Sorry for the delay, it took me forever to get these chapters right, and my editor seems to have bailed on me. I'm trying to stay true to History for the behavior of my characters and it's not that easy regarding Roland. 17th century men were complicated enough to give you whiplash!
There is a lot of background here so I hope it's not too boring. Let me know what you think in your comments and don't hesitate to vote!
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Sabine shifted on the bumpy straw-filled pallet, and pretended to absorb herself in the menial task of hair braiding. She made a show of brushing it and restarted the plait twice as if it wasn't already satisfactory. She was biding time, to collect herself. Her mind was fuzzy and her body exhausted, little aftershocks still shaking her every time she squeezed her legs. She wished for nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but was well aware that this devilish man wouldn't allow it.
She had to recover her wits, and fast, if she wanted to outplay him. Her capture and interrogation had long been anticipated; she had known the odds were not in her favor when she agreed to lend her name and face to the rebellion against tax collectors. She had no delusion that she could resist if tortured, which was why they had devised a plan that would allow her to speak the truth without compromising her followers. This was what she had to sell to the courtier, in a way that would convince him she was entirely sincere. Then, maybe, she might be granted a swift and pain free death.
Roland waited patiently. Some things couldn't be rushed. The more she delayed, the more her fear would grow. It would be half of his work done. The angst of the horrors that could be inflicted was often sufficient to get the weakest ones to talk, and she didn't strike him as very strong. Stubborn, without doubt, but not strong. The executor would have her broken into a wailing rag doll in no time. And while the King was usually reluctant to treat women harshly, he might make an exception for this one should she defy him.
Something Roland would rather avoid. It would count as a failure on his part, one that would have forced Louis to break character, and this kind of offense might cause Roland to fall out of grace. He could be banished from court, which would not only hurt his career, but also hinder his revenge. And this definitely could not happen.
Finally, Sabine tied the ribbon and put down the brush. She raised her head and met his eyes. "If we must talk, may I have a drink first? My throat is dry."
"Your wish is my command, mademoiselle," Roland fetched a tankard and filled it, presenting it to her with a gallant bow. While she drank, he turned his desk to face her and prepared ink and paper.
Sabine took her time quenching her thirst, but there was just so long one could stretch swallowing down a half-pint of water. When she put the pewter vessel down, she still wasn't ready. Well, she would have to make do.
Quill in hand, Roland waived at one of the many documents spread in front of him. "Let me start by recounting the events that led you here. I want to present his Majesty with the most accurate tale of your story. Feel free to interrupt me if I am wrong."
She nodded, although she didn't see the point. It wouldn't change her fate.
"Two years ago, you were pulled out of the Ursulines' Convent, where you were schooled, and returned to your castle to assist your father, Jean de Brissard, Baron de Veaulmes on his death bed. How old were you?"
Sabine frowned. How was that important? Yet answering his question would build his trust, and so she did. "I was seventeen, monsieur."
The quill squeaked on the paper as he took note. "After the funerals, you found yourself a wealthy heiress, as your parents' sole surviving child. I understand that your older brother was killed in King Henry's service?"
Another nod. She had no memories of Bertrand, she had been a toddler at the time. After five miscarriages, her mother had lost hope of carrying another pregnancy to term, until Sabine's birth.
Roland underlined the part about her brother. It might influence the King in her favor; Louis notoriously worshiped the memory of his father. "Your mother, née Marguerite de Meronge, had died in a hunting accident three years prior. It is very sad indeed. How comes you were not betrothed? Seventeen is a marriageable age, and with your wealth and figure, there should have been no shortage of suitors."
Sabine wiped her eyes, erasing the tears that had pooled at the mention of her mother. "My father had arranged to wed me to our neighbor, but he died before signing the contract." Said neighbor had been well into his sixth decade, a violent man who had buried three previous wives. She felt sick just thinking she could have been his fourth. Despite her pleas to reconsider, her father had insisted. The man had no heir, and either she or her first child, should she give him one, would be certain to inherit his lands, doubling the size of the Brissard estate. In the Baron's eyes, it was all that counted.
"And you didn't fulfill his will?"
"How could I? I was in mourning!" There wasn't a chance she would have wed this old brute once she could avoid it.
"Very well. From what I read here, three months later a delegation of peasants begged you to plead their case to the Fermier General, as they couldn't afford the taxes he was raising for the King. Why did they believe you would help them?"
Sabine shrugged. "They were my tenants, and the tax collectors had fleeced them so badly that they would have starved had they paid me rent. The amount asked had more than doubled and the crops hadn't been good. It wasn't fair. I thought there must have been a mistake or that the collectors had been lining their pockets."
Roland nodded sympathetically. "Probably, and their employer even more. Leonora Galigai, the Regent Queen's favorite, was selling the offices for a fortune, and the buyers had to get their money back somehow. So what did you do?"
"I visited the Fermier General, but he laughed in my face, telling me not to worry my head with men's affairs. So I petitioned the King with a letter I sent to the Louvre."
Roland shook his head. "The King never saw your letter. It was before he reclaimed his throne, he had no power at the time. He was mocked and treated like an infant by his mother and her minions. Your plea was delivered in the hands of Concino Concini, Galigai's vainglorious husband. He took it as a personal insult and sent a band of mercenaries to 'teach you the proper place of a woman'. We found a copy of the order in his palace, after the populace had hanged and burned his body."
Sabine paled. "You are lying. They said the King sent them. They carried his seal. The King! Not the Marechal d'Ancre!"
Roland's hand stilled, and he frowned. This was a serious accusation. Forgery of the Royal Seal was a crime of lese-majeste, punishable by a horrible death. Although as far as Concini was concerned, justice had been served. "Are you sure it was the King's seal? You could have been mistaken?"
