When I arrive at Crunard’s chambers, the door is closed and there is no guard posted. I knock and call out, “Chancellor Crunard?” There is no answer. I glance down the hall in both directions. It is clear. Indeed, the palace is very quiet today, and I wonder how many courtiers have heard what has happened in Nantes. Assured that there is no one to see, I try the door. It is locked, but that does not stop me.
I slip one of the needle-thin daggers from my wrist and slip the tip inside the lock, as Sister Eonette showed us. I gently press against the metal insides, nudging the iron to do what I want. when I hear a satisfying click, I straighten, check for witnesses, then slip silently into Chancellor Crunard’s office.
I do not know how much time I have, nor do I know what I am looking for. Something — anything — that will confirm my suspicions.
The papers on his desk are what I expect: correspondence with the barons, maps of Brittany and France, everything that a chancellor needs to perform his duties. I open the cupboard that sits behind his desk and quickly rifle through the pages of the books stored there, but none of them hold hidden letters or carved-out compartments. Nor is there any damning correspondence rolled in along with the rest of the maps. It would help if I knew what I was looking for.
Frustrated, I turn back to his desk, my eyes landing on his writing box. when I try to open it, I find it locked. why would he lock away his writing supplies?
My pulse quickens as I take out my dagger once more and work the lock. This one is smaller — and trickier — than the door’s, but in the end it gives way. I lift the wooden lid and peer inside. Quills, ink pots, a small paring knife, red sealing wax, a heavy gold signet ring —
I pick up the ring and examine it carefully. Crunard wears so very many rings, why would he lock this one away? Something about it niggles at the back of my mind. It takes a moment for me to recognize it.
It is the very ring I glimpsed when Martel’s soul passed through me. which means . . . what?
That the French spy Martel had seen Crunard’s ring, whether it was on the chancellor’s finger when they met face to face or it was sent to him with some lesser courier. If it was sent as a sign, then Martel knew to trust Crunard.
It is not Duval who has been working with the French regent but Crunard.
I close my hand around the heavy gold ring, savoring the solid feel of actual evidence in my hand. But the only one who would give weight to this proof is the abbess, and even that is doubtful. None of the remaining Privy Council will understand how I know this; they will not favor my word over Crunard’s.
even so, I slip the ring in my pocket. Surely flimsy evidence is better than no evidence at all.
Because I am late for the Privy Council meeting, I must suffer a scowl of disapproval from Crunard, but I smile coolly at him. Now that I know he is a traitor, I do not care what he thinks of me.
Neither Dunois nor Crunard has changed his mind during the night. As they run through their reasoning for the duchess, I study Crunard carefully, looking for any sign of a marque, but his bedamned fur collar comes up to his ears and hides any marque he might bear.
"What counsel do you have for us this morning, demoiselle?” I blink and find the duchess looking at me politely. Crunard, too, is watching me with his cold blue eyes and I realize I must play this very carefully. "Would it not be better to use this moment of time before all our enemies descend on us to get you to a more secure location? Rennes, perhaps? The people there are loyal. They have a defensible position and the troops to defend it, as well as a bishop who can see you safely crowned duchess.” Crunard regards me, his face carefully blank. "What makes
you think that Rennes is so very loyal, demoiselle?” There is a challenging tone in his voice, and I fear I have said too much or said it too baldly and have made Duval’s hand in the strategy clear to him.
I meet his gaze. “The convent has always thought highly of them, my lord chancellor.” There. Let him make of that what he will.
“That is not a bad idea,” Captain Dunois says thoughtfully.
Chancellor Crunard opens his mouth to argue, which makes me favor the idea all the more. But before he can begin his arguments, there is a knock on the door. “Yes?” he calls out, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.
De Lornay opens the door, bows low, then comes into the room. All signs of the seductive courtier are gone; he is sweat stained and travel weary. He falls to one knee before the duchess and lowers his head. “Your Grace. I beg forgiveness for interrupting your meeting, but I bring grave news that cannot wait.” The duchess’s face pales. “Go on.”