Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

He smooths my hair back from my face. “Do not be so modest, my dear.”

“I am not being modest, so much as practical.”

His laughter feels like an invisible velvet rope looping about my neck.

I push to a sitting position. “Truly, I have no wish for such things. Knowing that I brought you pleasure is reward enough.” Risky words to utter, in case he takes them to heart.

“Well, as my mistress you may lead as simple a life as you wish. No one will dare comment upon it.”

Tiny wings of desperation begin to beat inside my breast. “Your Majesty,” I whisper, “I cannot be your court favorite.”

For the first time in hours, he frowns, and a faint note of arrogance colors his voice. “Why not?”

“You are newly married to a young queen. A queen who is soon to be crowned in front of all your subjects. They will be hoping for an heir, and soon. To have a court favorite so early on feels as if it risks their goodwill.”

He, too, sits up. “I am the king. I do not need their goodwill.”

“Of course not, but the new queen does. And even kings can benefit by the goodwill of their people.”

He says nothing, but I see the truth of my words reach him. He takes my hand, holding—?trapping—?it in his own. “I will have you by my side, official court favorite or no, and I will give you something to show my deep appreciation and regard, whether you choose it or I.”

“A gift, a true gift,” I tell him, “is to be given freely, with no thought of receiving something in exchange.”

“I know, and you are one of the few who has done precisely that—?given to me of yourself freely and without expectation.” It is all I can do not to squirm at this lie. “And now I wish to do the same for you.”

“Very well.” I fold my hands, place them on my stomach, and stare at the ceiling.

He watches me a moment, then leans forward. “What are you doing?” he whispers.

“I am praying, Your Majesty. Praying to see what gift I should ask you for.” It is not—?quite—?a lie, for I am praying, but I am praying that I do not overstep again. After a few more minutes pass, I turn on my side and prop my head on my elbow. “The gift I would ask is not for me, but for those whom I care about.”

His face softens. “Who are these that you care about, and what can I do to help them?”

I close my eyes and steady my breath. “It is a convent, Your Majesty. The convent where I was raised.”

“But of course I will help a convent!”

I grimace faintly. “I have heard this is not a convent that you care for, and I fear in asking for them that you will think less of me.”

“My dear, Gen! How can I think less of you when you have shown such nobility of spirit and generosity toward others? Please, name your convent and how I can help them.”

“It is the convent of Saint Mortain. I would ask that you not disband them, but allow them to continue their worship.”

He manner cools, his body easing away from mine. “The convent of Saint Mortain?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And what is your connection to them?” He is vexed, even though he said he would not be.

“It is the convent where I was raised before my father had me sent to court.”

My stomach dips as he abruptly rises from the bed. When he shrugs into a chamber robe of deep blue velvet, I become painfully aware of my own nakedness. “A convent that serves the patron saint of death seems an odd place to send a young girl to be raised. One can only question your father’s judgment.”

The ice beneath my feet is thin; one miscalculation, and it will crack. “It was the tradition in his family. They sent their daughters there for generations. He thought only to continue that tradition.”

He is quiet as he pours himself some wine. He does not offer me any. “What does one learn at the convent that serves the patron saint of death?”

His words sow further seeds of misgiving. “Your Majesty, surely you know, else you would not have made the decision to disband it.”

“Surely I do know, but I wish to hear it from one who was raised there. I will confess that I have not spoken directly with one of his novitiates before.”

What—?or how much—?to tell him? Mayhap, hearing directly from one of us will help change his mind. But how much did he know of our practices before he closed the convent door? Giving myself time to choose my words carefully, I scoot up so that I am sitting against the bolster at the head of the bed and drag the thick coverlet up around my shoulders, more to ward off the chill than to cover my nakedness. Even so, the king’s gaze dips down to my breasts. “We learned many things, Your Majesty. We learned of the complex nature of death, how it is not simply something that sneaks into our lives unwelcome, but can serve as justice or mercy or simply a passing.” I must be honest enough with him that if he is testing me, I will not fail. “We learned of the ways death can be delivered—?through illness and weapons, disease and poison.”

At the word poison, he gaze drops to the goblet in his hand. I hurry to add. “We also learned of antidotes and means of protection, but mostly that all death comes through Him.”

His fingers on the stem of the goblet tighten. “The Church says such things come from God.” His voice is expressionless, telling me nothing.

“Of course they do. But once God has decided, it is Mortain to whom the task falls. Just as while it is God who grants us protection or safe crossing, it is Saint Peter or Saint Christopher who carries out our deliverance.”

“Ah.” He takes another sip of wine. “Now tell me why you think I’ve disbanded them.”

“Your Majesty, I am in no position to question your judgment. I am only asking for an act of mercy for those that I care about.”

He smiles again, fleeting but genuine. “No. I mean, tell me why you think the convent has been disbanded. I did not even know of its existence until you told me of it just now.”

It feels as if someone has grabbed my stomach and hurled it down six flights of stairs. Cold dread seeps into my limbs. “Then I am sorry to have bothered you with such a trifling problem. Clearly the information I received was wrong.” Angoulême lied to me! But why?

I remember how closely I checked the letter, and I would still swear it was not a forgery.

“Clearly, and I would like to know who gave you this information.”

“It was Count Angoulême who told me, although he did so after receiving a letter from the abbess.”

His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Count Angoulême was in communication with the abbess?”

Rutting goats! This ditch I had no intention of digging is now threatening to swallow me whole. “But of course, Your Majesty. She would occasionally inquire after my welfare. She was fond of all her pupils and would ask after me upon occasion. But again, I fear I must have misunderstood the message the count conveyed on her behalf.”

The king studies me with hooded eyes. “I wonder . . .” he says, tapping his finger on the stem of his wineglass. After a moment, he abruptly sets it down, then walks away from the bed. “Tell me,” he says, his voice drifting over his shoulder, “do you know why I was raised so far away from the court, stuck in a lesser castle like a prisoner?”

As he turns around, I see that he is carrying my gown. When he reaches the bed, he tosses it to me. “You may get dressed.”

Afraid to take my eyes off him, I move out from under the covers, to the side of the bed, and pull my chemise over my head. It feels good to be covered, as if somehow the fine cotton fabric can protect me from whatever is brewing between us.

“Do you know?” he prompts.

“No, Your Majesty.” I grab my skirt and step into it, donning my clothes like a knight his armor.

“You have seen how well guarded Plessis-lès-Tours is, yes? The traps, the snares, the cunning passageways one must navigate to reach the castle itself.”

“They are most elaborate.” I slip my arm