“True enough, but they are our known enemies. It is the ones we do not know who concern me more. Has France bought someone on the Privy Council, and if so, who?”
“Why would anyone on the council want the French to know?”
“That is the question, is it not? That and what their next move will be.”
“What is our next move?” I ask. “What is the duchess’s second best option, now that Nemours has been removed?”
Duval answers without hesitation. “The Holy Roman emperor.”
“Then perhaps a visit with his envoy is in order,” I suggest.
“Clearly.” Duval thinks for a moment longer. When he lifts his eyes from the board, I see how tired he is. “Beast needs help with the cleanup. I took the liberty of ordering a supper tray to be brought to your room so you wouldn’t have to dine in the great hall with the others tonight.”
“That is most welcome, my lord.”
He gives a brisk nod. “Do you need anything before I go?”
I want you to return my wits, I long to say. Instead, I merely ask if I may use his desk and quills to write the abbess of the most recent events.
“But of course,” he says, then takes his leave.
Once he is gone from the room I can breathe again. In an effort to prove he has no hold over me, I make a cursory search of his chambers, but I find nothing of interest. No secret correspondence, no hidden weapon, nothing to indicate he is anything other than what he claims to be: Anne’s devoted half brother.
When that is done, with a heavy heart, I turn to the letter I must write. There is much I need to tell the abbess, but there is much more I long to ask. Does she have any counsel to give as to who would have assassinated Nemours? Has Duval’s name been cleared of suspicion yet? May I work with him on our duchess’s behalf? And what of love? Is loving someone a sin against our god? Surely not, for according to de Lornay, there was love of a sort between him and someone from the convent.
Or perhaps that was merely lust. I suspect the convent does not mind if we take lovers, for the nuns have spent much time training us in that art and no doubt wish us to practice. But to fall in love? That, I fear, is a grave offense. One heart cannot serve two masters.
Of course, I put none of that in my letter. Instead, I explain all that has happened over the last few days: d’Albret’s announcement that he would force Anne to fulfill her betrothal promise and the Duke of Nemours’s stepping forward with a new offer. Sadly, I must also inform her of Nemours’s subsequent murder and of Mortain’s guiding me to the guard who betrayed him. By the time I am done with it, the letter is weighty and full of grim tidings.
After I finish that letter, and with no pressing duties to attend to, I take the time to write to Annith. The quill flies across the parchment, the questions and concerns pouring out of me. I ask her if she knows of the misericorde and the grace it bestows upon Mortain’s victims. I tell her of the small, green shoot of love that sprang up between the duchess and Nemours, and how cruelly it was struck down. Last, I ask her if she knows if any of the initiates had a special lover outside the convent.
When I am done writing, I am nearly limp with the effort. I fold and seal both letters, then return to my room to wait for Vanth to be brought along with the rest of my things.
The rest of the afternoon and evening drags by and I spend it torn between wanting and not wanting. I do not want Duval to come to my room tonight; I am drained and weary and more confused than I have ever been. And yet . . . and yet I fear that he will not. The truth is, I can no longer imagine my nights without him.
I need not have worried, however, for Duval is as steady and constant as the tides. He even comes early so he can see how I and my wound are faring.
“You’re not asleep,” he says, slipping in silently through the door.
“No.” I start to sit, then wince.
“Do not get up,” he says sharply, and hurries to the side of the bed.
The fire has been built up in my room to keep me warm, and I can see him clearly in the faint orange light from the flames. The stubble on his face is heavy, and I long to touch it, to see what it feels like. I quickly busy my fingers with the rich silk of my coverlet instead.
“Do you need anything? For the pain? To help you sleep?”
“No, milord.”
He is quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking down at me. “I should check your wound to be sure it isn’t festering.”
That shocks me enough to look up at his face. “No! I could tell if it were. I am sure it is fine.”
