Genevieve
ueen of France?” Maraud rests his sword against mine and shakes his head, almost as if he has sustained a blow.
“I had a hard time with it as well when I first heard. What was the last news you had of her?”
“That her advisors were pressing for a match with Count d’Albret.” His voice holds palpable repugnance.
“You did not approve of him?”
“No.” His next blow comes at me faster and with far more force.
I parry, then we settle into a rhythm more suited to talking. “Why not?”
“The man—?the entire family—?has no honor. They serve only their own interests and are ruthless about it.”
“You are right about that. D’Albret laid a trap for her, using her city of Nantes as bait. If he had succeeded, he would have married her against her will. Fortunately, help arrived just in time. The duchess escaped to Rennes and found refuge there,” I continue. “She married Emperor Maximilian of Austria by proxy, hoping for aid against France that never came.”
“Why not?”
My side stroke connects with his ribs, and he grunts in pain. I hesitate, wondering if I have hurt him, but his sword whooshes through the air on the way to my head. I duck.
“His own numerous battles prevented him. She sent out pleas to all her allies and emptied her coffers hiring even more mercenaries, but it was not enough.”
His sword stops against mine, and I use the respite to catch my breath. “How do you know that?”
Rutting figs. “I listen at doors. It is a vile habit, but a useful one.” I shove his blade aside.
“Who are you,” he asks, “that you know the intimate ins and outs of politics, are good with a sword, and are allowed so much freedom?”
I nearly scoff. Freedom. If he only knew how close our situations were. “I already told you I have a knack for listening at doors. I am the only daughter of an impoverished Breton noblewoman whom the count has kindly offered to take into his household. But it is a large household, and all in it are busy with their own interests and pleasures. It is easy enough to slip away unseen.” Seeing an opening, I bring my blade in for another side stroke, but he sweeps it aside and grabs my wrist, trapping me.
“The truth is, you are not a noblewoman.”
I jerk my arm back. “Let go of me.”
“Your reflexes are too fast to have been acquired in a few sword lessons with your brothers.”
I glare at him. So that is what the cunning bastard has been up to, why he has driven me so hard. “I never said that was how I learned to fight.”
“No, but however you learned, it was not as a noblewoman. What do you really want from me? You clearly already know how to spar.”
Even as my secrets stand partially exposed, a part of me is pleased he recognizes that I am far more than a mere noblewoman. “Let us just say I have grown rusty.”
“Let us just say I do not believe you.” Another pressing attack. “Who really sent you?”
“Who do you think sent me?”
He does not answer, but launches a series of strikes that are so fast and furious, it is all I can do to block and parry and keep my ribs from being broken by his brutal blows. “Maybe my mercenary company could not pay the ransom price, but has sent someone to help me escape.”
I am unable to hold my ground and find myself inching toward the wall. “I have not been sent by anyone.”
“That you know of.”
That is when I realize just how wooly his wits have become with imprisonment. “I would know if someone had sent me.”
He shrugs. “The gods are said to use what tools are available to them to achieve their ends. What if you are simply the nearest tool?”
I laugh outright. “Are you suggesting the gods wish you to be freed from this place? Why would they bother themselves with a mere mercenary?”
He shrugs again. “Why do they bother themselves with any of us?”
His words both disturb and excite me, but I do not stop to examine why that is so. Instead, I reach out and rap the back of his knuckles with the flat of my sword. He drops his weapon, and I leap forward to snatch it up. “We are done for today.”
He folds his arms, observing me lazily while I secure the two swords to my back. When I begin climbing the rope, he steps toward it, holding his arms out to his sides. “Was it something I said?”
I do not look down to confirm the note of laughter in his voice. Once I have hauled myself up onto the main floor, I
let the grate slam shut with extra force.
Who in the rutting hell is he? A mercenary who believes the gods want him free? He is mercurial. Almost menacing one moment, then whimsical the next.
He is not merely a sparring partner, but a whetstone upon which I must sharpen my wits.
Else risk getting cut by his.
Chapter 39
nd where have you been all morning?” Juliette is the most annoying of Louise’s attendants here at Cognac. Her thin lips curl in an amused smile, as if she is sharing a joke with me, but there is a sharpness to her, a brittleness that is not convincing. She doesn’t care if I’m sleeping longer than I ought, dallying with a lover, or simply mourning Margot in my own way. Like a bored cat, she is batting at my absence, trying to see if she can get some sort of tempest stirred up. But this morning, her question plays into my plans perfectly.
“Walking,” I say, stepping fully into the room.
“For the last four hours?”
“It was a long walk. I had much to reflect upon.” It is easy—?so easy—?to allow the pain of Margot’s death to creep into my voice. It is never far from the surface—?I have only to exert the slightest pressure to crack that fragile shell.
“It was raining.” She does not let up, her words calling the attention of the others.
I blink owlishly. “Was it?”
That is when Jeanne pats the empty seat next to her. Of all the attendants here at Cognac, I like Jeanne the best. She is genuinely kind, with both a gentle humor and lush sensuality. It is no wonder she is the count’s favorite. She is mine as well.
As I take a seat, her eyes are so full of compassion that I fear I will drown in them. I ignore their invitation and busy myself retrieving my embroidery hoop and needle case from my sewing basket.
She leans close to me. “There are better ways to deal with your grief than to make yourself sick with the ague,” she says softly. “If you need someone to talk to—”