“What else were you to do? How were you to know the letter was a lie? That Angoulême had betrayed both you and the convent?” A deep frown creases her brow. “I still cannot guess what game he plays. After the Duke of Orléans, he is next in line for the throne. Could this be some way of trying to block the marriage or prevent it from producing an heir?”
“I have not been able to see how such a scheme would play out. Besides, as you say, the Duke of Orléans is next in line. Surely it is he and his heirs who would benefit. But either way, isn’t that what they trained us to look for? This sort of scheming and lying?”
She is quiet, considering. “Mayhap. But it is not a skill one can fully master by twelve years of age. Besides, were any of your decisions made out of malice?”
“No!”
“Revenge?”
“No.”
“Then it was not your fault. You did what any number of us would have done in your place. What you were trained to do. Used your judgment and Mortain’s guidance—if he bothered to offer any, which he did far too infrequently. The gods seem to amuse themselves by using us at their whim to achieve their own ends.”
As she speaks, it feels like an invisible bucket of warm water is being gently poured over my head, sending rivulets of gentle heat down my limbs, across my skin, seeping, somehow, into my very bones. My body feels heavy with relaxation, and I want to laugh with relief and cry from the sheer magnitude of it.
Grace. It is one of Father Effram’s words and reminds me of that moment when I first experienced the souls of the dead. First experienced the fullness of Mortain’s gifts.
Except the fullness of this moment is wholly human.
Unsettled by how quickly my body accepts the forgiveness she is giving, how hungry I am for it, I grumble, “Easy for you to say, when you’ve never made such a monstrous mistake.”
A gale of laughter bursts from her, so sudden that she slaps a hand across her mouth lest others should hear. As she laughs mirthlessly into her palm, I cannot help but feel I have just made yet another blunder. In trying to push away the comfort she offered, I have caused her pain, which has never been my intention. And yet, I realize glumly, it is what I do with everyone.
“If you only knew the sheer number and horror of the mistakes I have made,” she finally says, the shadows back in her eyes and darker than before. “The lives I have cost.” She looks bleakly at the wall above my head.
“Surely if my mistakes are not my fault, then neither were yours?” I offer.
Her gaze snaps back down to mine. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mayhap,” I concede. “It would not be the first time. But surely if I am absolved of my crimes for having made the best choice I could with limited knowledge, then that would also apply to you.”
She opens her mouth to argue, and I long to put my fingers to her lips to shush her. But am not quite that brave. I hold up my hand instead. “How old were you?”
“For which mistake?”
“Let’s start with the first one.”
She looks down at the jug in her hand “Ten.”
“So younger even than when I was sent from the convent. And, according to your earlier story, not even aware that you were one of Mortain’s daughters. Was your decision made out of malice?”
She blinks slowly, as if trying to orient her mind to what I am saying. “No.”
“Revenge?” I ask, more softly.
She glares at me, and I am struck again by her beauty. “No.”
“Were you trying to prove yourself?”
“Protection. I was looking for protection.”
The word reminds me of my mother and my aunts, so many of whom spent their early lives looking for that very thing. “Well,” I say crisply. “I cannot think of a single decision a ten-year-old could make while looking for safe harbor that would be anything other than innocent.”
“But—”
“While a child may be able to burn down a farm, if he has not learned the power of flames, how can it truly be his fault?”
“I was playing with fire,” she mutters, not to me, but to whatever ghosts lurk inside her. “But what of when I was old enough to understand its power?”
I stare at her, only barely able to imagine how many horrors she’s endured. “If no one showed you where the bucket was kept, or even how to use it to douse the flames, how can you be expected to simply know such things?”
“I was trying to use the bucket,” she whispers. “I wanted so badly to put out the fire that ravaged our lives.”
“What happened to . . . the bucket?”
“It was consumed by the flames.” Her words fall softly into the silence, but fill it almost beyond bearing.
“Not your fault,” I say firmly. “A tragedy that was simply playing itself out.”
She holds my gaze, before finally closing her eyes. For a moment, I imagine I hear her heart beating. Tha-bump, tha-bump. A tendril of panic tries to rise up, but she is so clearly not dead that I beat it back down. Then, just as quickly, the sound is gone, and I can see the rigidness of her body melt away. When she opens her eyes, the darkness is only shadows, the sort found in any darkened room, and her face is younger somehow, yet older as well. As if she has gained both wisdom as well as her lost innocence.
She sighs noisily. “Very well. You win. It is neither of our faults. It is both or nothing.”
Feeling as if I am holding something more fragile than a spider’s web, I whisper, “Agreed.”
Chapter 38
Sybella
After two long weeks of ambling through every village, town, and city between Plessis and Paris, we reach Saint-Denis, just outside Paris, where the coronation is to take place. At long last the day has come, and as I stand on the platform erected in the choir of the basilica, I study the twenty-two bishops in attendance, contemplating the ones I would like to kill. It is the most unholy of thoughts to have in such a place, but it is also the only thing I can do to keep myself from pointedly glaring at the regent.
