“There was more to our agreement.”
“No there wasn’t. Brittany belongs to France now.”
“It was rightfully promised to my father.”
I keep expecting the old fear to come rushing at me, but it does not. I am genuinely curious who will win this battle of wills.
When the regent speaks, her tone is more conciliatory. “Would one hundred thousand gold crowns help ease the pain of that broken promise?”
I can practically hear the wheels of Pierre’s brain calculating his options. “If it must,” he finally says.
“It must. Now leave. And do not approach me directly again.”
The door opens just then, the light from their lantern bright amongst all the darkness. It takes them a moment to see me. When they do, an intricate moment of silence follows.
The regent speaks first, her voice tinged with relish. “Are you not going to greet your brother, who has come all this way for the festivities?”
Beside her, Pierre watches me, his face hidden by the shadows thrown off by the lantern.
“No,” I say simply. “I do not think I will. I would rather he wasn’t here at all.”
She clicks her tongue. “Such unwelcoming words from a sister.”
I fold my arms, considering her. “Has it ever occurred to you there’s a reason I wish to avoid him? Wished for my sisters to avoid him?”
“What possible reason could justify the ways you have cast aside your familial duty?”
At first I think she is simply prevaricating, but as I study her more closely, I realize she is deeply serious.
Pierre chooses that moment to intervene. “Thank you, Madame, but I do not wish to pull you into our family’s disputes.”
I nearly laugh. He has pulled her in as thoroughly as a snake swallowing a lizard.
“Of course not,” the regent says. “I must get back to the festivities anyway.” She crosses the long vestibule and disappears up the staircase.
As Pierre walks toward me, I savor the heat of the pebble against my thigh and realize I am no longer afraid of him. When he is close enough, he takes my arm in his. The scar across the back of his hand has not healed well. “If you’d wanted to see me so badly, you need only have written. It wasn’t necessary to kill five—no six—of my men to summon me. If you want my attention, you have only to ask for it.” He has changed, I realize. Grown more subtle. He lifts his hand, as if intending to touch my cheek. Curious, I let him.
His fingers are cool and dry, and I feel no fear, no revulsion, no doubt. Only fury. But a quiet fury that burns as hotly as the pebble at my leg. “My goal was not to rouse your interest, but to keep our sisters safe from the men you sent for them.”
His hand falls from my face. “They are no more ruthless than you. Indeed, that is why I sent them. I needed men who could get past you. But once again, I underestimated your cunning.” He leans forward and brings his mouth closer to my ear. “You have been in France for what—two months now?—and have killed six men.” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “That I know of.” He shakes his head in true admiration, something I have never seen on his face. “The d’Albret blood has never flowed stronger than it does in you. Surely you recognize that now.”
Once, those words would have grated on me like a rasp on soft wood. All my life my family, my brothers, the entire be-damned French court, have tried to define my darkness for me.
“Come home,” he whispers. “To your rightful place. If we combine our forces, we will be unstoppable. Your dark talents are wasted here.”
Definitely more subtle. This is no threat, but him offering me the most advantageous of opportunities. “I could even let you raise our sisters and have a say in their marriage arrangements.”
As I stare into Pierre’s eyes, I finally understand that I am not as dark and ruthless as he is. I am far darker and more powerful than he could ever be.
A knowledge both primitive and true rises up from deep within me, and I feel the power of the Dark Mother fill me. Understand in my bones that while I have been broken and beaten and beyond despair, I have also rebuilt myself and have risen from the ashes of my own funeral pyre.
“You are mistaken. Not a single drop of d’Albret blood flows in my veins. I was sired by the god of death, not your puling father. For the last six years, I have trained in Mortain’s arts. So while I know more ways to kill a man than you, it has nothing to do with being a d’Albret and everything to do with being the daughter of Death.”
Pierre stares at me a long moment, his face blank with incomprehension before it grows pale. “You lie.”
I smile, genuinely amused. “That is what children tell themselves to avoid an unpleasant truth. Ask how I was able to disarm you and your two soldiers in the garden alone. How was I able to kill four of your most ruthless men? Or the assassin you sent for me? Or lure Fremin to his death in such a way that all have accepted it as an accident?”
His heart beats fast with fear. “I was there when you were born—sitting right outside the chamber. I heard your first mewling cries, saw your wrinkled red face.”
“Ah, but were you in my mother’s bedchamber nine months before? No, of course you weren’t.” I lean closer, as if whispering a confidence. “I know it is upsetting to think of your father being cuckolded, for if it can happen to him, it can certainly happen to you. But at least take comfort in the knowledge that he was cuckolded by Death and not some simpering courtier.”
It is only when I see the truth of my words finally sink in, see the fear that widens his eyes, that I turn and walk away.
Chapter 49
The sense of power I feel does not leave me, not even when, the next day, I find myself before the king.
