The third time was simply because I wanted it, although with Maraud the want felt far more like a need. A need that still plagues me. I brutally shove that memory aside and turn to my current lover—the king. While I did not desire him, nor lust after him, I did give him what he wanted so that he would, in turn, give me what I want.
The king bestirs himself just then, his hand reaching out to stroke my back. He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, putting his mouth up against my ear. “What magic have you wrought, dearest Gen? I am not a handsome man, nor a graceful one. I cannot even claim to be worldly, for all that I have tried to make up for my sheltered upbringing. But lying with you, I felt all of those things.”
“Your Majesty, I am honored that anything we did together brought you so much pleasure.” I turn around to face him. “That you should feel thus brings me great joy, Your Majesty.”
He reaches out and captures my hand, pressing a kiss upon it. “I wish to give you a gift such as you have given me. I will make you my court favorite and shower you with whatever you desire. Your own chateau. A new wardrobe. Jewels. Silks. A retinue of attendants. Name it, Genevieve, and it is yours.”
It is all I can do not to gape at him. I had hoped for some small reward, a gift perhaps, that I could refuse and instead ask for the convent. But he is offering me every gift I could ever imagine—and all at once. “Your Majesty is far too generous.”
If I had time, I could simply refuse any of the gifts and continue our arrangement until the moment felt right to ask my own favor. But by sticking her long nose into the matter, the regent has forced my hand. She will want reports, ask questions, summon me. And word of those meetings and summons will inevitably work their way back to the king. I can think of nothing that would enrage him more than believing his sister was behind our affair. “Your Majesty, I have no need of a chateau, or jewels. Nor can I imagine what I would do with a troop of ladies trying to see to my needs. I fear all your gifts are too grand for the likes of me.”
He smooths my hair back from my face. “Do not be so modest, my dear.”
“I am not being modest, so much as practical.”
His laughter feels like an invisible velvet rope looping about my neck.
I push to a sitting position. “Truly, I have no wish for such things. Knowing that I brought you pleasure is reward enough.” Risky words to utter, in case he takes them to heart.
“Well, as my mistress you may lead as simple a life as you wish. No one will dare comment upon it.”
Tiny wings of desperation begin to beat inside my breast. “Your Majesty,” I whisper, “I cannot be your court favorite.”
For the first time in hours, he frowns, and a faint note of arrogance colors his voice. “Why not?”
“You are newly married to a young queen. A queen who is soon to be crowned in front of all your subjects. They will be hoping for an heir, and soon. To have a court favorite so early on feels as if it risks their goodwill.”
He, too, sits up. “I am the king. I do not need their goodwill.”
“Of course not, but the new queen does. And even kings can benefit by the goodwill of their people.”
He says nothing, but I see the truth of my words reach him. He takes my hand, holding—trapping—it in his own. “I will have you by my side, official court favorite or no, and I will give you something to show my deep appreciation and regard, whether you choose it or I.”
“A gift, a true gift,” I tell him, “is to be given freely, with no thought of receiving something in exchange.”
“I know, and you are one of the few who has done precisely that—given to me of yourself freely and without expectation.” It is all I can do not to squirm at this lie. “And now I wish to do the same for you.”
“Very well.” I fold my hands, place them on my stomach, and stare at the ceiling.
He watches me a moment, then leans forward. “What are you doing?” he whispers.
“I am praying, Your Majesty. Praying to see what gift I should ask you for.” It is not—quite—a lie, for I am praying, but I am praying that I do not overstep again. After a few more minutes pass, I turn on my side and prop my head on my elbow. “The gift I would ask is not for me, but for those whom I care about.”
His face softens. “Who are these that you care about, and what can I do to help them?”
I close my eyes and steady my breath. “It is a convent, Your Majesty. The convent where I was raised.”
“But of course I will help a convent!”
I grimace faintly. “I have heard this is not a convent that you care for, and I fear in asking for them that you will think less of me.”
“My dear, Gen! How can I think less of you when you have shown such nobility of spirit and generosity toward others? Please, name your convent and how I can help them.”
“It is the convent of Saint Mortain. I would ask that you not disband them, but allow them to continue their worship.”
He manner cools, his body easing away from mine. “The convent of Saint Mortain?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And what is your connection to them?” He is vexed, even though he said he would not be.
“It is the convent where I was raised before my father had me sent to court.”
My stomach dips as he abruptly rises from the bed. When he shrugs into a chamber robe of deep blue velvet, I become painfully aware of my own nakedness. “A convent that serves the patron saint of death seems an odd place to send a young girl to be raised. One can only question your father’s judgment.”
The ice beneath my feet is thin; one miscalculation, and it will crack. “It was the tradition in his family. They sent their daughters there for generations. He thought only to continue that tradition.”
He is quiet as he pours himself some wine. He does not offer me any. “What does one learn at the convent that serves the patron saint of death?”
His words sow further seeds of misgiving. “Your Majesty, surely you know, else you would not have made the decision to disband it.”
“Surely I do know, but I wish to hear it from one who was raised there. I will confess that I have not spoken directly with one of his novitiates before.”
What—or how much—to tell him? Mayhap, hearing directly from one of us will help change his mind. But how much did he know of our practices before he closed the convent door? Giving myself time to choose my words carefully, I scoot up so that I am sitting against the bolster at the head of the bed and drag the thick coverlet up around my shoulders, more to ward off the chill than to cover my nakedness. Even so, the king’s gaze dips down to my breasts. “We learned many things, Your Majesty. We learned of the complex nature of death, how it is not simply something that sneaks into our lives unwelcome, but can serve as justice or mercy or simply a passing.” I must be honest enough with him that if he is testing me, I will not fail. “We learned of the ways death can be delivered—through illness and weapons, disease and poison.”
At the word poison, he gaze drops to the goblet in his hand. I hurry to add. “We also learned of antidotes and means of protection, but mostly that all death comes through Him.”