Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

She nods, straightening her shoulders. In that gesture the young girl who will sorely miss her older brother disappears and the young queen-to-be takes her place. When Duval escorts her back to us, Ismae stares at him a brief moment, realizing for the first time, I think, just how much this goodbye is costing him and why the duchess wished her to stay.

* * *

Our departure requires speed as well as some discretion. Not only is the marriage arrangement most irregular, but the bishops involved have not, in fact, effected a miracle and produced the required dispensation by the pope.

Even so, our traveling party has all the subtlety of a mummer’s parade. Part of it is inevitable. It is impossible to hide fourscore knights, three litters, and a baggage train the size of a small village. Add to that a collection of travelers who are adorned in their grandest finery—?surcoats in gay colors, ornate hats that flutter in the breeze. They remind me of a flock of self-important pheasants, plumage bobbing as they chatter excitedly.

At the duchess’s appearance, a small cheer goes up from the crowd. She receives their jubilant adoration with a gracious smile as Duval escorts her to Chancellor Montauban, with whom she is to ride pillion.

Ismae walks beside me as I make my way to my own horse. I do not relish saying goodbye. The farewell we just witnessed has nearly ripped off the chains that keep my own feelings tightly contained, and I fear they will spill out into the courtyard in a jumbled mess.

Ismae sighs. “For all that you are sharp-tongued and ill-mannered, I shall miss you. And if I thought you would not slap me, I would hug you goodbye.”

“Since I am the bossy one, it is I who should hug you,” I point out, then wrap my arms around her and pull her close, savoring the feel of her, her strength, her stubbornness, and her unwavering loyalty. “I shall miss you, dearest sister,” I say, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Before she can so much as squeak in surprise, I let go, grab the pommel of my saddle, and mount my horse, not caring how unladylike it might look.

The horse prances a bit, eager to be on its way, and Ismae twitches my skirts into place. “Have you decided how you will look for the convent’s other initiates?” she asks.

I busy myself testing the length of my stirrups. “Not yet. The red-haired one will be easiest to locate. I will search for her first.”

“If all else fails, you can simply hand every woman at court a crow feather and see how she reacts,” she suggests.

“It may well come to that,” I mutter. The trumpet blares again, crisp and loud in the chill air. We are out of time.

A hush falls over the crowd as a priest of Saint Cissonius comes forward. He grasps a large wooden staff with both hands, bows his head, and prays. When he is finished, he reaches into the pouch at his waist and casts a handful of salt upon the ground.

It is not until the salt touches the earth that it hits me—?I am truly leaving. A sense of loss and mayhap even panic ripples through me. Brittany has been the seat of all my darkest memories and vilest hours, and to leave that behind is no loss.

But, I realize, looking up at the rooftops of the townhouses and the church tower, I was safe here in Rennes—?at least for a time. I was also welcome in this city. Indeed, it was one of the most welcoming places I have ever lived, second only to the convent. I was respected here, admired even. Everything good about myself—?my friendships, my faith, my belief that I was someone with something to offer—?is tied up in this place. And now I am leaving.

It has been hard enough to cling to faith here in Brittany, one of the last places the gods once walked the earth. One of the last places where lives have been touched by those gods—?although I must remember more than ever to call them saints. How much harder will it be to keep faith alive in a land that has been stripped bare of their wonder and mercy and gifts? How will my faith not crumble like week-old bread?

At the head of the party, Beast raises his gloved hand, then motions us forward. We are on our way.

I do not look back.

Chapter 25

Genevieve

move numbly through the days, ignoring the sad, drawn faces and the quiet tears of the other women. My own grief is like a moat between us, only instead of being filled with water, it is filled with thorns and nettles and spikes.

It is unbreachable.

I also avoid the entire fourth floor of the palace, having no wish to encounter Margot’s enraged soul as it lingers.

Count Angoulême sends for me twice, but I ignore the summonses, keeping mostly to my rooms, sneaking out only to exercise my body in the dark of the dungeons.

