“Was she frightened?”
“She was terrified, but she was determined to do this for her sister. It was the only way she could think of to help. Finally, she arrived at the chapel. Once there, she placed an offering on the niche of Saint Arduinna and said the sacred prayer to invoke her protection.
“Then she crept back to bed, exhausted and made ill because of her nighttime journey.”
Isabeau coughs just then and looks faintly guilty.
“The stories do not say what sort of protection the sister wished for the young ruler. What do you imagine she prayed for?” I ask.
“Well.” Isabeau makes a great show of thinking upon the question, her face scrunched up and one small finger placed under her chin. “She had armies and knights to help with the fighting, so that probably was not it.”
Good, I think. They have been able to protect this child from knowing how dire our situation is.
“My guess would be that the girl was worried about her sister’s heart.”
“Her heart?”
“Yes. For the young ruler had no one to love, save for the little sister, and the sister wished for the young ruler to have someone to love in case . . . in case anything ever happened to her.”
I stare into Isabeau’s eyes and see that she knows full well that she is not long for this world. That she worries about her sister at a time like this is a testament to her remarkable character.
“Well.” Unable to help myself, I reach out and smooth the silky strands of hair away from her face. “The ways of Arduinna are mysterious, but the goddess of love heard the young girl and accepted her offering. Shortly thereafter, she sent a handful of her best warriors to see what they could do to assist the young ruler.”
Isabeau settles back against the pillow, a small, satisfied smile upon her lips. “I know,” she says, surprising me, for I have made up the entire story on the spot as a way to tell her that the Arduinnites have come.
“How do you know?” I ask, in mock outrage. “How can you know the end to my story?”
She giggles, a truly delightful sound. “Because Father Effram told me.”
“He did?”
“Yes.” She looks around the room to see where her sister is. When she is certain we cannot be overheard, she leans forward slightly. “And he told me that you are who they sent.”
When the child has fallen asleep, I leave her side and cross the room to attend the duchess. At my approach, she looks up from her embroidery. “You are good with children, demoiselle.”
“I was raised in a convent full of motherless girls, many of them younger than me. I am used to their ways and their needs.”
“Did you know that is one of the options the French regent has offered me? To have me sealed away in a convent for the rest of my life?”
I raise my brows. “I had not heard that, Your Grace.”
“Oh, it is not their official position, of course. Officially, they have located several suitable husbands for me, nearly all of them over sixty and in possession of no more than half their original wits. It is either wed one of them or be sent to their convent, and I assure you, the convent the regent has in mind is not nearly as interesting as the one you serve.” She looks up at me suddenly. “Have you been satisfied with your life? Spending your days in prayer and devotion and service to your saint?”
Ah, and what do I tell her? That I thought I was until I learned that the abbess is corrupt and no longer trust anything she says? But, I remind myself, that is not the whole of it. “I have always wished to serve the Divine, Your Grace.”
“When did you first realize that was your life’s wish?”
That is harder to answer. Especially now when I must work to separate my own desires from those the convent has planted in me. But—no. Actually, it is not hard, for I remember the moment so clearly: it was when Mortain came to me, sat beside me, His gentle presence an inspiration, a comfort, and a source of strength, and I realized that I wanted to be worthy of that presence, to be in that presence as much as possible. “Ever since I was old enough to have desires, that is what I wished to do. Serve Him with all my heart.” And now the abbess has torn everything asunder with her conniving, calculating plots and lies.
“I too have only ever wanted one thing since I was young—to serve my people as their leader. I too have loved my Church, and surely it is my faith that has seen me through these hard years. But more than my love of the Church, my love of Brittany has shaped my life, molded me. I have loved my people, been buoyed by their cheering, found strength in their faith in me, and been comforted by their warm regard. It is what I have been trained for, raised for, to be their leader and to see to their interests. But now—now I fear that their trust has been misplaced. I fear that I will not be worthy of the honor they have done me. Here I sit with war at our doorstep and the conviction that no matter what I do, I will have failed them.”
The despair in her voice pierces my heart, and I kneel beside her. “Your Grace, you have been left with very few choices, and none of them good. I am sure your people understand you are doing the best you can.”
“But will it be good enough?” she whispers.
And as I stare at her, this young girl whose father left her with an unstable kingdom, an empty treasury, and a surfeit of suitors, none of whom cared one fig for her beyond the riches she could bring to their coffers, I become angry. Just as I am angry on Matelaine’s behalf, I am suddenly furious for this girl—for that is all she is, a thirteen-year-old girl—whose guardians have abandoned her in pursuit of their own ambitions. “Your Grace, it is not you who have failed, but your father.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them, for surely I am taking an egregious liberty.
But then she looks up at me with a faint glimmer of . . . hope? Relief? I do not know her well enough to understand what she is feeling. She stops stitching and closes her eyes for a moment. At first, I think she is struggling not to cry. But when she opens them again, I see that she is angry, furious, in fact, and struggling to rein it in. When she speaks, her voice is so soft I must lean in close to catch the words. “There are times when I am alone in my bed at night and cannot sleep for the fear and worry trying to claw their way out of my belly. On those nights I am so angry with my father.” She whispers, as if even now that he is dead, he might somehow hear her.
And suddenly, she is no longer my duchess or sovereign, but a young wounded thing, like those who arrive at the convent every year, and it is that girl that I try to speak to. “As you should be, Your Grace. We are given no choices in life—we must rely on our fathers or guardians to make them for us. And when they choose poorly or make weak decisions, they risk destroying our entire lives with their folly. How can we not be angry?” By the time I finish talking, I am no longer certain whom I am talking about: the duchess or myself.