I reassure myself that if Pierre had cut Beast down, he would have returned his broken body to me on a platter, but it is thin comfort.
As I stand behind the duchess while she receives Viscount Rohan in the great hall, I distract myself by turning my worry and anger on the viscount, glowering at him while I run my finger along the edge of my hidden blade. It is easy—so easy—to step back into this fuming anger at the world around me—like finding a favorite gown I had somehow misplaced. And if it allows me to get under Rohan’s skin, so much the better.
“I am certain there has been some mistake.” The duchess’s voice does not waver.
Rohan is of middle years with the look of a lazy, self-indulgent predator who is inclined to let others do the hard work of rounding up his quarry. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. The king has invested the governorship of Brittany in my hands. Effective immediately.”
He pretends he does not notice my unrelenting scowl, but I can feel his heart begin to beat faster. Good. He is unnerved by my attention. He gestures to his second in command, who steps forward and holds out a scroll. Duval takes it from him and begins to read.
The duchess’s face is impassive. “I have placed the duchy under the guidance of Chancellor Montauban. The king did not object nor put forth any other names when we last spoke of it. Not even yours.”
Rohan tries to shrug as if he is indulging a child, but the movement is too calculated to be truly careless.
“Where do you plan to reside?” the duchess asks coolly. “You cannot spend nearly so much time at your French holdings as you have this last year.”
I smile at the veiled rebuke of his collusion with the French. Rohan’s glance flickers in my direction before bowing in acknowledgment of the reprimand, his arrogance wilting somewhat along the edges. “I shall take up residence at my main holding in Josselin.”
Duval finishes reading, his mouth curving disgust. “The letter does seem to claim Rohan is to be governor of Brittany. It is signed by the king and bears his seal.”
Duval’s confirmation further inflames my temper. The king promised the duchess one thing, yet within days he has already changed his mind. I cannot help but wonder what other promises will be broken, what other wishes will not be honored. My sisters and I may have the duchess’s protection, but will the king allow her to honor that?
It feels as if my staunch bastion against Pierre has sustained a crack in its foundation.
“We shall see,” the duchess says brusquely. “Once I am in France and can discuss this with the king, you can be certain this misunderstanding will be put to rights.”
Her words are sure and confident, and for a moment Rohan looks nonplussed. Pressing her advantage, the duchess leans forward in her chair. “Remember this. My people have been through much while you were safely retired to your lands in France. You will treat them with a gentle hand and allow them to rebuild their lives, or I myself will ride back at the head of an army to oust you from this office. Do you understand?”
Rohan forces his features back into their casual arrogance. “But of course, Your Grace.” He must raise his voice to be heard over a rustle of movement toward the back of the room. “My only wish is to serve the interests of you and the king to the best of my ability.”
Courtiers begin ducking and stepping aside as a small black shape flaps toward the front of the chamber. Still unaware of the disturbance behind him, Rohan gives a shallow bow. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
That is when the bird attacks him.
With a rushing of wings and a rather desperate caw, a wild-eyed crow with a viciously sharp beak descends upon Rohan. Perfect. The viscount ducks in surprise, the men around him drawing their swords.
“Stop!” My voice rings out, cutting through the disarray as I step off the dais.
Rohan tries to maintain his dignity while dodging the wings and beak of the unsettled bird attempting to land on his shoulder. For that is what’s happening, I realize. The crow is exhausted and looking for a place to land. “The creature is attacking me!” Rohan waves his arms to fend it off.
I step closer, ignoring the drawn swords. “Hold very still, monsieur.” My voice is low and urgent. “This is no ordinary crow, but one sent by the convent of Saint Mortain.”
Rohan pales and grows motionless. Even though he has spent the last year in France, he is Breton enough to tremble at that name.
With Rohan no longer waving at him, the crow alights on the man’s shoulder, clinging precariously to the silver fox collar of his doublet.
Rohan flinches as I take a step closer. “Let’s hope the bird is not an ill omen of this new venture of yours, a warning to turn back.” Suspicion and alarm battle for control of the viscount’s features. “Or worse. He could be a harbinger of your own death.” I whisper the words as lovingly I would as an endearment.
Rohan is mine now. “Get him off of me!” He means for it to come out as an order, but it sounds more like a plea.
I am so close now that it looks like Rohan and I are partnering in a dance. His widened eyes follow my hand as I place the back of it on his shoulder.
The crow eyes me with disdain, as if doubting my wits to think he will fall for such a trick. However, it is not his wits I am counting on, but his hunger. For the last three days I have carried a bit of dried venison in my pocket, waiting for a messenger from Annith. That he happened to arrive during Rohan’s audience with the duchess is the saints’ own luck.
The crow catches the scent of the treat. When he lunges for it, I clasp his feathered body between my hands, his heart beating frantically as I remove him from Rohan’s shoulder. When I step away, I twist my fingers to give him his treat. He jabs, capturing it in his beak with a triumphant look in his black eyes.
“You’d best be careful for the next few days,” I warn the viscount. “One never knows what such a messenger can portend.”
As I leave the room with the crow safely cradled in my hands, I can only hope Rohan was as discomfited by my performance as I was by the news he brought.
?Chapter 21
hile Ismae escorts the fuming duchess to the solar, I hurry to the chamber that used to serve as office to the abbess when she was in residence. It will be the best place to retrieve the message and read it away from prying eyes.
I have not set foot inside the room since the former abbess of Saint Mortain was banished. Was it truly only two weeks ago? While it is empty, some faint echo of her presence still remains. Or perhaps it is simply my own animosity toward her and her callous disregard for me or my well-being.