eeling well pleased with the day’s work, I return to the palace. Before I can so much as search out the seneschal, I stumble upon the regent. She is attended by four of her loyal ladies, and has a distinct air of self-satisfaction about her.
When she sees me, the smile vanishes and she comes to a sudden stop, her attendants having to step lightly to avoid trampling her. “Genevieve?”
“Madame Regent.” I sink into a deep curtsy, glancing up from between my lashes to see how she is taking my sudden appearance.
While her face registers mild surprise, the look she gives me is not unwelcome. In truth, she looks—almost—glad to see me. Which is odd, as I was never her favorite.
“Come, walk with me.” She waves her other ladies back and casts me a speculative glance as she takes my arm in hers. “What brings you here? I had no news of your coming.”
“I am sorry for that, Madame. A messenger was sent, but it appears he did not arrive.”
Her fine brows draw into a delicate frown. “And where are your attendants?” The faint reproach in her voice is unmistakable, although whether it is for me or my missing attendants, I am unsure.
“That is more bad news, Madame! I fear I bear nothing but distressing tales.”
She looks at me sharply. “Come, you must tell me of them.” She turns to her ladies. “You are dismissed. I will find you when I have need of you again.”
With that, she takes my arm more firmly in hers and leads me down the hall. “We will be more comfortable in my office, where I can hear your tale in its entirety.”
“Thank you, Madame.” My voice is low, measured, and grateful, but inside I am cursing my luck. While I knew I would have to speak with her, I did not think it would be so very soon.
Her office is finely appointed, opulent even, filled with elegant furniture and decorations. She escorts me to one of the intricately carved Italian chairs facing her desk, then takes her seat behind it. “So, what brings you here, unannounced and unescorted?” She is not as shocked as I feared she would be, which is to my favor. Indeed, she is studying me much as a farmwife studies a freshly snared rabbit.
“It is a long, unpleasant tale, Madame.”
“The sooner begun, the sooner it will be over.” She settles back in her chair, folds her slim white hands, and gives me her full attention.
I clasp my own hands in my lap. “I come bearing the saddest of news, and met with even more of it along the way. As I told you, the messenger I sent did not make it. Additionally, my own escort and attendants were attacked, near Sainte-Maure.”
Her eyes widen at this. “By whom?”
“I don’t know. Brigands. Outlaws. I only know that my escorts sacrificed their lives so that I might escape.”
She regards me thoughtfully. “You made it all the way from Sainte-Maure to Plessis alone?”
“What choice did I have? To turn back was a longer journey. And since the others paid with their lives, it felt disrespectful of their sacrifice to do anything other than continue.”
“You could have sought aid at a church or abbey. They could have provided you with an escort for the rest of your trip.”
“I never considered that, Madame. From all that you have taught us, I thought the fewer people who saw me alone, the better.”
“That is a reasonable approach,” she concedes. “Tell me exactly where you were attacked so that we may send out inquiries. This will not go unpunished.”
I describe the small valley where d’Albret’s men caught up to us. Even if the wolves or carrion have carried off the remains of the dead, there will be plenty of signs of our struggle.
“I am truly sorry for all that you had to endure,” she says. “And you did so because you had news for me?”
I cannot tell if it is my imagination or if her interest is especially piqued. Is she thinking of the prisoner she ordered forgotten? Or is there some other news she is hoping for?
“I do. Tragic news. I am afraid that Margot is dead.”
Her pale face grows even paler. “Dead?”
“Yes, Madame.” Much to my surprise, my eyes begin to water, and I must blink fiercely to keep them from spilling over. Of all the people with whom I would share my grief, the regent is near the last of my list.
“When?”
“Six days before the royal wedding.”
“Why did the count not inform me of this immediately?”
“I am certain he did not wish to darken a joyous occasion with such news.”
“That was most thoughtful of him.” Her tone is dry. She drums her fingers on the chair arm a moment before asking. “What did she die of?”
I have but a heartbeat or two to decide whether to tell the truth or to protect Count Angoulême. “She died giving birth to Count Angoulême’s bastard.”
Madame’s nostrils flare, and her head rears back slightly before she turns to look out the window. “I am sorry,” she says. In those words I hear not only sorrow that Margot has passed, but that Madame herself has placed her in such circumstances. She turns back to me. “How is Louise taking all this?”
I must tread carefully here. “Louise is much concerned with her own pregnancy, and in doing her duty by the count, as you have instructed her. She is sad for Margot’s passing, of course, but is not dwelling on it lest the melancholy damage her own babe.”
Madame gives a brusque nod of approval. “That is most wise of her.” She tilts her head and examines me. “And what of you?” Her voice is as gentle as I’ve ever heard it. “The two of you have been together nearly your whole life, as I understand it.”
I am impressed that she remembers that much about us with as many girls as she fosters. “I miss her terribly. It is why I volunteered to bring the news myself. It is too difficult to be in Cognac surrounded by reminders of Margot.”
Because I am so practiced in remaining guarded all the time, it is hard to let the truth of these words show on my face, but she must see something that convinces her. “Poor Genevieve. And you recently lost your father as well, or so Count Angoulême told me in one of his letters.”
I school my features so that the surprise I feel will not show. “That is true, although I have not seen him for longer than ten years and can hardly remember him.”
She brings her hand up to her chin, one long, slim finger tapping her lips. “And your mother died when you were . . . ?”
“Born, Madame. She died when I was born, and my father’s mother lived with him and cared for me until she, too, died.”
“So you truly are all alone in this world now.”
“Yes.” Hidden in the folds of my skirt, my hands clench into fists. No.
“Well, I am sorry for the nature of what brings you here, but I cannot be sad to see you.”
This is unexpected. I would not have guessed that she would have thought twice about my absence, since it was she who arranged it.