She is holding the long satin train of the queen’s gown while the cardinal archbishop of Bordeaux says the coronation mass. It is supposed to be a gesture of honor and support, but that is not how the regent means it. Rather than a sign of her fealty, it is one meant to intimidate and crowd. It is the same tactic used by my father and Pierre when silent intimidation was called for. If I had possessed any doubt, it disappeared when Madame appeared beside the queen dressed in cloth of gold, an attempt to overshadow the queen’s modest white gown.
It does not work. The light pouring in from the high-arched beams of the cathedral cast the queen in a nearly ethereal light. She is dressed simply, although elegantly. Her long mink-colored hair falls in two braids at her shoulders, and her face shines with youthful beauty, deep devotion, and the solemnity of the occasion. Even the somewhat ugly crown of France that is too large for her does not mar the import of the moment. Indeed, it adds to it as the Duke of Orléans silently holds it in place for her, even going so far as to lower it when she kneels. It adds greatly to the charm of the child queen, and no amount of gold the regent wears will detract from that.
Even so, my body is tensed, and I keep expecting the regent to step forward and call a halt to the ceremony. The weight of my knives is heavy against my wrists as I wonder what I would do if that happened.
Since it is not wise to stare too long, I resume contemplating the murder of the Bishop of Albi and the king’s confessor. They continue to whisper poison in the king’s ear. We must find some way to neutralize their influence before any of their plans come to fruition. I long to look among the lesser court for Gen, but refrain. For all that I hate that be-damned chain she is wearing, she is our best access to the king. Even though the queen is back in his good graces, he greatly limits the scope of their interaction.
When at last the cardinal daubs the queen’s brow with oil, places the scepter of France in her right hand, and pronounces her the queen of Fr
ance, something deep inside me finally eases. The queen looks up just then, and our gazes meet. She is queen—in the eyes of the Church and France. It is a holy anointing of her rights and duties under the auspices of the Church, and therefore no longer something political, but an authority derived from God Himself. She will be far harder to cast aside now. If that is what the regent was planning.
When we finally step outside the basilica, every street, every corner, every doorway of the city is packed with people, and every one of them lifts their voice to cheer the new queen of France.
The regent looks as if she has just taken a bite from a wormy apple. That is when I indulge in my first smile of the day.
Chapter 39
Maraud
By the time they drew near Paris, four weeks of rain had finally cooled Maraud’s temper. That and being out of the mud. He’d decided he was no longer mad about the poisoning incidents. Indignant, yes. Mad, no. Especially as the first time was in self-defense, when he’d tried to overpower her, and the second time had been a farce all along. And the third, well, it had been her misdirected effort to save him from himself.
Most of the other things that had angered him were about wounded pride. That she’d got the jump on him—twice. That she’d saved his life—twice. The last time in particular didn’t sit well. He’d told her to leave, but she’d ignored him and come back, giving him the precious minutes he needed for the others to arrive.
He had needed her help.
All of these occasions had one thing in common: Maraud not seeing her as an equal. He’d told himself that he knew better—knew what was best.
And he’d been wrong.
His hand clenched around the glass vial as he realized how rutting stupid he was. Why would she trust him? A prisoner, who tried to overpower her. A man whose family had betrayed the duchess. And then he’d gone and tried to make her fit into his plan—essentially telling her that his needs were more important than hers. Saints, he was an idiot. Three times an idiot.
Would she still be at court? Or would she have concluded her business and be long gone?
Had she managed to save the innocents she’d been so worried about? He hoped so.
Up ahead, Jaspar whistled, and reined in his horse. Maraud shoved the vial into the leather pouch at his waist, then pulled alongside him to survey the city ahead—Saint-Denis.
Even from their vantage point he could hear the music of celebration and the cheers of the solid mass of people filling the streets. A small cluster of figures stood on the steps of the basilica. Maraud could make out the king and queen, but only because of the crowns on their heads. Everyone else was so far away as to be indistinguishable from one another. Even Cassel’s bulk was disguised by the distance. But he was here. Maraud felt it in his bones.
“The watch captain said the royal party will ride to Paris first thing in the morning,” Jaspar reported. “A processional to introduce the new queen to her people. She’ll be accompanied by the entire court. If Cassel is with her, you’ll have a chance to see him then.”
Maraud sighed and eyed the crowd of revelers still gamboling through the narrow streets. “Do you think there is any lodging to be had for the night?”
Andry snorted. “Probably not. We’ll be lucky to find a stable to sleep in.”
“Better’n mud,” Tassin muttered.
Chapter 40
The hardest part was getting across the damned bridge. There were more people clogging the streets of Paris than there were fish in the sea. Boats filled the river, all clustering near the island like piglets sucking on teats. They perched on top of the rooftops of the houses that lined both sides of the bridge that led to Notre Dame, leaning out of the windows and gathering in the doorways, spilling out onto the bridge and blocking the way. The nobler families that lived in the elegant storied houses were all likely waiting at the cathedral, although a few seemed to be having parties and were perched on windowsills to watch. Even the servants seemed to have abandoned their duties and puddled around the houses like voluminous skirts.
“There’s no way a royal procession can get through this crowd,” Jaspar muttered.
