Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

The convent has betrayed me.

In truth, even Mortain has betrayed me, or how else can all the roads I’ve taken, all the lessons I’ve learned, all the skills I’ve acquired, put me right back on a path that leads to my mother’s life? One for which she sacrificed much so I would not have to share it.

It is the most twisted, cruel, ironic fate I can imagine, and I cannot decide who is most to blame.

Margot betrayed years of friendship and sisterhood in exchange for . . . what? A garnet necklace? A position as the count’s favorite? A softer life? I do not believe her claim that the convent ordered her to do it. I cannot allow myself to believe it.

The memory of what the convent itself has just done surges up again, nearly choking me. This is not something I ever expected to feel again—?the pain of having those I cared most for trade me away.

When I finally reach the safety of my room, I bolt the door firmly behind me before storming over to the one small window and shoving aside the curtains.

I hold the letter up to the weak sunlight and inspect it more closely. It is the official black wax, the correct seal. The handwriting looks right, although in truth, I have never seen the abbess’s handwriting, so I would not recognize it. But it is her name, and the formal language used is much the way she would talk. There are no flaws or signs of forgery.

Besides, what would Angoulême gain by forging this? Eventually the convent would learn of it, and it would take a braver, bolder man than he to risk crossing those who worship Death.

Which means that this is what the convent truly wishes.

Rutting figs. They cannot do this to me. I will not let them. No one, not even Mortain Himself, gets to keep me on a leash for the rest of my life. Besides, if they have disbanded, how will they even enforce such an order?

This realization gives me room to breathe. And in that small space comes a second realization. Many fates hang in the balance. How many other girls—?many younger than I—?will find themselves in hastily arranged marriages that they have not chosen? And how many of them came to the convent precisely because they or their mothers wanted to avoid those marriages?

What will happen to Sister Beatriz, with her silly, pigeon-headed ideas of how to seduce a man? Not to mention ancient Claude and her aching joints, or Sister Vereda, the even older blind seeress. Where are they to go? No man would have them. Nor even one of the Christian convents.

For all that this letter enrages me about my own fate, it also spells disaster for the entire convent. All the emotions that have been threatening to boil over for the last three days distill down into a black, hardened mass. If they think to strike a bargain over my future without my consent or agreement, they have sorely misjudged me.

A knock at the door startles me out of my reverie. “Demoiselle Genevieve?” It is the steward. “The count has requested your presence at dinner, my lady. It is his last night here before he leaves.”

My hands clench. I will not sit in the great hall pretending to be merry and joyful. I glance around me, looking for some excuse to send him away. But there is nothing.

He knocks on the door again. “Demoiselle? I know you are in there.”

“I am sorry,” I call out as my gaze lands on the washbasin. “I am ill.”

There is a long pause. “I don’t think the count will accept that. He is most insistent that you join him.”

I grab the basin and move to stand near the door. “It is impossible.” I stare at my fingers, take a deep breath, then jam one of them down my throat—?a trick Sister Serafina taught me when I accidentally drank one of her potions instead of the tonic she had prepared for my cough.

I gag, but that is all. I shove again, this time farther down, and am relieved when my entire guts begin to turn themselves inside out. It is not a quiet thing.

“Oh.” I can almost feel the steward back away from the door. “I will tell the count you are truly ill. Would you like something sent up? A broth, perhaps?”

“No thank you. I do not think I could keep anything down right now.”

I heave and retch once more just to convince him, shuddering as I place the basin in a far corner of the room. If the count himself appears at my door, I will simply hand it to him and send him on his way.

Angoulême’s peremptory summons crystallizes what I will do. Must do. I am leaving, I want to shout triumphantly at the steward’s retreating footsteps.

The decision is as sure as an arrow finding its mark.

I do not know where I will go or how I will get there or what I will do when I arrive. Only that I will search out new choices for myself. Ones that do not involve the count or marriage or a room above a tavern.

I will be alone—?out in the world without the protection of the convent or the patina of the French court. Or even a friend by my side.

No. I do not need friends. They are a heartbreak waiting to happen. That I would even wish for a friend after what Margot did to me proves I have let myself become soft—?too comfortable.

That is the first thing I must fix.

Chapter 27

Sybella

he hardest part of the day’s travels is remembering all the things I am no longer supposed to do now that I am headed for France. I do not ride up to the head of the line to speak with Beast, not even when we have to wait for nearly an hour while a felled tree is removed from the road.

I do not draw my weapons as we wait, or even finger my knives. I restrain myself from riding back to the litter to check on Louise and Charlotte and see how they are faring, although I wish to nearly every half hour. Most impressively, I refrain from drawing my weapons every time we pass a village and an entire flock of villagers comes rushing forward, eager to cheer their duchess and throw flower petals and small gifts in her path.

All things considered, it is far more exhausting than a full day of hard riding would have been. By the time we can see the thick stone towers of Châteaubriant castle jutting up against the sky, my soul is exhausted and my body restless.

We circle the moat that protects the outer wall until we come to the barbican, then pass through the tall, narrow space—?barely wide enough for the largest of our wagons to fit. It is so narrow that it feels like a trap, and it is all I can do to keep my hands calmly on the reins.

Once we have crossed the bailey and are in the courtyard, the sensation passes.

But too soon. Standing on the castle step dressed in red velvet and a fur-lined cloak is the king’s own sister, the regent herself, bane of Brittany’s existence.

Unease skitters across my shoulders.

The regent’s greeting is gracious and polite; she kisses the duchess upon each cheek. “Be welcome,” she says with a pleasant smile.

The duchess returns her smile coolly. “Thank you for your hospitality, Madame Regent.” The irony is not lost on her that the regent is welcoming

her to one of Brittany’s own castles that France’s troops nearly destroyed in the Mad War.

“I believe you know my lord husband, the Duke of Bourbon?”

The Duke of Bourbon is soft-looking and somewhat chinless, which balances nicely with the regent. She has plenty of chin for them both. The duke takes the duchess’s hand and bows over it. “Welcome, my dear.” There is a true kindness in his face. His lack of artifice and his genuineness provide a stark contrast to his wife.

Beside the regent and the Duke of Bourbon stands another man. He is tall, although stooped and thin. His flesh hangs loosely off his face, as if he has been ill. Something about him feels familiar to me, although I cannot place it.

“And, Your Grace,” the regent says, “you know well the Duke of Orléans.”

Her words have me gaping like a fish, but the duchess’s look of joy chases away my disbelief. If she feels the same shock I do at the change in his appearance, she hides it well.

It has been seven years since I saw him, but he has aged at least twenty. He was taller then, square-jawed and renowned for his prowess at hunting and jousting. Now he does not look as if he could manage to hold a lance with both hands.

After he had been captured in the final battle of the Mad War between France and the late duke of Brittany, rumors circulated that he was kept in a cage so small he could not stand and fed naught but bread and water for months on end. I had dismissed them. D’Orléans is next in line for the throne should anything happen to King Charles, and I could not believe either the regent or the king would treat a Prince of the Blood in such a way.

But I was wrong, and every word appears true. Next to him, the regent glitters like a bright red jewel in the falling dusk, and I am grateful she no longer considers the duchess her enemy.

* * *

The Duke and Duchess of Bourbon could not have provided a more gracious welcome. The light of a hundred candles sparkles brightly against the silver, gold, and crystal on the lavishly set table. The sideboards groan under the weight of roasts of beef and venison, the savory smell of fine herbs mingling with the sharp, fruity scent of wine.