“There were none,” I say tightly. “D’Albret does not leave survivors.”
“No, but each of the dying soldiers bore some form of the marque. And the men I saw marqued when I was a child—none was killed by another’s hand. I believe the marque appears when a man’s death is in sight, and that includes a death at our hands. The mistake I think the convent has made is about the nature of those marques. They are merely reflections of what will happen, not commands to act.”
“Does the abbess know this?”
“I do not know,” Ismae says slowly. “I cannot tell. Although she was most angry when I suggested such an idea to her. Now sleep. Morning will come soon enough.” She comes over to the bed, leans down, and presses a kiss on my brow. “Everything I have told you about Mortain is true. Do not doubt it.” And then she is gone, and I am left with my entire world turned upside down.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
EVEN WITH THE DRAFT ISMAE prepared, my sleep is fitful and restless. I am too consumed with reciting all that she has just told me, my mind scrambling to recast the world—and my role in it.
I am not certain I believe her, for Ismae was always wont to see Mortain and the convent in the best possible light. Even so, it has given my mind much to gnaw on.
When I wake, my head is so thick and woolly that it takes a moment for me to realize that someone is knocking. I fight my way out of the tangle of covers, get to my feet, and stumble to the door. I open it an inch and peek out. A liveried page awaits. To his credit, his eyes drift to my disheveled appearance only once before returning to my face and staying there. “The duchess cordially invites you to join her at your earliest convenience in her solar, demoiselle.”
“Very well. Tell her I will be there shortly.”
The lad gives a sprightly bow. Before he can scamper off, I ask him to send a maidservant to attend me.
The summons has chased the last cobwebs of sleep from my mind as I worry what the duchess wishes of me. Will she ban me from her court, now that she knows of my heritage? Or will she try to draw more of my secrets from me?
And if so, what will I tell her? For she, more than anyone, has a full right to know both the doings of her most traitorous subject and the nature of this man some would have her marry.
Whatever she wishes, it will most likely be just she and her ladies in waiting in the solar, so I will not have to face Beast just yet. While Ismae was most forgiving, my family has not harmed her or those she loved in any way. Beast’s betrayal at my hand goes much deeper than a secret not shared between childhood friends.
By the time the maid arrives, I have already washed with the water remaining in the ewer, the coldness of it helping to restore my wits. I slip into the second of the gowns Ismae has lent me, a stark, simple black silk with severe lines. I settle my heavy garnet and gold crucifix on the thick chain around my waist and consider myself ready. At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.
The maid herself leads me to the duchess’s solar, which is two floors up from my own chamber. She murmurs my name to the sentry on duty, who nods and opens the door, announcing me.
“Come in!” the duchess’s young voice calls out. Cautiously, I step into the room, blinking at all the golden sunlight spilling in through the mullioned windows.
The duchess is sitting near a couch, surrounded by three ladies in waiting. As they eye me furtively, I cannot help but wonder if news of my parentage has traveled to their delicate ears. Or is the council treating it as a secret to be guarded?
A young girl, no more than ten years of age, reclines on the couch, looking fragile and wan.
“Lady Sybella!” The duchess waves her hand at me. I step farther into the room, pleased that she has not used my last name. As I sink into a deep curtsy, I comfort myself that she has most likely not brought me here to censure me in front of her younger sister.
“Come. Sit with us.” She pats the empty chair between herself and the couch, and I realize that this summons is an invitation. An open declaration of acceptance, and I am humbled by this great kindness she is showing me.
“But of course, Your Grace.”
I ignore the glances of her ladies and cross to the chair the duchess indicates. As I sit down, the duchess gives me another smile. “I had thought to invite you to stitch with us, then realized you probably did not think to pack your embroidery silks when you left Nantes.”
I smile at her gentle joke. “No, Your Grace. I did not.”
One of the ladies leans forward, her brow creased. “How did you find Nantes, my lady?”
