As the priest drones on in his melodious Latin, I examine the heads of the women in the front of me. Between the questions raised by the king’s visit to the princess and the regent’s determination to maintain her stranglehold on power, we are in desperate need of insight to both the king’s intentions and the regent’s strategy. Who better to provide that than the convent’s own moles?
All of the women’s hair is covered, but with their heads bowed, it is possible to see a few tendrils at the nape of their necks. Margot’s red hair should be the easiest to spot. Only one woman has hair with the faintest tinge of red to it, but I cannot tell if it is truly red or merely the effect of the light coming in through stained glass windows. Either way, there is only one possibility for Margot.
And what of Genevieve? Which one of these ladies could be her? A handful of women have dark blond hair, but the bulk of them have brown. And a twelve-year-old’s hair color is the flimsiest of hints to go on. How will I sort through all the possibilities?
There is also no guarantee that either of them are among the attendants the regent has brought with her on the honeymoon. By all accounts, the regent has more than a hundred women to attend her, and Plessis-lès-Tours is supposed to be a small, intimate court. What if they are not here?
Despair threatens to raise its head again, but I drown out its voice by uttering a fervent prayer to Mortain to help me find his other daughters.
* * *
The rest of the day is spent in a blaze of pomp and ceremony that the king has arranged for the queen. Whether it was planned all along or hastily put together to make up for his absence last night, I do not know. It is the welcome she should have received yesterday, and as far as I am concerned, being late tarnishes the gesture greatly.
But the queen is pleased, glowing with pleasure, so I cannot begrudge her that.
The king takes the opportunity to allow the queen to present her attendants and courtiers to him. When it is Beast’s turn, the steward announces, “Sir Benebic de Waroch, captain of the queen’s guard.”
A faint crease appears upon the king’s brow as Beast bows deeply. It does not disappear once Beast stands. “Why is there a queen’s guard?”
At his question, the queen stares at him a moment, and I imagine all the various disappointments she is feeling.
“If I may, Your Majesty?” Beast’s deep voice rumbles into the silence.
Both the queen and king nod their heads in permission.
“The queen’s guard was appointed by the duchess and her Privy Council in order to see to her safety.”
“We have a king’s guard for that,” the king says, waving vaguely to the captain of his guard who stands a few paces behind the throne.
“While this is true, Your Majesty, the attack on our traveling party outside Angers shows that one can never be too careful when the queen’s safety is at stake. We had twenty of your men with us, brave men, most of whom gave their lives to keep her safe, but it was very nearly not enough.”
The king looks incredulous. “An attack? Upon the queen?”
Beast, the queen, all of us, are taken aback. “Has no one informed Your Majesty?”
He grips the arms of his throne. “No, they have not.” And he looks none too pleased about it.
The regent slips forward. “You’ve been so busy, sire, there has not been time to fill you in on Her Majesty’s journey.”
He considers his sister coldly. “There has not been time to fill me in on an attack on my own queen?”
This, I realize with a sharp thrill of recognition. This is the regent’s weakest link in her strategy. This blind spot the brilliant tactician cannot see from her vantage point of older sister.
And if there is a weakness, I can drive a wedge into it.
“Please, Your Majesty. It is being taken care of. The Duke of Bourbon himself is looking into the matter.”
“May I ask what he has learned?” Beast asks.
The regent does not spare him a glance and instead addresses the king. “There has been little enough to discover. The force was comprised of German mercenaries—”
“Was it Maximilian, then?”
The regent gives a single shake of her head. “Not that we have been able to confirm, sire. That is why we have had nothing to report.”
The king waves her back and turns to the queen. His cheeks are faintly flushed. “I am deeply sorry that you were endangered on your way here. I will see the attackers found and punished.”
“Thank you, my lord husband.” The queen’s cheeks also pinken, but in relief, I think, rather than embarrassment.
The king turns back to Beast. “I still do not think that warrants a separate queen’s guard. Her safety will fall to the royal bodyguard now that she is my wife.”
I watch him closely, trying to discern whether it is a surfeit of confidence that has him wanting to disband the queen’s guard or some more sinister purpose.
“I am certain Your Majesty’s bodyguards will take the queen’s safety as seriously as your own,” Beast says. “However, as king, you will travel often and she will not always be able to join you. Should she not have a guard dedicated solely to her safety? Did not the Princess Marguerite have her own guard?” he asks quietly.
It is a dangerous gamble, mentioning the princess, but it works.
“That is true,” the king says. The regent makes a move as if to speak, but the king waves her away. “Very well. The queen may retain her guard, but you will not be needed inside the palace itself. Whenever she leaves or travels, you will accompany her.”
It is not the full support that we were hoping for, but it is not an outright dismissal, either.
“Thank you, sire.” Beast bows. “I am honored to serve your queen in whatever way you see fit.”
As he steps aside, the king calls out, “Wait!” He leans forward on his throne. “Do I know you, Sir Waroch?”
Anticipation shoots through me, and I wonder if Beast realizes the implications; while the king has never seen Beast’s face before, he has no doubt seen his father’s.
Beast looks discomfited, no doubt trying to avoid mentioning the times they may have met on the battlefield. “Perhaps you saw me at Langeais?” he suggests. “I have traveled with the queen since she left Brittany.”
“No, I mean before then. Your face is familiar to me.”
I watch Beast carefully, but there is still no reaction. “No, sire. I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before today. But perhaps you caught a glimpse of me when you visited Rennes.”
That is when it hits me. Beast does not know. For whatever reason, Captain Dunois did not have an opportunity to tell him. Beast is still in the dark. I look out at the nobles around us, searching for someone as tall and broad as he, but I see no one.
“Which one of them are you planning to kill first?” I glance over to find Aeva smirking beside me.
“All of them, if I had my way.” But as soon as the words are out, I recognize them as a lie. Killing them has not once crossed my mind. I want to know their plans and intentions, and neutralize them, but I have no desire to kill them. Not even the regent.
“Are you listening?”
“I’m sorry, what?”