I do not visit the prisoner. He has seen me in my darkest hour, my guts spilled out onto the dungeon floor, more fully exposed than if I had paraded naked before a host of leering men. That he was deeply kind makes it all worse somehow. I did not ask him for such kindness and do not wish to be beholden to him because of it.

* * *

It is hunger that finally drives me from my room. When I am certain that dinner is over and most of the kitchen staff have retired for the night, I go in search of food.

That is where Angoulême’s steward finds me, pilfering cheese and bread from the larder. “My lady?”

I whirl around, stuffing the food into my pockets. “Master Gelais. You startled me.”

“I am sorry, my lady. That was not my intent. Count Angoulême requests your presence in his office.”

“I am not up to seeing him just now. Please send my sincere regrets.”

The steward shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “I am afraid refusing is not an option, demoiselle.” His eyes are full of resolve, and for one ridiculous moment, I wonder if he will throw me over his shoulder and drag me to the count. I welcome the rush of anger that thought brings. But he is only the messenger. I will save my wrath for Angoulême.

When we reach the count’s chamber, the steward opens the door, ushers me in, then closes it behind me.

Angoulême’s study is in disarray. A travel pouch is open and filled with dispatches. Large maps lie on his desk, held in place with weights at each of the corners.

I curtsy. “My lord.” My voice is colder than the winter sky. Surely he knows I hold him responsible for Margot’s death. He cannot think to seek comfort with me, or worse, try to offer me such comfort. My grief is still raw and fresh and deeply colored by my anger at him. I square my shoulders. Let the count try to comfort me. I welcome the chance to cross swords with him and point out just how much this death falls on his shoulders.

He pushes the map aside and gives me his full attention. “Why have you refused my summonses?”

I stare at the floor in front of me. “Because I was mourning my sister, my lord.”

“You’re not the only one who grieves.”

My head snaps up, angry words gathering on my tongue.

“She asked for you, you know,” he continues. My heart—?my heart does not know whether to leap for joy or dissolve in a fresh wave of sorrow. Why had no one told me? Fetched me to her side? “And yet you did not come.”

I force my voice to steadiness. “What did you wish to speak to me about that had your steward threatening to drag me here?”

His lips flatten into a thin white line, and for a brief moment, I do not know what he

will do. “I have been summoned to Langeais to attend the wedding of King Charles and Anne of Brittany. I must leave tomorrow and will be gone through Christmas.”

My mind can scarce make sense of his words. How can the world continue as if nothing has happened?

“I should have left two days ago,” he continues. “But I could not. Not with all that has happened.”

I am filled with outrage that he thinks to dance at the king’s wedding while his young mistress lies cold in a grave merely days old. “The abbess of Saint Mortain should be there. She often attends affairs of state. Will you tell her how Margot died?”

He looks away, reaching for the dispatches. “There has been a message from her.”

“When? What does she say?”

He pulls a letter from his travel pouch, and my heart skitters nervously in my chest. Though I have waited for this very thing for five years, I am suddenly unsure I want to see it. “Under orders of the king and the Church . . .” Although he reads softly, his voice feels thunderous in the thickly charged air. “The convent of Saint Mortain has been ordered to disband.”

The words crash into me, knocking me off my feet and shoving me into deep water where I cannot regain my footing. “I do not believe you.” My voice sounds breathless. Desperate. “What reason would the duchess have to do such a thing?”

“I do not believe it was the duchess who was behind this decision. My guess is that the king’s bishops used the opportunity to cluck in his ear about the old-world beliefs still practiced in Brittany and he acceded to their wishes in the matter.”

My chest feels so tight I can scarce get the next words out. “What of the other Nine? Are their convents and abbeys to be disbanded as well?”

“I do not know, as I am not involved in those. And the king does not know I am involved in this one either,” he adds pointedly. “The letter from the abbess explains it all.”

The impact of the news works its way into my limbs, and I begin to tremble. “But how am I to serve the convent?”