That leaves only Crunard.
Fear scuttles across my shoulders at the thought of searching his rooms. He is the convent’s liaison, after all, and appears to be a great confidant of the abbess. Somehow, I doubt very much she will thank me if I expose him as a traitor.
But she is hundreds of miles away, and the young duchess is running out of options. Her needs seem more urgent than the tender sensibilities of the abbess.
I make my way back through the halls to the chancellor’s office. It is early afternoon and I fear their council may well be over. Not to mention they have no doubt discovered Duval’s absence by now. Even so, I must try.
As I reach the chancellor’s door, I cast my senses out and realize he is in there. And he is not alone. Since there is no one else in the hallway, I put my ear to the door. The two male voices are close. With a start, I realize they are at the door itself. Less than a second later, it opens. I try to look surprised, my hand raised as if to knock. “Chancellor Crunard,” I say.
He scowls. “Demoiselle Rienne. What are you doing here?”
I try very hard not to look at the man Crunard is escorting out of his office. “I have come to see if you know where my lord Duval is.” It is a bold move, but I can think of no other reason to explain my presence at his door.
“No, I do not know where he has gone,” Chancellor Crunard says. “I was going to send for you to ask the same question.”
Unable to help myself any longer, I glance at Crunard’s visitor. It is the French envoy, Gisors. His brilliant green eyes study me intently.
Crunard follows my gaze and gives Gisors a brusque nod. “I think I have said all there is to say.” The heat of his anger comes through clearly in his voice. Gisors’s nostrils flare, then he gives a precise bow and strides off. When he is out of sight, Crunard turns back to me. “Have you really not seen Duval today?”
“No, my lord.” Since it is no lie, I am confident he can hear the ring of truth in my words. “I have not seen him since last night after we left the duchess’s solar. Did you not find him in his chamber?”
Crunard shakes his head. “He has not been there all day. His steward said he was gone this morning when he went in to wake him. If you see him, tell him I am looking for him, will you? Remind him that running away only makes him look more guilty.” His eyes are cold and hard upon me and put me in mind of a bird of prey’s.
I tip my head to the side and crease my brow in puzzlement. “Guilty, my lord? Running away? I am not sure I understand you.”
His face relaxes and he looks somewhat less fierce. “It is nothing, demoiselle. Only leftover arguments from the council meeting. That is all.”
“Very well.” I sink into a curtsy and then turn and head down the hall, careful to keep my steps slow and measured, as if I have nothing to hide.
When I reach my room, I quickly shut the door, then lean against it. That was a near thing.
A scratching at the window makes me jump. When I see that it is a crow, my pulse quickens in anticipation. Once I open the window, the crow waits patiently for me to remove the message.
Dearest Daughter,
I have received much information from Chancellor Crunard but very little from you, although perhaps your message is even now on its way to me.
The chancellor has informed me of the French whore’s plot to put her youngest son on the Breton throne. There is no question that this is open treason and the French whore must die.
See to it immediately.
It has been so long since I have used the name that it takes me a moment to realize the note means Madame Hivern.
The convent is ordering me to kill Duval’s mother.
Chapter Forty
No matter how long I stare at the note, the order simply makes no sense. The threat Hivern and François present is small compared to all the others the duchess faces. Nor have they made any open moves.
Has Sister Vereda recovered then and Seen this? Or is the decision based solely on Chancellor Crunard’s report? My head is so full of questions it feels ready to burst.
When Louyse brings a dinner tray, I do not so much as glance at it. Instead, I sit staring into the fire, tying myself in knots over this problem that should not be a problem at all. The convent has given me an assignment, one made all the easier because I do not care for Madame Hivern in the least. I find her annoying and pretentious, and yet . . . to kill Duval’s mother? He may be violently at odds with her plans, but he cares deeply for his family.
And why Hivern? Why has Mortain decided I am to act against her when He has let d’Albret remain unmarqued? Is it because she is fully French? But if that was the reason, why did he not marque Gisors?
And how can I tell Duval?
In the end, I cannot. I am the worst sort of coward and pretend to be asleep when he comes. As the heavy wooden door by the fireplace creaks open, I lie as still as death, forcing my breathing to be slow and even, willing the blood to move more slowly in my veins.
I feel Duval draw close to the bed, feel him looking down at me for one, two, three breaths, then he moves away. He pours a cup of wine, swallows it in one gulp, then pours himself another. He is restless and I am filled with remorse. He has been cooped up inside the stone walls of the palace all day and is no doubt eager for news, but I do not know how to speak to him without telling him of the convent’s orders. I fear I have forgotten how to lie to him, which disturbs me almost as much as my new assignment.
When he finally stops pacing long enough to eat the dinner I left by the fire, I begin to relax. My cowardice has been rewarded and I will not have to tell Duval that I must kill his mother. At least not tonight.
***
The next morning I tell Louyse I am not feeling well and am not to be disturbed. The first thing I do is write the abbess explaining that I was waiting for confirming evidence before sending her the reports on Hivern’s plot. I assure her I will take this lesson to heart and will inform her of events in a more timely manner from now on. Next I write Annith and ask how angry the abbess is with me. Best to know just how much trouble I am in.
