The duchess and Isabeau make a kind fuss over my embroidery pattern while the other ladies eye me with distrust. To them, I am nothing but an interloper, a cuckoo bird who has come to nudge them from the duchess’s favor and take their spot.
At last everyone turns back to their needlework, and I am left to blunder on with my own. As I try to decide how best to approach it, the duchess leans close so that only I will hear her words. “It will cause the linen no pain if you stick it, demoiselle.”
I bite down on a small bubble of laughter.
“Have you no practice at needlework?” she asks.
“Only with a much larger needle,” I mutter.
She smiles grimly at my joke. “Ah. Perhaps we can find some larger pieces for you to practice on.”
I incline my head solemnly. “Any project you desire, Your Grace.”
Then she winks at me and adjusts her arms so that I may watch her hands at their work. Biting my lip, I study the angle at which she applies her needle, the twist of her wrist as she brings the thread through, the easy rhythm with which she sets the needle to the piece again.
I turn to try it on my own work. I am able to poke the needle through the cloth well enough, but when I try to pull the thread through, it snarls and knots so that I have to set the needle aside and untangle the mess. I catch Madame Dinan watching me with her cold eyes, a hundred questions lurking in their depths. Angling my shoulder to block her view of my clumsy work, I pray for the hour of the chapel visit to arrive.
In the end, I manage well enough, but I am heartily glad when the hourglass runs empty. The duchess notes the direction of my gaze and smiles. “Demoiselle, I would grant you a boon and free you from your embroidery so you may accompany me to chapel. Perhaps you can pray for more nimble fingers.”
“Your Grace,” Madame Dinan says sharply. “I do not think — ”
“And you, Madame Dinan, may sit with Isabeau,” the duchess says. Ignoring her governess’s raised eyebrows, she rises to her feet.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” My thanks are heartfelt enough as I set aside my embroidery, only too gladly follow her from the solar.
Once alone in the hallways, we exchange glances and some of the strain leaves her face. even so, I am compelled to ask, “Are you sure you wish to do this today?”
“Now more than ever,” she says, her voice firm. “The only path open to me is one I cannot take. It is weak of me, I know, but . . .” Her voice falters and she turns stricken eyes on me. “I cannot,” she whispers. “D’Albret terrifies me.”
“I do not blame you, Your Grace. He terrifies me as well. No one should ask such a sacrifice from you.”
She is somewhat comforted by my words, and we walk in silence a short way before she speaks again. “You have seen Lord Nemours, yes? How did you find him?” She is every bit the twelve-year-old girl eager to meet her new suitor.
"Were you not betrothed to him once before?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Yes, but I have not ever seen him.”
"We-ell, he is quite old, with a long white beard and crooked back. And his teeth are yellow.”
Her look of horror turns to one of exasperation when she realizes I am joking, and then she laughs. “You are as bad a tease as Duval,” she says. But my jest has worked. when we reach the chapel, the remnant of her laughter lingers in her eyes and plays about her lips.
The chapel is small and nearly empty, and I am pleased to see the nine niches under the crucifix honoring the old saints. The only other supplicant in the chapel wears a dark green cloak with the hood drawn close around his head. At our approach, he rises to his feet and pulls the hood from his face, revealing the red-gold hair and handsome face of Fedric of Nemours. He and the duchess stare at each other for a long moment, and then he gives an elaborate, courtly bow.
“Lord Nemours?” she says, a small spark of hope lighting her face. “You may wait by the door,” she murmurs to me, then lifts her skirts and joins Nemours in a pew at the front of the church.
I take up position at the door, folding my hands and trying to look as if I am praying rather than pining of curiosity.
Their voices are but soft murmurs, and Anne’s manner is somewhat awkward at first, but Nemours quickly puts the duchess at ease. Once I see their heads draw together and hear soft laughter, I turn my thoughts to my own plans.
Chancellor Crunard’s words still echo in my ears: By all means, search d’Albret for one of those marques. why had I not realized that I must search d’Albret before I can be certain there is no marque upon him?
Because I am a coward, that is why.
But surely Crunard is correct in where my duties lie, and the abbess would want me to create every opportunity to determine if d’Albret bears a marque anywhere on his body.
A strike to the head is not the only way to kill a man.
*