Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)
“You are glowing.” Her voice is tinged with awe.
I put my hand to my cheek, wanting to hang on to this moment of grace as long as I possibly can.
Chapter 34
Genevieve
eeling triumphant after my successful visit with the prisoner, it is time for me to return to the solar. While I enjoy sewing and like the other women of the castle well enough, it will be the first time I have joined them since Margot’s death. But with my newfound resolve to leave, I must maintain a sense of normalcy until I make my move. When I step into the room, my first thought is that they have rearranged the chairs. There is only one empty chair waiting to be filled, not two.
My fervent desire to slip in unnoticed is quickly dashed when Louise herself notes my entrance. “Ah, Genevieve. There you are. Come sit with me.”
My heart sinks as she nods to Jeanne de Polignac, Count Angoulême’s other mistress, who smiles kindly at me and vacates her seat next to the countess. “I would be honored, my lady.” Ignoring the surreptitious glances of the other attendants, I curtsy and take the chair next to Louise. She smiles pleasantly and turns her gaze back to her embroidery frame. It is not until I have pulled my own needlework onto my lap and taken the first stitch that she speaks.
“We have missed you.”
“I am sorry, my lady. I fear I would have been poor company.”
“You miss her terribly, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I must shove the single word past the thick lump in my throat.
She leans forward, almost as if trying to peer into my thoughts. “Then why do you not speak of her?”
The beating of my heart feels as if a bird is frantically trying to escape from my chest. “It is too hard, my lady. Every time I think of her, my heart breaks a little more.” Anxious to turn her attention from me, I ask, “Is it not hard for you as well?”
I have always wondered how much Margot’s relationship with Angoulême vexed Louise. It was bad enough to have to accept that her husband chose a second mistress, but that Margot was one of her oldest friends, as well as her lady in waiting, and managed to get herself with child before Louise must surely have rankled.
She leans back in her chair. “Yes, but you and she were closer and had known each other longer.” There is an almost accusing note in her voice.
I look down at my hands and force my fingers to release their death hold on the needle. “Some things are too important to speak of.”
“That is true.” Her hand wanders to her belly, her expression growing unfocused and far away. It is a manner she often adopts when contemplating her babe, and I desperately wish to know what she is thinking in these moments. While she has always held her own counsel, the tendency grew worse last spring after she had a private audience with the holy hermit who resides at the king’s palace at Plessis. Ever since that meeting, she has been apt to wear that smile.
“However,” she continues, “you are my attendant, and your role here is to attend upon me.” Her voice is pitched low so that only I can hear. “The others are able to manage their grief and still see to their duties.”
My grief. As if the enormity of losing Margot can be contained within that one word. “But of course, my lady.”
I have always felt sympathy for Louise. She spent years at the palace, having to “my lady” everyone, including a girl little more than a babe who was to be her queen. It appeared to me that her new position caused her to swell with the importance of it. My hope was that one day it would fill her so completely that the constant frown she wears would disappear. But today, I want to poke her with my needle and watch her deflate like a pig’s bladder after the fair.
* * *
That night when the other women are tucked away in their beds, I make my way up to my own small chamber. When they sent us from the convent, they did not give us many tools. No knives, no garrotes, no thin sharp blades of any kind. We were only twelve and had not yet begun the more rigorous lessons in the killing arts.
The night whispers and hairnet of poisoned pearls were mostly for our own protection, insisted upon by Sister Serafina, who did not care for us to be defenseless among our enemies.
But over the years, I have assembled my own arsenal. My fingers are light, and the soldiers, knights, and courtiers careless around young women with low necklines. Sister Beatriz was right on that point, at least.
A true initiate must have three kills to her name before she can be sent out on official convent business. But that training does not even begin until the age of thirteen, and those assignments are handed out in the fifteenth year. Margot and I had not even been given the Tears of Mortain, which allow initiates to better see His will in this world. The abbess went to great lengths to explain that we were not allowed to kill anybody. We were to sit and observe, to learn and wait.
The abbess had not told us there would be no contact. We knew we weren’t to reach out to her, but we also assumed there would be some contact through Angoulême or other visitors or envoys from Brittany. They came often enough to the French court, but none of them carried any message or word for us, let alone the crow feather.
I dip a piece of woolen cloth into a crock of goose grease and begin rubbing it on the three-sided blade of my poniard as I once again consider my options.
I could return to Sanson’s tavern. For a moment, I let myself imagine how that would unfold. I think of my mother, and Bertine and Yolanthe, of Joetta and old Solange. On the day I left for the convent, all their faces filled with hope for the life I would get to lead—?so very different from theirs. Each of them so convinced I was special, that I had some great role to play on life’s stage. When I consider returning home, all I can see is the disappointment in their faces.
