Igniting Darkness Page 7

  There. I have given the man a chance to shift the responsibility for the men to his liege’s shoulders. If he truly has no part in this, then he will be smart enough to save his own neck and grasp at the sliver of an excuse I have tossed his way. I stare at him, willing him to take it. Surely if what drove me were my d’Albret instincts, I would not do even so much as that.

  “That is ridiculous! The men report to me and are mine to command.”

  And so he chooses. He has erased the last doubt of his complicity. I furrow my brow as if in confusion. “You are certain, monsieur?”

  “Of course,” he says, thrusting his head into the noose I have tried so hard to protect him from.

  “In that case”—I allow my face to harden—“perhaps Monsieur Fremin can explain to us why he had one of his men scale the wall beneath my sisters’ chambers and attempt to get in through the window?”

  Surprised silence ripples around the room.

  “Your chambers?” the king asks.

  The regent speaks for the first time. “That is impossible! You are on the fourth floor overlooking the rear courtyard. There is no external access to your room.”

  “That is true,” I agree. “But there is a wall made of stone, and stones offer the smallest of footholds and handholds. Enough for the Mouse to climb.”

  Fremin’s nostrils flare, and his head rears back slightly. I blink innocently at him. “That is his name, is it not? Or do you know him by another?”

  He swallows before speaking. “It is but a nickname, Your Majesty. Something the other men call him, for he is small and quiet, not built for combat.”

  “Then why bring him if the need for such a large escort was due to unsafe roads?” the king asks, and I nearly cheer at not having to draw that line for him.

  A sheen of desperation appears on Fremin’s forehead. “Your Majesty, she is lying! My men would never disrespect your hospitality in such a way, nor would they even know which room she and her sisters were sleeping in.”

  The king turns his head to me, as if watching a jousting tournament.

  “I am not lying, Your Majesty. I have proof.” I pull the tiny scrap of the Mouse’s tunic from my pocket and hold it out for the king to see. He motions me forward, but does not take the scrap from my hand. Instead, he leans to peer closer. The small square of brown homespun sits in stark contrast to the whiteness of my palm.

  Which is not nearly as white as Fremin’s face. “She lies,” he protests again. “That could be any speck of fabric!”

  The Bishop of Narbonne reaches toward it. “May I?”

  “But of course, Your Grace.”

  He takes it from me and examines it. “It is coarse wool, not the sort anyone here at the palace would wear, not even the servants.”

  “How do we know she found it where she says she did?” Fremin scoffs.

  “Your Majesty, what possible reason would I have for carrying around a small square of homespun just on the off chance that I may someday present it as false proof against a future accusation I could never have foreseen?”

  The Bishop of Narbonne’s mouth quirks ever so slightly as he glances up at the king and nods his agreement. The king strokes his chin, eyes lingering on the scrap. “This does seem to support your claim,” he agrees. “Monsieur Fremin, you are dismissed, for now. However, Lady Sybella, you will indulge me by remaining.”

  Fremin hesitates, glancing at the regent, but she stares straight ahead, not acknowledging him. He gives a terse bow, then takes his leave.

  When the lawyer has left, the king gives me his full attention. “This does not leave you fully in the clear. I have spoken at length with my advisors. Assassins are a dishonorable, barbaric tool that I believe has no place in our—or any monarch’s—court.”

  My hands twitch with frustration.

  The Bishop of Narbonne shoots him a look that lets me know this is news to him. “Your father used them quite frequently,” he gently points out.

  The king’s hands clench into fists. “I am not my father. And even if I were inclined to assassination as a political tool, they are far too powerful a weapon to rest in the hands of my lady wife.”

  “Not only that,” his confessor says, “but I believe it calls into question whether or not the queen can truly serve France if she still honors the Nine and their”—he eyes me with distaste—“ways.”

  The Bishop of Albi frowns in thought. “What if she were to renounce them?”

  “Indeed,” the confessor muses. “Since the king’s right to rule is derived directly from God, it is possible that belief in a saint who trains assassins for his own purposes could be considered heretical.”

  A murmur of discussion buzzes through the room.

  The bishop nods, warming to the subject. “It is an archaic and barbaric form of worship. It is far past time the Church take this up to examine it in light of adherence to doctrine.”

  At his words, a chill takes root deep in my bones. It is not only our political usefulness that is at risk, but the convent’s—and all the Nine’s—survival as well. However, they are sorely mistaken if they think we will give up our own gods without a fight.

  But your god gave you up without a fight. The realization burrows its way into my heart and will not budge.

  “What say you, General Cassel?” the king asks.

  The general’s gaze lands on me with all the subtlety of a boulder. “I say that any assassins who do not owe their allegiance to you—and only you—are dangerous and must be rooted out like weeds.”

  “He is right, sire,” the Bishop of Albi agrees. “If they come from the convent, or the Nine, then how are we to know whom they truly serve, let alone how to control them? At the very least, those who follow the Nine should be forbidden from practicing their arts.”

  I am unable to keep silent any longer. “Truly, Your Grace? And what of Saint Brigantia? Was it not her acolytes who tended King Louis in his final days, bringing him comfort and succor at the very end?”

