I turn the blade over to work on the other side, then pause. Courts and noble families across Europe use assassins and poisoners for their own political ambitions. Surely that is one of my choices, as well. One that my unique background would make me most qualified for.
But am I willing to kill outside Mortain’s grace? All the dire warnings from the nuns crowd my head. It is bad enough to be thrust from the convent. Am I willing to risk my mortal soul in order to be allowed to do this work? Have this power? Not only over others, but over my own destiny?
It is a sobering question and one I cannot answer. A soul is as thin and ephemeral as the convent’s protection. Will I wall myself off from the most interesting choice in life to protect something I do not even know exists?
I set aside the baselard and take up Margot’s stiletto. Testing the edge of it with the side of my thumb, I find it dull, reach for my whetstone, and begin running it along the blade’s edge.
It is too bad I do not have a true sword. And I will need a horse. I could steal one from Angoulême, but I fear that would only increase his reasons for pursuing me once he learns of my absence. Besides, Margot and I have our own horses provided to us by the convent, even though they are stabled in Angoulême’s other holding. But if I used them, it would take him longer to discover they were missing, if he ever did. And I would not be stealing anything—which I do not wish to do, for that would also bring pursuit. Horse theft is punishable by death.
Even better would be for the count not to pursue me at all, but I am not certain how to manage that.
As I stare down at Margot’s stiletto, a thought forms. What if he did not know I had left?
What if he thought I had died? He would not try to follow me then.
I set down the whetstone and gingerly test the stiletto’s edge. A faint line of red appears along the edge of my thumb. Pleased, I return it to its jeweled case.
I may not know where I am going, but I do know how I will ensure that I am not followed.
?Chapter 35
Sybella
ecause of our delayed start, we do not reach Langeais until late. The sun has already begun to set behind the three huge pointed towers that rise up above the grim battlements of the castle. While it is impressive, it is also foreboding.
Upon our approach, outriders meet us on the road, sent to escort us back to the palace. They also inform us that the king is not scheduled to arrive until early tomorrow morning, but the regent is in residence.
When we enter the main foyer, she is standing regally atop a wide staircase. Her bright gown and glittering jewels are in stark contrast to the thick pall of grief that enshrouds our party, and I wonder if she is small hearted enough to have planned that on purpose. She pauses a long moment, forcing us to wait while she descends to greet us, her attendants following her like a flock of sheep.
My gaze passes over them briefly, and I wonder if two of them are from the convent. If so, they have assumed their role well, for they all look equally officious and self-important.
When the regent reaches us, she stops. “Be welcome, Your Grace,” she says.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” The duchess’s head is high, her voice strong, but her sorrow clings to her like the most fragrant of perfumes.
The regent steps forward, deftly inserting herself between me and the duchess.
On my best behavior, I do not so much as glare at her, but simply step back while she takes the younger woman’s arm in a friendly manner. “You must be exhausted after your journey. Come, we will get you settled in your chambers so you may rest and refresh yourself for tomorrow.”
The duchess does not refuse her arm, but neither does she lean on it. “Thank you. That would be most welcome.”
As the regent moves toward the stairs with the duchess, her own ladies are quick to position themselves directly behind the two royals. Beast and the queen’s guard fall into step behind them. It is not until they have reached the third stair that the regent stops and turns around to stare at them, raising her eyebrows in question. Beast and the others bow formally.
“Who are you and why are you following the duchess abovestairs?” Her voice is as cool and brittle as the thin layer of ice that forms upon a pond.
“We are the queen’s guard, Madame Regent, and have sworn our service and protection to our lady duchess.”
A delicate frown appears on the regent’s face. “She is perfectly safe here. Our own sentries and guards can see to her protection.”
Beast bows again, his face apologetic. “If you will excuse me, Madame Regent, it is our sworn duty to guard her with our lives. We will not leave those duties to another.”
Beast’s icy blue gaze is well matched to the regent’s frigid glare. “It is our vow to see her safely wed to the king, Madame. Surely, you would not ask us to break our oaths.”
“The king has personally gone to extraordinary lengths for tomorrow’s ceremony.” Her mouth twists with something—disdain? Disapproval? “And I wish for nothing to mar the ceremony. You may guard her tonight, but after that, she will fall under the protection of the king’s bodyguards.”
Beast meets her gaze steadily. “As my queen wishes it.”
For a moment, it is clear she does not know if he is mistakenly addressing her as queen or if he is deferring to the duchess. Unwilling to press the point, she turns around, dismissing Beast and the others’ presence so completely that it is as if they do not exist.
Pleased with Beast’s victory, the rest of the duchess’s party and I follow them up the stairs.
When we reach the second floor, the regent whispers some instructions to her attendants, then stands aside, looking for all the world like a general surveying his troops, as we file by.
I stare straight ahead as I pass her. My only thoughts are of getting the duchess settled in her room, then ordering both a bath and a hot posset that will help her sleep, otherwise I fear her grief will keep her up all night.
“Lady Sybella.” The regent’s voice reaches out and snags me like a shepherd’s crook.
I stop walking, my heart sinking. What could she want with me? To remove me from the duchess’s circle? To haul me off to one of her infamous dungeons? However, when I turn around, my face is serene. “Yes, Madame?”
“You were there.”
I tilt my head in confusion. “During the attack?”
The shake of her head is impatient. “When Captain Dunois died.”
My heart skips a beat before it speeds up. Has one of the soldiers she assigned to us reported my every move? “Yes, Madame. I was with him when he died.”
“Were you especially close with him?”
As her eyes narrow with speculation, I realize she is asking if we were lovers. Or trying to insinuate as much. That would make it easy to have me removed from the duchess’s side.
“No, but I have some small skill and training with injuries. When it was clear something had befallen the good captain, I wished to be of service. After all, he is—was—one of the duchess’s most loyal and trusted advisors.”
“He had admirers at this court as well.”