Chapter Forty-Three
TWO DAYS LATER, THERE IS yet another Privy Council meeting. As they debate Marshal Rieux’s true intentions and his trustworthiness to lead troops who will actually fight for the duchess and not turn against her when he snaps his fingers, I feel someone’s gaze on me. It is the abbess, looking at me like a hungry vulture watching a dying fox and wondering if the fox is worth the effort or if the vulture herself will be taken down in the struggle. I consider smiling coolly at her, but it takes more energy than I wish to expend on her behalf. Instead, I simply ignore her. Which has the added benefit of inflaming her further.
I still do not know what I wish to do with the knowledge of her treachery. Whom I will tell. As I pointedly turn away from her, I glance at Father Effram, his lively blue eyes intent upon my face. When our gazes meet, he does not even have the grace to look away. Not knowing what to do, I bow my head in his direction, acknowledging him. He smiles broadly, so much so that it catches the abbess’s attention, who in turn scowls at the both of us. I nearly laugh, that she thinks she can silence us like two restless children in church when we are respected peers in this elevated company.
I study the wooden cross that hangs around Father Effram’s neck and the hempen prayer cord with the nine beads. He is old. Older than anyone I have ever seen, and he clearly follows and respects the old ways. And from what I gathered from our conversation in the chapel, he seems wise and knowledgable. I glance once more at the abbess, who has returned her frigid gaze to the conversation going on. If anyone would know what sort of court or church council oversees the convent, it is he.
“Very well, we will trust him.” Duval’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “But with caution, and we will appoint his second in command and make certain that person is someone loyal to us.”
Everyone at the table agrees, except for Captain Dunois, who cannot find it in his heart to forgive the man.
Chancellor Montauban clears his throat. “The French ambassador visits my chamber nearly every hour, demanding an audience with the duchess—and her answer.” The older man looks at the duchess with fondness and deep sympathy.
“Is there no word from François?” she asks worriedly.
“No, Your Grace. Which we must assume means there will be no more help from the Holy Roman emperor.”
“I told you there wouldn’t be,” Chalon points out. “He is already spread too thin.”
Duval turns his steely gaze upon Chalon, who tries not to flinch under it. “Oh, that is not why he cannot come.”
“No?” Chalon sounds surprised.
“No. He cannot come because the French regent has brokered a truce with him.”
“My own husband betrayed me?” The duchess tries to sound strong, but it is hard not to hear the distress in her voice.
“He did not betray you, Your Grace.” Chalon comes to his liege’s defense. “He has been fighting this war for years, and it has cost him untold resources in material and lives. He needed that truce for his own people and the security of his kingdom.”
“At the expense of ours,” she murmurs.
Duval nods. “Yes, for it has the undeniable effect of essentially tying his hands where Brittany is concerned, because if he makes a move to aid us, he finds himself embroiled in war with France once again.” In spite of Duval’s ire, there is also a note of begrudging admiration at how neatly the French regent has boxed us in and cut us off from our own allies.
“What of the English forces? Have any more of their troops arrived in Rennes?”
Captain Dunois shakes his head, looking almost ill. “No, Your Grace. The rest of the English troops will not be joining us here in the city.”
Her brow creases in puzzlement. “Why not?”
Dunois takes a deep breath. “They will be staying in Morlaix.” He and Montauban exchange a glance. “They are holding it as surety against payment for their aid,” he says softly.
“And so the net tightens,” mutters Duval in disgust.
When the council meeting is over, the abbess rises and heads my way. I pretend I do not see her and mutter into Sybella’s ear, “Distract her for a moment, would you?”
She smiles wickedly. “But of course.” I do not linger to see how she does it, although part of me would like to, because I am certain it will be entertaining. Instead, I slip away to the old chapel. I do not know if I will find Father Effram there, but other than the council meetings, the chapel is the only place I have ever seen him.
I walk slowly, hoping he will see where I am headed and that his curiosity will compel him to follow.
Even if he does not, I could certainly do with some quiet contemplation and prayer right now. I have no earthly idea what to do. With the duchess and her council—nay, the very country—so beset by enemies and turmoil, I can hardly bear to add to it by telling them of the newest in a long line of betrayals. And yet . . .
And yet surely those who have been wronged by the abbess’s choices and actions deserve justice, if not vengeance.
The chapel is empty but for the nine flickering candles in front of the nine niches. As I stare at the Nine, an emptiness opens up inside me. Even the comfort of prayer has been taken from me, for I am no longer certain whom to pray to. I ball my hands into fists and force myself to take a deep breath.
“Lady Annith? Is that you scowling at my altar?”
I whirl around. “Father Effram! No, I wasn’t scowling. Well, not at your altar, at least. Only at all the weighty problems that bedevil us.”
He cocks his head to the side. “And by us, you mean the duchess and Brittany? Or is there some other us?”
The man may be older than time itself, but he is nobody’s fool. “Father, I would have you hear my confession.”
He blinks in surprise, but he is not half as surprised as I am. “I did not know that followers of Mortain must needs confess their sins.”
“That is part of what I must confess to you.”
His curiosity is as pungent as the incense burning in the chapel’s censers. He motions for me to follow him to a small corner. “I cannot imagine you have anything to confess, my child. Surely you move within your god’s grace—”
“But that is what I must tell you.” Tell someone. The secret presses against me, so heavy and full that I fear it will burst from me like an overripe plum from its skin.
But once we are seated and his kind, curious eyes are on me, all the words that were crowding to get out flee before the immenseness of my confession.