will die happy,” he says, pulling me back down.
* * *
When Beast awakes the next morning and is told he still may not use his arm or strain his torso, he decides we should leave for Amboise. “If I am forced to do nothing,” he grumbles, “I may as well do it on a horse.” It is as inactive as he can be, so I agree to it. “Besides, we must get word to the king and queen. We do not know if the English will try to return now that Rohan has given them an invitation. The king will need to meet force with force.” His face brightens. “And, since we have rid him of this pesky rebellion, perhaps he will grant us permission to marry.”
That is the difference between Beast and me—he is a dogged optimist, while I am a dyed-in-the-wool cynic and cannot accept that it will be so easy.
Chapter 92
Genevieve
In the morning, Beast and Sybella come to check on us. “How is he?” Beast asks.
“He is still alive,” Maraud says. “But will not be for long.”
“I am sorry.”
“He said he agreed to d’Albret’s plan in order to make amends.”
“He succeeded.”
As Beast and Maraud continue talking softly, Sybella pulls me aside. “Beast and I need to return to court,” she says. “We need to get news of the English attack to the king and queen. It has gone far beyond a squabble among French nobles.”
“Will he believe you?”
“I have to hope so, especially now that we have won and the queen has nothing to gain from the situation.”
“As if she ever did. Shall I come with you?” I do not wish to abandon Maraud, but convincing the king is too important to leave to chance.
Sybella’s eyes soften. She knows Crunard is not long for this world. “No. Your place is here. You can follow in a couple of days.”
* * *
Even though Maraud’s father does not waken again, we stay with him through the night. Maraud slumps against the wall, and I curl up on a spare blanket, giving him some room to come to grips with the shift in the nature of his father.
He lifts his head and stares up at the ceiling. “If not for my anger with him, I am not sure I would’ve survived my time in the oubliette.”
“Sometimes anger is all there is to live for,” I tell him.
He falls silent, unable to reconcile himself to his father’s attempt at atonement.
“What price would you have paid when you thought Pierre d’Albret had me?” I ask softly.
“Any price. Although I would like to think I would not have betrayed my country.” I can see him think back to that moment, the terror that gripped him. “But I do not know that. Not for certain.”
I rise from my own spot and go sit next to him, pressing my shoulder against his. I cannot help but think of my mother and her small bag of gold. “Our parents are merely human, for all they would have us believe otherwise.”
“But his actions hurt so many.”
“And his recent actions saved many. It seems to me, the scales have been tipped toward justice.”
He pulls me closer and buries his head in the crook of my neck. I say nothing, but offer what little comfort I can.
* * *
After two more days and nights of his father’s worsening condition, I tell Maraud, “If he is ready to die, and you wish it, I can ease his suffering.”
Maraud stares at me in amazement. “How?”
“It is something Sybella showed me.” Each day has brought more fever and putrefaction. “He is rarely conscious for more than a handful of minutes at a time, and I think he has suffered enough.”
“He has,” Maraud says bleakly. “If you could do that for him, I would be grateful.”
His answer pleases me, his willingness to grant his father mercy indicating he is on his way to forgiveness.
I have never done this on a living mortal, but his soul has already been in agony for three days—surely that is enough penance. And as Sybella has said, we are moving in uncharted waters and are allowed to make some of these decisions for ourselves.
Ignoring the stench of his father’s wounds, I cross to the bed and gently place my hand upon Crunard’s chest, right over his heart. To my surprise, I can feel its thready beating, thin and tenuous. As I close my eyes, I feel his soul detach itself from the body, as the wheat separates itself