“I will never marry you.” Her voice is low and furious.
I take a step closer. “You heard Her Grace. She has given you her answer. Now move away.”
with one last furious glance at Anne, d’Albret turns his attention back to me. “You are making a grave mistake.”
“Am I?” I draw even closer, my eyes searching desperately for the marque of Mortain. Surely assaulting the ruler of our duchy counts as treason. But there is no marque on his forehead, nor on his neck above his fur-lined collar. Perhaps that is not where his deathblow will be. Perhaps Mortain intends for him to be gutted like a fish.
Before I have fully thought it through, I reach out and slash at him. His scarlet doublet parts like a wound, exposing his fat white gut. It is pallid and covered in coarse black hair, but there is no marque. A thin red line wells up where the tip of my knife has scored his flesh.
Disbelief and rage clouds his face, and his eyes burn with something that looks like madness. He reaches for his sword, but I bring my dagger down on his hand. “I do not think so.”
His eyes narrow, and the rage in them nearly flays the skin from my bones. “You will pay dearly for this.” The cold flatness of his voice is somehow more terrifying than his fury.
Footsteps sound behind us and d’Albret looks up. Fearing some trick, I do not remove my gaze from his face, but my shoulders itch in warning.
“Madame Dinan!” Anne calls out, her voice hitching in relief.
The governess ignores Anne and hurries toward d’Albret. "What have you done, you stupid girl?” she asks me.
“I have kept our duchess safe. what have you done, madame?” Our eyes meet and she knows that I see just how heinous a betrayal this has been. The duchess catches the accusation in my voice and takes a step back from her governess, her features stark with disbelief.
I am unable to act against either of these two traitors, and my temper flares. “Get out.” I gesture with my knives. “Both of you.” I make no effort to hide the contempt I feel for them.
“But the duchess . . .” Madame Dinan starts to say, then trails off.
In that moment, the balance of power shifts. I have caught her in an act of rank betrayal, and she knows I can use this against her. “I will tend to the duchess. You, my lady, have lost that privilege.”
Dinan’s nostrils flare. She raises her chin and glares down at her charge. “If you had but listened to your advisors, Your Grace, and not acted like a stubborn child, all of this could have been avoided.”
“And if you had but honored the sacred trust placed in you by the duke,” I point out, “this could have been avoided.” I wave my knives as if I am about to lose my patience, which in truth I am. “Go.”
D’Albret pulls his tunic over his belly and holds it in place with his arm. “You have just made the biggest mistake of your short life,” he says. “Both of you.” He turns and storms down the hallway. with one last reproachful glance at the duchess, Dinan follows the count, fluttering nervously behind him.
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?”