His fingers on the stem of the goblet tighten. “The Church says such things come from God.” His voice is expressionless, telling me nothing.
“Of course they do. But once God has decided, it is Mortain to whom the task falls. Just as while it is God who grants us protection or safe crossing, it is Saint Peter or Saint Christopher who carries out our deliverance.”
“Ah.” He takes another sip of wine. “Now tell me why you think I’ve disbanded them.”
“Your Majesty, I am in no position to question your judgment. I am only asking for an act of mercy for those that I care about.”
He smiles again, fleeting but genuine. “No. I mean, tell me why you think the convent has been disbanded. I did not even know of its existence until you told me of it just now.”
It feels as if someone has grabbed my stomach and hurled it down six flights of stairs. Cold dread seeps into my limbs. “Then I am sorry to have bothered you with such a trifling problem. Clearly the information I received was wrong.” Angoulême lied to me! But why?
I remember how closely I checked the letter, and I would still swear it was not a forgery.
“Clearly, and I would like to know who gave you this information.”
“It was Count Angoulême who told me, although he did so after receiving a letter from the abbess.”
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Count Angoulême was in communication with the abbess?”
Rutting goats! This ditch I had no intention of digging is now threatening to swallow me whole. “But of course, Your Majesty. She would occasionally inquire after my welfare. She was fond of all her pupils and would ask after me upon occasion. But again, I fear I must have misunderstood the message the count conveyed on her behalf.”
The king studies me with hooded eyes. “I wonder . . .” he says, tapping his finger on the stem of his wineglass. After a moment, he abruptly sets it down, then walks away from the bed. “Tell me,” he says, his voice drifting over his shoulder, “do you know why I was raised so far away from the court, stuck in a lesser castle like a prisoner?”
As he turns around, I see that he is carrying my gown. When he reaches the bed, he tosses it to me. “You may get dressed.”
Afraid to take my eyes off him, I move out from under the covers, to the side of the bed, and pull my chemise over my head. It feels good to be covered, as if somehow the fine cotton fabric can protect me from whatever is brewing between us.
“Do you know?” he prompts.
“No, Your Majesty.” I grab my skirt and step into it, donning my clothes like a knight his armor.
“You have seen how well guarded Plessis-lès-Tours is, yes? The traps, the snares, the cunning passageways one must navigate to reach the castle itself.”
“They are most elaborate.” I slip my arms into my sleeves, then begin lacing the bodice of my gown.
Slowly, he pushes my hands aside and laces my gown himself. “And deadly.”
“And deadly,” I agree, my heart racing. When my gown is laced, he takes my shoulder and pulls me around so that I face him.
“It is because, more than anything, my father feared for his safety. He feared for my safety. Some thought him crazed with it, a fearful old man fretting at the dark. But others, Generals Trémoille and Cassel among them, swore his fears were well-founded.
“Do you know what he feared most, dear Genevieve?”
My mouth is so dry that I can scarce get the words out. “No, Your Majesty.”
“Assassins.” He studies me carefully, but I have long practice at this and am able to keep my face impassive.
“And it’s odd, when you were explaining what you did at the convent, once you said the word poison, that was all that I could think about—my father’s fear of assassins.”
His eyes are guarded now, but not so very guarded that in addition to his ire and anger, I can also see that I have hurt him with this admission. He lifts a finger to trace the rapidly beating pulse at my neck. “I have half a mind to fashion a thick silver chain and drape it around your lovely neck and fasten it to my bed.”
“But why, Your Majesty?” My heart beats even faster, but I do not so much as blink. “I have told you nothing but the truth.” My voice comes out calm and cool.
“I know.”
“Indeed, I would not have said anything, had you not pressed me. I was content to leave things as they were.”
His hands drop from my shoulder. “You were. That is one point in your favor.”
Is there only one?
“Does the queen know of this convent?”
Wishing to somehow contain the damage I have just inflicted, I lie. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. In generations past, the dukes of Brittany have used the novitiates of Mortain for protection, much as your father used the snares at Plessis, but whether her father passed that knowledge on to her before his death, I do not know.”
A look of understanding, as if he has just figured out some piece of a puzzle, crosses his face, then he shakes his head.
“They told me Bretons clung to old superstitions and beliefs that should have been discarded long ago, but I thought them to be simply folktales. Now you tell me that they are actively worshiping the patron saint of death and that he has novitiates who serve him. Novitiates who have studied all the ways that death can be delivered. Can you see, dear Genevieve, why I must express some dismay, if not outright anger, to learn of such things? And from my mistress, who I now learn is one of them?”
It does not seem a good time to point out that I am not his mistress.
“Have you been sent to kill me, Genevieve?”
His question is so unexpected that I blurt out, “No! Your Majesty, I have not been sent at all. Not since five years ago when I was came here as a child to serve Madame Regent.”
“Ah, but now I must question such things, mustn’t I?”
That is when I understand what I have truly done. He did not know, never knew. It was my own eagerness to save the convent that led me to expose its existence.
He taps his finger on his chin. “Well, I will not chain you to my bed. But you will be confined to the palace for the time being, and you will make yourself available when I send for you. I will have many, many questions you will need to answer. As will my wife,” he adds, under his breath.
“But of course, Your Majesty.”
He looks at me one last time. It is a look full of longing and crushed hopes, of disappointment and the inevitability of betrayal. Then he crosses to the chamber door and calls for his chamberlain to escort me back to my room.
?Chapter 95
s I leave the king’s chambers, I move slowly, carefully, afraid that one wrong move and I will shatter into a thousand pieces.