“Maybe they’ll part like the Red Sea when they get here,” Maraud said. It was one big field of people, none of them with the sense God gave a sheep. They just stood there, milling and gawking. How they expected the royal party to get through was anyone’s guess. He tried to use his elbows to force a path, but the crowd was implacable, and they were stuck in it as it slowly oozed toward Notre Dame. Maraud felt swallowed by the whole of it, almost like being swallowed by the mummer’s dance.
Only this time with more stinking and shoving.
They finally popped through the final throng of bystanders on the bridge, only to find the streets of the island itself just as crowded.
“Just keep moving toward the spire,” Andry said.
When they drew nearer the cathedral, Maraud used his elbows again to work to the edges, then broke free at last. The others followed in his wake, stumbling out behind him.
The square was bursting with so much color and life that it momentarily dazzled his eyes. Vibrant tapestries, boughs of greenery, and cartloads of flowers—even in winter!—filled every available space not taken up by the stone cathedral. Maraud had seen the cathedral only once before, and it seemed even more impressive now with its tall spires reaching toward the heavens for what seemed like miles.
“We going to stand here like rocks in a stream?” Tassin barely spared the cathedral a glance.
“Never realized how much I hated crowds,” Jaspar muttered.
“I prefer the mud,” Andry said. “It smelled better.”
People lined both sides of the street, sitting in the gutters and hanging from windows and ledges. A wooden platform had been built near the cathedral—a stage of sorts, with a tall mechanical contrivance nearby. “We can sit at the base of that tower and see the entire square.” Even better, the legs would offer some cover if Maraud needed to hide his face.
Nearly two hours later, a roar started up on the bridge. Maraud hopped up and climbed a few feet on the wooden tower. The banners on the bridge were unfurling, and voices cheered. His heart beat faster. The carefully banked ember that lurked deep in his belly flared to life, and his jaw tightened with anticipation.
“They’re coming,” he called down to the others.
Valine shielded her eyes and looked up at him. “Aren’t you worried Cassel will spot you?”
“He’s too arrogant to pay attention to the crowd. And if he does, I have this.” He thumped the wooden beam he was clinging to.
Valine nudged his boot with her elbow and pointed to his right. “He might not bother with the crowd, but will he stop to watch the play?”
Maraud looked to the right of the platform, where costumed players scrambled in a flurry of last-minute preparations. He half expected to see Rollo or Jacquette grinning at him, but these men were town fathers and guild members rather than mummers. “We won’t be onstage.”
The crowd around the cathedral erupted in a deafening cheer. The procession had arrived. Serving as the queen’s honor guard, officers of the city and members of parliament rode their mounts as if they were royalty and not she, but the crowd’s noise was so loud he couldn’t even hear their horses’ hooves on the cobbles. Across the square, an older woman collapsed dramatically into the arms of her friends.
Maraud cocked an eyebrow at Valine and leaned in close so she could hear. “You going to faint when you see her?”
She shoved her elbow into his ribs so hard that he grunted. By the time he was upright again, the queen’s litter had rounded the corner. Maraud studied her escort, searching out the big ones with a military bearing.
Maraud saw General Cassel the moment he emerged in the square, as if his need for justice was so great that it could sniff the man out like a hound.
Jaspar nudged his shoulder. Maraud nodded without taking his eyes from the general. He hadn’t changed. Still
the same ugly, arrogant bastard. Still surveying the world around him as if he were a wolf trying to decide which sheep to eat next. No, not a wolf. They killed only out of need. Cassel was more like one of the big hunting cats that chose quarry just to maim and torture for their own amusement.
The memory of the general’s face, his arm as it swung toward Ives flashed brightly. Found you, you great big hairy bastard. I’m coming for you.
The tower he was leaning against began to rumble—so close and deep that he felt it in his gut—as great gears and chains began to move within it. He leapt back, head tilted upward. A man dressed as Peace began descending from the sky—as if from heaven itself. On the stage below waited a man dressed as War. The crowd watched in awed silence. Once low enough that he could leap from the contrivance onto the stage, Peace seized War by the throat and drove a sword through his heart, killing him on the spot.
The crowd roared its approval, and the queen smiled prettily. Maraud was the only one not smiling. He was too busy planning the moment when he could do the same to Cassel.
As the actors playing France and Brittany embraced, trumpets blared and the crowd in the square erupted into renewed cheers. Even the queen—his queen—clapped her hands in delight.
When the cheering finally subsided, she waved once more, then the procession moved across the square to the palace. The crowd surged forward, nearly cutting her off from her own attendants, who followed along behind her. Close to twenty ladies in waiting rode behind the queen’s litter, their brightly colored gowns brilliant in the sun. A shaft of sunlight sparkled off a woman’s silver necklace, nearly blinding him. As he blinked the dark spots from his vision, she turned to stare at the tower that had so miraculously lowered Peace. Her eyes were wide with wonder. Golden brown eyes that made his breath catch in his throat.
Lucinda. She was still at court.
Maraud waited until she, reluctantly it seemed to him, hurried to catch up to the others, then fell into step beside Valine, and allowed the dispersing crowd to separate them from the others. Not so much that they’d never find each other, but enough that they couldn’t hear every word he said to Valine. “I need you to do something for me.”
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