After a thick moment of silence, the queen says, “My lord husband, I assure you—”
He speaks over her. “Did you know that Lady Sybella is an assassin from the convent of Saint Mortain?”
“I know that she serves the convent of Saint Mortain, yes. But as for her being an assassin—”
“Does she serve the patron saint of death or not?” The king’s voice rises.
“I just told you she did. But that is far different from being an assassin.”
“So you did know!” A brief, charged silence hangs in the air.
“Of course I knew.” When the queen answers, her voice is as close to deriding as I have ever heard it. “What sort of ruler would I be if I did not know all of my country’s customs and religious orders?”
“But she is an assassin!” The king nearly sputters his outrage.
“She serves the patron saint of death, just as our knights serve Saint Camulos and our scholars and healers serve Saint Brigantia.”
“No matter how you try to paint it with pretty words, she is an assassin, and you have brought her into your lord husband’s court,” General Cassel says.
“The Nine are fully sanctioned by the Church, and have been for hundreds of years.” The queen’s voice rings out firmly. “That they have fallen out of fashion in France does not change that.”
“Maybe it should,” the Bishop of Albi mutters.
“That you would think so speaks to your lack of piety, not ours,” the queen says coolly.
The king interrupts their exchange. “You used these worshipers of death?”
“It was war.” The queen’s exasperation hardens her words to steel. “We both used what tools we had available to us. Every noble house in Europe has some kind of poisoner or assassin to serve them. The Breton court is not alone in this. Besides, none of your people were assassinated, so the point is moot.”
“I have never used assassins.” The king’s voice is both boastful and petulant.
“That may well be true, but you had other tools in your arsenal that were no less deadly.” The queen’s voice shifts, as if she is in a council meeting discussing some point of philosophy. “Tell me, my lord, do you truly think it more noble to bribe my closest advisors into betraying me than to hire an assassin? How noble and fair-minded was it to capture Chancellor Crunard’s last living son on the battlefield and ransom him, not for gold, but for treason and his father’s honor?”
“Your Majesty,” General Cassel’s voice interrupts. “We are not here to recount every action taken in the long war between France and Brittany.”
“Hold!” The king’s voice sounds pained. “Tell me more about Chancellor Crunard, Madame.”
“You didn’t know.” The queen’s words are filled with amazement. “You didn’t know Chancellor Crunard’s son was held to ensure the chancellor would deliver me into the hands of France? But surely you were aware that Marshal Rieux, Madame Dinan, and Madame Hivern were all paid handsome sums of gold to betray me. My entire council was in your pocket.”
“Can you prove these accusations?” The king’s voice is strained.
“I do not need to prove them. They all confessed. And since it was those who served the patron saint of death who discovered their betrayal, I can see why you would resent such efficient weapons in my arsenal. But we are on the same side now.” Her voice softens a bit, as if to remind him of this most relevant fact. “Furthermore,” she continues, “not one of those traitors is dead, so your fears of assassination are misplaced.”
The silence that follows is so deep and wide, it feels as if a chasm has opened up in the room.
“You really didn’t know?” the queen asks at last, her voice sounding younger than it has all morning. Hope, I realize. That he did not know fills her with hope.
“No.” The word cracks through the silence like a stone through a window. “I did not know any of this.” There are no further words, and only the clip of the king’s boot heel as he leaves the room. It is followed by a rustle of fabric and a shuffling of feet as his advisors hurry to catch up to him.
The queen waits for a quarter of an hour before calling softly, “You can come out now.”
I emerge from my hiding place. “I am impressed, Your Majesty. You not only neutralized his main offense, but managed to point out his own egregious tools of war.”
“Tools he had no idea were even being used.” Her voice is bemused. “It is hard to believe they would keep something like that from him. There is only one person who would have dared to send such orders in his name.”
It is becoming clear where the seeds of his lack of trust and confidence have sprung from. “We do not know how long his displeasure with his sister will distract him from his displeasure with us, but it is a reprieve, and I will gladly take it.”
The queen’s face hardens. “When you can do so without rousing suspicion, bring this Genevieve to me.”
Chapter 7
Genevieve
When I arrive in the king’s apartments, I find him with his royal perfumer, bent over a tray filled with glass vials. The room is thick with the cloying scent of civet and orange blossoms. Unbidden, a memory of Maraud’s face when he learned the poison I had given him was simply a ruse to force his cooperation comes to me so vividly that it takes my breath away. How will he feel after our last parting, when I had to truly poison him? I quickly hide my face with a deep curtsy. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”
Dismissing the perfumer, he waves me forward. “So tell me, as an assassin, you stay informed of your queen’s politics, do you not?”
“As much as I can, although the distance and the need for secrecy has made it difficult.”
He lifts one of the small bottles to his nose and sniffs. “What do you know of her Privy Council? They were fiercely loyal to her, were they not?”
Unable to stop myself, I snort, but manage to cover it with a cough. The king’s hand tightens on the thick-cut glass he is holding. “Why do you laugh?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I wasn’t laughing, there was something stuck in my throat. But, sire, surely you know that the majority of them were loyal to you? Do you now doubt their loyalty—loyalty you paid handsomely for?”
His face is unreadable. “And the former chancellor, Crunard? What do you know of him?”
“That he, too, betrayed the queen and pledged his loyalty to you. Although,” I add, “the cost was far greater than gold.”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely any man’s sole surviving son is more precious than coin?” Again my mind goes to Maraud and how his father’s betrayal consumed him. It is on the tip of my tongue to ask why the king is questioning me, but my own situation is too precarious.
He places the vial of scent back on the tray with such force that I fear it has shattered. He looks at the wall behind me with such thinly disguised longing and revulsion that it is all I can do not to glance over my shoulder.
“You did not know?” I am so surprised by my realization that it comes out as a whisper.