  The bishop blinks at me, no quick rejoinder at the ready.

  “But the Brigantian nuns do not kill people,” the king’s confessor smugly points out.

  I tilt my head. “What of Saint Maurice? Will you forbid his worship or the practice of his arts as well?”

  “He is not one of the Nine!”

  “No, but half the soldiers in France consider him their patron saint and learn their arts in his name, leaving offerings and sacrifices and prayers at his shrines. How is that any different?”

  “They do not kill—” The confessor’s words come to an abrupt halt as he realizes my point. “It is different,” he insists tersely. “They follow the earthly orders of their liege.”

  “As do we at the convent of Saint Mortain,” I murmur politely.

  “The girl is correct. It is not heresy,” the Bishop of Narbonne says.

  “It should be,” the confessor says darkly.

  “That may well be,” Narbonne says, “but the Church must declare it so. Not us.”

  “If you will excuse me, Your Majesty.” All eyes shift to the familiar voice of Father Effram. I did not see him when I came in. The king blinks. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  Father Effram steps forward, hands serenely folded in his sleeves, head bowed. “I am Father Effram, Your Majesty, and the Lady Sybella’s confessor.”

  I bite the inside of my lip, lest my own surprise give his lie away.

  “It seemed important I be here to give the lady the appropriate spiritual guidance.”

  The other bishops are nonplussed. The Bishop of Angers actually sputters. “But you are one of them! You serve one of the Nine!”

  Father Effram nods. “Yes, as I am ordained by the Church to do. You are forgetting that in Brittany, we worship Christ as well as His saints. And that the Nine are only a handful of the saints we worship. The others are the precise same ones that you yourself worship—the Magdalene, Saint Christopher, Saint Guinefort, and Saint Michael.”

/>   The regent steps out of the shadows. “This is an important matter, to be discussed at length and in private. Not, I think, in front of the Lady Sybella. Nor any of those who would be affected by such a change.”

  The king’s eyes are cool upon her. “Tell me, dear sister, how long have you known?”

  The regent blinks. “Known what, Your Majesty?”

  “Known of the convent and their purpose?”

  “I learned of it when you brought the matter to Lady Sybella’s attention, the first day that Monsieur Fremin announced his men were missing.”

  I cannot tell if she speaks the truth or if she is lying. Did none of her spies ever tell her of the convent? Either way, I have so few weapons that I must take chances. “Oh, but she did know, Your Majesty,” I protest. “As did your father. I do not know why they chose not to share it with you.”

  The king sets his teeth, a faint flush of red appearing in his pale cheeks. “We will speak of this later, you and I.”

  The regent whips her head toward me, her eyes full of murderous intent. Her attack, when it comes, is low and unexpected. “Your Majesty, given what we’ve learned of Lady Sybella, do you still think it appropriate for her to have custody of her sisters?”

  He considers me, his gaze distant and assessing. “No. I do not.”

  And there it is. My worst fears brought to life. I allow my face to fall. “Your Majesty.” My voice trembles with emotion. “I would remind you that I do not have custody of my sisters. They went missing while under the crown’s protection.”

  “You are right, demoiselle. Matters of church doctrine aside, two young girls are missing. Two young girls who fall under the court’s protection, something I take most seriously. I have sent search parties out to scour the area and look for any signs of them. Hopefully we will have news soon.”

  The king’s announcement of his search party sets near panic aflight in my chest. How far has Beast gotten? I wonder as I leave the audience chamber, careful to keep my steps slow and even. Between Beast’s need for secrecy and the two girls, he cannot be making good time.

  And how far do the king’s men plan to search? Four men such as Fremin’s could cover a lot of ground. Much more than Beast and the girls could have.

  Merde. What if he finds them? Then everything will be lost, and all that we have done will have been for nothing.

   Chapter 11

  Aeva

  I smell them long before I can hear them, the stink of their iron weapons acrid in the cool, damp air. I crouch down lower in the bracken and crawl forward on my belly to look over the ridge into the valley below.

  There are two, no three, columns of mounted soldiers wearing the king’s colors. They are heading toward the Loire River, but bearing west, toward us. The lines ride one bowshot apart, with some of the men beating at the bush with clubs, as if trying to flush pheasant out of hiding.

  A prickle of anticipation runs along my scalp, for these are not mere hunters.

  We have been traveling west for two days, staying well south of the river. We did not expect pursuit. Sybella had spun plans upon plans to keep them from noticing our absence. And even if they did, they would search north of the river toward Brittany, which is why we have been heading in a southerly direction, as if traveling to Poitou. But by their formation and crosshatching, it is clear that these men are not merely in pursuit, but searching.

  I back away from the ridge. When I am far enough that they will not see me, I begin to run, keeping low and matching the rhythm of my movements to the sounds of the forest, taking a step in time with the cry of a kestrel, moving forward as the wind rustles the branches.

  Divona’s ears prick as she hears me coming, but sensing my urgency, she does not whinny her normal greeting. I vault onto her back, then ride hard to catch up to the rest of the group.

