“That is true, Your Majesty.”
Since he is careful not to declare Genevieve’s identity, I do not either. He falls quiet again, and I can practically hear the wheels of his mind churning.
“So tell me, are you from the convent of Saint Mortain?”
The ground at my feet shifts and lurches, dread seeping into my bones. In the utter silence of the room, the regent looks sharply at the king. One of the bishops crosses himself, while the other clutches the thick gold crucifix that hangs at his neck. For a brief moment, I consider denying it, but since it is clear he knows—or suspects—lying would only make it worse.
“It is true that I was raised at the convent of Saint Mortain, Your Majesty, as are a number of the women of Brittany.”
“Have you been trained in the arts of death as an assassin?”
While it is the king who speaks, the regent’s eyes bore into me, hungrier for the answer than even the king. “I have been trained in the art of weaponry, Your Majesty, for protecting those I serve. I have also studied poisons so that I may detect them when the need arises. But surely you know all manner of things may be used for good or ill.”
“Answer the question.” Although General Cassel does not raise his voice, it cracks through the room like a whip.
“Yes. That was one of the many things we learned at the convent. We also trained in the care and anointing of the dead, the departing of souls, and how to ease the pain of the dying.”
The king leans back in his chair, satisfied. “Two days ago, I would have believed everything you said here this morning unequivocally, for who would accuse such an obedient and humble demoiselle of what Monsieur Fremin suggested? But surely you can see how your true background gives much credence to his claim.”
“Your Majesty, I am still precisely who I was two days ago—a woman who loves her queen and her sisters and wishes only to serve their best interests. I serve you, as her lord and husband and my king, as well.”
“Even so, I must consider Monsieur Fremin’s accusations carefully. Unlike most ladies, you have the wherewithal to carry them out. You, too, are dismissed. And like Fremin, you are not to leave the palace without permission. If you’d like to prove your innocence, you’d best find those men-at-arms.”
It is all I can do to keep my feet firmly under me and not stumble out of the chambers.
The king knows of the convent. He knows I am an assassin. We have, all of us, been exposed to our enemies.
The question is, how?
Of a certainty the queen did not tell him.
Could Rohan have sent word? I wince, remembering how boldly I taunted the man with my connection to the convent when he first arrived in Rennes with the news that he was to replace Lord Montauban as governor of Brittany. But surely if Rohan had informed the king, his message would have arrived long ago. And the king did not know two days ago, else he would never have ruled in my favor over Fremin.
It takes but the span of two heartbeats before the answer crashes into me.
Genevieve.
Chapter 3
Genevieve
Nestled among the thick folds of a Flemish tapestry, I watch the others emerge from the audience chamber, my head reeling with all I have just witnessed. Fremin storms from the room like a bull through a field. He is not only angry, but scared. And if he works for Pierre d’Albret, he should be. I think back to Sybella’s words this morning, her face as she talked about the “pressing matter,” and feel certain it is related to this man and his accusations.
I am half tempted to follow him so I may report back to Sybella, but have too recently learned how awry well-intentioned interference can go. Not to mention that, if what I understood is correct, Sybella herself is a d’Albret.
I can scarcely credit it. There is no family resemblance between her and Pierre. The only point of commonality was the cold, hard look that was on her face earlier for the briefest of seconds.
And who are these sisters of hers? Are they from the convent as well? Pierre d’Albret’s household?
While I do not fully understand what just transpired in that room, Sybella’s ability to maintain her composure in front of the king and his court, then pivot to the role of a distressed sister with such believability that it nearly brought a tear to my own eye was a wonder to behold.
She comes striding out of the salon just then, her mask still firmly in place, her hands clenched, her face white. I wait long enough to be certain she is not followed, then slip unobtrusively behind her as she passes the tapestry. She continues in silence until she reaches the stairway. Once there, she climbs three steps, glances to either side to be certain no one is about, then looks down at me. That is when I can see that the paleness of her face is due to fury rather than fear. “What did you say to the king to sour him against me?”
“You are a d’Albret. Is that not enough?”
“He has known I was a d’Albret since I first arrived and has not held me in suspicion before.” She grasps the iron railing. “Where were you last night when I came looking for you? You weren’t on a mission for the convent, since you had not heard from them.” She takes a step toward me. “And so I ask myself, why were you not announced, if not on an assignment? And I will tell you, I do not like the answer.” She stares at me, her breathing fast and hard. I open my mouth to answer, but she talks over me. “Where. Were. You.”
I have no choice but to tell her. The entire court will find out soon enough. “With the king.”
She glares at me. “You were sleeping with the king.”
I shrug. “Not sleeping exactly.”
She grits her teeth. “So you were bedding him?”
Sleeping sounded so much better. I nod.
Quicker than an arrow released from a bowstring, she is upon me, her hand grabbing my chin and bringing it close to hers. “You betrayed us.” Her voice is a low, furious hum, her anger a solid wall that has me wanting to take a step back, but her fingers are like a vise. “You aren’t here hoping for a be-damned crow feather. You have some hidden agenda of your own. One that involves destroying the queen.” She shoves my face away from her. “You have exposed us all to the king.”
And there it is, the ugly, brutal kick I have waited for, all the more painful for being delayed long enough to allow hope to take root. As I struggle to find words to explain, she descends another step toward me. “Was it to get even with the convent for ignoring you longer than you liked? Or has your loyalty to Brittany been eroded by your years in France?”
“Disloyalty was never my intention!” Desperately needing a moment to regain my footing, I glance at the deserted landing. “Surely we do not need to discuss this where any wandering ears can hear.”
In answer, she turns and strides up the stairs. Something hot and ugly uncurls inside me, filling my skin so that I fear it will burst. At first I think that it is my own temper flaring to match Sybella’s, but it is more corrosive than that. Shame, I realize with a shock. This thick, suffocating feeling is shame.
When she reaches the landing, she whirls around to face me again, blocking my ascent. “Is that why Margot died? Did she discover your plans for treachery?”
Her words slam against my chest and send me reeling backwards. I grip the bannister. “No!”