He smiles wryly. “I suspected you would say that.” He reaches toward me and I freeze. A lone finger touches my cheek, as soft as a snowflake falling. “I do not think it wise for me to linger.” His voice is full of longing and regret. “Not tonight,” he says, then he takes his leave.
Sleep is a long time coming.
Chapter Thirty-three
In the morning, Duval and most of the other nobles and courtiers are off on another hunt. Even though it is Advent and fasting is required for three days each week, the castle supplies are quickly being depleted. The nobles are ill-tempered and tense, and it is hoped a hunt will release some of their pent-up humors as well as fill the larder.
I have been assigned to attend to the duchess in her solar. I am loath to spend the day under Madame Dinan’s critical eye, but I am not good for much else. I had thought to skulk about the palace, spying on those I could until Duval pointed out that nearly everyone would be on the hunt.
The duchess sits in the cold winter sunshine spilling in the solar’s windows. Her sister, Isabeau, lies on a couch that has been placed beside her. The rest of her ladies in waiting are perched about the room. The mood is somber, and the duchess is pale and drawn. Only Madame Dinan seems to be in cheerful spirits. I look at her anew. Could she have ordered Nemours’s death? Is she that committed to placing her half brother d’Albret on the Breton throne?
Young Isabeau sees me first. She waves shyly, and the duchess’s head turns to follow the movement. “Come in, Demoiselle Rienne!” the duchess calls out in her high, musical voice. I curtsy quickly, then enter the solar. The younger ladies stare at me in open curiosity, while Madame Dinan’s eyes glitter with challenge. “What brings you here, demoiselle?” Madame Dinan’s voice is distant and cool, meant to send me scurrying for cover.
I grip my sewing basket tightly and raise my chin. “I am here at my duchess’s command,” I tell her.
Madame turns her head to the duchess and raises one elegant eyebrow in question.
“I invited her to join us.” The duchess’s impatience makes me think all is not well between her and her governess.
“Your Grace.” Madame Dinan lowers her voice, pretending she does not want me to hear. “I know that she is a special friend of your brother’s, but it is inappropriate for someone in your position to include her in your pastimes. You have your rank to consider. Besides, have you not enough friends here to keep you company?” Her graceful hands gesture to include the other ladies, and I find myself wondering just how many of them are beholden to Madame Dinan in some way. Perhaps even loyal to her outright.
The duchess keeps stitching and ignores her governess, not deigning to address her protests. As the long silence draws out, one of the ladies in waiting clears her throat nervously. “Did they ever learn who the man was that fell to his death?” she asks the room at large. “They say he was quite handsome.”
What little color remains in the duchess’s face drains away, and she concentrates carefully on her stitching. Madame Dinan clucks her tongue. “No such morbid talk today, ladies. What do you wish for them to bring back from the hunt? Venison or boar?”
As the ladies turn to discussion of the hunt, I take a seat next to young Isabeau.
She smiles, and I smile back. She is pale and wan and it seems to me as if her life spark burns but dimly. I rifle in my basket and retrieve the altar cloth I worked on last time. I pick up the needle threade
d with blood-red silk and vow to try harder this time. I intend to be capable of stitching any wound of mine I can reach. I grunt and stick the needle into the linen.
The ladies talk of the upcoming Advent festivities and discuss the court poet’s latest romantic verse. I ignore their voices and focus on my embroidery, pleased to see my stitches are growing neat and even.
After they have thoroughly discussed every aspect of the upcoming holiday merriment, Madame Dinan speaks with a casual, artful slyness that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Your Grace, my lord d’Albret did not ride out with the hunt this morning. He thought this afternoon would be a good time for the two of you to discuss some things. Alone,” she says, glancing at the rest of us.
Remembering how she squawked when Duval requested similar privacy, I cannot help but poke at her hypocrisy. “Alone?” I put one hand to my lips, as if scandalized. “You would leave her alone with him, madame?”
“No, you fool,” Madame Dinan all but hisses. “I would remain here as chaperone.”
