I take Ismae’s arm and pull her a short way from Crunard so he cannot hear us. “Is he marqued?”

She glances at him again, her eyes raking over him in open disdain. “No. And why that is the case, I do not know. What will you do with him now that he is here?”

“Ismae, he knows things about the convent and the abbess. Things that may help us determine what game she is playing. He seems to think I was sent to kill him because the abbess wished to be rid of him rather than because of his actual crimes. And while it is not surprising that he would claim such a thing, if you see no marque on him, then that bears him out somewhat.”

She nods reluctantly. “It at least warrants careful consideration.”

“Can we put him in the dungeons here? It should not make any difference as to where he is imprisoned, should it?”

She pats my arm reassuringly. “If it does, we will find a way to turn it to our advantage. Let me escort you and help get him settled.”

I look at her in surprise, and she laughs. “Oh, I do not mean to see to his comfort, only to be certain the guards know he is a prisoner and that he is to be well guarded.”

I gratefully accept Ismae’s offer, for I do not know where the dungeons are, nor do I know if the men would take an order from me. But mostly, I do not wish to appear a bumbling green fool under Crunard’s sharp gaze that misses nothing. Every time I hesitate or fumble, I fear I have unwittingly given him some new weapon to use against me.

Once Crunard is safely locked behind a wood and iron door, Ismae and I make our way back to the palace proper, my mind churning like a water wheel.

“What are you thinking on so furiously?” Ismae asks.

“How to get the abbess to tell me the truth.”

Ismae laughs. “You may as well ask how to keep an ass from braying or a bird from flying. I am beginning to think she has lost the ability to tell a plain truth.”

“I fear you have the right of it. Perhaps I will simply claim that Crunard has told me everything and demand to know if it is true. As if I am giving her a chance to clear her name before I condemn her in my own mind.”

Ismae smiles. “You are frighteningly good at playing these games with her.”

“Only because I have done so my entire life,” I mutter. Just then, a page comes racing toward us, breathless as he skids to a stop.

“My lady,” he huffs out to Ismae. “You are to report to the duchess’s chambers immediately.”

Ismae grabs the boy’s shoulders. “Is it Princess Isabeau?” she asks, her fear for the young girl plain in her voice.

The page replies, “Oh no, my lady! It is Marshal Rieux. He is here and requesting an audience with the duchess.”

“Go,” I tell her. “I can find my own way to the abbess’s chambers.”

In answer, Ismae reaches out and grabs my hand. “No, come with me. Best you hear what is said as well. Besides, the abbess will no doubt already have been summoned.”

The duchess’s privy chamber is nearly full by the time we arrive. All of her councilors—Duval, Captain Dunois, Chancellor Montauban, Jean de Chalon, the bishop, and even Father Effram—are there. Ismae and I slip in unnoticed by most except for Duval, who appears to be attuned to Ismae’s presence like a bee to a flower, and the abbess, who notes my arrival with a look of dour disapproval.

Once the duchess is seated, the rest of her councilors take their seats. Ismae, Sybella, and I remain standing. Duval has us positioned just behind the duchess’s chair and motions us to expose our weapons. As I step into place beside Sybella, she reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze of greeting.

Then Marshal Rieux is announced and brought into the chamber. He is a tall man with an imposing manner and is dressed in an elegant doublet and cloak. “Your Grace,” he says with a deep bow. For all that he has come to worm his way back into the duchess’s good graces, it looks as if it pains him to bend his knee to her.

“Marshal Rieux.” The duchess tilts her head in greeting, her voice cool and distant.

“I am pleased to see you are well, Your Grace.” His words are awkwardly delivered but seem sincere nonetheless.

“With no thanks to you.” Duval throws the words down like a gauntlet.

Marshal Rieux shakes his head. “I had nothing to do with the trap d’Albret sprang before Nantes. We argued fiercely over it, and it is one of the many reasons he and I have parted ways.”

Duval glances at Sybella, who gives a tiny nod of confirmation. Rieux’s gaze follows the movement, his eyes growing wide when he sees who Duval is communicating with. “What is she doing here?”

“You have no authority to question those who serve me.” The duchess’s reprimand is swift and sharp and I wish to hug her for her staunch support of Sybella.

With some difficulty, Rieux swallows whatever further arguments he had been planning on making. “That is true, Your Grace, but she can also vouch for me. She was there and saw me arguing with d’Albret. We nearly came to blows over it. Tell them,” he demands.

All of us turn to look at Sybella, who studies him much as a cat deciding whether a skinny mouse is worth the effort. “It is true that you argued with him over that trap. But it is also true that you were at his side when he took Nantes, that you stood idly by while his men slaughtered innocent palace retainers and city folk.”

The room is as quiet as a tomb, and Rieux himself has gone pale as Sybella throws his crimes at his feet. “Yes, but what you cannot know—since you did not ride out on those sorties yourself—is that neither I nor my men participated. We had no idea his methods would be so brutal, else I would never have supported him in the first place.”

“You mean, else you never would have betrayed the duchess in the first place.” Duval’s voice is harder than stone.