The duchess looks at her attendant and shakes her head with a glance in the young girl’s direction. The woman nods in understanding.
“It is as magnificent as ever, a true testament to the house of Montfort,” I say, and the duchess relaxes slightly.
“Demoiselle, I do not think you have met my sister before. Isabeau, dear, this is the Lady Sybella, a great ally of ours.”
Her words cause a blush to rise to my cheeks—I, who never blush—and I turn to properly greet her sister. The child’s skin looks nearly translucent, and her large eyes peer out of her pale, drawn face. And her heart—ah, her heart is beating slowly, weakly, as if it may give up at any moment. She reminds me wholly of my younger sister Louise, who also battles fragile health. Once again I am grateful that both my sisters are tucked away in one of our father’s most remote holdings, far from his political scheming and influence.
Not welcoming all the painful memories that the young princess stirs, I harden my heart against her, but in the end, she is so small and weak and charming, I cannot keep myself from liking her. Her embroidery sits forgotten in her lap, and she plucks at her bodice, as if she finds it difficult to breathe. To distract her, I beg a length of scarlet embroidery silk from the duchess, then busy my fingers.
My action immediately catches Isabeau’s attention. “What are you doing, my lady?” She pokes her nose forward to see better.
“I am making a cat’s cradle, a puzzle of thread.” A few more twists of my fingers and the red thread is shaped like a trestle bridge. The princess’s face brightens and her mouth forms a small O of delight.
“Take your hands and pinch where the threads cross on each side,” I tell her.
She glances at the duchess, who nods her head in permission, then reaches out with two slim fingers and hesitatingly pinches the crossed threads. “Ready now?” I ask.
She glances up at me, then back down at the threads. She nods. “Pinch hard,” I say, “pull your hands out to the side, then bring them slowly back in and under my own.”
Biting her lip in concentration, Isabeau does as I instruct. It is clumsy and awkward, but when she is finished, she has transferred the cat’s cradle to her own small hands, and her face flushes with triumph and delight.
“Oh, well done,” murmurs the duchess.
I smile at Isabeau, who smiles back. She is no longer plucking at her bodice, and her heart is beating a little more steadily. Thus it was with Louise as well. Her own illness made her anxious, which in turn made her feel worse. It comes over me with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer that I may very well never see Louise or Charlotte again. Not after betraying d’Albret.
“Demoiselle?” the duchess asks, leaning forward with her brows pinched in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just trying to remember another trick with the string.” I force all thoughts of my sisters back into the small, cramped box deep in my heart, bind it once again with chains, and lock it tight.
I spend the next hour teaching Isabeau how to do the trick while the duchess talks softly with her ladies. Unobserved, I try to note each of them and take her measure. How long has the duchess known them? How loyal to her are they? I do not recognize any of them from Guérande, which suggests they have been culled from Rennes’s noble families. Let us hope they are more loyal than her other attendants and retainers have been.
They in turn watch me, their glances like sma
ll, biting insects. I cannot tell if it is mere curiosity or if there is knowledge and censure in their gaze.
When it is time for dinner, the ladies put away their embroidery. Isabeau is being allowed to attend tonight, for the duchess has agreed to a performance by minstrels that she thinks her young sister will enjoy.
We leave the solar, and the duchess has one of the other ladies escort Isabeau while she herself walks next to me. Her steps slow somewhat, and I must alter my pace so I do not run ahead and leave her trailing behind. When no one is close enough to hear, she leans toward me slightly. “Demoiselle, I want you to know that I thank you for your sacrifice, for to go against your family, no matter how justified, is no easy thing. I also want you to know that I do not doubt a single word you have told us. Indeed, it aligns precisely with what my lord brother and I have long felt. I am only sorry that you have had to learn this knowledge firsthand.” With that, she squeezes my arm gently, then turns the talk to the minstrels and what she has heard of their talents. I hear nothing she says; I am too busy holding tight this small nugget of trust she has granted me.