“It does not matter,” the duchess says primly, “because I will not see him.”
“But Your Grace, you owe it to him to let him plead his ca—”
“He has done so,” Anne says sharply. “Before all the barons of Brittany, if you remember. I refused him then and I refuse him now.”
Madame Dinan stops sewing and leans forward. “You must marry someone. He is half Breton and has the troops you need.”
“He is also old and fat and crude. He has seven children and is a grandfather!”
Madame Dinan’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “Your marriage must strengthen the duchy.”
The duchess keeps her eyes on her embroidery, but she is stitching blindly. “While I know that I must marry for duty, I do not think I must bear him.”
Beside me, Isabeau begins to wheeze slightly. She has grown even paler, and her eyes are fastened on the two women arguing. I quickly stitch a small frowning face on my linen square. I nudge her with my elbow and she looks up at me, then down at my embroidery. The silly face—or perhaps it is my poor stitching—manages to coax a smile from her lips.
Madame Dinan leans farther forward, her eyes burning with intensity. “You have a duty—a duty—to your country and Count d’Albret to honor the agreement your father made.”
The spell of my trick with Isabeau is broken, and the child begins to cough. With a cluck of frustration, Madame Dinan throws her embroidery down. “Fetch the court physicians,” she says.
Isabeau shrinks back onto her couch. “No, please, no,” she whispers. “I’ll stop coughing.”
Madame hurries over and smooth the child’s brow. “It is not a punishment, child. They merely want to make you well.”
“But I hate the leeches,” she whimpers. “See?” she says, her face brightening. “I stopped now. I don’t need to see the doctors.”
Anne leans close and brushes a few strands of hair from her sister’s face. “She is not feverish,” she tells Madame Dinan.
The governess pinches her lips. “Very well, but if it happens again, she will need to see them.”
Dinan returns to her chair, and the rest of us stitch silently, none of us wanting to be the one that sends poor Isabeau into another coughing frenzy that brings the court physicians down upon her.
It stays quiet for so long that the little girl dozes off. Anne smiles in relief, and her shoulders lose some of their tension.
Madame Dinan rises to her feet. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have something I must see to.” She speaks softly so as not to waken Isabeau.
Anne nods her permission for the governess to leave. As Dinan slips out of the room, I look at the duchess and raise my brows in question.
One corner of her mouth quirks up. “Did you see your saint’s marque upon her?” she asks so quietly that it takes me a moment to be certain I have heard.
I blink in surprise. “No, Your Grace.”
“Pity,” she murmurs, then nods her head, indicating I should follow Dinan. I drop a quick curtsy, then hurry after the governess.
I am careful to stay well behind the older woman. With her head start, it is not difficult. The lack of courtiers also works to my advantage, for with so few others about, her footsteps echo quietly, making them easy to follow even when she slips out of sight.
At the east tower of the palace, she pauses to look behind her, and I quickly duck back around the corner. I hear her rap on a door. A man’s voice greets her, and then her voice fades as she moves into a room. I poke my head around the corner just in time to see which door shuts.
Giving thanks once again for the deserted hallways, I hurry to the door and lean in close.
“What do you mean she refuses to see me?” It is the rough, coarse voice of d’Albret.
“She is but a young, foolish girl, my lord. Do not take it too much to heart.”
“I thought you and Marshal Rieux were her appointed guardians. How much influence do you hold if she sees fit to ignore your counsel?”
“It is that brother of hers. I believe he encourages her stubbornness.”
“Do you need me to take care of him?” The casual way in which d’Albret asks this sends a chill up my spine.
“No, no. Do not worry. At the next council meeting, I will make it plain she has no other choice.”
“Well, do it before the French eat up the entire countryside, will you? I grow bored waiting for this spoiled child to agree to do what she has already promised. If she is old enough to rule a country, certainly she is old enough to marry.” There is a moment of silence, then d’Albret speaks again. “And what of Rieux? Is he still in favor of the match?”
