Although perhaps that is not true. From what Ismae has told me of Sybella’s family, no manner of training could prepare one for their dark and twisted deeds. “Thank you,” I say softly. “For caring enough to return to the lion’s den yourself.”
Uncomfortable as ever with my sincerity, she waves my words aside just as Ismae steps away from the door. “We have been summoned to the duchess’s council chamber,” she says, and for a moment, I once again feel outside the circle of our friendship. I turn away so they will not see my longing and disappointment, but Ismae reaches out and tweaks the sleeve of my gown.
“The duchess asked for you as well. The council wishes to hear not only Sybella’s account of what happened at Nantes but your message from the Arduinnites.” She winks, and I cannot help but smile back. With the duchess’s help, Ismae has outmaneuvered the abbess.
At least for the moment.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
AS SOON AS I STEP into the council chamber, I feel the abbess’s cold gaze upon me. Were the meeting even slightly less formal, I feel certain she would take me aside and reprimand me for my presence here.
I pretend she does not exist. It is a trick Sybella used in the past to drive the abbess nearly mad with fury, and I hope to use it to similar effect.
As Sybella tells the Privy Council what she told Ismae and me of what transpired in Nantes, I study the councilors and try to get a sense of their characters.
Across from Lord Duval sits a barrel of a man who looks as stalwart as a thickly rooted tree. He is dressed in soldier’s garb and I guess him to be Dunois, captain of the duchess’s armies. Next to him is a tall, slender man with gray hair at his temples. His eyes are kind, his smile sad, and a chain of office glints around his neck that marks him as the duchess’s new chancellor, Lord Montauban, and captain of Rennes, the city that has given her such needed refuge.
Across from him sits a bishop in scarlet robes with fat jeweled rings upon his fingers. I am somewhat startled to see Father Effram sitting beside him. He wears no trappings of high-church office, and I cannot help but wonder what his role is here. Next to him is a man whose sharp features put me in mind of the ospreys who hunt off the rocky shores near the convent, but I can glean no hint of his identity from his appearance.
More than once, my gaze is drawn to the Beast of Waroch. His sheer ugliness is nearly an affront in such polished company, not to mention shocking next to the beauty that Sybella possesses. And yet . . .
And yet the ferocity of his exterior matches the scarred ferocity of her soul, and I believe, against all appearances, that they will suit wonderfully. Any doubts I may have had are quickly dispelled by the quiet pride in the man’s feral eyes as he watches and listens to Sybella give her account. I can almost feel the weight of his regard for her reach across the table and wrap itself around her like a protective arm.
I also slip occasional glances at this Duval fellow who has stolen Ismae’s heart. I would never believe they had once fought like cats and dogs in the reverend mother’s office if I had not seen it with my own eyes. Although Duval spends less time gazing at Ismae than Beast does at Sybella, I can still feel the bond between them, like steady, nurturing roots from some invisible tree.
When Sybella has finished her tale, the room falls into a stunned but respectful silence. After a moment, Duval turns to Beast. “Tell us of the battle for Morlaix.”
Something in the way that Beast squares his massive shoulders makes me believe that he would prefer to be back on the battlefield rather than speaking before the council. “The abbess of Saint Mer was most helpful,” he begins, his voice deep and graveled. “As were the people of Morlaix, and the charbonnerie.” The bishop sniffs his disdain at the mention of the charcoal-burners, for they followed the Dark Matrona when the Church cast her out. Father Effram, however, folds his hands and smiles beatifically, as if especially pleased with beloved children.
“In truth,” Beast says, somewhat sharply, “it was the charbonnerie and their way with fire that allowed us to take the town’s cannon back from the French and use the weapons against them.
“We sent another group to the winch house where the great chain that guards the mouth of the bay was secured. They seized control of the winch and lowered the chain. Once the dual threats of the cannon fire and the barricade had been removed, the British ships were able to pass.”
“And just in time.” Sybella picks up the tale. “For our group was small and there were a great number of French troops in the city. Once again, the charbonnerie were crucial, as they devised a most clever scheme to smoke the bulk of the enemy’s troops out of the barracks right over the city walls, which rendered their numbers manageable.”
With the grace and timing an accomplished dancer would envy, Beast now resumes talking, as if he and Sybella had planned this. “Once the British troops disembarked, it was all but over.” He falls silent for a moment before continuing. “Four brave charbonnerie lost their lives for the cause, as did six of our own men. But make no mistake, we would not have prevailed had it not been for the charbonnerie.”
Father Effram smiles and spreads his hands wide. “It is almost as if it were willed by God and His Nine.”
Beast appears to notice the old man for the first time and gives him a bemused look. “I do not believe we have met before . . .”
The bishop in red sniffs again, and Duval passes a hand across his mouth. I do not know him well enough to be sure that he is hiding a smile, but that is what I suspect. “Allow me to introduce Father Effram. He was once the bishop here in Rennes—”
“A long time ago,” the current bishop mutters.
“—but is retired now. His wisdom has proved most helpful,” Duval adds, pointedly not looking at the current bishop.
The duchess leans forward. “Sir Waroch, Lady Sybella. The charbonnerie have fulfilled their part of the bargain, and now I would fulfill mine. They were promised a place at our table, and I would honor that. Do you have suggestions?”
Beast and Sybella exchange a thoughtful look, considering. “I believe they simply wish to continue their way of life, Your Grace, but without being reviled.”
“That is just as well, as our treasury is utterly depleted and we have nothing with which to pay them,” Chancellor Montauban says dryly.
“It was never about money,” Sybella says sharply.
Montauban bows his head. “I know that, my lady. It was but an attempt to lighten the mood of a grim situation.”