I spend the rest of the day planning how I will kill Madame Hivern.
Normally, we do not worry overmuch about hiding our kills. The main purpose of the deception of posing as Duval’s mistress was to allow me easier access to the court. If the barons and nobles had learned I was from the convent, they would have been cautious and wary around me. Usually the convent feels it is wise to announce Mortain’s justice as a warning and a deterrent. Even so, in this case I decide it is better to be discreet.
Poison, then. I am certain that would be Hivern’s choice if she were given one.
I take the thin gold chain from around my neck and use the key to unlock the trunklet. There is a faint tinkle of glass as I open the lid. The pearls would be easiest, but they leave signs of poison behind. Martyr’s embrace and scourge are far too painful. Amourna’s woe, so named for the pair of star-crossed lovers who were forbidden to wed, might work. So might Arduinna’s snare.
I stare down at the small clay pot of thick honey-colored paste nestled in the corner of the trunk. Arduinna’s snare is subtle and easily absorbed through the skin, but it is too imprecise for my taste. One can never be sure who will touch the poisoned object or if enough will be absorbed to kill one’s victim.
Nocturne’s malaise is painless. Hivern would simply fall asleep and never wake up, waste away into nothingness, but Madame Hivern would hate for her carefully tended appearance to wither so.
I scowl. What do I care how she feels about her death? This is what happens to traitors.
I reach for the bottle of nocturne’s malaise, but my hand grows still when I see the slender white candles beneath. Night whispers. Painless death by an intoxicating perfume, the perfect death for Madame Hivern.
If for no other reason than so I will not be filled with remorse when I tell Duval how his mother died.
Chapter Forty-one
It is well
past dark when I set out for Madame Hivern’s quarters. Luck is with me, and she is not there, so I let myself in. I fortify myself with the thought that she is likely out plotting treason. I choose a hiding place behind a thick tapestry that hangs on her wall and settle in to wait.
It does not take long. She and her maid come into the room, chatting about the charming necklace an admirer has given her and guessing its worth. I wait as the maid undresses her and brushes her hair. I block out the sound of their low murmuring voices as they talk of the recent Christmas festivities and what Madame Hivern will be giving François. Instead, I focus on Hivern’s spitefulness toward me since we first met and how cruel she is to Duval.
At last the maid leaves and I hear the rustle of covers as Hivern settles into her bed. Now, I think, just as surely as if Mortain had placed His hand on my back and pushed. I step out from behind the tapestry, take the candle laden with night whispers from the folds of my skirts, and approach the bed.
As my shadow falls across her, Madame Hivern starts, then sits up. “What are you doing in here?” Her voice is sharp with surprise, perhaps even fear. Ignoring her question, I hold the deadly candle against the small flame from the oil lamp on her nightstand until it catches. Slowly, I turn to face her. There is just enough light in the room that I can see the marque of Mortain upon her; a faint trickle of darkness begins just under her chin and trails down her throat. The marque spreads, like a bruise just beginning to form, across her neck and the swell of her chest that is exposed by her low-cut chemise. This comforts me greatly, for if Mortain has marqued her, then the convent’s order cannot be due to some trickery of Crunard’s.
“You are a spy, aren’t you?” Madame’s voice still holds a note of alarm. She looks younger, more vulnerable, without all her fine jewels and fancy headdresses.
“Some might call me that, but it is not what I am.”
She barks out a laugh. “I should have known Duval would not be taken with a mere maid.”
“My lord Duval is not taken with me at all,” I say tartly. “We merely work together. Our love and duty to the duchess give us much in common.” I realize I should move closer so the fumes from the candle can work more quickly, but my feet are leaden and reluctant to move.
“Whoever you may be, you are quite wrong if you think Duval is not taken with you. If there is one thing I know, it is men. And I certainly know my own son. He is smitten.”
“That is not so!” It is demeaning, this arguing with a victim while waiting for Death to claim her, and my voice is sharper than I intend.
She cocks her head to the side and studies me, as if we are simply having a tête-à-tête over spiced wine. “Ah,” she says, her voice full of wisdom nearly as old as Mortain’s. “You love him back.”
I grit my teeth but say nothing.
“I do not blame you for being distraught, Ismae. It is no comfortable thing, having your heart in thrall to a man, especially one such as Duval.”
I am unable to help myself. “How do you mean, one such as Duval?”
“One who will put duty and honor before everything, no matter the cost to him. Or you.”
Her words please me, for if even she says such things about him, it confirms what I myself have come to believe: that he is loyal and true to the duchess. “Too bad you do not hold your own honor so highly, madame.”
A delicate frown creases her brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are a traitor to the crown of Brittany, and for that you must die. Saint Mortain has willed it.”
She puts her hand to her forehead. “Is that why it grows warm in here?”
I am impressed that she does not faint or scream or cry out for help. “Yes, my lady. That is the poison beginning to work.”