  Beast rides behind the others, waiting for me. I warble like a thrush, and he quickly falls back. “How did you hear them?” he asks. “I pride myself on my sharp hearing, and I heard nothing.”

  I smile. “Nor did I. I could smell them.”

  He gives me an aggrieved look. “Even so, I should have gone, not you.”

  “Might as well send a boar crashing through the woods to announce our presence.”

  “I can move quietly.” He sounds mildly offended. “What did you learn?”

  “Three groups of men, searching in crisscross patterns between the Loire to the north and the Vienne’s southward bend.”

  “Camulos’s balls,” he mutters. “How fast are they moving?”

  “Faster than us, but their search pattern forces them to cover twice as much ground. They should catch up to us by nightfall.”

  “Any indication how far they intend to go?”

  “They did not say.”

  “No, but since you can smell and hear things that the rest of us cannot, I thought perhaps you’d discerned it through the weight of the gear they carried or the pacing of their horses.”

  “Well,” I concede, “they were traveling light, no pack animals. So they are likely planning to spend the night in a town or holding.” I pause. “How far are we from any town or holding?”

  “Not far. I had hoped to spend the night in Chinon, but it sits near one of the king’s castles and is likely where they are headed. I do not want to put ourselves so directly in their path.” He glances ruefully at our little party. Eight men-at-arms, two Arduinnites, one lady in waiting, a gnome, and two young girls.

  “We cannot outrun them, nor are we close enough to the river to cross it before nightfall.”

  Beast looks wistfully at the forest around us. “A cave would be nice. But the saints only know if there is one near here or how we could find it if there was.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that, O Angry One.”

  He swings his gaze to me. “I only got angry once,” he mutters. Or growls. I can never be certain with him.

  “But it was such a deeply righteous anger. And in all fairness, Sybella deserved it for trying to slink off without telling anyone. Here.”

  I slip off my horse, hand Beast my reins, and move a dozen steps away from him. I kneel, spread my palms, and slowly press them into the ground, past the rich leaf mold into the deeper soil below. I close my eyes and slow my breath, allowing my pulse to match that of the earth beneath me. The rhythm is slow and steady, so profoundly comforting that my body hums with the rightness of it. I feel the pulse bounce off the roots of the trees, feel it swerve to avoid a deep boulder thrusting up from the bowels of the earth. It moves more swiftly after that, humming along until it opens up near the surface, then echoes off a small enclosed space.

  I stand up and brush off my hands. “There is a cave due west, just before the forest ends. If we hurry, we can make it before they pick up our trail. But it will be close.”

   Chapter 12

  Genevieve

  The king stands before the east wall, studying the painting that hangs there. “Your Majesty.” I curtsy deeply. I had not expected another summons so soon. If ever.

  Although it is not yet dusk, all the candles are lit and the fire built high. Without taking his eyes from the painting, he motions me to my feet, then bids me come closer. “Have I told you of this painting?”

  “No, sire.” It is, I realize, what he was staring at the last time, when I glimpsed such longing and resentment on his face.

  “My father had it made for me.”

  It is violent and gruesome—a soldier holds a nobleman in a blue doublet decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis by the chest, his sword raised. They are surrounded by a mob of knights and men-at-arms. Blood already pours from the nobleman’s many wounds, but that does not cause the others to call off their attack, as they are poised to hack him to pieces like the two noblemen who already lie dead on the field.

  “It seems a most melancholy gift.”

  His mouth twists in a bitter smile. “It was not a gift but a reminder of what happens to those too weak to seize and hold pow
er. To those who lessen their stranglehold over others. It was how he ruled, how he trained my sister to rule, and how he expected me to rule.”

  “Does the regent have a similar painting hanging in her chambers?”

  The king barks out a surprised laugh. “She needs no reminder. Unlike me.”

  So a reminder, then, of how lacking his father saw him. A way to reach beyond the grave and coerce him into being the man his father was instead of his own self.

  He turns on me then, all the loathing and frustration he kept in check while staring at the painting unfurls, filling the space between us, the unexpected shock of it like a fist. “According to his rules, you have betrayed me, and to betray me is to betray France itself. You owe me much in the way of restitution.” The way his eyes rake over my body leaves no doubt as to his motives.

  I want to take him by the shoulders and shake him. To shout at him that this is not who he is. But of course, I dare not. I make no move. Not of revulsion, nor of encouragement. While I have no desire to feel his anger, neither do I wish to lie with him again. Ever. It is not simply that he cannot give me what I want, but that I have seen him more clearly for who he is. There is nothing like anger to reveal a man’s true character, my aunt Fabienne always claimed. More important, the queen is not like her mother nor any of the noblewomen I have known and does not relish the idea of sharing him with a court favorite. While he is not deserving of such loyalty, the queen is, and I will honor her wish in this.

  He sneers at my continued silence. “Will you not willingly give me what I want unless I shower you with fine gifts?”

  “I never wished for your gifts,” I remind him softly.

  My words seem to anger him further. “Gifts would have cost me less than what you asked for. What you asked for goes to the heart of what makes me king.”

  Genuinely perplexed, and more than a little appalled at this change that has come over him, I ask, “What is it that I asked for, sire?”