I set aside the poniard and retrieve my baselard. I hold it up to the candle flame to see if the blade still holds its edge. It does, so I dip the rag in oil and start in on the hammered steel. What would happen if I simply returned to the convent? Has it been abandoned? If so, I could live there for a while, until I figured out what I wish to do. However, it could also have been taken over by the Church, and I do not wish to walk into a nest of sour-lipped, small-minded priests.
I turn the blade over to work on the other side, then pause. Courts and noble families across Europe use assassins and poisoners for their own political ambitions. Surely that is one of my choices, as well. One that my unique background would make me most qualified for.
But am I willing to kill outside Mortain’s grace? All the dire warnings from the nuns crowd my head. It is bad enough to be thrust from the convent. Am I willing to risk my mortal soul in order to be allowed to do this work? Have this power? Not only over others, but over my own destiny?
It is a sobering question and one I cannot answer. A soul is as thin and ephemeral as the convent’s protection. Will I wall myself off from the most interesting choice in life to protect something I do not even know exists?
I set aside the baselard and take up Margot’s stiletto. Testing the edge of it with the side of my thumb, I find it dull, reach for my whetstone, and begin running it along the blade’s edge.
It is too bad I do not have a true sword. And I will need a horse. I could steal one from Angoulême, but I fear that would only increase his reasons for pursuing me once he learns of my absence. Besides, Margot and I have our own horses provided to us by the convent, even though they are stabled in Angoulême’s other holding. But if I used them, it would take him longer to discover they were missing, if he ever did. And I would not be stealing anything—?which I do not wish to do, for that would also bring pursuit. Horse theft is punishable by death.
Even better would be for the count not to pursue me at all, but I am not certain how to manage that.
As I stare down at Margot’s stiletto, a thought forms. What if he did not know I had left?
What if he thought I had died? He would not try to follow me then.
I set down the whetstone and gingerly test the stiletto?
??s edge. A faint line of red appears along the edge of my thumb. Pleased, I return it to its jeweled case.
I may not know where I am going, but I do know how I will ensure that I am not followed.
Chapter 35
Sybella
ecause of our delayed start, we do not reach Langeais until late. The sun has already begun to set behind the three huge pointed towers that rise up above the grim battlements of the castle. While it is impressive, it is also foreboding.
Upon our approach, outriders meet us on the road, sent to escort us back to the palace. They also inform us that the king is not scheduled to arrive until early tomorrow morning, but the regent is in residence.
When we enter the main foyer, she is standing regally atop a wide staircase. Her bright gown and glittering jewels are in stark contrast to the thick pall of grief that enshrouds our party, and I wonder if she is small hearted enough to have planned that on purpose. She pauses a long moment, forcing us to wait while she descends to greet us, her attendants following her like a flock of sheep.
My gaze passes over them briefly, and I wonder if two of them are from the convent. If so, they have assumed their role well, for they all look equally officious and self-important.
When the regent reaches us, she stops. “Be welcome, Your Grace,” she says.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” The duchess’s head is high, her voice strong, but her sorrow clings to her like the most fragrant of perfumes.
The regent steps forward, deftly inserting herself between me and the duchess.
On my best behavior, I do not so much as glare at her, but simply step back while she takes the younger woman’s arm in a friendly manner. “You must be exhausted after your journey. Come, we will get you settled in your chambers so you may rest and refresh yourself for tomorrow.”
The duchess does not refuse her arm, but neither does she lean on it. “Thank you. That would be most welcome.”
As the regent moves toward the stairs with the duchess, her own ladies are quick to position themselves directly behind the two royals. Beast and the queen’s guard fall into step behind them. It is not until they have reached the third stair that the regent stops and turns around to stare at them, raising her eyebrows in question. Beast and the others bow formally.
“Who are you and why are you following the duchess abovestairs?” Her voice is as cool and brittle as the thin layer of ice that forms upon a pond.
“We are the queen’s guard, Madame Regent, and have sworn our service and protection to our lady duchess.”
A delicate frown appears on the regent’s face. “She is perfectly safe here. Our own sentries and guards can see to her protection.”
Beast bows again, his face apologetic. “If you will excuse me, Madame Regent, it is our sworn duty to guard her with our lives. We will not leave those duties to another.”
Beast’s icy blue gaze is well matched to the regent’s frigid glare. “It is our vow to see her safely wed to the king, Madame. Surely, you would not ask us to break our oaths.”
“The king has personally gone to extraordinary lengths for tomorrow’s ceremony.” Her mouth twists with something—?disdain? Disapproval? “And I wish for nothing to mar the ceremony. You may guard her tonight, but after that, she will fall under the protection of the king’s bodyguards.”