He glances at me sharply. "Why do you call her that?”
I shrug as I try to peer ahead into the room, full of lewd curiosity now that I know who she is. “That is what the sisters at the convent called her,” I tell him.
There is a long, heavy moment of silence. when I look back at him, his whole demeanor has shifted and the amusement is gone from his face. “Yes,” he says. “And just so you are clear, I am the French whore’s son.”
I feel as if a giant cavern has just opened up at my feet as Duval’s words clang through my head like a great bell. He is one of the duke’s bastards. Half brother to the duchess.
Chapter Fifteen
Duval tugs my arm and pulls me into the great hall. It is ablaze with a roaring fire and candles burning brightly in heavy silver holders, but I hardly register any of this as my mind scrambles back to Sister Eonette’s tapestries. The French whore is listed there, along with her five children by the late duke, but they are listed by first name only, and the name Gavriel is common enough.
Did the abbess know that I was going into this blind? was this part of her test? Or was there merely a mistaken assumption that I would know the duke’s bastard by the name Duval?
As if from a great distance, I hear Baron Geffoy say, “Here they are now.” with effort, I try to concentrate on the introductions. “Viscount Duval, Demoiselle Rienne, this is my ladywife, Katerine.” She is a drab peahen of a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes, and I warm to her immediately.
“Her brother, Anthoine de Loris, and my steward, Guy de Picart. And of course, Duval, you already know the charming Madame Hivern.”
The clash of Duval’s and Hivern’s gazes as they meet is as loud as the opening parry of any duel, but what makes my breath catch is the brief glimpse of pain I see in Duval’s face before he shutters it. It is so fleeting, I cannot help but wonder if I have imagined it.
When Hivern puts her hand out for Duval to kiss, he dons his formal court manners like a suit of armor and bows over it. “As always, your presence leaves me speechless, madame.”
"Would that were so,” she mutters. Baron Geffoy shifts in discomfort while his wife’s brows rise slightly in surprise.
Duval’s eyes narrow. “I am glad to see you have taken my advice and removed yourself from court.”
Hivern’s smile is as sharp as a knife. “Oh, but I have not. I am only taking a little break to visit with my dear friends and draw comfort from their company.” She lifts a delicate linen handkerchief and dabs at her eye.
“My pardon.” Duval’s voice is drier than bone. “I did not mean to remind you of your loss.”
She waves her hand in the air and I cannot tell if she misses the irony in his tone or simply chooses to ignore it. “It is always with me. I am just so grateful to Baron and Lady Geffoy for offering their hospitality, far from the painful reminders of my dear Francis.” Her voice catches slightly, as if she is about to cry, and I am struck by the sense that they are acting out parts in a masque.
As if to distract from Madame Hivern’s sorrow, Lady Geffoy directs us to take our seats at the table, and I use the moment to try to collect my wits. with Duval’s revelation, so many small details fall into place. The abbess’s and Crunard’s incredulity that Duval would try to pass me off as his cousin; Beast and de Lornay’s reactions as well. In truth, remembering causes me to blush and squirm at how stupid they must have thought us. No wonder Beast thought me noble born, for although Duval is a bastard, he is a royal one.
Humiliation courses through my veins. I reach for my wine goblet and take a healthy swig, wishing I could drown my ignorance. As my thoughts begin to settle, I become aware of the tinkle of crystal, the smell of braised meat and strong wine. The table is laden with all manner of food and delicacies, but they are as tasteless to me as the dust kicked up by our horses.
Lady Katerine artfully steers the conversation to hunting and recent jousts, people and events I am not familiar with. I let it recede into the background until it is naught but the buzz of gnats hovering over a stagnant pond.
I try to remember everything the convent told us about the French whore, for that is how they referred to her always and why I did not recognize her by the name Hivern. She was the mistress of the old French king when she was but fourteen. when he died, she became mistress to our duke. Over their many years together, she bore him five children: three sons and two daughters.
Duval’s arm rests next to mine on the table, his long elegant fingers playing with the stem of his glass. when his fingers tighten suddenly, I force my thoughts to the conversation going on around me.
“That is the fourth tournament this year that my dear Fran?ois has won,” Madame Hivern is saying to the baron. “He has few equals in the jousting lists.”