His audience chamber is an enormous room with towering ceilings, meant to hold crowds of petitioners and courtiers as they watch the king of France hear their pleas, hand down his proclamations, and mete out justice. But this morning, the room is empty of all but a small handful of the king’s closest advisors, the ones I have come to know all too well. General Cassel stands behind the king on his left, while his confessor is to his right. The regent, I am happy to note, has been relegated to a position farther down, standing with the bishops. From the corner of my eye I glimpse the humble brown of Father Effram’s robes among all the snowy white and scarlet, and wonder how he gained a seat at this table.
“Sister, dearest!” Pierre breaks away from the others, coming forward to greet me when I am only halfway to the dais. He takes my hands in his, and I stare pointedly at the cut on the back of his hand and smile.
His pulse quickens in anger.
“When your brother heard of what had befallen his men, he became most worried on your behalf, Lady Sybella,” the king says. “He wished to assure himself of your safety.” The king looks both pleased and relieved, as if the world has once more been reordered to his liking.
“Indeed.” Pierre squeezes my hands in what looks like an affectionate gesture, but the grip grinds my bones together painfully. “I had to see for myself that you were alive and well.”
I tilt my head, as if perplexed. “But, brother, we saw each other last night, at the coronation ball. Right after you had spoken with the regent.” Something flickers in Pierre’s eyes—fear? Unease?
Before he can say anything, the Bishop of Albi speaks. “Your Majesty, surely Viscount d’Albret’s concern for his sister can ease all the misgivings she expressed regarding Monsieur Fremin and his men before they disappeared.”
With his back still to the others, Pierre asks, “And what misgivings would those be?” His voice is normal, controlled, but his gaze is hot with fury.
“She thought your men afraid to bring you ill news,” the king explains, watching us both closely.
“Ah, in that she may have been correct. I do not tolerate failure, not when my sisters’ safety is concerned.”
“If you are so concerned for our safety, why have you not asked after our younger sisters?”
The king shifts on his throne, face grown thunderous, and the entire room pauses in stunned silence. “We believe Monsieur Fremin’s men took the girls.”
“And I believe my sister is behind this,” Pierre says quietly.
I laugh, surprising everyone. “How, brother dear? I have been here the entire time. I have never left.” Before he can answer, I take a step toward him, serious once more. “Tell me. Did you know which men Monsieur Fremin had chosen to travel with him on this business of yours?”
Unease flickers across Pierre’s face. “It was a task I delegated to him. I did not need a list of his traveling companions and supplies.”
“So you did not know he had chosen four of your most foul, vicious men to escort us home? Men no true brother would ever want his sisters near?”
“I already said that I did not.”
I shake my head, as if amused. “Come now, brother. You are among friends.” I glance pointedly at the regent. “You may tell everyone why you are really here.”
Pierre’s eyes widen in faint alarm as he realizes I heard the conversation last night. The room falls silent with anticipation. I turn to the king. “Madame Regent and Pierre are old friends, Your Majesty. They have been since he betrayed the queen and handed the city of Nantes over to your sister.” The king’s jaw flexes. Gen is right. He hates that she did so without consulting him. Allowed him to think they had been cheering him as their rightful king rather than through an act of betrayal.
“In fact,” I continue, “she is so very fond of him that she agreed to pay him one hundred thousand gold crowns.”
“Why?” The words explode from the king as his gaze flies to his sister.
“To compensate him for the loss of Brittany, something my brother still believes rightfully belonged to his father.” I do not know whose face has grown paler—the regent’s or Pierre’s.
“Your Majesty.” Interesting that General Cassel decides to step into the fray. “These actions the girl speaks of are the tactics of war.”
“We were not at war.” The king’s voice is cool. “The betrothal agreement had been signed. The marriage taken place. The house d’Albret is owed nothing. It is not our fault the late duke handed out false promises like alms.”
I make no attempt to hide my scorn for the general. “I am surprised to learn that is how you prefer to win wars. By throwing gold at them. Perhaps you are not as fine a tactician as your reputation would have others believe. Surely anyone can throw gold at an enemy to make him go away. Indeed, I have always thought it more of a woman’s tactic.” I glance at the regent.
The thundering of Cassel’s enraged heart is so loud it’s a wonder not everyone can hear it.
The king shifts in his chair, his distaste plain on his face. “I have to agree. There is little honor in that.”
“Easy to say now, when you now sit atop the throne that we secured for you,” the regent says.
Another silence, this one a clash between the resentments of the two siblings. That is when I step in for the killing blow. “But the gold is not the whole of it, Your Majesty. According to their agreement, she is in his debt for failing to provide the successful ambush she’d promised him.”
The king’s face is awash in incomprehension—until it is not. His head whips back to his sister. “You were behind that?” he asks at the exact same moment that Pierre proclaims, “I had nothing to do with that. Nothing!”
In the deafening silence, I can hear all their hearts beating—rapid with excitement or anger or apprehension. The king clenches the arms of his throne and leans forward. “Is this true, Madame?”
