Keeping his full attention on the ball, he asks, “Why would you tell her such a thing?”
“Because she asked. Because I have served her since I was twelve years old. Because she is my liege, just as you are. Because I did not see that I had any choice.”
He seems appeased by this, and his palm makes contact with the ball so that it ricochets off the wall toward him. He is damp with sweat, and there is an intensity I have not seen in him before.
Perhaps it is because his attention is so focused elsewhere, but I find myself saying, “They say it was a love match, you and the queen.” I do not pose it as a question, but it is one, nonetheless.
“Do they?” His palm makes contact with the ball with a loud thwap.
“Wasn’t it?” I no longer watch him, but the ball’s hypnotic trajectory between the wall and the king.
“What sort of man would allow himself to fall in love with one lady when he had pledged betrothal vows to another?” Thwap.
“Our hearts are not always ours to command,” I say softly. He does care for her, I realize, my heart softening in relief. As long as he cares, whatever is between them can be mended.
The thudding stops, and he holds the ball trapped in his hand as he looks at me. “I am king. Everything is mine to command.”
I bow my head. “As you say, sire.”
He bounces the ball off the floor twice, then on the third bounce, reaches out and slams it against the wall, concentrating on nothing but that small hard object, hitting at it until more beads of sweat form at his temple. “My sister,” he finally says, although it is more of a sneer. “My sister has summoned your sister’s brother to court.” Thwap. “My sister has agreed to pay him a ludicrous amount of money.” Thwap. “My sister has gone too far.” Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
I want to reach out and grab the ball from him so we may have an actual conversation, but I dare not. He is too angry, and it is far better the ball be the recipient of that anger than I. Even so, it makes talking difficult.
“The regent is working with Pierre d’Albret?” I ask.
“Yes.” Thwap. “He and the regent stand on one side of the argument. Your sister, the Lady Sybella, on the other.” This time when the ball returns to him, he catches it and faces me. “I do not trust or believe Sybella’s account. She has too many reasons to lie to me.”
“And you believe Pierre d’Albret does not?” I allow a touch of disbelief into my voice.
“What reason would he have?”
“What reason does your sister have? Power, of course.” With the ball momentarily stilled, I risk taking a step closer. “My lord, what do you know of the house d’Albret?”
“They have extensive lands in both France and Brittany. The eldest son is the king of Navarre. Count d’Albret is—was—a powerful baron until he fell ill. And they threw their luck in with the late duke of Brittany when he rose up against me, and the count likes to claim he was betrothed to the duchess.”
“All of that is true enough, but what do you know of them? Their honor, their character, how others see them?”
He frowns. “I do not engage in gossip. But I will admit that having met Pierre, I do not much care for him.”
“What if it is not gossip?”
“What do you mean?”
I stare at the wall for a minute, collecting my thoughts. “At the convent, we study all the noble houses of Europe, although we focus most on those of France and Brittany, for obvious reasons.” I shift my regard back to the king. “You know that he had thrown his support behind the late duke and promised him troops to guard his flank in battle. But did you know that when he saw how the battle was going, instead of providing those troops that could have shifted the tide, he let his sworn allies be slaughtered?”
The king’s face grows pale. “If so, that would mean . . .”
“That the family has no honor? Yes, that is precisely what it means. The same way that handing Nantes over to the duchess’s enemies, when he was her sworn ally—shows a striking lack of honor. Count Angoulême thought the entire family cruel and cunning and not to be trusted.” The king now holds the little ball tightly in his hand, his