While the great hall in Rennes is smaller than that of Nantes, it is every bit as opulent. The rich carved paneling is decorated heavily with thick, brilliant tapestries, and the room is alight with the glow of scores of candles. The mingled scent of rose, civet, cloves, and ambergris hangs heavy in the air, and I feel the beating of a dozen hearts. It is, in every sense of the word, an assault upon my senses. Even worse, everyone in the room is infected with high spirits, and the guests’ jubilant manner makes me uneasy. It is unwise for them to be so very happy, for the gods will feel the need to humble us.
The first thing I do is look for Beast, but the ugly oaf is not here. My entire body sags in relief, for I did not look forward to an entire evening spent trying to ignore his wrath. Not to mention I’m fairly certain his continuing fury would blister my skin.
The rest of the council is here, however. The abbess and the bishop have their heads together, whispering. As if feeling my gaze, the abbess glances up and gives me a cool nod. I dip a curtsy but do not go to her.
The earnest Captain Dunois is deep in conversation with the chancellor, his heavy, furrowed brow making him look even more like a bear. Wanting to test his reaction to me now that he knows who I am, I drift closer.
When he sees me, he nods a distracted greeting. Or perhaps it is a cool greeting, like the abbess’s, a way to discourage my approach. I do not know him well enough to say. While I do not know Chancellor Montauban any better, there is no mistaking the distaste in his gaze. He makes no effort to hide it.
As I turn away from them, I see a small, hunched figure hovering just outside the doorway. It is Yannic, whom Beast has no doubt sent to spy on my movements.
Furious, I turn and search the hall, looking for someone I can attach myself to and prove that I am not moping over him. Nor am I the pariah he no doubts wishes me to be.
The duchess’s cousin Jean de Chalon is but a few paces from me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, which surprises me somewhat, as the last time we were together he appeared most distant and guarded. But he is handsome and titled and will make a good story for Yannic to carry back to his master. I smile at Chalon, a smile filled with more mystery than sparkle, for he is not a man to be lured with simple wiles.
He draws closer and bows. “You look lonely, demoiselle.”
“Ah, not lonely, my lord. Simply discerning in the company I keep.”
“A lady after my own heart, then.” He snags a goblet of wine from a passing page and hands it to me. As I take it, I let my fingers brush against his, and I feel his pulse flare with interest.
I pray that Yannic is watching all this, for it is far too much effort if he is not.
Chalon eyes me hungrily, and he is not an unattractive man. Tall, lithely muscled, and with a graceful arrogance that one expects from a prince. But looking at him, flirting with him, I feel . . . nothing. It is cruel of me to use him this way, for I do not desire his affection, simply his attention, and that only long enough to make an impression on Yannic. I murmur inanities a moment longer, then check to be certain Beast’s little squire is watching. But he is gone, and at last I can bring this game to a close, for Chalon is too smooth and tame and far too pretty a creature to hold my interest.
The only other pleasure to be had from the evening is watching young Isabeau and her sweet, uncomplicated joy in the music. Her hands are clasped, her eyes bright. But as I watch her, I am again reminded of Louise and Charlotte and how very much I miss them. I have not seen them in nearly a year, not since my terror over their safety forced me to thrust them from my heart, from my mind.
Isabeau is a painful reminder of everything I have had to give up, all that I have lost. Even though the room is full of people, I feel suddenly surrounded by a moat of loneliness. I cast about, looking for Ismae, the one friend I have in this accursed place, but she has left the duchess’s side and is grabbing a quiet moment with Duval. And while I do not begrudge her the love she has found, I am also filled with envy, for I know such a chance is lost to me.
