I straighten, but keep my eyes downcast, catching only the faintest glimpse of her pale face and dark hair. She is small, I realize. Smaller than I had expected.
“How did bedding my lord husband serve Mortain, pray tell? Or Brittany, if that was your intent.”
Slowly, I raise my gaze to hers, which is filled with deep intelligence, keen wit, and grievous displeasure. “Please know that while my reasoning will sound faulty in the retelling, it seemed solid at the time.”
This causes her finely arched eyebrows to rise—whether in displeasure or surprise at my frankness, I do not know. “However,” I go on to explain, “serving the interests of both Mortain and Brittany was precisely what I was trying to do. There had been rumors that you had been abducted, or perhaps forced into this union. That it was so sudden only served to make those rumors seem likely. I was making plans to come to court to offer my services to you when I was told that the convent was being disbanded. That news seemed to point to the rumors of your coercion being true, and it appeared the worst was coming to pass—you had been taken by the French crown, and they intended to crush the very things that Brittany holds most sacred. How could I not act?”
She inhales deeply and looks away to the fire for a moment. “And how was sleeping with my lord husband to help with any of that?”
“Such is the nature of men, Your Majesty. They will promise you anything once they take a fancy to you. I thought to collect on an old promise.”
Her slim white fingers grip the arms of her chair. “That is not how things work in my world. Indeed, it is I who have always been promised to men as reward for their political support. Or who must make promises and concessions to them once they have shown interest in me. Or my lands.”
Rutting hell. But of course she has been a pawn in men’s games of politics and power. With the sort of men she was expected to marry, she could never, under any circumstances, think to exercise her own choice in any of these matters. “Forgive me. Our circumstances are very different, and my words were poorly chosen.”
“It was not the only poorly chosen part of this entire enterprise.”
“Knowing what I know now, I cannot help but agree with you.”
She blinks, as if not expecting my quick agreement.
“I am doing everything in my power to correct my error, Your Majesty.” I wince, as error seems such a mild word for all that I have thrown into disarray. “I have downplayed the role of the convent in Brittany’s politics and told the king I did not know if you had knowledge of its existence. And while I will always serve as his loyal subject, I will no longer warm his bed. At least, not willingly.” I pause. “Unless you’d like me to?” It is an unwelcome thought, and not an offer made lightly, but if it would serve her in some way, it seems the least I could do.
She stares at me, agog, her cheeks bright pink. “Whyever would I want you to do such a thing?”
I shrug. “There are many reasons. If you are not fond of the marriage bed, you can know that his needs are being met by someone who is loyal to you. Or if you would like to enjoy the marriage bed more, I can teach him better ways to please you.”
The queen’s hands fly to her face, which is a vivid shade of scarlet. “Demoiselle, stop!”
My stomach grows queasy. Am I destined to always misstep with her? “I did not mean to distress you! I thought only to offer my services to make amends any way I can.”
“Well, you may rest assured you have offered me something no one else ever has before,” she says wryly. “Nor will I require that particular service as a path to atonement.”
Her words give me hope that there will be some path to atonement.
“Tell me of this letter you received.”
I tell her of the letter, of how the handwriting looked right, and that the official convent seal was affixed upon it. When I have finished, she stares off into the distance, tapping her finger on her chin. “What could Count Angoulême have to gain from this?”
“I have spent hours pondering that very question and have yet to arrive at an answer.”
“Well, if one occurs to you, please inform me at once.”
That tiny bud of hope inside me unfurls a bit more. “But of course, Your Majesty.” It is hard to tell, but I think she holds less animosity toward me than when I first arrived. Saints, please let it be so!
I want, more than anything, to prove my loyalty to her. To prove that it is still she and the convent I serve. “Your Majesty, there is something else you should know.”
She stares at me quizzically. “Yes?”
“The regent was glad that I had come back to court and thought to use me in a scheme of her own.”
The queen frowns. “What sort of scheme?”
It is all I can do not to squirm, not for my own sake but because it is still so hard to believe it of the regent. “She wished to install me in her brother’s bed. Only instead of asking clemency for the convent, she wished me to report everything I learned directly to her.”
