“No, milord.”
He is quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking down at me. “I should check your wound to be sure it isn’t festering.”
That shocks me enough to look up at his face. “No! I could tell if it were. I am sure it is fine.”
He smiles wryly. “I suspected you would say that.” He reaches toward me and I freeze. A lone finger touches my cheek, as soft as a snowflake falling. “I do not think it wise for me to linger.” His voice is full of longing and regret. “Not tonight,” he says, then he takes his leave.
Sleep is a long time coming.
Chapter Thirty-three
In the morning, Duval and most of the other nobles and courtiers are off on another hunt. even though it is Advent and fasting is required for three days each week, the castle supplies are quickly being depleted. The nobles are ill-tempered and tense, and it is hoped a hunt will release some of their pent-up humors as well as fill the larder.
I have been assigned to attend to the duchess in her solar. I am loath to spend the day under Madame Dinan’s critical eye, but I am not good for much else. I had thought to skulk about the palace, spying on those I could until Duval pointed out that nearly everyone would be on the hunt.
The duchess sits in the cold winter sunshine spilling in the solar’s windows. Her sister, Isabeau, lies on a couch that has been placed beside her. The rest of her ladies in waiting are perched about the room. The mood is somber, and the duchess is pale and drawn. Only Madame Dinan seems to be in cheerful spirits. I look at her anew. Could she have ordered Nemours’s death? Is she that committed to placing her half brother d’Albret on the Breton throne?
Young Isabeau sees me first. She waves shyly, and the duchess’s head turns to follow the movement. “Come in, Demoiselle Rienne!” the duchess calls out in her high, musical voice. I curtsy quickly, then enter the solar. The younger ladies stare at me in open curiosity, while Madame Dinan’s eyes glitter with challenge. "What brings you here, demoiselle?” Madame Dinan’s voice is distant and cool, meant to send me scurrying for cover.
I grip my sewing basket tightly and raise my chin. “I am here at my duchess’s command,” I tell her.
Madame turns her head to the duchess and raises one elegant eyebrow in question.
“I invited her to join us.” The duchess’s impatience makes me think all is not well between her and her governess.
“Your Grace.” Madame Dinan lowers her voice, pretending she does not want me to hear. “I know that she is a special friend of your brother’s, but it is inappropriate for someone in your position to include her in your pastimes. You have your rank to consider. Besides, have you not enough friends here to keep you company?” Her graceful hands gesture to include the other ladies, and I find myself wondering just how many of them are beholden to Madame Dinan in some way. Perhaps even loyal to her outright.
The duchess keeps stitching and ignores her governess, not deigning to address her protests. As the long silence draws out, one of the ladies in waiting clears her throat nervously. “Did they ever learn who the man was that fell to his death?” she asks the room at large. “They say he was quite handsome.”
what little color remains in the duchess’s face drains away, and she concentrates carefully on her stitching. Madame Dinan clucks her tongue. “No such morbid talk today, ladies. what do you wish for them to bring back from the hunt? Venison or boar?”
As the ladies turn to discussion of the hunt, I take a seat next to young Isabeau.
She smiles, and I smile back. She is pale and wan and it seems to me as if her life spark burns but dimly. I rifle in my basket and retrieve the altar cloth I worked on last time. I pick up the needle threaded with blood-red silk and vow to try harder this time. I intend to be capable of stitching any wound of mine I can reach. I grunt and stick the needle into the linen.
The ladies talk of the upcoming Advent festivities and discuss the court poet’s latest romantic verse. I ignore their voices and focus on my embroidery, pleased to see my stitches are growing neat and even.
After they have thoroughly discussed every aspect of the upcoming holiday merriment, Madame Dinan speaks with a casual, artful slyness that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Your Grace, my lord d’Albret did not ride out with the hunt this morning. He thought this afternoon would be a good time for the two of you to discuss some things. Alone,” she says, glancing at the rest of us.
Remembering how she squawked when Duval requested similar privacy, I cannot help but poke at her hypocrisy. “Alone?” I put one hand to my lips, as if scandalized. “You would leave her alone with him, madame?”
“No, you fool,” Madame Dinan all but hisses. “I would remain here as chaperone.”