I nod in acknowledgment at this faintest of compliments. “Then your grief must also be great.”
If she detects the irony that seeps into my voice, she ignores it. “That was most brave of you, considering you were under attack.”
“I was not brave, Madame, as we were not under attack yet. That did not come until after Captain Dunois had fallen.”
“So he was not killed in the attack?” I cannot tell if her eyes are sharp with interest or something more sinister.
“No. As best we can tell, his stalwart heart simply gave out. Surely the Duke of Bourbon has advised you of these events?”
At my question, some of her sharpness fades. “Yes, but it was brief and lacking in detail.” With that, she brushes past me and proceeds down the hallway while I am left wondering what the point of her questions was, for there is no doubt in my mind that there was one. I just have not caught up to it yet.
?Chapter 36
Genevieve
had not planned to return to the oubliette too soon lest I attract Louise’s attention, but I find I no longer care. My hunger for the movement and challenge the sparring sessions bring me is nearly overpowering.
Maraud is silent until I have descended the rope. “I wasn’t sure you’d return.”
I set the sack of food down in the corner, then hand him his wooden sword. “Why did you think that?”
He takes the sword and shrugs.
I glare at him, trying to determine if he is referring to the time before our sparring began.
He gives the sword a warm-up swing. “You could have been detained by the guards.”
In answer, I take up my fighting stance, turning my body sideways to present a smaller target.
“How do you get by them?”
I lunge at him. “Why are you so concerned about the guards?” This is no innocent question. He is trying to glean information for some purpose of his own.
He delivers a short thrust that almost gets through my defenses. “I miss them. They were like family to me.”
I allow a faint smile to play upon my lips. “We have an arrangement, the guards and I.” I launch a flurry of attacks.
He gets his sword up, but it takes him a moment to recover from the surprise of my onslaught. Before I can gloat overmuch, he barks, “Widen your stance. It will give you better balance. And quit using your sword like a dagger.”
I alter my grip. My arms are not used to the heavier weight of the baselard.
“Right!” he calls out, and I swing my sword up to meet his.
“Left!”
Then left again. I block the blow, but the shock of it nearly numbs my arm.
“Right!” he calls out, and I am there to meet his blade.
His words drive me as ruthlessly as his wooden sword until I am breathing heavily and sweat gathers at my temples.
“Your strength has returned quickly,” I note as I jump back from a thrust that comes too close to my gut for comfort. Even though it is a wooden sword, it will leave a bruise.
“It is all the food and exercise you have graced me with.”
I snort. Graced is far too reverent a word for the rough bread and kitchen scraps I have been able to sneak him.
“Get your blade up! Am I forbidden to ask of the duchess as well as the guards?”
“That is a strange question for a mere mercenary to ask,” I grit out, my words punctuated by the thunk of our blades as he steadily backs me toward the wall.
“Maybe she owes me back pay.”
“I will send her news of your whereabouts. Will she recognize the name Maraud?”
He returns to the center of the room, allowing me to do the same. “Of course not. Since when does someone of her rank know the names of the mercenaries who fight for her? The captain of her army, Sir Dunois, will remember, though. You could write to him.”
I roll my shoulders. “Perhaps I will.” I keep my eyes on his sword, waiting for a surprise attack. “What is it you wish to know about the duchess?”
“How she fares. If she is still duchess of Brittany.”
I mentally count the days. “As it so happens, as of today she is the queen of France.”
?Chapter 37
Sybella
he wedding between Anne of Brittany and Charles VIII of France is to take place in the grand salon at Langeais. All the royal guests have arrived, although the special papal dispensation has not, nor even a verbal assurance. In spite of the reassurance of the three bishops who are presiding over the wedding, I know this weighs heavily on the duchess.
The duchess, soon to be queen, is truly magnificent in her gown of intricately embossed cloth of gold. I lean toward her, pretending I am adjusting her ermine-lined mantle. “You are well, Your Grace?” There has not been a moment all morning to catch a word alone with her. The regent’s attendants descended upon her chambers at dawn’s light to begin the hours-long preparations for her wedding.
She glances at me, her regal, serious expression giving way to a ghost of a smile that does not reach her eyes. “Well enough.”
Fiddling with the clasp on her mantle, I whisper, “You have achieved your life’s goal, Your Grace. You have secured an enduring peace for your people. Your children will sit on the throne of France. Surely there is much to be proud of.”
“You are right,” she murmurs. “But I cannot help but think of all those who are not here.”
“It is hard not to let our grief over Captain Dunois trail behind us like a long, despondent tail,” I agree as I busy myself adjusting the folds of her gown. “But I know he would not wish you to begin your marriage that way.”
“It’s not just those I’ve lost, but all of those I nearly married.” She turns to face me. “Did you know I was to be betrothed to Prince Edward of England? And when he was reported dead, then his brother the Duke of York? But for a moment of violence, I would be queen of England.
“It would have taken me even farther from my home, and there is a good chance it would only have made Brittany a staging ground for all the friction between France and England. So I assure myself that this is a better choice, although it ceased being a choice a while ago.”
She pauses a long moment. “Or I could be wife to Count d’Albret.” There is a faint tremble underlying her voice, as if it still gives her nightmares. “That, too, could have been my fate.” She reaches out and takes my hand—her fingers are ice-cold. “If not for your help.”
I squeeze her hand before she withdraws it. “In my experience, Your Grace, all victories are bittersweet. It is simply a matter of degree.”
Then the trumpets blare, heralding that the wedding ceremony is to begin. I take my position in the procession of attendants in charge of her long train and solemnly follow the duchess into the grand salon.