“Absolutely, my lord. He believes joining your forces with Anne’s is the only way to keep the duchy safe from the French. When it is time to act, Rieux will support us. You can be certain of it.”
D’Albret’s voice drops lower then, and I can no longer make out the words. Shaking with anger, I back away from the door and hurry down the hallway.
It is worse than I feared. Madame Dinan does not simply wish Anne to marry d’Albret but has fully committed herself to his cause. Indeed, she has promised him that he shall marry the duchess. And what can she possibly say at the council meeting that will prove Anne has no choice? I am so deep in thought on my way back from the east tower to the solar that I almost stumble upon Sybella before I see her.
She is thinner than before, more drawn and pale. Her features are sharper, as if she has grown even more brittle and fragile since I saw her enter the city gates. She has a fresh scar upon her cheek, and I am certain I can see madness lurking in her eyes. It is hard to believe she is the same person who coaxed Annith and me into all sorts of mischief at the convent, from stealing jugs of wine to teaching us how to kiss when Sister Beatriz said too little on the subject.
“Ismae?” she whispers as if she has seen a ghost.
“Sybella!” Suddenly, I am afraid for her, although I cannot say why. Without thinking I throw my arms around her, hugging her close, whether for her comfort or my own, I cannot be certain.
For a brief moment, she relaxes into me, returns the embrace as if drawing strength from it, but then, too soon, she pulls back, her eyes unnaturally bright. A thousand questions crowd my mind, and nearly as many worries, but before I can voice a single one of them, we hear the echo of boots upon stone. Sybella looks frantically toward the sound, true fear flaring in her eyes. “Trust no one,” she finally whispers. “No one.”
And then she is gone, her light, hurried steps carrying her out of sight just before Chancellor Crunard rounds the corner.
“My lord chancellor!” I say with a curtsy.
He frowns for a moment, as if he can’t quite place me. “Demoiselle Rienne,” he says at last. He glances at the empty corridor. “What are you doing in this part of the castle?”
I debate how much to tell him. “My convent’s business, my lord.”
“Indeed? My correspondence with y
our abbess did not indicate you were to take any action against Count d’Albret.”
I blink, wondering how deep in the abbess’s confidence he is. And how he knows that I am spying on d’Albret. “I am not only to act, my lord, but to be the convent’s eyes and ears as well.”
He purses his lips. “True enough. Have your eyes and ears given you any answers in the Nemours debacle?”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
The chancellor spreads his hands, rings glittering. “I mean, Duval handled this Nemours matter most poorly. The Duke of Nemours is dead, is he not? Furthermore, I have just heard a most disturbing rumor.” He leans in close, his breath stale against my cheek. “His mother is plotting even now to put his brother on the throne in Anne’s stead. Could there be any connection?” He cocks his head like a bird and studies me with a piercing eye. “And how is it that you have been here nearly a fortnight and have not learned of this?”
My heart begins to beat painfully. He knows! “I have only just discovered this myself, my lord, but I’ve heard rumblings only. I have been trying to ascertain Duval’s involvement, but he and his mother are most estranged. I do not believe she speaks to him of her plans. Indeed, they barely speak at all.”
Crunard’s eyes glitter coldly. “That you know of. What if the estrangement is feigned? Perhaps Duval is only waiting for Hivern to line up enough barons behind François, and then he will make his move, displacing his brother and claiming the throne for himself.”
“Why would you think that, my lord?”
“Why would I not? What possible evidence do you have that he is trustworthy?”
None, except my own heart, and that is not nearly enough.
“Someone close to the duchess is working for the French. It could very well be Duval. Do not let your youth and naïveté cloud your vision, demoiselle.”
“I assure you, my vision is clear, my lord.”
“Good. See that it remains so. Be vigilant, demoiselle. Do not let his charm or good manners sway you to his cause. The abbess would not be pleased to hear of it.” And with that final warning, he takes his leave.
Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 24
