I nod, as if in agreement, but as far as I’m concerned, the d’Albrets need to be scattered far and wide so that they can never find their way back to one another again.
“I’ve even managed to convince Madame Dinan to join us.”
“You do know she loathes me and is looking for a chance to kill me.”
His eyes gleam with anticipation. “Yes.”
While he may have begun to grasp the art of nuance and subtlety, he is as brutish and cruel as he ever was. “Am I allowed to defend myself?”
He grins widely. “It will not come to that.” His smile disappears as he takes a step closer. “You will be there, and you will be dressed for the occasion. Do not make me come looking for you, or you will regret it deeply.”
And then he is gone, the foul taint of him still lingering in the room.
I do not let myself think of Beast locked away in a dungeon, nor let myself wonder how he will possibly get free without me. Instead, I go to the narrow window and rest my chin upon the sill, looking out into the turbulent waters swirling against the rocks. But the window has not grown wider, nor the drop less steep, nor the landing any more forgiving.
* * *
When the guard raps on my door to announce that it is suppertime, I emerge from my room. I have taken great care with my appearance, no hair out of place, every bit of finery I possess strewn about my person. While my golden hair net only has a half dozen pearls left, I have arranged them artfully and within easy reach. I feel naked with no knives, but am wearing the thick gold cuff that holds my thin garrote and have fashioned my rondelles into brooches and affixed them to the waist of my gown. The guards’ eyes widen in appreciation, but to my surprise, say nothing. Those who serve the d’Albret household are not known for their restraint.
As I descend the staircase to the grand chamber, my heart sounds so loud to my own ears that it nearly drowns out all the other heartbeats within the holding. I berate myself for letting a simple dinner, even one Pierre is so smug about, unnerve me so, and yet it has.
When I am ushered into the grand chamber, my senses are assaulted by the press of scores upon scores of bodies, their scents, and the cacophony of their hearts. The warm light thrown off by the fire and the candles in the stags’ antlers, the snarling wolf-head andirons, the sea of hardened cruel faces, all feel as if I have wandered into a nightmare.
Pierre himself comes to escort me to the high table. I give him my most charming smile, as if I have been waiting for this moment all day and not considering dashing myself on the rocks below.
“How elegant you look.” He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss upon it. “Not only am I pleased with your unique convent skills, I find I am also glad you are not truly my sister.”
It takes every particle of will I possess to keep from slamming my fist into his face. Instead, I focus my gaze above his eyebrow. “You are a brave and persistent man,” I say lightly, “considering how that ended the first time.”
He lets go of my hand to lift a finger and rub the white scar there, the one I gave him ten years ago. “It is a good thing your mouth is so lovely, else I would be tempted to strike it,” he says, matching his tone to mine.
“And so we find ourselves at checkmate,” I murmur.
He smiles again, this one the most disturbing I have seen yet. “Oh, far from that. Come.” He tucks my arm firmly in his and pulls me past the milling retainers toward the high table. When we are halfway there, he pats my arm. “Lest you grow lonely, I have brought someone to keep you company. Someone I know is dear to you.”
My heart gives one painful beat of dread as he pulls me past the retainers so that I have a clear view of the high table. In the chair to the right of Pierre’s sits a young girl dressed in a blazing scarlet silk and velvet gown, her thin neck adorned with pearls and gold, her fingers flashing rubies and sapphire rings. The sight of her small, pale face causes the bottom to drop out of my stomach.
“Charlotte.”
She turns her haughty gaze to me, looking down her nose as if I am some serving woman come to take her plate.
“What are you doing here?” Panic squeezes my throat so tight I can scarce get the question out.
“I ran away,” she says coolly. “I left with one of the night rowers once he had made his delivery.”
Her words reverberate along my bones as if they have been struck by a mallet. She chose to come back. She chose to leave the safety of the convent and return to Pierre. I was too late.
The revelation makes me so ill that I fear I will retch. If I had not been so absorbed in my own problems. If I had left the convent earlier. If . . . if . . . if. So many places where I could have made another choice that would possibly have saved this child from making hers.
“She’s a smart girl,” Pierre says close to my ear. “She made her way to Tonquédec.”
My head whips around. “Tonquédec?” That d’Albret holding is but a few miles from Morlaix.
Pierre sips his wine. “Which is where I found her.”
The convent was never meant to be a prison to keep us in, but a fortress to keep others out while we willingly learned the lessons they taught us. “Where you just happened to be for the rebellion.”
He clutches the goblet he is holding. “How do you know about that?”
He does not know I was there—that I saw him with my own eyes. “Some of the queen’s men returned to Nantes just before I did, and they spoke of it.”
“Does the king know?”
I shrug as casually as I can. “He would not believe it, even if he’d heard. He is convinced the queen was behind it all.”
Pierre’s face relaxes, and he takes a sip of wine. “That was always the plan. Now, come. Take your seat over there, and Madame Dinan will sit opposite you. I think dear Charlotte deserves the place of honor at my side for her cleverness, don’t you?”
