It is all too easy to conjure up all the obstacles that face us, and it is tempting, oh, so tempting, to tie his love to me for all eternity so that I am the final one he will ever love. But it is too close to what the abbess tried to do to me: to bind me so tightly to her that I could not love or live on my own, could not make my own choices. “No,” I say firmly. “I do not want a love if I must bind it to me in such a manner, for does not the very binding of it make it less like love?”
He smiles at me, one of his rare, dazzling smiles, as if I have pleased him beyond measure. He lifts my hand and brings it up to his lips, which graze against it tenderly.
“Besides,” I say, “there is something else I must do with it.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
AT THIS LATE HOUR, I find the duchess in her chambers. Duval is sitting with her, which causes me a moment of guilt—she must have sent for him because I was gone for so long. I sink into a deep curtsy. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I did not intend my errand to be such a lengthy one.”
She smiles, but it is a pale, watery thing that hurts to look at. “It is no matter. Come in, come in.”
Duval rises to his feet and excuses himself. Once he has left, I turn to the duchess. “I have something I would speak with you about.”
The duchess’s interest is piqued. “Pray continue.”
And so I lay out my plan before her, explaining the old power contained in the arrow and how it could be wielded for the country’s advantage. The duchess’s eyes grow brighter and brighter as I explain my plan, for she has struggled mightily to find some way out of this mess.
When I am finished, hope teeters in her face, then slowly seeps away. “It is a fine idea,” she says at last. “Except that I am already married.”
A situation that is all too easy to forget, with as little help as her lord husband has provided her.
“Only by proxy,” I point out. “And it is not consummated. You agreed to the marriage in the belief that it would help you hold on to Brittany, but instead, it has had precisely the opposite effect, driving France to move more openly against us. It has proved a poor bargain.”
The duchess rises to her feet, her hands clasped tightly together. “That is true, and I am sorry for it. But we are still bound before the eyes of God and the Church. We had a ceremony,” she says. “Presided over by the bishop and feted with a celebration. How can we just put that aside now? Besides”—her voice grows stronger and more laced with pride—“how can I consider marrying the man who has caused my kingdom so much woe?”
“Your Grace, we know that it was his sister the French regent who was behind much of what has transpired, as she held the kingdom for him.” It is so easy to forget that he is just a few years older than the duchess. “We do not know how much he was consulted in her plans and strategies.”
She presses her fingertips against her eyes. “This is all making my head spin.”
I am immediately contrite. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I did not wish to push so hard.”
“No, you are right to push for solutions.” The duchess gives me a grim smile. “Even though I am not certain I can do what you suggest, I thank you for at least bringing me a new option to consider. Odd, is it not, that those who have been the most helpful to me are my bastard brother and the ones who serve the old saints the Church would just as soon deny.
“Every one of my allies has failed to assist in any meaningful way. Especially my lord husband.” Her words are bitter and laced with pain. “Unless God or His saints send me a miracle . . .”
“Could not this ancient magic at the heart of the old gods be a sort of miracle?” I ask softly.
“It could, but I fear breaking my vows. Besides, how can I marry King Charles? His family has been behind every grief that has befallen mine in the past fifteen years.”
“His family, Your Grace. Not him.” I think of the abbess and all that she has done in my name. “We cannot be held responsible for what our families do, especially when we have no way to control them.”
She nods, conceding the point, reluctantly. “But it will be delivering Brittany right into the hands of the French—something my father fought all his life to avoid, something I have sworn to prevent at all costs.”
“And yet,” I remind her, “you said yourself the costs might be too high. War is ugly and lives will be lost. Not only that, but in wedding the king of France, you would be setting Brittany’s true heir upon the French throne—you would bear that country’s future kings. Not an altogether bad way to maintain control of your duchy. Besides, I am not sure you are required to sacrifice your life—your chance at happiness—for your father’s goals.”
“No! It is my wish as well. It has been ever since I can remember.”
“But only because you have been raised to wish it,” I say gently. “It was trained into you just as surely as dancing or embroidery. But just as those are not truly you, neither is this desire for independence at any cost.”
She whirls on me. “Why are you so quick to surrender? To give up?” The moment she asks the question, I realize I will have to tell her who my father is, else, when she finds out, she will feel sorely betrayed and will doubt my loyalty.
Am I being quick to surrender? Is there some weakness, some traitor blood that flows in my veins? I consider a moment. “It is not that I am so very quick to give up,” I finally say, “but rather that I do not wish to spend my life pursuing goals that others have chosen for me. If I must perish, if I must stumble and fail, then let it be in pursuit of the ideals and dreams that I hold in my own heart.”
She stares at me a long moment. “I do not want all those deaths on my conscience,” she whispers. “Indeed, it haunts my dreams, and I fear that I will not be able to live with myself.”
“I would have a hard time with that decision as well, Your Grace.” I take a deep breath. “In truth, killing holds little appeal for me.”
Her head jerks up in surprise.
“Oh, have no fear, I can fight better than most, for I am well trained, but I have never enjoyed taking life. And that was something I thought was a weakness of mine, something to be ashamed of and do penance for. I have spent my entire life praying for the strength to embrace killing.”
“And have you received it?”
“No. But I have learned something that I must share with you, something I have shared with few others.” I take a deep breath. “As it turns out, I was not sired by Mortain after all. I am not his daughter. My entire life has been a lie.” A bemused laugh escapes my throat. It still stuns me to say those words. “I have spent my life pursuing dreams and goals that were never mine to pursue. And one of the reasons I tell you this is that before you make a decision on the option that I have given you, you need to know the truth about not only me, but my true father.”