What if that is my great purpose? What if I have been uniquely fashioned by both my god and fate to be the one person who can avert this tragedy from befalling the convent?
Could that be the destiny the gods have planned for me? If not sent to the convent of Saint Mortain, I would never have been sent to the French court and gotten near enough to the king to catch his eye. If I had not caught his eye, he would never have promised me my heart’s desire.
It has always puzzled me that I attracted his notice and not some great beauty, like Margot. I did not engage in games of flirtation with him or any of the courtiers. He had a carefully selected stable of powdered and perfumed young women just waiting for such an invitation from him.
And yet he wanted me.
What if that is all due to some plan of the gods? What if that is why my path crossed with the prisoner—so he could show me that? For it still makes no sense that I could feel his heartbeat if he was not dying.
Examining the events in that light makes everything of a piece. Almost.
I am also to serve the duchess of Brittany—now the new queen. How does sleeping with the king honor that?
I glance over at Louise, the conversation with Jeanne still buzzing in my ears. Louise does not mind. Indeed, even benefits from it. In truth the queen’s own father kept his mistress and his wife side by side. According to the gossip at the French court, the queen’s bastard brother was one of her closest advisors. This is the way noble marriages work. The new queen knows that as intimately as anyone.
Besides, she has an obligation to honor the Nine and protect those who follow them. If something has prevented her from doing that, then she will no doubt be grateful to the one who does it for her.
And . . . I realize, my heart beating faster, in saving the convent, I can prove to them how wrong they were to keep me idle all these years. I will have the satisfaction of showing them their mistake in not using me sooner. In not trusting me, in not honoring the contract we made.
By saving them, I will gain their gratitude and their respect. And when they are restored to their former mission and purpose, my name will be first upon their lips.
The idea settles into the hollow place inside me. It does not fill it completely, but it is no longer as empty as it once was. If the size and edges of it do not fit perfectly, surely that is due to my own misguided expectations of what a true purpose would feel like.
Besides, the convent’s lessons and guidance are rarely painless, or even comfortable. Why would this be any different?
?Chapter 40
Sybella
am allowed into the bedchamber long enough to help the duchess undress. Tension radiates off of her like a plucked bowstring. In order to give her as much time as possible to come to terms with this new development, I send the other attendants off to fetch the delicate nightshift that has been prepared especially for tonight, and steer the duchess—the queen, I correct myself—to the edge of the bed. “Here, let me remove your headdress for you.” She turns, exposing the vulnerable column of her neck. “I must start calling you Your Majesty now.”
“I should embrace that title. It is one of the highest offices a woman can possess.” Her voice sounds as if it is coming from far away. As if she has already hidden her true self from what will soon transpire. “And yet, I find I am sorely reluctant to give up my title of duchess. In my own mind and heart, that is who I will always be, the duchess of Brittany, only assuming the title of queen in order to protect my people and my land.”
I gently tug her hair to loosen it from its coil. “That you have done, Your Majesty.”
She nods woodenly. As I begin unlacing her wedding gown, I try to think of something I can say to ease this for her. “Tomorrow morning when you appear in public again, most of these lords and ladies and courtiers will still be abed, sleeping off their wine-filled bellies and late-night excesses. You will likely not have to see any of them again for a long while. At least not until after your honeymoon.”
The tension in her shoulders eases. “That is true.”
The attendants return, laughing and giggling and bearing a shift of the finest Holland cloth with lace as delicate as a spider’s webbing. I fall silent while the others slip it over her head, one of them poking her in the ribs in their haste.
At the queen’s gasp of surprise, the young woman falls prostrate on the floor.
The queen and I stare at her in astonishment before the queen says, “Peace. I will not punish you. But perhaps it would be best to see to the readying of the bed. All of you.” The grateful young woman rises to her feet and hurries away with the others, more subdued now.
“Oh, well done, Your Majesty.”
“I will take a jab in the ribs if I can barter it for a few moments of privacy,” she says wryly.
In silence, I brush her hair until it shines in the glow of the candles. I wish—desperately—for something to give her to make this easier—some charm or potion or clever advice, but I have nothing. Instead, I press my lips briefly upon the top of her head as I would one of my own sisters. “You are a queen, born and bred. Your strength, your grace, your love of your people—those are what define you, not this performance the regent demands of you. Tonight will quickly be forgotten, but your child on the throne will be a part of history forever.”
She rests her head for a moment against my cheek before motioning to the other ladies that she is ready.
* * *
When I close the chamber door behind me, every move is controlled, precise. I calmly fold my hands before me and keep my face arranged in pleasant lines as I move toward the crowd in the main salon. The regent has made it clear—she is no friend to the duchess, but her enemy.
Is the king complicit in this or oblivious? I cannot fathom the doting man who paid court to the duchess, nor even the reserved chivalrous king I saw tonight, countenancing these humiliations, but perhaps he is far more skilled at subterfuge than he looks. Or more fully under his sister’s influence.
My stomach churns at how foul a place men have made the world—aided by the women who blindly adhere to their rules. The regent has more power than any woman in France. It would be so easy for her to soften the way for others. That she does not feels like the rankest of betrayals.
My steps bring me to the Breton contingent, gathered among themselves and talking quietly together. As I approach, they look up. Chancellor Montauban sees something in my face and takes a tiny step back. “Did you know?” I demand, my fists clenched.
He wisely refrains from asking, Know what? “I am not surprised that they have decided upon this,” he says carefully, “but no, I did not have prior knowledge of it.”
I turn to glower at the Prince of Orange. “And you?”