“I believe what she says is true,” he says at last. “The count no doubt intends grave personal harm to the duchess—if not immediately, then soon after they are wed.”
Dunois rises to his feet and begins to pace. “It is hard for me to believe such despicable accusations of a man who has guarded my back and fought bravely at my side. He has always fought with honor.”
Chalon nods in agreement. “What you are accusing him of goes against every code of honor and chivalry we hold dear.”
“That you hold dear, not d’Albret,” I point out. “Besides, are you so very certain of his honor in battle? Have you never questioned why he and his troops arrived too late at the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier? Because that was not an accident, I assure you.”
“I knew it!” Duval mutters under his breath. The duchess reaches out and places a small hand on his arm to calm him. Or perhaps she is clutching him for support. I cannot be certain.
But it is the bishop whom I have offended the most with my accusations. “If this is true, why have we not heard of it? Why should we believe you? Do you have any proof? In the name of Christ, girl, his brother is a cardinal!”
I glance briefly at the abbess then. “I have long been in his household and know far too well the nature of the man.”
The bishop presses. “Then why have you not come forward sooner?”
A wave of helplessness and futility washes over me, but before I can begin a new round of arguments, the abbess’s cool voice falls into the room like grace. “Gentlemen, you may rest assured that Lady Sybella has spoken the truth.”
I am both surprised and grateful at this unexpected defense. Just as relief begins to unfurl inside me, she addresses them all again.
“Sybella is d’Albret’s own daughter and knows whereof she speaks.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I AM SO STUNNED THAT I can barely breathe. I could not be more surprised—or stricken—if the abbess had reached out and ripped the skin from my bones.
I would certainly feel just as raw and exposed. Indeed, it is all I can do to keep from leaping to my feet and running from the room as every eye turns on me. Is that a new glint of caution I see in Captain Dunois’s gaze? A faint look of revulsion in Chancellor Montauban’s? The bishop merely looks outraged, as if someone has disordered his carefully constructed world simply to spite him. Chalon’s face is also interesting, for it is a carefully shuttered mask, and it is clear his interest has sharpened.
But it is Beast’s gaze that feels the most like a blow.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. If I do not look, I will not have to see the disgust and loathing that now rises from him like steam from a boiling kettle.
And Ismae. What is she feeling right now? For I have known her the longest and have never breathed a word of my lineage. I stare straight ahead and tap my foot, as if I am bored.
The first to speak is Ismae. “Excuse me, Reverend Mother, but is Sybella not Mortain’s daughter, rather than d’Albret’s?”
It is all I can do to keep from leaping from my chair and hugging her.
“But of course, child. She was sired by Mortain, which is how she comes to serve the convent. But she was raised by d’Albret in his household for the first fourteen years of her life. For a certainty, d’Albret considers her his daughter.”
Duval shifts in his chair and sends the abbess an unreadable look. That is when I realize he does not trust her. “I would think the more important question would be whose daughter Sybella considers herself to be. My lady?”
I look up and meet his kind gray eyes. He is giving me a chance to answer this accusation, and I begin to understand why Ismae is so fond of him. “The happiest moment of my life was when I learned I had not been sired by d’Albret, my lord. For as dark as Mortain is, He is a beacon of holy light compared to the baron. So yes, I consider myself Mortain’s daughter.”
Beast shifts in his chair, and every particle of my being screams at me not to be such a coward and look at him. But still I do not, certain that what I will see will break even my hard, shriveled heart.
“Then the matter is settled,” the duchess says. “And it seems to me that if what the lady Sybella says is even remotely feasible, then we have nothing to lose by including that possibility in our plans. Much as when we expect an attack from the north, we still arrange for a strategy in the south, should we be proven wrong.”
Captain Dunois strokes his chin and slowly nods his assent. “That seems wise to me.”
“It cannot hurt,” the chancellor concedes.
But the bishop is still reluctant. “I fear it will draw our energy and resources away from more dire needs.”
“Even so,” the duchess says. “We will act as if every word she says is true.” She turns from the bishop to me. “Tell me, demoiselle, do you have any suggestions for us to consider?”
“We have secured a betrothal agreement with the Holy Roman emperor,” Duval adds. “We could make that public if you think that will deter d’Albret at all. But if we announce it, the French will use it as an excuse to launch a full attack.”
I shake my head. “I fear that news would only make d’Albret move more quickly—to prevent the marriage—rather than stay his hand. But I do agree that the duchess will only be safe once she is married. You must find a way to make the marriage happen now.”
Duval smiles wryly. “That will be difficult with the Holy Roman emperor off fighting in Hungary.”
Without troops, without a strong husband by her side, she is lost.
“Demoiselle.”
At the duchess’s gentle voice, I raise my head to meet her gaze. “You look utterly exhausted and we would command that you go find rest so we may speak again tomorrow. Thank you again for the great service you have done on our behalf.”
I stand and sink into a curtsy. “It was an honor, Your Grace.” And to my surprise, I find the words are true. I relish having something to lay before her besides more deaths. Even if that something now stares at me with hot, furious eyes.
With the meeting adjourned, I follow the abbess out into the hall, my jaw clenched tightly. When we are out of earshot of the others, I surprise both of us by reaching out and grabbing her arm. She stops immediately and looks down at my fingers resting on her sleeve. Even though my heart is pounding at my own daring, I wait a beat before removing my hand. When I do, the abbess lifts her cool blue gaze to my face and raises her eyebrows.