Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,18

Did you not free the Duke of Orléans from his cruel captivity and restore his lands to him? Did you not choose peace through marriage rather than raining war down on innocent people?” His hand drops to his side, and he straightens. “Did you not rule in favor of your queen, allowing her to keep her vow to her lady and thus her honor?”

His mouth twists with bitterness. “Do not speak of the Lady Sybella to me.”

“I believe it was one of your finest moments, sire.” Indeed, from my new vantage point, it may be his only one.

He looks out the window. “Dammit, Genevieve, I trusted you!”

“And I you, Your Majesty. I still do.”

He rounds on me. “How long have you known the Lady Sybella?”

“I have never seen her until yesterday morning when she appeared at my door and introduced herself. I left the convent long before she arrived. In truth, I have spent as much time here at court as I did at the convent. I arrived when I was seven and left when I was twelve. I’ve been at court for five years now. The convent is no more than a distant memory, like family one has not seen in years. And as for having taken any moves against the crown?” I laugh. “I have done nothing but serve you and Madame with every breath I have taken. Indeed, that was my order from the convent—to do precisely that. That was the only order, my lord. And I have carried it out faithfully.”

“Are there more like you?”

I hesitate. But Margot has chosen her own fate and is long gone from this earth. Telling the truth will cost her nothing and could help the others. “There was one other. The Lady Margot.”

He tilts his head at the name. “Have I met her?”

“Yes, my lord, when she served the regent here at court. She was sent with Louise and me to Angoulême. But it is of no matter any longer. She is dead now.”

His lip curls in disgust but also, I think, to hide his fear. “Did you kill her?”

“Saints, no!” The accusation stings all the more for being the second time it has been made. “She did not die by anyone’s hand, but in the most ordinary of ways. While giving birth to a man’s bastard.”

He looks doubtful. “What man?”

“Count Angoulême.”

He draws a sharp intake of breath. “So you deceived him, too.” The words are spoken softly, almost as if to comfort himself rather than extract information from me, so I remain silent. “What other actions have you taken against the crown since you’ve been here?”

“I have not taken any actions.”

“Other than deceiving me.”

“None, sire.”

“You were never ordered to raise your hand against me or anyone here at court?”

“No, Your Majesty. I will swear it on the Holy Bible, on any of the Church fathers’ relics, before the cross that hangs in the church. Take your pick. But I have never acted against you or Madame or anyone here in France.” I do not think relieving a courtier or two of an occasional stiletto or bauble can truly be counted as acting against France.

He grows still. “Does my sister know of your involvement with the convent?”

He has not told her. Even so, the ice beneath my feet is so thin I can hear it begin to crack. “No, Your Majesty. I . . . do not know if she even knows that it exists.”

He studies me a long moment, as if trying to pull the truth from my soul. “Good. Do not speak to anyone of this, not of Sybella, nor your involvement in the convent. You do not fully comprehend all that has been set in motion. If they were to learn of your involvement, I’m not sure even I could protect you.”

Does he mean to protect me from whatever political repercussions the convent’s presence creates? Yes. But not Sybella. He intends to use her as the whipping boy for my sins.

“For now,” he continues, “you may return to your quarters.”

Outrage and frustration at the sheer wrongness of what he is doing keep me rooted to the spot. He looks up. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. And thank you for showing me such mercy.”

He says nothing, but jerks his head toward the door.

* * *

When I am halfway back to my chamber, the regent swoops down on me like a vulture on a carcass. “You were supposed to keep the king happy,” she hurls at me. “Instead,