“Demoiselle?” the duchess asks, leaning forward with her brows pinched in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just trying to remember another trick with the string.” I force all thoughts of my sisters back into the small, cramped box deep in my heart, bind it once again with chains, and lock it tight.
I spend the next hour teaching Isabeau how to do the trick while the duchess talks softly with her ladies. Unobserved, I try to note each of them and take her measure. How long has the duchess known them? How loyal to her are they? I do not recognize any of them from Guérande, which suggests they have been culled from Rennes’s noble families. Let us hope they are more loyal than her other attendants and retainers have been.
They in turn watch me, their glances like small, biting insects. I cannot tell if it is mere curiosity or if there is knowledge and censure in their gaze.
When it is time for dinner, the ladies put away their embroidery. Isabeau is being allowed to attend tonight, for the duchess has agreed to a performance by minstrels that she thinks her young sister will enjoy.
We leave the solar, and the duchess has one of the other ladies escort Isabeau while she herself walks next to me. Her steps slow somewhat, and I must alter my pace so I do not run ahead and leave her trailing behind. When no one is close enough to hear, she leans toward me slightly. “Demoiselle, I want you to know that I thank you for your sacrifice, for to go against your family, no matter how justified, is no easy thing. I also want you to know that I do not doubt a single word you have told us. Indeed, it aligns precisely with what my lord brother and I have long felt. I am only sorry that you have had to learn this knowledge firsthand.” With that, she squeezes my arm gently, then turns the talk to the minstrels and what she has heard of their talents. I hear nothing she says; I am too busy holding tight this small nugget of trust she has granted me.
While the great hall in Rennes is smaller than that of Nantes, it is every bit as opulent. The rich carved paneling is decorated heavily with thick, brilliant tapestries, and the room is alight with the glow of scores of candles. The mingled scent of rose, civet, cloves, and ambergris hangs heavy in the air, and I feel the beating of a dozen hearts. It is, in every sense of the word, an assault upon my senses. Even worse, everyone in the room is infected with high spirits, and the guests’ jubilant manner makes me uneasy. It is unwise for them to be so very happy, for the gods will feel the need to humble us.
The first thing I do is look for Beast, but the ugly oaf is not here. My entire body sags in relief, for I did not look forward to an entire evening spent trying to ignore his wrath. Not to mention I’m fairly certain his continuing fury would blister my skin.
The rest of the council is here, however. The abbess and the bishop have their heads together, whispering. As if feeling my gaze, the abbess glances up and gives me a cool nod. I dip a curtsy but do not go to her.
The earnest Captain Dunois is deep in conversation with the chancellor, his heavy, furrowed brow making him look even more like a bear. Wanting to test his reaction to me now that he knows who I am, I drift closer.
When he sees me, he nods a distracted greeting. Or perhaps it is a cool greeting, like the abbess’s, a way to discourage my approach. I do not know him well enough to say. While I do not know Chancellor Montauban any better, there is no mistaking the distaste in his gaze. He makes no effort to hide it.
As I turn away from them, I see a small, hunched figure hovering just outside the doorway. It is Yannic, whom Beast has no doubt sent to spy on my movements.
Furious, I turn and search the hall, looking for someone I can attach myself to and prove that I am not moping over him. Nor am I the pariah he no doubts wishes me to be.
The duchess’s cousin Jean de Chalon is but a few paces from me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, which surprises me somewhat, as the last time we were together he appeared most distant and guarded. But he is handsome and titled and will make a good story for Yannic to carry back to his master. I smile at Chalon, a smile filled with more mystery than sparkle, for he is not a man to be lured with simple wiles.
He draws closer and bows. “You look lonely, demoiselle.”
“Ah, not lonely, my lord. Simply discerning in the company I keep.”
“A lady after my own heart, then.” He snags a goblet of wine from a passing page and hands it to me. As I take it, I let my fingers brush against his, and I feel his pulse flare with interest.
I pray that Yannic is watching all this, for it is far too much effort if he is not.
Chalon eyes me hungrily, and he is not an unattractive man. Tall, lithely muscled, and with a graceful arrogance that one expects from a prince. But looking at him, flirting with him, I feel . . . nothing. It is cruel of me to use him this way, for I do not desire his affection, simply his attention, and that only long enough to make an impression on Yannic. I murmur inanities a moment longer, then check to be certain Beast’s little squire is watching. But he is gone, and at last I can bring this game to a close, for Chalon is too smooth and tame and far too pretty a creature to hold my interest.
The only other pleasure to be had from the evening is watching young Isabeau and her sweet, uncomplicated joy in the music. Her hands are clasped, her eyes bright. But as I watch her, I am again reminded of Louise and Charlotte and how very much I miss them. I have not seen them in nearly a year, not since my terror over their safety forced me to thrust them from my heart, from my mind.
Isabeau is a painful reminder of everything I have had to give up, all that I have lost. Even though the room is full of people, I feel suddenly surrounded by a moat of loneliness. I cast about, looking for Ismae, the one friend I have in this accursed place, but she has left the duchess’s side and is grabbing a quiet moment with Duval. And while I do not begrudge her the love she has found, I am also filled with envy, for I know such a chance is lost to me.
Chapter Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING I AM summoned to yet another council meeting, which makes me uneasy, for the only business the council has with me is to grill me further on my time in d’Albret’s household. Not to mention I am still filled with dread at having to see Beast. I would rather do anything else than face the accusations in his eyes: suffer one of the abbess’s tongue lashings, play one of Julian’s sordid games, even subject myself to one of d’Albret’s punishments. But although I am many things, a coward is not one of them. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and enter the room with my head held high. Leaping from the barbicans back in Nantes would have taken less courage.