I stare out the window, remembering the absolute certainty I felt in that moment, as if a long-missing piece of my life had finally clicked into place—that I had found my destiny. The memory sears my throat.
“Since he had already disbanded the convent, there was no reason for me to think he didn’t know about us. And to be honest, I would have assumed the French crown’s own spies would have at least caught wind of us and reported it to him. Especially with the former chancellor Crunard working so closely with both the regent and the convent.”
I shift my attention from the window and raise my chin slightly. “So that was my intent, to receive clemency for the convent and prevent unwanted fates for the other girls there.”
Sybella stops rubbing at a spot she’s found on the quilt and lifts her eyes to mine, her brief flicker of understanding quickly shuttered. “So that was your plan. Galloping in on a destrier, fulfilling the king’s carnal desires, then requesting a dispensation for the convent because of it.”
Under the weight of her scorn, all of my careful considerations and deliberations seem as thin and tattered as a beggar’s cloak. It was a good plan. Would have been if any of what Angoulême had told me was true.
At last she lifts one shoulder. “I have heard worse.” Although her words are begrudging, they feel like a rousing approval.
I return my attention to the coverlet. “What are we looking for?”
“Any signs that Monsieur Fremin’s men were in here.”
“You think that they were?”
A chilling smile plays about her lips. “I know they were. This is where I killed them.”
I do not think she means the explanation to be a threat, but it feels like one, all the same.
Chapter 4
I leave Sybella’s room and begin walking. I have no idea where to go, wishing only to ward off the howling blizzard of regret and recrimination that threaten to engulf me. I had not expected the king to act so swiftly on the information I had given him, or that he would so easily identify Sybella. He would not have if she had not come to my room this morning. Had not tried to reach out to me. More than ever, I am beginning to fear there is truly no way to fix this disaster, or even lessen its impact.
I am halfway to the servants’ chapel before I realize that is where I’m headed. I need the world to stand still for a moment. To quit shifting and changing so rapidly that I cannot catch my breath. Once, when I was but five years old, the tavernkeeper Sanson took me and my mother to visit the sea. It was a warm day, and they let me play in the water. Until a giant wave sucked the sand from beneath my feet and cast me backwards, end over end, so that I could no longer tell where the water ended and the sky began.
That is how I feel now, only Sanson’s strong, sturdy arm is not there to lift me from the current that threatens to sweep me away.
Fortunately, the chapel is empty, its simple stone walls and small votives far more comforting than the grandeur of the palace’s main chapel. My backside has barely settled onto the plain wooden bench when a voice behind me says, “So you are our missing assassin.”
I leap up, my hand moving toward the knife hidden amongst my skirts. An old priest with fluffy white hair stands there, and while he looks kind enough, I cannot help but remember the vitriol in the eyes of the priests in the council room this morning. “Forgive me, Father, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shrugs. “I have seen you pray.”
My lip curls in derision. “And that makes you think I’m an assassin?”
He tilts his head, his eyes considering. “There is something about the way you daughters of Mortain bow your heads. Not as lowly penitents, but as a dedicant ready to serve a beloved lord.”
For all his fluffy hair and pink cheeks, he is no fool.
“What is a hedge priest doing at the court of France?”
“No mere hedge priest, my child, but a follower of Saint Salonius.”
“The patron saint of mistakes?” My laugh echoes harshly in the small chapel. “Then I have certainly come to the right place.”
“If you have made a mistake, then perhaps you have.”
“What I have made is to a mistake as a mountain is to an anthill.” The desolation rises up once more.
“You have spoken with Lady Sybella, I presume?”
“Oh, we’ve spoken.”
“She has been looking for you for some time. I know she will be glad for your presence.”
While his words are meant as comfort, they cut like broken glass. “I do not think she would agree with you,” I mutter.
He cocks his head to the side, watching me like some little bird patiently waiting for a plump worm to emerge from the ground.
I do not know if his kind regard coaxes the next words from me or if my own self-loathing forces them out. “Let us just say my arrival did not go as planned.”
“Or perhaps”—he spreads his hands in a beneficent gesture—“you are tasked with a different plan. One the gods have not seen fit to share with you.”
His words are so close to the misguided reasoning that got me into this mess that I nearly snap his head off. “I do not want to hear of the gods or saints or any of their rutting plans.”
My outburst does not deter him in the least. “Then what would you like to talk about?”
I am quiet for a moment, thinking. “The sisters Sybella mentioned. Who are they?”
“They are not of Mortain, but born into the family that raised Sybella. She has taken them under her wing in an effort to keep them from the wickedness of their own family.”
“The d’Albrets?”
His nod is a simple gesture, but conveys a deep regret. “Yes.”
This time, I truly fear I will retch. I had thought I understood the nature of the disaster I have wrought, but in this moment realize my valiant plan to save the convent has put two innocent girls in immediate danger. Not to mention all of those at the convent once the ripples of my revelations begin to reach them.
“My child, are you well?” The priest lays his hand on my arm, his touch as light as a moth’s wing.
“No.” The bleak word escapes before I can catch it, as if the old priest has some power to call such weaknesses from me. I have destroyed the convent’s trust in me and am so far out of the king’s favor I may as well be in the Low Countries. Even if I see him again, he will not listen to any explanations or exhortations I can make. “I have ruined everything,” I whisper.
“You’d be surprised at how resilient the world—and yourself—can be.”
Again, he is offering comfort. Comfort that is not warranted. “It is not simply my own life I have ruined, but others.” So many others.
He is quiet a long moment. “Then perhaps you have come to make your confession.”
I open my mouth to correct him, then stop. I am desperate to thrust some of this dark, hot misery from me. To find some way to divest myself of this guilt and shame. Perhaps this kind stranger whose eyes seem to hold three lifetimes of wisdom is the one to hear of it. “Mayhap I have, Father.”
Chapter 5
Sybella