Rieux turns to the duchess and speaks directly to her. “Your Grace, your father assigned me to guard over you, as both your tutor and your advisor.”

“A sacred duty that you not only abandoned, but betrayed.”

He takes a step forward, and as one, Sybella, Ismae, and I place our hands on our weapons. He stops. “Your Grace, it was but a play to force you to do what I thought best for you and the country. In my own way, I was being loyal to the duty your father had entrusted to me.”

“But you were not loyal to me.”

“I have never stopped being on your side,” he insists. “Which is why I left d’Albret once I understood the full scope of his plans. My troops and I have chased the French from three towns.”

“But how do we know you speak the truth?” Lord Duval asks. “How do we know you are not here simply because d’Albret is dead and you wish to throw your lot in with the stronger side now that the tide has turned?”

Marshal Rieux’s head snaps back to Duval. “D’Albret is dead?”

“As good as.”

The marshal looks over at Sybella, who gives a brief nod, confirming Duval’s words. He looks stunned for a moment, then shakes his head. “Though it pains me to say it of any man, that is probably a good thing, I fear.”

At his words, Lord Duval and Captain Dunois exchange a look. “So why are you here?” the captain asks.

Marshal Rieux looks up again, as if surprised they need ask. “Why, to offer my fealty to the duchess and serve her as marshal once more. This is no time for internal differences to divide us.”

“It was no time to be divided four months ago either.”

“And I have seen the error of my ways. I am asking for a second chance and offering you the not insignificant resources I have at my disposal.”

“How could we trust you again?” the duchess asks, and this time, her voice sounds young to my ears, as if there is as much heartbreak beneath her question as political calculation.

“I know that I will have to earn that trust back slowly, piece by agonizing piece, but I am asking for a chance to do so.”

It is the right answer, and Duval and Dunois exchange glances once more. “You cannot expect Her Grace to decide this immediately. She will need to think on it.”

“Of course. I await your pleasure, Your Grace. But do not wait too long, for of a certainty, the French regent will not.”

“Wait!” It is Sybella who speaks, drawing all eyes toward her. “Does that mean you know what plot d’Albret was hatching with the French regent?”

Rieux stares at her, surprise etched clearly on his face, as if he realizes he has just been granted an opportunity to make himself valuable. “And you do not?”

Sybella gives a sharp shake of her head, and Rieux turns back to the duchess. “D’Albret always claimed that if he could not have the duchy as his own, he would hand it over to the French regent. When he received word that Your Grace had been married by proxy to the Holy Roman emperor, he began negotiations with the French. He plans to hand over the city of Nantes to them.”

A collective gasp goes up around the room, and the duchess’s small hands grow white as she grips the arms of her chair.

“That is the reason I am here, Your Grace. If we do not join forces, we shall surely fall.”

The shocked silence that fills the room is louder than a hundred murmuring voices. Then, almost as one, all turn to look at Sybella, myself included. Although she holds her head high and proud, I sense the tangle of feelings in her: anger, embarrassment, defiance, and shame. Instead of acknowledging any of those, she meets Duval’s questioning gaze. “Well, now we know,” she says.

“Are you certain—very certain, my lady—that you did not know this earlier?” It is Chalon who asks the question.

Before she can answer him, Beast turns on Chalon, who visibly blanches at the anger and heat he sees there. “I know you are not questioning the lady’s loyalty, my lord, for she has done more than any of us here to ensure the duchess’s and our kingdom’s safety.” Beast’s voice is soft, polite even, but there is no mistaking the threat that underlies his every word.

The entire room watches silently as Chalon splutters out an apology. When he has finished, Sybella answers the question he posed.

“I did not,” she says. “But I cannot say it surprises me, for it became clear that he was like an enraged child who would break a toy completely before allowing another to play with it.”

I cannot help but think it is a frighteningly apt description of what Count d’Albret has done to our country.

Chapter Thirty-Six

CONTEMPLATING THE FULL WEIGHT OF what Rieux has told us, ­Duval begins stroking his chin. “We will need to know if the city is resisting, or if its citizens have accepted French rule as easily as they did d’Albret’s.”

Marshal Rieux shifts on his feet. “There are rumored to be small pockets of resistance, my lord, for while few understood that d’Albret was not acting with the full blessing of the duchess, most everyone knows that the French assuredly have no such blessing.”

“Do we know what they plan to do? Simply hold the town? Use it to launch their offensive?”

“No,” Rieux says. “D’Albret did not trust me with the full details of his plan.”

“Do we know if he made the deal with the French regent or the king himself?”

“Does it matter?” Chalon asks.

“It could, possibly. The regent, the king’s sister, has been in charge since their father’s death, and even though the king reached his majority two years ago, she still appears to be holding the reins. If they are not in agreement, or if the king is champing at the bit to take control on his own, perhaps we can use that to create some sort of wedge between them.”

“To what purpose?” the bishop asks.

Duval shrugs, then glances pointedly at Marshal Rieux. “To weaken them, as our wedges have weakened us. And perhaps to buy us enough time for an opportunity to present itself.”