Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

“My power. You wanted to whittle away a slice of my power. In that way, you are just like all the rest.”

I blink in surprise. “Power? I never wanted power, Your Majesty.”

“No. Just a sweeping pardon of your fellow assassins.”

“Few are truly assassins. Most simply serve the patron saint of death in some way.”

“Nevertheless, to do what you asked was to impose your will—a woman’s will!—over mine on matters of church and state.”

“No, I thought only to ask for mercy for a group of women who raised me. Besides, you said you had never even heard of the convent.”

He takes a step toward me. “That is the entire reason you came to my bed, isn’t it?”

“No! I have always liked and admired you.” At least until you began behaving like a maddened bull.

“Were you attracted to me?” He stares so intently into my eyes that I fear he will see the truth there—that my heart and my body long only for Maraud.

No. “Yes.”

“Then come. Let us make love again. If you are attracted to me, surely you will come to my bed.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Not willingly, Your Majesty, no.”

His hand snakes up and grabs my chin, forcing my head back. “Are you refusing me?”

“Not refusing, no. But I will not come willingly.” Every time he speaks, memories of Maraud flood my mind—his easy confidence, his honor, his kindness—and the contrast could not be more stark. Or favor the king less. “Surely your chivalry would not demand such a thing.”

He scoffs, but lets go of my chin, nonetheless. “Have you not heard? One cannot possess chivalry and honor and run a kingdom. And if ever you forget it, there will be plenty to remind you.” The look he casts at the painting is so full of hatred that I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flame.

“That is not so, even though some would have you believe it. Nor, I believe, is it what you truly want.”

“Do not tell me what I want,” he snarls. “I am sick unto death of hearing what others think I should want.”

I glance briefly back at the painting. Of course he is. Once his father died, his sister effortlessly took up that mantle and now undermines him at every opportunity.

I think back to the audience chamber and General Cassel, so quick to voice his brutal opinions. To the Church advisors, equally quick to cluck and offer up their views and judgments. So few—if any—of them ever affirming his own.

He draws close again. “What I want is you. Why is that?” A note of confusion seeps out through his anger. “And why will you not come to my bed?”

“I see no signs of the man I liked and admired. I was drawn to his honor and his chivalry, and see neither of those things in this room right now.”

Not caring for my honesty, his lips grow thin. “How do you dare defy me?”

“Because I have nothing to lose.”

“Your life?”

I smile, amused for the first time since I entered the room. This amusement unnerves him more than anything else I have done. “One who serves death does not fear it.”

He abruptly steps away to pour himself a glass of wine. “My bishops say you and your convent reek of heresy. My general says I should execute you all for treason.”

I can only pray that my own behavior has given him a taste for defiance. “I have said that I will swear on the Holy Bible or any other relics of the Church that I have never acted against you or the French crown.” He does not need to know it was because I was never given the opportunity.

He falls quiet while he sips his wine. “Tell me, what do you know about the Lady Sybella?”

Not sure where this is leading, I answer cautiously. “As I told you, I left the convent before she arrived and only met her for the first time four days ago.”

Even so, I have learned much about her. Things he would be most interested in knowing.

“It is too bad,” he says, “because if you could shed some light on her character, it would do much to soothe my anger with you.”

“In order to do that, I would need to know her character, and I do not. If I were to tell you anything, it would all be speculation.”

“And what would you speculate?”

I stall for time in order to assemble my thoughts. “She is the one whose case you just decided on, no?” He inclines his head, watching me closely. “Well, I would speculate that she is a very good sister. Caring, protective—”

He seizes on that. “How would an assassin protect those she cares about?”

“In the same ways we all do. By anticipating and seeing to their needs, by placing herself between those and any who wished them harm. Much like she does for the queen.”

“What do you mean?”

Small truths, I remind myself. Small truths will help us all. “I have only been here a handful of days, sire, and have already heard the gossip about the queen and the regent. That the more Madame tries to draw the queen under her influence—”

He opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, then motions for me to continue. But the seed is planted. He is now wondering in what ways the regent is trying to manipulate his queen just as much as she tries to manipulate him.