Chapter Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING I AM summoned to yet another council meeting, which makes me uneasy, for the only business the council has with me is to grill me further on my time in d’Albret’s household. Not to mention I am still filled with dread at having to see Beast. I would rather do anything else than face the accusations in his eyes: suffer one of the abbess’s tongue lashings, play one of Julian’s sordid games, even subject myself to one of d’Albret’s punishments. But although I am many things, a coward is not one of them. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and enter the room with my head held high. Leaping from the barbicans back in Nantes would have taken less courage.
Beast’s face is calm, and a polite smile hovers on his lips, but his eyes burn with the light blue of a fire’s hottest flame, and the look he gives me has all the force of a physical blow. I smile vaguely at him, then turn to the others.
It is the same advisors as before. They even sit in the same places, except for the abbess, who is now seated at the table rather than lurking in the corner of the room.
“And here is Lady Sybella.” The duchess’s voice is warm and welcoming and gives me some small measure of courage as I take my seat.
“I’m afraid the latest news is dire,” Duval says. “The French are on the march. They have taken Guingamp and Moncontour.”
The duchess grips the arms of her chair, her fingers turning white. “And the casualties?”
“From all I can determine, the French did not meet with much organized resistance. The local burghers, worried about the town, quickly handed it over, and the small pockets of protest were easily dealt with.”
The duchess stares unseeing into the distance. “They are so close!” she says. “What of the English troops? Are they close as well?”
“More bad news, I’m afraid.” Duval’s voice is grim. “A series of storms off the coast of Morlaix has kept the English ships from landing. Those six thousand troops will be delayed.”
“How long will it take the British troops to arrive in Rennes once they have reached the coast?”
“At least a week, Your Grace.”
“Is there any sign the French will attack before then?”
Duval answers with a shrug. “It is hard to say. They seem to be holding just inside our border and are sending out sorties and small scouting parties, nothing more. Except for their attack on Ancenis and the occasional pillaging for food, there have been no reports of fighting.”
Captain Dunois taps his finger on his chin. “What are they waiting for? I wonder.”
“For us to break the Treaty of Verger, is all I can surmise,” Duval says. “We have had much acrimony between the French regent and our own politics, but we have honored the dictates of the treaty. At least openly,” he adds with a rakish grin.
“Do you think they know of our negotiations wi
th the Holy Roman emperor?” The duchess’s brow is furrowed with concern.
Duval considers. “Suspect it, yes. But do they know? I do not think that they do. If they had actual knowledge of the betrothal agreement, they would have used that to justify an attack by now.”
“True enough,” Captain Dunois agrees. “I suppose it is too much to hope for that if Count d’Albret decides to march on Rennes, he will run into the French and they will eliminate each other.”
Duval gives a rueful smile. “Would that we were so lucky.” He pauses to look at his hands, then meets his sister’s gaze full on. “It is said that bad news arrives in threes, Your Grace.” Looking as if he could happily commit murder, Duval delivers the final blow. “We have received a letter from Count d’Albret.”
All eyes in the room turn to me. I ignore the sharp sting of their regard and concentrate wholly on Duval and the duchess, as if we are having a private conversation. “Does he know Beast is here?” I ask.
“Not that he indicates. The purpose of the letter was to ask that the duchess reconsider honoring their marriage agreement, else he will be forced to do something she will not like.”
“Besiege the city,” I whisper.
Duval nods. “He does not come out and say so, but that is my assumption as well.”
The duchess, who has gone pale at this news, visibly gathers herself. “What of the Holy Roman emperor? Has he received word of how dire our plight?”
“He has. He will send two auxiliaries to aid us.” Duval’s voice is drier than high summer.
“Two auxiliaries?” Captain Dunois says. “Is he serious? So few, and not even professional soldiers?”
“I’m afraid so. He is also suggesting that we perform the marriage ceremony by proxy in order to get the thing done.”
Jean de Chalon shifts uneasily in his chair; it is his overlord they are speaking of, and perhaps he feels his loyalties are being stretched thin. “I am sure he is doing all that he can. He is much besieged by his war with Hungary.”
Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2) Page 22