Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(13)

“I suppose you know why I’ve come,” the woman says calmly.

Isbe flushes, remembering how she had wondered if Hildegarde might turn out to be her own mother—though the hope hadn’t been all that unreasonable. After all, Hildegarde indicated she’d been stationed at the palace for many years prior to Isabelle’s birth, and in fact had struck a deal for Isbe’s safety, though that had apparently been contingent on a payment that the convent never received.

That’s right. The money.

Isbe bristles, tightening her grip on the leather reins in her hand. “You have a funny way of bargaining.”

“I’m not bargaining, my dear,” Hildegarde replies. “I’m simply here to ask for what is fairly due me and my own. Now that the sleeping sickness seems to have fled the land, I thought it might be the safest time to come and see you.”

“You’ve come to persuade me to forgive you.” Isbe did not think it possible to feel more divided. On the one hand, her awe for Hildegarde’s bravery is whole and unmatched. But then again, she can hardly forget, let alone forgive, the fact that Hildegarde sold her out to Malfleur’s mercenaries, who cornered her and the prince in the village not more than two miles from the convent, from whence they intended to escort them all the way to LaMorte, perhaps to become lunch for Malfleur’s Vultures—or leverage.

If it hadn’t been for the bravery of Sister Genevieve and Sister Katherine, well . . . Isbe can’t think about that right now.

“No. I do not ask for forgiveness. Forgiveness is, like the word indicates, something that must by its very nature be given, not sought. It belongs to the will of the giver.”

“You risked our lives for your own gain,” Isbe says, feeling both disgusted and torn. “Fortunately for you,” she adds, turning back to her horse and tightening the stirrups, “I have more important concerns right now than retribution. I have a princess to rescue.”

Hildegarde has the gall to snort.

Isbe drops the leather strap. “What was that?”

“Noble. Very noble of you,” the woman replies, shifting her massive weight with the faintest of creaks in the wooden planks.

Isbe turns back to the horse once again but remains still, regretting the way the reverend mother’s voice holds sway over her, makes her want to hear more.

“It is a worthy cause to save the life of a princess, especially a beloved sister,” Hildegarde admits. “But is it not worthier to save the lives of twenty peasants, or a hundred, or possibly thousands?”

Isbe steps out of the stall and faces the woman—they cannot be more than thirty or forty paces apart. “It is neither my right nor yours to value one life over another. I only seek to help where my efforts may be of real use.”

“Well, it is certainly too late for Josette,” Hildegarde says harshly.

No. Not her, too. Isbe recalls the young girl who suffered from pneumonia at the convent.

The nun betrays no emotion about the death of the little girl, but her voice is low and determined as thunder. “However, you could be of use to me.”

“I suppose I could plead your case to the council,” Isbe says slowly, thinking of Maximilien, the only one left. Would he care? She might find a way of persuading him. “Perhaps I could get you your gold, if I wanted to . . . but how am I to know you won’t return to your ruthless ways?”

“I don’t consider arming a house of women with both education and weapons ruthless. I consider it a means of survival. And besides . . .”

Hildegarde leaves a heavy silence that makes Isbe fidget.

“It’s what your mother would have wanted.”

“My . . .” Isbe’s mind has suddenly gone blank, and she’s tempted to swing her arm forward into thin air, seeking something solid.

“She was—well, let’s say that I admired her greatly. At first, anyway.”

“At first?” Isbe is still stunned . . . and suspicious. Why should she trust Hildegarde after she’s already lied once?

“Cassandra was so much better than the king she settled for.” Hildegarde’s voice holds a sneer. “She came from peasantry but abandoned her roots. She folded her past life away when she moved into the palace, like a secret into a seashell.”

“Her past life . . .” A wash of dread moves through Isabelle, leaving her fingers tingling.

“I had my suspicions about her. King Henri, he had no idea who she really was. Your father wasn’t the brightest, I’m afraid. He let his appetites make his decisions—”

“Stop.” Isbe feels a wave of revulsion. “I don’t want to hear this. I’ll get you your funds. . . . Just please, leave me now.”

“After all these years, you aren’t interested in knowing the truth about your mother?”

The stallion shuffles beside Isbe, letting out a huff. It nudges her as if to agree.

Of course she wants to know. She’s desperate to know. But she is gripped too, with a complete and overwhelming fear. “Just tell me this. Do you know what happened to her? After . . .”

The reverend mother steps closer to her with a rustle of her musty robes. Her voice is much softer as she replies. “Your mother always loved the sea. When the king banished her, I believe Cassandra set sail across the strait, maybe to one of the small islands in the north. I never heard from her.”