The queen looks as if she will be sick. “She was the one who placed you in my husband’s bed?”
“No! As much as I would like to blame her for that, it was my own mistake entirely. But she was most invested in using the king’s interest in me for her own ends. I refused. My loyalty was only ever to the convent and Brittany. It was never for sale.”
She is quiet a long moment as she studies me, and I would give a sack of gold coins to know what she is truly thinking. “Thank you for telling me, Genevieve,” she says at last.
Her words bring a flood of relief rushing through my limbs. “The regent is as cunning and devious as a fox, and twice as dangerous. Her ruthlessness in securing the interests of the crown knows no bounds.”
“Oh, believe me, I am aware.” She falls quiet again, and so I wait. I do not know for what—a sentence, required penance, banishment? Or mayhap some task to perform to make it up to her. Instead, she simply dismisses me. Whether that will be the end of it or I must wait for whatever ax she plans to hang over my head, I do not know.
Chapter 10
Sybella
It requires an enormous effort to keep from putting my ear to the door to listen to Genevieve and the queen’s meeting. Instead, I try to look as if I am not waiting, but here for a purpose. I pick up someone’s discarded embroidery hoop and begin stitching, my hands grateful for the small task.
Will the queen punish Genevieve? Banish her? Is that the best thing to be done with the girl? Hard to know if she can be trusted—not simply her loyalty, but her judgment. For all of Father Effram’s assurances that she meant well, it is difficult to imagine giving her a second chance.
Yet how many second chances have I been given?
The outer door opens, and I brace myself for the barbs from the regent’s ladies who attend the queen. My tension eases somewhat when I recognize Elsibet. At least until the look of concern on her face registers.
“My lady, they are looking for you.”
“They?”
“The steward. The king has requested your presence in his chamber at once.”
Merde. What new accusation can Fremin have dreamed up? “Thank you, Elsibet.” I frown at the queen’s door. “Would you please see that Genevieve is escorted back to her rooms when the queen is done with her? As discreetly as possible, if you please.”
* * *
There are two additional faces among the king’s retinue this morning. The Bishop of Albi and the Bishop of Narbonne appear to be part of his council now. This cannot bode well.
Just as he was two days ago, the king’s personal confessor is perched on his left shoulder. To his right stand General Cassel and the captain of the king’s personal guard, Captain Stuart. Beyond them, as if an afterthought—or a puppet master gently pulling the strings—is the regent. Foreboding unfurls inside me, sharpening my senses. Stall them, I remind myself. I must
only stall them long enough that Beast can get the girls to the convent. After that, none of this will matter.
The steward escorts me to the middle of the room, then excuses himself. The king says nothing, but pins his gaze on me. “Monsieur Fremin tells me he has not found his men.”
The lawyer is looking faintly smug again. “I have not.”
The Bishop of Albi leans over and whispers something in the Bishop of Narbonne’s ear.
“And you, demoiselle? I presume you have not managed to locate them either?”
“No, sire, but I did learn that a large group rode out three days ago. Perhaps the stable master would be able to confirm if it was Sir Fremin’s men or not.” Of course, those riding out were Beast and the girls, but they made sure to do that well away from the hearing of the stable master—or anyone.
The king’s eyes narrow with speculation. “I will make inquiries. And what of your sisters? Have you located them, by chance?”
I do not have to fake the tension that holds my shoulders in a viselike grip. “No, Your Majesty.” I make my voice tremble along the edges, just enough for him to think I am filled with distress and not considering all of them with the cold calculation of the assassin he accuses me of being. “But mayhap we should ask the stable master if they were with the group riding out.”
“Your Majesty,” Fremin interjects. “I must protest. My men would never take their leave without my permission.”
The Bishop of Albi gives a smug nod of approval, although why he thinks he would know anything about Fremin’s men and how they would behave is a mystery to me. Perhaps it is simply his faith in the orderliness of the world.
I incline my head politely. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, we have only his word that he has not granted his men permission to leave.” I glance at the lawyer, hoping he will consider the out I am about to offer him. “Besides, they are not truly his men, but my brother’s. Who knows what orders Pierre may have given them separate from the orders he gave his lawyer?”