He shrugs. “I am the queen’s confessor.”
I blink, wondering what else she may have told him. I start walking again. “You’re wrong, Father,” I say softly. “It wasn’t to protect—?or not only to protect—?her, but also to stop my own pain at watching her endure that.”
The old priest reaches out to pat my hand. “Even better, my lady. It shows how deeply your compassion flows. You act not from some vague notion of chivalry”—?my mind goes immediately to the king—?“but because you feel others’ pain as if it were your own. I can assure you none of the d’Albrets have ever felt that. Indeed, far too few people experience such solicitude.” He sighs. “The world would be a far better place if they did.”
I start to answer, but he wags a finger at me.
“Nor are you only Mortain’s justice, meting out punishment and vengeance. If that were the case, you would simply wait until the vile deeds had been done, then exact justice. You work far too hard to save the innocent from such wrong-doing in the first place.” His old blue eyes are vivid in their intensity, as if willing me to feel the truth of his words. “When you act from that place, there is no risk you are dark or evil. You merely understand that to fight evil things—?to truly fight them and protect others—?you must sometimes use those same methods. Ah, I see that we have reached the chapel.”
I glance in surprise at the door to the servants’ chapel.
“I shall leave you to your prayers, my dear.”
He bows before disappearing down the hall while I am left standing at the door to a chapel I had no intention of visiting. “Father Effram!” I call out.
He pauses at the end of the hall and looks over his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
He smiles, knowing full well I do not mean for leaving me to my prayers.
In truth, his words feel as if they have turned me inside out so that I must look at all the parts of myself anew. This is as good a place as any for that.
* * *
When I step into the chapel, I realize I am not alone. Someone else sits quietly in the front bench. I nearly turn around and slip back out, then recognize the woman whom I saw leaving the regent’s office yesterday. Curious now, I step behind one of the stone columns and observe her more closely. Her head is bent, the curve of her slender neck graceful. She does not wear a fancy headdress like those favored here at court, but a simple coif.
My interest sharpens. But someone else approaches—?a page. I pull back behind my column as he glances around the chapel, his gaze finally landing on the other woman. He hurries down the aisle, bearing a message in his hands. “My lady?”
“Yes?” she says.
He hands her the sealed parchment and waits for her to read it. When she does not, he shifts impatiently. “Do you not wish me to carry back a reply, my lady?”
“No. When I have one ready, I shall find someone to deliver it. You are dismissed.”
Once the page has left, she rises and approaches the bank of lit candles that sit in front of the chancel. When she reaches them, she holds the message out over the flames.
It takes a moment for the flame to catch, but eventually it does. When her fingers are in danger of being singed, she finally drops the last of it into the burning wick.
She heads to the left side of the chancel, where nine niches are carved into the wall. I am surprised to see that they hold nine burning candles. Has Father Effram placed them there?
She pauses at the first one—?Mortain’s niche—?raises her hand to it, then bows her bead briefly. When she has finished her short prayer, she turns on her heel and walks away. Her steps are not hurried or lingering, but carefully measured. The sort that do not call attention. As she passes by my hiding place, I am able to see her more clearly. Her cheekbones are sharp, her lips full, her chin determined. And then she is gone.
I wait a handful of moments before approaching the small alcove.
A single red holly berry rests against the white candle. My heart gives a leap of hope.
I reach for the pouch at my waist and the crow feather I have carried for weeks. I pat futilely for a moment before realizing I did not attach it to my belt this morning as I dressed for my audience with the king.
Even so, she is from the convent. I am certain of it.
* * *
When I arrive at the queen’s solar, it is obvious at once that the queen is not there. The ladies sit in a circle amongst themselves, heads bent, whispering. At my approach, they stop talking and resume their needlework.
I ignore their clumsy attempts at subtlety. “Where is the queen?”
“She has returned to bed as she did not feel well. Elsibet and Heloise are with her.”
“Thank you.” I lift my skirts and head for the queen’s chambers. When I knock, Elsibet opens the door. “Oh, Lady Sybella. We were hoping it was you. The queen is not up for visitors.”
“Your Majesty?” I say softly as I approach the bed. Her face is pale, a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. Her eyes flutter open, and without thinking to ask for permission, I reach out and take her wrist, laying my fingers over her pulse.
It is strong, not weak or fluttery.
She smiles faintly. “Lady Sybella. How did your audience with the king go?”
I kneel beside the bed. “Your Majesty, we can speak of that later. Right now I am more concerned for you. How are you feeling?”
“Tired. And weak.” She grimaces. “And no wonder, as I have been unable to eat anything all day.”
“Indeed,” Heloise pipes in. “Just thinking of food makes her turn green about the gills.”
I frown. “What was the last thing you ate?”
“Supper last night. What we all had. Venison, pheasant, eel pie.”
“I have warned you about eel pie.” I keep my voice light as I examine her eyes. Her pupils are a little large, but not alarmingly so. “Eels are notoriously dubious.”
“Believe me, I will remember your warning next time they are offered.”
“Very good.” The regent would not poison her, would she? No. But Pierre might. I think of the Mouse and how easily he can slip through cracks unnoticed. I rub my fingers along the palm of her hand, then once her eyes flutter closed again, bring them to my nose and sniff.
There is no smell to indicate any of the poisons I am familiar with, but I am not reassured.
“I know of something that might help. Let me tell Heloise to have it prepared for you.”
“Thank you,” she whispers without opening her eyes.
“What do you think is wrong with her?” I ask Heloise.
“I truly think the eels did not agree with her, my lady. Why?” Her gaze sharpens. “Do you sense something amiss?”
“No, but I am trained to look for the darkest answers to such questions. Do you think a tisane of comfrey and ginger might help? The pois—?herbal mistress at the convent used that on occasion.”
“I do think it could help. I will go to the kitchen and prepare one immediately.”
“Good. Hopefully that will provide her some relief.”
When she has left, I turn to Elsibet. “Has there been any news among the regent’s attendants of a new lady joining their ranks?”
“Why, yes, Lady Sybella! That is all they have talked about since yesterday. Apparently her name is Genevieve, and she used to be one of the regent’s pupils.” She leans in close and lowers her voice. “The king developed a tendre for her, and she was sent away to Cognac.”
I blink at her in surprise. “They told you all that?”
“Oh no, my lady. But I am small and easily overlooked.”
“Only by fools,” I mutter.
Chapter 91
he next morning, I am ordered to return to the king’s chambers to hear his decision. It has come more quickly than I expected.
My plans to seek out Genevieve hastily put aside, I dress carefully, in my most somber and responsible-looking gown. Holding my hea
d high, I look neither to the right nor the left as I follow my escort to the king’s chambers. My stomach feels as if it holds a nest of newly hatched serpents, all writhing and struggling to get out.