“Of course not,” she says lightly. “Why would I set up such an elaborate scheme to return his sisters with no gain for myself or the crown?”
Why indeed? I think, and the king’s eyes narrow at the word crown.
“Well, then, you are either lying to Pierre or you are lying to the king. I would think long and hard on which it is,” I tell her. Then I address Pierre. “And, brother, I have to wonder why you would have reason to ambush the queen’s traveling party. Was it to insist she marry our father? Insist she marry you?”
“No!” Pierre’s face is white—he is terrified the king will believe me. Before the king can speak, the regent whirls on me, even now working in tandem with my brother. “I could have you hanged for such falsehoods.”
The king does not take his eyes from her. “Not when I have asked for her testimony.”
I feel the regent’s heartbeat stutter in panic as she shifts her gaze back to the king. “She is trying to distract you from her own crimes.”
“What crimes are those?”
She flings her hand out. “Fremin’s men, Fremin himself, the body that the search party found.”
At the mention of Fremin’s death, the king’s face hardens. “We have already adjudicated those claims and found her innocent. It seems to me that you are trying to distract us from yours.” My heart nearly sings in pure joy at having the king begin to see her clearly.
“Your Majesty.” Cassel steps forward, but the king rounds on him.
“She was under our protection, traveling to our wedding,” he says.
Cassel remains silent.
“There is no proof I was involved in the ambush,” the regent practically spits out.
“I recognized two of our attackers.” That is not precisely true, but I saw their souls, and the proof that they were associated with the house d’Albret. “They have worked for my brother before.”
“Then why not say so sooner?” the regent demands.
“Because I had assumed that they left his service and became mercenaries.”
“Of course that is what happened,” the regent scoffs.
“And so I would have continued to think—until I heard you admit in your conversation last night with Pierre that you were involved.”
Her head rears back as if she has been slapped. “I admitted no such thing.”
“Let us say revealed, then.”
To others, the regent’s pale face and pinched nostrils will look like anger, but I know them for fear. “Are you going to let her besmirch your own sister’s honor?”
It is only the fact that the king sits with his chin in his hand that keeps him from gaping at her. “The sort of honor that you have mocked me for valuing? That you claim has no place on the throne? No. I am going to adjourn so I may think upon all that I have learned and pray for the wisdom to find the truth in this mess.”
Chapter 50
Genevieve
“What did you learn?” Even though the queen’s attention is on the stitches she embroiders, she studies me from beneath her lashes.
To my embarrassment, I find myself tongue-tied before her, still unable to get over my shock at being summoned earlier this morning and asked to serve as one of her attendants. I would never have imagined receiving such an honor after our history together. “You were right. The meeting was called on behalf of Pierre d’Albret,” I tell her.
Sybella enters the room just then, coming to a stop when she sees me with the queen. Her look of astonishment is so great that I must bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Lady Sybella!” The queen waves her forward. “We’ve been waiting for you. Come, tell us how the meeting went.”
She stares from the queen back to me. “You knew of the hearing?”
“Genevieve told me.”
The glance Sybella sends me chases all thoughts of laughter from my mind. “You were spying on me?”
“She was there on my orders,” the queen says crisply.
>
An almost hurt expression flits across Sybella’s face, then is quickly gone. The queen’s voice softens. “When I heard Pierre was here, I wanted someone near you at all times. It is not a matter of trust.”
Sybella looks as if she has been punched—albeit with a velvet-covered fist. “Your Majesty, while I am humbled and grateful for your concern, I am sorry that you felt you had to do such—”
The queen holds up her hand. “Spare me your unnecessary apologies, else I will be forced to apologize for my husband’s stupidity every five minutes. We have been over this many times, and while I am willing to repeat it until I am blue in the face, I would rather not have to.” I bite back a smile. “You are not responsible for your family’s actions. Now, how did it go?”
Sybella pauses a moment to collect herself. “It was not what anyone expected,” she says with a curious smile. Then she tells us what transpired, both in the meeting and during her confrontation with Pierre and the regent the night of the coronation ball.
The queen clasps her hands together and grins. “You essentially fired warning shots at both of them. I cannot help but be glad. I am tired of them backing us into corners. Let us see how they like it for a change.”
“Well,” Sybella reminds her, “cornered dogs do tend to bite.”
“We are prepared for that.”
Sybella pauses, as if undergoing some internal struggle. “I have more news. Some of it good, some of it less so.”
The queen wrinkles her nose. “Let us start with the bad.”
“Before we left Brittany, Captain Dunois confided in me that Beast’s father still lived. Not his mother’s husband, but the man who raped her and got her with child. That man is General Cassel.”
The name causes me to gasp. “But of course,” the queen murmurs. “Now that you point it out, I wonder that I did not see the similarities before.”
“That is one of the reasons the captain told me. He said the resemblance would be undeniable. Which brings me to the good news. Beast is back.”
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