“—?the more Sybella offers herself as a target, using distraction and redirection to shift the regent’s attention away from the queen to herself.”

“And thus draw her ire,” the king muses.

“Yes,” I say with more encouragement than warranted, but I am relieved to have pulled his attention from Sybella to the machinations of his sister. “That is a large reason the regent dislikes her so.”

There is a knock on the door, and the chamberlain appears. “My lord, the Privy Council is assembled and awaiting.” He gestures toward the large set of double doors at the far end of the king’s salon.

“Thank you. I will be right there.” To me he says, “You must leave. I have business matters to attend to.”

“But of course, Your Majesty.” I curtsy my farewell, but he is already headed toward the council chamber.

At the door, he stops. “And, Gen, I will remind you: Do not say anything of your true role here. While I am most displeased with you, I do not wish you to get swept up in the repercussions that may come.”

No, but he will gladly feed Sybella to those same wolves.

As he enters the council room, I catch a brief glimpse of two of the bishops and the regent, then hear the deep voice of General Cassel before the door closes. I stand there, aswirl in the dregs of the king’s tumultuous emotions. He still wants me but has accepted my boundaries.

He does not plan to expose my identity to the others. His father’s scorn is a festering wound, one poked at constantly by his sister. A wound is a weakness, and a weakness an opportunity.

There is a way forward here. The path is narrow and twisted and surrounded by thorns, but it is a path. With that in mind, I glance over my shoulder to see if the chamberlain is still about, but he is gone. The king’s suite contains four rooms altogether—a sitting room, his bedchamber, an oratory, and a private council room. I quickly dismiss the bedchamber that sits to the left of the Privy Council, as there is a good chance the king’s valet awaits him in the small adjacent dressing room.

Which leaves the room on the right. I hurry over and place my ear to the door. Silence. Cautiously, I open it. When I reassure myself that it is truly empty—no minor secretaries or scribes diligently tending to the king’s business—I slip inside. I head straight for the wall between this room and the council room. The outer walls of the palace are thick, but less so between rooms.

“. . . spoken at length with the other bishops,” the king’s confessor is saying. “And while it is true that the Nine were originally recognized as saints, that was hundreds of years ago. Much has changed since then, including a number of ecclesiastical positions and reforms.”

“In short,” someone—I think it is the Bishop of Albi—says, “it is an archaic an

d heathenish practice, and surely no longer orthodox.”

A murmur of voices talking over each other. A lone one finally rising above the others. “Sire,” the regent says, “how did you come to learn of the convent?” I hold my breath.

“A king has many spies and sources, Madame.” He uses her formal title, a move I can only assume is meant to put her in her place, remind her that she does not have to know everything that he does.

But she is an expert at both deflection and manipulation. She has had years of practice, learning just where to poke and prod to elicit the behavior she wishes, and is quick to direct his attention back to the matter at hand. “Of course, Your Majesty. But this morning’s meeting gives me another thought. I believe that God has placed an opportunity squarely before you.”

The entire room falls silent, and I would give anything to see both the king’s face and his bishops’ as the regent decides to add the role of spiritual advisor to her duties.

“Continue.” The king’s voice is colder than iron in winter.

“You have long been troubled by your need to break the betrothal vow with the Princess Marguerite.” I suck in my breath—that she would be so bold as to speak of such private matters before the entire council. “Perhaps ridding the Church of this unorthodoxy would allow you to atone for that stain on your mortal soul.”

The silence in the room is nearly thicker than the wall at my ear. Again, I would give anything to know how the king is reacting to this. After a few more minutes of ominous silence, the regent speaks again. “If that does not appeal, then perhaps it would be wise to hold off on the queen’s coronation.”

Surprised silence fills the room. “But to what end?”

“Besides, the marriage has already been consummated,” someone else points out.