gone, and I can see the rigidness of her body melt away. When she opens her eyes, the darkness is only shadows, the sort found in any darkened room, and her face is younger somehow, yet older as well. As if she has gained both wisdom as well as her lost innocence.
She sighs noisily. “Very well. You win. It is neither of our faults. It is both or nothing.”
Feeling as if I am holding something more fragile than a spider’s web, I whisper, “Agreed.”
Chapter 38
Sybella
After two long weeks of ambling through every village, town, and city between Plessis and Paris, we reach Saint-Denis, just outside Paris, where the coronation is to take place. At long last the day has come, and as I stand on the platform erected in the choir of the basilica, I study the twenty-two bishops in attendance, contemplating the ones I would like to kill. It is the most unholy of thoughts to have in such a place, but it is also the only thing I can do to keep myself from pointedly glaring at the regent.
She is holding the long satin train of the queen’s gown while the cardinal archbishop of Bordeaux says the coronation mass. It is supposed to be a gesture of honor and support, but that is not how the regent means it. Rather than a sign of her fealty, it is one meant to intimidate and crowd. It is the same tactic used by my father and Pierre when silent intimidation was called for. If I had possessed any doubt, it disappeared when Madame appeared beside the queen dressed in cloth of gold, an attempt to overshadow the queen’s modest white gown.
It does not work. The light pouring in from the high-arched beams of the cathedral cast the queen in a nearly ethereal light. She is dressed simply, although elegantly. Her long mink-colored hair falls in two braids at her shoulders, and her face shines with youthful beauty, deep devotion, and the solemnity of the occasion. Even the somewhat ugly crown of France that is too large for her does not mar the import of the moment. Indeed, it adds to it as the Duke of Orléans silently holds it in place for her, even going so far as to lower it when she kneels. It adds greatly to the charm of the child queen, and no amount of gold the regent wears will detract from that.
Even so, my body is tensed, and I keep expecting the regent to step forward and call a halt to the ceremony. The weight of my knives is heavy against my wrists as I wonder what I would do if that happened.
Since it is not wise to stare too long, I resume contemplating the murder of the Bishop of Albi and the king’s confessor. They continue to whisper poison in the king’s ear. We must find some way to neutralize their influence before any of their plans come to fruition. I long to look among the lesser court for Gen, but refrain. For all that I hate that be-damned chain she is wearing, she is our best access to the king. Even though the queen is back in his good graces, he greatly limits the scope of their interaction.
When at last the cardinal daubs the queen’s brow with oil, places the scepter of France in her right hand, and pronounces her the queen of France, something deep inside me finally eases. The queen looks up just then, and our gazes meet. She is queen—in the eyes of the Church and France. It is a holy anointing of her rights and duties under the auspices of the Church, and therefore no longer something political, but an authority derived from God Himself. She will be far harder to cast aside now. If that is what the regent was planning.
When we finally step outside the basilica, every street, every corner, every doorway of the city is packed with people, and every one of them lifts their voice to cheer the new queen of France.
The regent looks as if she has just taken a bite from a wormy apple. That is when I indulge in my first smile of the day.
Chapter 39
Maraud
By the time they drew near Paris, four weeks of rain had finally cooled Maraud’s temper. That and being out of the mud. He’d decided he was no longer mad about the poisoning incidents. Indignant, yes. Mad, no. Especially as the first time was in self-defense, when he’d