my goblet. If they are looking for her to intervene, they will be sorely disappointed.
When the final dishes have been cleared, four of the lower tables are removed to make room for dancing. As the first chords strike up, the king rises from his table and makes his way to me. Could he not have at least waited until the third or fourth dance? Or until the dance floor was full of others before approaching?
In a rustle of bows and curtsies, the crowd parts before him, and curious whispers follow in his wake. When he stops in front of me, I curtsy deeply. Without a word, he smiles and takes my hand to lead me to the dance floor. As if by some silent arrangement, other courtiers follow suit, remaining a respectful distance away.
We take our positions, standing side by side. “You look beautiful in that gown.”
I raise my hand to his, our fingers lightly touching. “Your Majesty is too kind,” I demur.
We take three steps forward and rise up on our toes before he speaks again. “I cannot help but hope you are as happy to see me as I am you.”
I glance up at him, my eyes wide with surprise. “But of course, Your Majesty! I am honored that you even remember me, let alone wish to spend time in my company.”
He throws back his head and laughs. For one brief dizzying moment, a different laugh echoes in my ears, one accompanied by dark stubble and white teeth. “Ah, Genevieve.” The king’s voice quickly chases away the memory. “You do yourself a disservice by underestimating the hold you have.” His eyes capture mine again, commanding my attention, his face growing serious.
I avert my gaze. “Your Majesty. Please. You will have the entire court talking.”
The music causes us to step toward each other and bow. He leans in close. “Let them talk. If a king cannot incite his own courtiers to gossip, he is not truly a king.”
The truth in his words causes the corners of my lips to turn up in a reluctant smile. “Touché, Your Majesty.” And then the moves of the dance force us apart; I go to the gentleman on my right and the king to the lady on his left. I ignore my new partner’s open curiosity and focus instead on the movements I must perform.
We change partners twice more until I am once again paired with the king, his hand holding my fingers in a firm grip rather than the light touch dictated by the dance. “Tell me, Genevieve.” His voice is a low murmur. He does not look at me but straight ahead. “If I were to send for you, would you come? You broke my heart once. I do not think I could stand for you to do it again.”
Before I can reply, the music stops and we must all bow and curtsy. As I kneel before him, my gaze flies to his. “Oh, Your Majesty! Surely I could not have broken your heart! I do not think I could bear such a burden. I thought you were simply being kind and chivalrous in paying me such honor.”
The king extends his arm and leads me from the dance floor. “Does that mean you will come?”
I cast my eyes down. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I whisper. “If you send for me, I will come.”
There is a long beat of silence. When I finally look up, he is smiling. He bows deeply and raises my hand to his lips, careful to turn it so that the palm is exposed before kissing it. Then he folds my hand to enclose the kiss.
“I will send for you.” His voice is low and faintly rough with his desire. “You may count on it.”
Chapter 88
Sybella
arly the next morning, before nearly anyone else is up, I bid Charlotte and Louise goodbye. Louise stands near Tephanie, watching with worried eyes as the girl packs a few belongings into a satchel. Charlotte is sitting near the fire, carefully trimming her fingernails with her small knife. It is such a perfect mirror image of what her father used to do that it’s like a fist to my heart. I want to yank the knife from her hand, as if in doing so I can snatch the d’Albret legacy from her slender shoulders.
“But why are we going away? Will Sybella be going too?” Louise asks.
“No, silly,” Charlotte says without looking up. “She is too busy attending to the queen to have time to look after us.”
Her words are another fist to my bruised heart. I have explained it to her. Does she not believe me, or does she simply delight in worrying Louise?
Just then, Charlotte looks up and sees me in the doorway. I hold my finger to my lips and walk silentl
y to Louise, place my hands lightly over her eyes. “Who is speaking ill of the wonderful and magnificent Sybella?” I ask in a low, gruff voice.
She squeals in glee and whirls around, throwing her arms around my waist. “Only Charlotte, and only because she is showing off with her knife.”
I hug her, wishing so much of our lives could be different. That we had oceans of time together. That my duties did not keep me away from her. That my own temperament were better suited to tending children than slaying their foes. But none of that is true, so all I can do is hug her as hard and long as I can when I have the chance.
“It will not be for long, sweeting.” As her face falls, I hurry to explain. “Besides, you are going to visit a princess, a most wise and lovely princess who has a fondness for eating small girls.”
Louise rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be silly. Princesses don’t eat small girls! Ogres do.”
I clap my hand to my forehead. “Of course. That is it. I always get princesses and ogres mixed up. Don’t you?”
She giggles and shakes her head. After a moment: “Are we really going to visit a princess?”
“Yes,” I say, thinking of Annith. “Of a sort. She lives on an island with her darkly handsome consort and her highly skilled handmaidens. Sister Beatriz will want to dress you in fancy clothes and Sister Widona will let you pet and feed the horses. Besides, aren’t you getting tired of this stuffy old castle?”
Louise looks around the room, which, while pleasant, is also spare. “No,” she says simply. Tephanie looks up from her packing and smiles at me.
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