I say nothing, but move numbly to take my place at the table. I want nothing more than to snatch Charlotte from her chair and steal her from the room, but there are far too many of d’Albret’s men here to do that.
And she would just run back.
Truly, he has won. And before we’d even begun the game.
Chapter 100
Genevieve
The first indication that something is amiss is General Cassel’s face growing pale. It is the closest I have ever seen to him showing fear.
I cast a quick peek over my shoulder to find Maraud standing in the doorway of the king’s audience chamber. His height, the confident set of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head all cause him to stand out among the other nobles and courtiers who have come for a chance to petition the king. He is dressed as finely as any of them, if more somberly.
The steward approaches, intending to show him out, but Maraud leans close to confer with him. Seeing this, General Cassel steps from behind the throne and begins striding to the door.
No. He will not silence him again. The knives against my wrists and left ankle are solid and reassuring as I quickly make my way toward Maraud. He looks up just then and sees Cassel. He utters something else to the steward, who nods, then escorts Maraud toward the king, careful not to cross paths with the approaching general. I switch directions and aim for the throng of people between them, an added buffer if needed.
When they reach the throne, the steward introduces Sir Anton Crunard, and the room grows hushed.
“Your Majesty.” Maraud’s bow is low and courteous.
“Sir Crunard.” Bewilderment lurks behind the king’s courteous welcome.
“I have come to bring your attention to General Cassel’s deceitful and false conduct on the battlefield and petition that he be made to answer for his crimes.”
The regent pushes her companion out of the way to better see what is happening.
“Crimes? That is a very harsh word.”
“Murder and dishonor are very harsh things, Your Majesty.”
The king’s expression darkens. “Are you n
ot a member of the family responsible for betraying my lady wife?”
“I am the son who was held hostage in order to force the late chancellor to commit such an act.”
Like a hound catching a scent, the king searches out the regent. “I thought you said the queen’s claim was false? Her version sounded remarkably like this man’s.”
Maraud does not give the regent a chance to spew more lies. “I do not know what claim the queen made,” he says. “But my captors were fond of reminding me that my father betrayed the duchess because of the sword the regent held over my head.”
The king’s face grows sharp with interest. “That is precisely as the queen tells it.”
“What the queen could not have known was that even when my father complied with the regent’s demands, she did not release me as promised. She gave the crown’s word and did not honor it.”
The king’s hand grips the arm of his chair.
“If that is true,” the regent challenges, “then how do you come to be here?” It is hard to say whether she truly wishes to know or is merely stalling for time to plot out her response.
“I will gladly tell you, although I don’t believe it is something you will wish to share with the entire court.”
“Leave!” the king commands the assembled courtiers.
As the room clears, he glances at me, his eyes unreadable. I lift my chin, but he does not order me to go. Mayhap he is remembering my own recounting of similar events.
The king’s council remains. “Now.” The king gestures to Maraud. “The room is yours.”
General Cassel steps forward, no longer able to remain silent. “Your Majesty should not indulge this man’s lies.”
“But surely he should hear of crimes his own general has committed in his name,” Maraud counters.
The general’s face grows red, and he takes another step forward.
“General!” the king says sharply. “If you cannot get ahold of yourself, you may wait outside.”
Maraud returns his attention to the king. “The story starts on the battlefield of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, where my brothers and I fought alongside Duke Francis. It was”—Maraud’s lips twist in a wry smile—“a rout, clear to all of us on the field that Your Majesty’s forces had won and the best course of action was to surrender and save further bloodshed.”
“Which the duke did.” The king sits with his elbow on the arm of his chair, listening intently.
“As we all did. Including my brother. He surrendered and laid down his sword, as noble knights have done since the time of Charlemagne, expecting quarter and ransom. Instead”—Maraud shoots Cassel a look heated enough to melt iron—“the general accepted his surrender and his sword, then beheaded him there on the field.”
A collective gasp goes up among the king’s advisors, and the bishops cross themselves.
The king turns cold eyes on his general. “Is this true?”
General Cassel stands rigidly straight, shoulders back. “It is true that I slayed enemy combatants, Your Majesty. Traitors who had taken up arms against their rightful sovereign. My instructions were to put down the duke’s insurrection at any cost.”
“I meant spare no effort and explore all tactics. I did not mean to spit on the accepted form of honorable surrender and kill in cold blood.”
The general’s hands twitch ever so slightly, and he shifts his gaze to the wall behind the king.
“Ives was my last surviving brother. When the general learned who I was, he devised a different fate for me.”
“A hostage,” the king says.
“Yes. A message was sent to my father, informing him that the price of returning his last remaining son was preventing the marriage of Anne of Brittany to Count d’Albret and arranging for the duchy to fall into French hands.”
“He lies!” The words explode from the general. “He was dressed as a common mercenary. I did not know he was Crunard’s son.”
“Is this true?”
“I was dressed as a mercenary, sire, but it was well known that as a fourth son, I fought with the mercenaries who served Brittany rather than under my father’s banner.”
