Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

My head snaps up. “I . . . I’m not certain. My mind was not focused on the time.”

She purses her lips, studying me. “Why was Lady Sybella in your chambers yesterday morning?”

I blink at the unwelcome change of subject. I have no idea why the king hasn’t shared my association with the convent with the regent, but the longer I can hold that off, the better. I can use womanly charm to soften the king’s ire, but have nothing with which to soften the regent’s.

“She had heard you had a new attendant and wished to introduce herself.”

“How friendly of her.” The regent’s voice is more acidic than verjuice. “You are to avoid her. She is too loyal to the queen and will sniff out the king’s interest in you like a hound will a fox. Besides, her fortune at court is about to change. Best you are far away so that you are not caught in the undertow.”

A fresh wave of anger surges over me, but all I say is, “Of course, Madame. I am not here to make friends, but to serve both you and the king to the best of my ability.”

As she disappears down the corridor, I resume my walking. The regent’s warnings ring in my ears, and the king’s handprint throbs upon my chin, both of them doing nothing to calm my growing outrage. The king may expect me to feel grateful for his protection, but he will quickly find that while I may be a fool, I am no coward. I will not let others take the blame for what I have done.

Chapter 8

Maraud

Something was missing. Maraud couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but its absence was palpable. It wasn’t until he laid out his bedroll that it hit him. Lucinda.

And how many different kinds of fool did that make him?

“So, have you decided where we’re going?”

Maraud nodded. “Flanders.”

The others exchanged a glance. “General Cassel?”

He nodded again. Everyone fell silent. “What about d’Albret?” Andry asked. “You had wanted us to check on him—before you asked us to ride ahead and meet up with you. Don’t you still want to know what he’s up to?”

“I do. After I bring Cassel to justice.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the faint crackling of the small fire and the occasional stomp of a horse’s hoof. “Are you sure?” Jaspar’s voice was filled with something Maraud didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Saints, yes.”

“But you said Lucinda needed to save someone. We all agreed to help her.”

“What part of she poisoned me do you not understand?”

“But that’s your thing, Maraud. You’re the savingest mercenary I’ve ever met. Are you going to let a little poison come between you and—”

Maraud met his eyes across the campfire. “No. She made her wishes perfectly clear.”

With a sigh, Jaspar relented.

But not Valine. “You said yourself that she was trying to save you from possible repercussions with the queen and unfair punishment.”

Her words cause something hot and hard to lodge in Maraud’s stomach. “She didn’t trust me enough to let me help.”

“Did you give her reason to?” Valine’s voice is pitched low, low enough that it reaches only him. “She seemed genuinely surprised to see us when we showed up at Camulos’s Cup. You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“Don’t you have first watch?”

“No, Andry does. You told her only half your story, and yet you’re mad because she didn’t trust you? I’d say she was smart not to. And you would too if your judgment wasn’t so clouded.”

“The poison is well out of my system.”

“I wasn’t talking about the poison. We call you Your Lordship for a reason, you know. You can be high-handed and arrogant, so convinced in the rightness of your decisions that you don’t feel the need to include others in the process. I don’t pretend to know all of what went on between you two, but what I saw of her I liked. And I know you. So I ask again, given the position she was in, and your own pigheadedness, did you give her enough reason to trust you?”

Maraud scoffed, but she was already heading for her bedroll and missed it.

Lucinda was pricklier than a thorn bush and possessed the foul temper of a maddened goose. An image she was all too eager to embrace, ensuring the entire world saw her that way.

But thorns were merely a means of self-protection.

“Bollocks,” he muttered. Thoughts—and questions—about Lucinda had haunted him every night since they parted ways. Why did she come riding to his aid at Camulos’s Cup, then refuse his help? It ate at him that he would likely be dead if she hadn’t come back. And she refused to allow him to repay the favor. Why? What was she so afraid of that she was willing to poison him to avoid?

Valine’s question was just one of the many that hounded him the entire way to Flanders.

Chapter 9

Genevieve

“Wake up!” Sybella’s voice yanks me from my sleep. Certain I had locked my door, I reach for the knife under my pillow, then decide she would not wake me up if she intended to kill me. Probably.

“Why, ’tis as if the sunshine itself has appeared in my room,” I mutter.

“You have precisely five minutes to get dressed, else I will take you to the queen in your undergarments.”

I sit up and shove the hair out of my face. “The who?”

“The queen. You wished to speak with her. She has granted your request.”

My heart hammers in my chest as I stand and reach for my gown. “I am surprised she agreed to see me.”

“Our queen has never been one to shy away from facing problems head-on.”

Under Sybella’s cool, dispassionate gaze, I finish dressing, and quickly arrange my hair. She gives me one last second to splash water on my face before saying, “Let’s go.”

She eases the door open, peeks outside, then motions for me to follow. It is early yet, and the hallways are empty.

“Is our meeting a secret?”

She sends me a scathing look over her shoulder. “No. I want to sneak up on the herald before I have him announce our arrival.”

I open my mouth to shoot back a retort but am cut off when she stops walking and shoves me against the wall. Seconds later, a cluster of servants bearing buckets hurries by. Sybella swears, then glances around once more before resuming. “This way.”

Stepping softly, I follow her, hugging the wall like she does so that we are not immediately visible to any passersby. All too soon, we arrive at the double doors of the queen’s apartments. “Stay hidden, then follow once I give the signal,” Sybella whispers. As the sentries open the door to let her in, she twitches her fingers at me, and I slip in close on her heels. I barely have time to take in the sumptuousness of the queen’s solar—the sunlight spilling in from the large oriel windows, the ornately carved wooden legs of the chairs, the gold and red wall hangings—before Sybella urges me along. “Hurry. The regent-appointed attendants will be here any moment.”

I step smartly to keep up with Sybella. When she knocks once on the door, a short, dark-haired woman opens it. She gives me a curious look before slipping out. Sybella takes my arm and pulls me into the queen’s bedchamber.

As soon as we are inside, Sybella dips a curtsy. “Genevieve is here, Your Majesty.”

I sink into a curtsy as well. Sybella quietly removes herself, closing the door behind her.

The queen says nothing for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is low with cold fury. “How dare you? You—the convent—serve me. My interests.”

Still in a curtsy, I say, “With all due respect, Your Majesty, we serve the interest of Mortain and those of Brittany.”

There is a sharp intake of breath. “Are you saying I do not serve the interests of either of those?”

“Most assuredly not, Your Majesty. I am only saying that throughout the history of the country, they have not always been one and the same, which is why the convent made certain we understood the distinction.”

“You may stand,” she says with a sniff. “It is too hard to hear you when you talk to the floor.”