“Captain Dunois made it a point to know the men who fought under his command.”
I ignore his outstretched hand—?and his answer that tells me nothing—?and spring to my feet. “Let’s try again.”
It takes me three turns at being airborne before I finally manage to center my weight correctly and anchor myself with my back foot. When I get the rope around his neck the fourth time and he is unable to budge me, I crow. “Ha!
He glances over his shoulder at me, slightly out of breath. “You are nothing if not persistent.” He smiles, his face full of good humor and admiration. In that moment, I become exquisitely aware of my arm still around his neck, his heart beating just under my elbow. Damp heat rises from his body. No doubt a similar heat is rising off of mine. Our position is far closer to an embrace than a fight.
I scramble to untangle myself from him, stepping away as quickly as I can—?but not so quickly that he will suspect why. “It is time for me to go.”
He says nothing, but raises one eyebrow at me so that I want to smack it clean off his face. “Hurry.” I start to yank on the rope, then bite back a huff of annoyance as I remember the manacles. “I have spent too long down here already, and I will be missed.”
When we reach the oubliette, I untie his wrists so that he may climb down. When he has reached the bottom, he starts to say something, but I slam the grill shut, the loud clang of it drowning out his words.
* * *
My heart beats too fast and not, I think, from exertion. I can still feel the weight of Maraud’s hands on my body, the heat of him through the fabric of my sleeves. Still feel the dampness of our sweat.
Of all the times for lust to rear its vexing head, surely this is the most inconvenient.
I probably smell of him as well. Which means I will need to slip up to my room and wash before I join the others in the solar.
That realization has me quickening my pace, not wishing to be gone any longer than I already have.
Just as I emerge from the dungeons into the antechamber at the base of the stairway, I stop, shocked to see Louise herself halfway down the stairs. Her eyes widen as I emerge from the hallway. “There you are!”
“My lady.” I drop into a deep curtsy, wanting a moment to compose myself.
“Genevieve.” Her voice is filled with both affection and annoyance. She stops before me, her solemn gray eyes combing over my appearance, taking in my flushed, heated face, the state of my clothes. “I fear I have come to the end of my patience with you.” She reaches out and takes my arm in hers, tucking it into the crook of her elbow. While it is a friendly gesture, there is a steely possession in her grip that makes it clear that it is not friendly at all. “It is not healthy for you to be down here this much. It is not calming you, but agitating you further. You must stop coming here and return to your place at my side. I will not be ignored in this, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Good.” She sniffs. “Although I do think a bath is in order before you join us.”
Chapter 48
Sybella
he next morning I am abruptly awakened when the door to the queen’s chamber is thrown open. Hands reaching for the knives at my wrists, I wrench into a sitting position just as the regent walks in.
She is followed by a long line of her attendants. As the queen sits up in bed, blinking and trying to sort out what is going on, I stifle a yawn and glance at the thick curtain covering the window, wondering how early it is. It feels like the night has been far too short for any of us to have gotten enough rest.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.” The regent’s greeting is brisk and pleasant. “Your staff is here to assist you with your morning toilette.”
Merde. Can these French not even manage to wash without creating a pompous ceremony to go with it?
The queen glances around at the sheer number of people filling her chamber. “I am quite certain my own ladies can help me wash and dress, Madame Regent. They have been doing so for years and are quite practiced in it.”
The regent gives the queen a stiff, cool smile. “Ah, but they have not been trained in the ways at the French court. Your morning bath, indeed, your every move, must be up to the French court’s standards so you do not shame the king.” My heart plummets. We will never be free of this harridan.
“I am not sure the order in which I dress can shame him,” the queen says tartly. “But,” she adds, “I would be interested in seeing how it is done so my own ladies may learn.”
The regent’s smile stays frozen in place, but she motions her women forward. They pull back the covers and hold out a robe for the queen, who rises to her feet and shrugs into the proffered garment. She turns to the regent. “I do not know how it is done here in France, but my first commitment every morning is to pray to the Almighty, and I would not set aside my duties to God for ceremony.”
I hide a smile, for even the regent cannot outdo the queen in this regard. My only regret is that, as her lady in waiting, I, too, must kneel in prayer, something I rarely do.
The regent does not miss the rebuke, and her nostrils flare in irritation. “Nor would I want you to. Of course that is your first duty here as well.”
The duchess smiles sweetly. “How lovely that we are aligned in our deference to God. Best that you watch me pray to be certain I am doing it in accordance with your standards.”