The king leans forward, his face almost hungry. “You defied your father?”
“We had different ideas on how a man should live his life, what loyalty looked like, and where our duties lay.”
The king carefully banks all the questions burning within him and instead asks, “What happened then?”
“I was imprisoned at Baugé, then taken to Cognac and placed in Angoulême’s dungeon.” The king’s glance darts briefly in my direction. “I was held for nearly a year before being placed in the oubliette.”
The king unleashes his full anger on the general. “You took a man of noble birth who was deserving of every honor and courtesy, not to mention ransom, and put him in one of those rat holes?”
Cassel gives a sharp shake of his head. “That was not on my order, Your Majesty.”
“Then whose?”
Maraud lets the silence draw out before saying, “I believe it was the regent’s.”
Chapter 101
“Yet more lies, Your Majesty!” The regent shoves her way through the small wall of advisors between her and the king.
“He does not lie, Madame.” My own voice echoes into the room, surprising everyone. It is also the first time Maraud sees me. A brief measure of warmth crosses his face, then is gone, nothing in his expression indicating that we are acquainted. “You forget that I, too, resided at Cognac and can confirm the order you sent Count Angoulême.”
For a moment, I half fear the regent will launch herself at me and strangle me with her bare hands. “How do you know?”
I say nothing—she knows I am convent sent, and she can guess how I acquired such information. Feeling the room turn against her, she glares at me a moment longer, then collects herself before returning her attention to the king. “If he was placed in such a fetid rat hole, how does he come to be here at court in front of us?”
“Would you care to enlighten us?” the king asks Maraud.
“After I had been in the pit for weeks—possibly months, time has no meaning there—I heard a voice.” His own has fallen into the rhythm of the mummers when they tell stories. The king, the bishops, even the general and regent hang on every word. “Since I was certain I was dying, I thought it an angel, but no. It was a lady, a lady who served the convent of Saint Mortain—”
The bishops take in a collective gasp, and the king’s gaze darts to me once again, but briefly.
“She brought me water, fed me. Spoke with me and pulled me back from the darkness that had encircled me for so long.” I am struck by how he tells the story, making me out to be the hero of it. “I trusted her enough to share my tale.” How easily he polishes over all the distrust between us. “When it was time for her to leave Cognac, she freed me from my prison out of fear I would die there.”
“She did not attempt to murder you?” the Bishop of Albi asks.
“Never,” Maraud answers, his face the very picture of innocence and truth. Truly, he has missed his calling. “It was her convent skills that allowed us to escape.”
“How many did she kill, then?” the bishop presses.
“None. The only time she killed was when we were attacked by brigands, and then she simply fought back—as any man would and with equal skill.” A faint heat suffuses my cheeks, and pleasure warms my gut at his description.
“When was that?” the regent demands.
“Near Christmastime.”
“That was five months ago. Where have you been since?”
“First I went to Flanders looking for General Cassel, but he was no longer there. Next I came to Paris to bring my case before the king. Alas, before I could do that, I was detained and forced to go elsewhere.”
“Forced,” the regent scoffs, her eyes taking in the height and breadth of Maraud.
“You do not believe men can be forced, Madame Regent?” he asks.
“Not men who are as skilled as you claim to be.”
“Well,” he concedes, “it was not merely one man, but a dozen of them.”
The king leans forward in his chair. “Do you know who they were?”
“It was Pierre d’Albret.”
Though the regent maintains her composure, I sense the faint spark of panic she is trying so desperately to hide. “Why would he force you to go with him? It makes no sense.”
“D’Albret was holding my father hostage in an attempt to lure me to his side.”
“But why?” the king asks.
“He wished me to participate in the rebellion in Brittany, along with him and Viscount Rohan. Pierre felt my father could be of help, and that he would cooperate more freely if I was there to threaten him with.”
The king’s gaze grows sharp enough to cut glass as he looks at his sister. “This corroborates what the others have said, that Viscount Rohan was behind the rebellion, not the queen.”
Maraud shakes his head. “The queen had no part in the rebellion. If not for the aid she sent, Rohan would have succeeded in his attempt.”
“Have Viscount Rohan returned to court immediately,” the king orders. “I find I have a number of questions for him.”
“Sire.” The regent steps forward. “This has already been proved. What this man spouts is nothing but pure lies.”
“I grow bored with that excuse, sister. What he says fits too neatly with what Lady Sybella and Sir Waroch have claimed. What does he have to gain by lying?”
With her mouth pinched tight, the regent thrusts her arms out in my direction. “Because she was the assassin who helped him.” A faint buzz of muttering rises from the bishops.
“I am aware of that,” the king says.
His public admission of that knowledge gives the regent pause. She has one less weapon to use against him now. “Then can you not see? They are lovers! He is lying to protect his lover from her involvement in the rebellion.”
In the silence that follows, I do not look at Maraud, nor does he look at me. I keep my attention focused on the regent and force my heart to keep beating, my lungs to keep breathing. Slowly, as if it pains him greatly, the king turns to me. “Is this true?”
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