It is all I can do not to roll my eyes at his words. Every step of the way he has claimed that God willed it, never mind that it was the saints—and their followers—who wrested this victory for the duchess in the end.
To my great delight, I learn that Father Effram will be traveling with us as the queen’s personal confessor. His eyes twinkle as he informs us of this, and I cannot think of a more compassionate, morally nimble confessor to have interceding on one’s behalf.
And then the regent arrives, sweeping into the courtyard like an ill wind in a long, ermine-lined riding cloak. When it is clear that she is alone, the queen frowns, perplexed. “Where is the king?”
“I am afraid he had to leave earlier this morning, Your Majesty.”
Chancellor Montauban eyes the regent unhappily. “He will not be escorting Her Majesty himself?”
She dismisses his question with a cool glance. “As I said, he has already left.”
“Surely, after the attack . . .” Father Effram ventures.
The regent turns a gimlet eye upon him. My bilious stomach and pounding head are grateful that it is he who has asked the question this time and not me. “She will be perfectly safe.”
“It is fortunate, then, that she travels with her queen’s guard.” The chancellor refrains from pointing out it was the very one the regent tried to dismiss. Which is no doubt why he is chancellor and I am not.
The regent’s gaze goes immediately to where Beast waits along with the eight other guards, resplendent in their chain mail and white tabards. She wants to argue. But why? And how in the name of the saints will the king and queen have any chance to establish affection for each other, let alone trust, with this interfering woman following them on their honeymoon, sticking her long nose between them at every opportunity?
The interfering woman gives an elegant shrug. “They are welcome to ride with us.”
Beast does not argue. He does not need to. His implacable will and enormous bulk are argument enough.
* * *
Even though we are traveling along the Loire, in the heart of France owned by the king, I cannot relax and enjoy the morning’s ride. My glance darts to the surrounding woods, wondering who might be hiding there. I hold my breath every time we cross a bridge, bracing myself for another ambush. And every few minutes, I must seek out those I love, counting them like a farmwife counts her chickens, needing to be certain they’re still safe.
I am so busy watching for danger that I do not see it when it slips up next to me on a white palfrey. “Why so ill at ease, Lady Sybella?’
The regent’s voice at my elbow causes my shoulders to tense, as if waiting for a blow. “I am sorry, Madame, I did not hear you approach.”
“I daresay,” she murmurs wryly. “You were too busy gaping at every leaf that rustles in the wind. I would like to know why.”
“It may have something to do with recently being ambushed.” My voice is tarter than verjuice.
“You Bretons do like to harp on that, don’t you? Does your queen’s guard not make you feel safe? If not, what use are they?”
“They are the only thing that gives me peace of mind.”
The regent’s nostrils flare, but she lets the matter drops and abruptly changes the subject. “Who are the two young girls riding with the other attendants?”
Her words land like heavy rocks in my already queasy stomach. “They are two young women the queen has agreed to foster at court.”
Her brows arch faintly at this. “Yes, but who are they?”
I consider—briefly—lying, but it is too easily disproved. There is no choice but to tell her the truth. “They are my sisters.”
Her casual curiosity sharpens into keen interest. “Why are they not with their father?”
I tighten my fingers on the reins and stare at the space between my horse’s ears. “He took a mortal injury and is not able to provide for their care.” My voice is cool and distant, signaling it is not a subject I wish to discuss.
It does not work with her. “What of his sons?”
I glance at her. “My eldest brother is the king of Navarre, which keeps him quite busy.”
“But what of Sire d’Albret’s other sons? Why are they not providing for their sisters?”
It has not taken her long to piece together my family’s name. It was inevitable that she would learn at some point, but I do not like it all the same.
“They have,” I patiently explain. “By placing them in my care. Besides, what better way to provide for them than have them fostered by the queen of France? I believe you yourself have set this example, have you not? You have taken scores of girls under your tutelage and protection.”
The words are the nicest I have uttered about the regent. They feel false and unfamiliar on my tongue. Her nostrils flare with pride. “I have always believed in providing a solid foundation for girls and women to follow.” She sniffs, eloquently conveying her doubt that the queen is up to the task. “I will be sure to advise the queen in this matter. Molding young minds is not to be taken lightly.”
I do not know if it is my pounding head or her own consummate political skill, but whatever I say, whatever direction I try to steer her in, only captures her interest further. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Madame.”
When she lifts her reins and returns to the head of the column, I am left with the uneasy sensation that in revealing my sisters, I have just handed her a weapon.
?Chapter 44
Genevieve
s there an upcoming tourney you are training for? Why are you pushing so hard this morning?” Maraud’s back is pressed against the wall, the tip of my baselard at his throat.
“That is twice now I have had you cornered.” I try to keep the lilt of victory from my voice, but I do not succeed.
He shoves my sword aside with his forearm. “You will not always be so fortunate as to do your fighting in a rabbit warren,” he mutters. “We have practiced all the close-quarter maneuvers scores of times. We are too limited here.”
“And what do you suggest?” I ask, knowing full well what will come next.
“I suggest we begin using one of the rooms where they first held me prisoner, rather than this hole.”
“You weren’t always down here?”
“No. I was in a cell above for the first months of my stay. Given daily food and water as well.” He smiles ruefully.
I lift my sword again, making sure he sees the point aimed at his heart. “And what did you do to earn being flung down in this pit?”
“You are as tiresome as a yapping dog with that question.”
“Answer it.”
His gaze meets mine, as open and earnest as a babe’s. “I do not know. One day they wrapped a gag around my mouth, bound my hands, and shoved me down here.”
I cannot help but think of the letter I discovered in Angoulême’s study. “You are not bound or gagged now.”
“No.” His smile is one of grim triumph and puts me in mind of a wolf.
Why would his circumstances change so? “When was this?”
“That is hard to say. Accounting for time is difficult down here, but it was before Michaelmas.”
“Not so very long, then.”
He raises a dark brow at me. “I would beg to differ.”