when they are out of sight, I turn back to Anne. Slowly, she slides down the wall until she is sitting on the floor. A single tear escapes her bright eyes, and she swipes it away angrily with a trembling hand. Gone is the proud, brave duchess, and in her place is a young, frightened girl, using anger as best she can to shield herself from what has just happened. Not stopping to think of stations and rank, I kneel beside her on the floor and put my arms around her shoulders, hugging her to me. I have no fine or fancy words to bring her comfort, so I say the only thing I can. “You are very brave, and he will think twice before trying that again. On anyone, I hope.”
Anne takes a great, shuddering, sobbing breath. “Madame Dinan said she needed to fetch a page, as she had a message to send. I thought it odd, but she has been much distracted of late, and there has been great discord between us. I never thought . . . never suspected such a . . .” Her voice falters as her throat tightens up, closing off her words.
“Come,” I say gently. "We should get you back to your chambers. Can you walk, do you think?” I do not know what I will do if she says no. I cannot carry her, and I dare not leave her side to fetch help.
“I can walk,” she says, her face full of steely resolve. I stand first, then help her to her feet. we slowly make our way back to her solar. we pass a few courtiers and nobles, and when we do, Anne makes an effort to straighten up and raise her head proudly; her regal bearing drives away any curious glances.
When at last we reach the solar, I am relieved to find that Madame Dinan has not returned. A handful of ladies in waiting are in attendance.
“Leave us,” Anne orders. I have never heard her speak so sharply, and neither have her ladies, for they look startled, but they do as she demands nonetheless. "Wait!” she calls out. They stop like dogs that have reached the ends of their leashes. “Have water sent up for a bath. Hot water.”
The ladies in waiting look among themselves. One brave soul finally speaks. “Shouldn’t we stay here to assist Your Grace?”
Anne glances at me, a silent question in her eyes. I nod my assent. “No, Demoiselle Rienne will attend me. Now go.”
Flustered as a flock of pigeons disturbed from their roost, they scuttle from the room. As soon as they are gone and the door firmly shut, the duchess begins ripping off her fine clothes. At first, I fear she is having a fit, until I hear her words: “I can still feel his fingers on me.” Her voice catches, and I hurry over to help her.
She claws at the collar and tears at the sleeves, pulling the gown off before I have the lacings undone. The fabric rips and there are tiny pinging sounds as a dozen seed pearls fall and scatter across the floor. “Your Grace, you will destroy your dress,” I murmur.
“That is the point,” she whispers, staring at the tattered gown at her feet. She kicks at it. “I will not wear it again. Not ever.” She is shivering in her shift, looking younger and more vulnerable than even poor Isabeau.
There is a knock at the door. I remove my cloak and wrap it around the duchess’s shoulders, then admit the attendants so they may set up her bath. They politely fill the copper tub with hot water, stoke the fire, lay out fresh linen towels, then hover uncertainly.
“Leave,” Anne says, her voice weary.
when they are gone, I turn my back to give her a moment of privacy to step into the bath. As a person of rank, she has always had ladies to attend to her, to scrub her back, hand her a towel, brush her hair. except when she needed them most, I think, anger rising up again. "Would you like me to wash your hair for you, Your Grace?”
A corner of her mouth tilts in a valiant attempt at a smile. “Part of your assassin’s training?”
I smile back. “No, merely something my sisters in arms and I used to do for one another.”
Her dark brown eyes meet mine. “Today I feel as if we are sisters in arms, and I would be honored if you would do for me what you have done for your friends.”
I bow my head low, humbled by this gesture. “But of course, Your Grace.”
I retrieve the ewer and fill it with warm water from the tub, then pour it over her long brown hair. I have never seen her without her headdress, and her hair is as rich and thick as mink. we scrub and rinse in silence; the soap she uses smells of roses.
when she speaks again, her voice is steadier. “Once I am clean and dressed, I must send for Gavriel.”
“He is whom you would speak with first?” This pleases me, this trust she has in him.
She turns to look at me. “Above all others,” she says, her face and eyes solemn. She turns back around, and I pour another pitcher of water on her hair to rinse the soap from it. "When I was born, my father took Gavriel aside and explained that I was to be his first duty from then on. My happiness and my safety were his to guard.”
“How old was he then?”
“Twelve or thirteen, I believe.”
Not much older than she is now. “So much responsibility for one so young.”
“Ah, but he welcomed it. It gave his life purpose. He now had a reason to excel at his lessons, beat his tutors in chess, practice for hours in the sword yard.” Her voice changes, growing softer. “And he doted on me. He told me once that from the moment he first held me, he was besotted. I demanded no cleverness or victories of him, asked only that he love and protect me. And that he has done ever since.”
"Were there so many demands on him at that age?”
“Have you not met his mother, demoiselle?”