“Poison?” Her face relaxes somewhat. “Thank you for that. I am not overfond of sharp things. Or pain.”
Her composure surprises me, as I have always thought her high-strung and overwrought. “Who besides François is involved in your plots and conspiracies?”
At her son’s name, she grows rigid with fear. “No! Not François! Do not lift your hand against him!” She rises up from the bed, crosses the distance between us, and grabs my shoulders. I wince as her slender fingers bite into my still tender wound. “It was me, all me. François wanted nothing to do with it. You must not kill him. Promise me!”
“I cannot make such a promise. If my saint bids me act, I must, but if François is innocent, Mortain will not raise a hand against him.”
She pushes away from me, her cheeks flushed. “Do not sit in judgment of us, stupid girl. You do not know what it is like, having your life run by men. Men who care not one whit for you beyond the pleasure you can bring them in bed or the pretty way you decorate their arms.” She clenches her fists. “You have no idea what it is like to have no choices, not one thing to call your own, not even your children.”
“But I do, madame,” I say softly. “I assure you, no woman has the choices you speak of. She cannot choose whom she marries or which family she is born into or even what her role in this world will be. I do not differ from you in that regard, only in what I did with what I was given.”
“What could I do when I was but fourteen and the aging French king decided he must have me in his bed at any cost? What choice did I have when he died? So I chose the duke. He was young and handsome and kind and, most of all, smitten with me. That power—the power to attract men—was the only weapon I had.”
To my horror, I find myself sympathetic to her.
“And once I’d borne children—do you know how hard it can be for a bastard? How dispensable they are? I tried to do all in my power to assure them some measure of respect and safety in their lives.”
Her words make me think of my mother for the first time in years. Would that she had tried to protect me as well as Madame Hivern protected her children.
Madame Hivern shoves her golden hair out of her eyes and gives me a scornful look. “This love you feel for Duval is nothing to the love you would bear your child. Believe me in that, if nothing else.”
A child. Something I have never even allowed myself to think about. Knowledge wells up from deep inside me. If I did have a child, I would protect it and serve it with every breath I drew.
It hits me with the unwelcome force of a crossbow bolt: we are alike, Hivern and I. Both women, both powerless over our own fates. Who is to say I would not have done exactly as she if I had been born into her circumstances? The life I would have led with Guillo spreads out before me, his offspring hanging from my skirts. Would I have grown to love them? Protect them? Could I have done any differently than Hivern had?
She sways on her feet, then stumbles over to the bed, all the will and fight seeping out of her at once. “How much longer will this take?” she asks, and I find I am nearly drowning in my reluctance to kill her. Not fully understanding my own intentions, and with a quick movement I am not sure is my own, my fingers reach up and snuff out the flame. I go to the window and throw it open, letting the cold, cleansing air rush in and chase away the cloying, sweet scent.
Hivern’s teeth begin to chatter. “W-what are you d-doing? It’s c-cold.”
I want to shout at her that I do not know what I am doing, that mayhap I have gone mad. Instead, I cross to the bed. “Stand up.” I grab her by the arm and haul her to her feet. “Walk.”
She looks at me as if I am addle-brained, and perhaps I am. “I don’t want to walk. I want to sleep. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Walk!” I command. “I have an idea, a plan to protect you and François.” That gets her feet moving.
Her gaze fuzzily tries to focus on mine, urgent. “What is it?”
“You say you lack choices in your life, and I would give you a choice. But we must walk while I do it in order to chase the poison from your body, or else you will have no choices left to you at all.”
She looks at me, her lovely blue eyes confused and hopeful. I give her a shake. “Move. I need
your head clear when you make your choice.” But that is only partially true. I also need time to marshal my thoughts.
I cannot believe I am refusing to carry out an order from the convent. I glance at the marque upon Hivern’s face. It is one thing to agree to work with Duval on behalf of the duchess, one thing not to tell Crunard of Duval’s whereabouts, but this . . . this is to move in direct opposition of the convent’s orders—and Mortain’s.
But my mind has affixed itself on my first kill, Runnion, who also bore a marque. Duval maintained that Runnion was working for the duchess in order to cleanse his soul. That knowledge has haunted me ever since, the idea that I robbed him of forgiveness.
What if I can give Madame Hivern the choice I took from Runnion?
What if I can convince Hivern to renounce her sins and thus gain forgiveness? Surely that is not going against the convent, or the saint, but simply finding another way to do His will?
If He does not remove the marque from her, it will be easy enough to set up a second kill. And then I will also know that my actions against Runnion did not cost him forgiveness.
After three turns about the room Hivern is still shivering, but it is only from the cold now, not the effects of night whispers. Only then do I lay my offer of salvation before her. “My lady, if you and François will appear in front of the full court and swear an oath of fealty to the duchess, then perhaps I can spare your lives. But only if the oath comes from your hearts and you mean to keep such a vow, for while I might not know if you are lying, Mortain surely will, and He guides my hand in all things.”
“If you will spare my son, I will promise you anything,” she swears.
Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 29