A hush falls upon the room. As we quiet ourselves for prayer, a wave of hopelessness threatens to engulf me. The regent has no intention of allowing the queen to establish her own household, let alone take her rightful place at court. She has cunningly laid all manner of traps and snares.
But she will not prevail. I have survived a lifetime of Count d’Albret’s schemes and torments and bested him in the end. I defeated Pierre and his henchmen—?singlehandedly. I have faced Death himself—?three times—?and come away the victor. This snake of a woman, no matter how formidable she may be, has nothing she can throw at the queen that is greater than what I have already endured. She will not win this battle.
The queen’s prayer is a long one, longer even than normal. She will not have her piety questioned by anyone, least of all this most un-Christian regent. Unaccustomed to such long prayers, Madame shifts more than once before the queen is finished.
When the queen finally rises, a well-dressed woman steps forward bearing a finely wrought silver basin. A second woman dips a soft cloth in the water while a third removes the robe from the queen so that she is stripped bare before the entire group. Surely the regent must lie awake at night, plotting to find ways to force the queen to stand naked before others. For her part, the queen does not flinch, but holds her head high, her chin tilted at a proud angle, staring straight ahead as if she is alone in the room.
When that is done, another series of women begin dressing the queen, one article of clothing at a time. They move around Heloise, Elsibet, and me as if we are naught but pieces of furniture. When one of them elbows past me, it is all I can do not to stick my foot out and send her sprawling to the floor. Instead, I force myself to memorize every detail of their ministrations so we will be able to do it ourselves and prove to the regent that the queen’s own attendants are more than equal to the challenges of the French court.
Once the queen is dressed, it is time for us to attend the morning mass. Instead of groaning in dismay, I vow to use it to my advantage. Somehow.
“Will the king be attending?” the queen asks as we proceed down the hall.
“Yes,” Madame answers, “but the men of the household worship in the main chapel, while we women use a smaller one.”
I cannot help but wonder if this has always been the case or is a new development meant to keep the king and queen apart.
* * *
Since all the ladies of the household are expected to attend mass, Aeva, Tola, Tephanie, and my sisters arrive with the rest of the Breton ladies in waiting. Louise smiles at me and I wink. Charlotte’s eyes are everywhere
but on me—?taking in the number of finely dressed ladies present and the opulent trappings of the royal chapel.
With consummate skill, the regent maneuvers things so that those of us who arrived with the queen find ourselves relegated to the back of the chapel. That suits me perfectly, however, for it is the best place to observe the others and have those observations go undetected.
As the priest drones on in his melodious Latin, I examine the heads of the women in the front of me. Between the questions raised by the king’s visit to the princess and the regent’s determination to maintain her stranglehold on power, we are in desperate need of insight to both the king’s intentions and the regent’s strategy. Who better to provide that than the convent’s own moles?
All of the women’s hair is covered, but with their heads bowed, it is possible to see a few tendrils at the nape of their necks. Margot’s red hair should be the easiest to spot. Only one woman has hair with the faintest tinge of red to it, but I cannot tell if it is truly red or merely the effect of the light coming in through stained glass windows. Either way, there is only one possibility for Margot.
And what of Genevieve? Which one of these ladies could be her? A handful of women have dark blond hair, but the bulk of them have brown. And a twelve-year-old’s hair color is the flimsiest of hints to go on. How will I sort through all the possibilities?
There is also no guarantee that either of them are among the attendants the regent has brought with her on the honeymoon. By all accounts, the regent has more than a hundred women to attend her, and Plessis-lès-Tours is supposed to be a small, intimate court. What if they are not here?
Despair threatens to raise its head again, but I drown out its voice by uttering a fervent prayer to Mortain to help me find his other daughters.
* * *
The rest of the day is spent in a blaze of pomp and ceremony that the king has arranged for the queen. Whether it was planned all along or hastily put together to make up for his absence last night, I do not know. It is the welcome she should have received yesterday, and as far as I am concerned, being late tarnishes the gesture greatly.
But the queen is pleased, glowing with pleasure, so I cannot begrudge her that.
The king takes the opportunity to allow the queen to present her attendants and courtiers to him. When it is Beast’s turn, the steward announces, “Sir Benebic de Waroch, captain of the queen’s guard.”
A faint crease appears upon the king’s brow as Beast bows deeply. It does not disappear once Beast stands. “Why is there a queen’s guard?”