The queen frowns slightly. “It cannot be broken. We have signed it, attended by witnesses, your own hand among them. The bishop has celebrated the wedding mass.”
“Due to your farce of a marriage to Maximilian and the king’s prior betrothal, this marriage is most irregular. While we have the blessings and assurances of the bishops, we will not take any chances that a challenge to its validity can be made. Even now, the emperor sends his own petitioners to Rome to argue his case against the pope allowing his marriage to be annulled. Our best protection is for the marriage to be consummated.”
“Of course,” the duchess answers, blushing. “But surely not now.”
“On the contrary. What better proof can we offer the pope than a roomful of witnesses to the consummation? They can then carry the tale back to their cities and countries—and Rome—that the marriage is binding and cannot be annulled. It is the best way to ensure that all we have worked for cannot be undone.”
I stare at the regent. “You are talking about a public consummation?”
The regent gives a quick shake of her head. “Not fully public, no. There will not be a room of witnesses to oversee the deed itself. But there will be a doctor to confirm that it has taken place, and the guests will await the news of the consummation here in the grand salon.”
The duchess has grown as white as one of her linen sheets. What a fool I was to not see that the premarital inspection was to be a road map the regent would continue to follow. “Surely this is not necessary.” I try to modulate my voice so that it is well measured and reasoned, but instead it comes out high, almost shrill. “The holy vows have been exchanged. The contracts legally signed and witnessed.”
“So have the contracts with Maximilian and Marguerite.” The regent leans in closer. “Believe me. This is most necessary. There have been marriages, of royal blood even, that have suffered for lack of attention to such details.”
Of course. Her sister and the Duke of Orléans. To this day he vows it has never been consummated. The duchess was but four years old when that scheme was hatched. Why does the regent insist on making her pay and pay for something she had no control over?
But I already know the answer. It is because the duchess is the only one who is powerless enough to be punished. The duke is dead. And in spite of the regent’s best efforts, the Duke of Orléans is back in the good graces of the king, his lands and estates restored. There is no one else she can whip for this old sin except the person who is least culpable.
?Chapter 38
Genevieve
ueen of France?” Maraud rests his sword against mine and shakes his head, almost as if he has sustained a blow.
“I had a hard time with it as well when I first heard. What was the last news you had of her?”
“That her advisors were pressing for a match with Count d’Albret.” His voice holds palpable repugnance.
“You did not approve of him?”
“No.” His next blow comes at me faster and with far more force.
I parry, then we settle into a rhythm more suited to talking. “Why not?”
“The man—the entire family—has no honor. They serve only their own interests and are ruthless about it.”
“You are right about that. D’Albret laid a trap for her, using her city of Nantes as bait. If he had succeeded, he would have married her against her will. Fortunately, help arrived just in time. The duchess escaped to Rennes and found refuge there,” I continue. “She married Emperor Maximilian of Austria by proxy, hoping for aid against France that never came.”
“Why not?”
My side stroke connects with his ribs, and he grunts in pain. I hesitate, wondering if I have hurt him, but his sword whooshes through the air on the way to my head. I duck.
“His own numerous battles prevented him. She sent out pleas to all her allies and emptied her coffers hiring even more mercenaries, but it was not enough.”
His sword stops against mine, and I use the respite to catch my breath. “How do you know that?”
Rutting figs. “I listen at doors. It is a vile habit, but a useful one.” I shove his blade aside.
“Who are you,” he asks, “that you know the intimate ins and outs of politics, are good with a sword, and are allowed so much freedom?”
I nearly scoff. Freedom. If he only knew how close our situations were. “I already told you I have a knack for listening at doors. I am the only daughter of an impoverished Breton noblewoman whom the count has kindly offered to take into his household. But it is a large household, and all in it are busy with their own interests and pleasures. It is easy enough to slip away unseen.” Seeing an opening, I bring my blade in for another side stroke, but he sweeps it aside and grabs my wrist, trapping me.
“The truth is, you are not a noblewoman.”
I jerk my arm back. “Let go of me.”
“Your reflexes are too fast to have been acquired in a few sword lessons with your brothers.”
I glare at him. So that is what the cunning bastard has been up to, why he has driven me so hard. “I never said that was how I learned to fight.”
“No, but however you learned, it was not as a noblewoman. What do you really want from me? You clearly already know how to spar.”
Even as my secrets stand partially exposed, a part of me is pleased he recognizes that I am far more than a mere noblewoman. “Let us just say I have grown rusty.”
“Let us just say I do not believe you.” Another pressing attack. “Who really sent you?”
“Who do you think sent me?”
He does not answer, but launches a series of strikes that are so fast and furious, it is all I can do to block and parry and keep my ribs from being broken by his brutal blows. “Maybe my mercenary company could not pay the ransom price, but has sent someone to help me escape.”
I am unable to hold my ground and find myself inching toward the wall. “I have not been sent by anyone.”
“That you know of.”
That is when I realize just how wooly his wits have become with imprisonment. “I would know if someone had sent me.”
He shrugs. “The gods are said to use what tools are available to them to achieve their ends. What if you are simply the nearest tool?”
I laugh outright. “Are you suggesting the gods wish you to be freed from this place? Why would they bother themselves with a mere mercenary?”
He shrugs again. “Why do they bother themselves with any of us?”
His words both disturb and excite me, but I do not stop to examine why that is so. Instead, I reach out and rap the back of his knuckles with the flat of my sword. He drops his weapon, and I leap forward to snatch it up. “We are done for today.”
He folds his arms, observing me lazily while I secure the two swords to my back. When I begin climbing the rope, he steps toward it, holding his arms out to his sides. “Was it something I said?”
I do not look down to confirm the note of laughter in his voice. Once I have hauled myself up onto the main floor, I let the grate slam shut with extra force.