“If François is innocent, then he should have no hesitation swearing fealty to his sister.”
She grabs my arm and falls to her knees in supplication. “He will have no problem with such a thing,” she says. “Indeed, he will be glad to do it. As will I.”
I watch her closely, but the marque does not fade. Hoping I am not making the biggest mistake of my life, I take her arm and pull her to her feet. “Very well then. Here’s what we will do.”
Chapter Forty-two
That night, the duchess once again takes dinner in her chambers, so the rest of the court does the same. I am not hungry, which is just as well since Duval will need all the food Louyse has brought me.
I dismiss the older woman early under the guise of having a headache and take the precaution of locking my door. Then I take a seat by the fire and wait. I go over my actions of the afternoon for the hundredth time hoping—praying—I have made the right choice.
When Duval arrives, his doublet is unlaced and his shirt sleeves rolled up. His hair stands on end, as if he has spent the day running his hands through it. When he sees me fully dressed and sitting by the fire, his hand goes for his sword hilt and his eyes dart around the room.
“Much has happened since we last spoke,” I say quickly to reassure him. “I did not want to risk falling asleep or missing you.”
Satisfied there is no trap waiting, he comes fully into the room and takes a seat in the chair next to mine. He shoots me a cunning glance, then pulls the white queen from the leather pouch at his belt and sets it on the arm of the chair. “It is done,” he says.
“What is done?”
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he fills a cup with wine. “The betrothal terms between the Holy Roman emperor and the duchess have been agreed upon.” He lifts the goblet to his lips in a jaunty manner and drains it.
“But that is good news!”
A wry smile flickers briefly across his face. “You were expecting bad?”
“In truth, I was. Things seem to turn against the duchess at every opportunity.”
His head snaps around. “Has some new disaster befallen her?”
“No, milord. Indeed, I have good news as well.”
He lifts the flagon of wine and refills his cup. “Then tell it so I may hear.”
“Your mother and brother have agreed to swear their fealty to Anne before the Privy Council and all the barons at court.”
He sets the flagon down with a thump. “They have?”
“They have.”
Watching me closely, he asks, “And how, pray tell, did this miracle come about?”
I look away from his piercing gaze and stare at the flames dancing in the fireplace. While I have every intention of telling him the truth, I fear he will see far more than I want him to. “I received orders from the convent.”
There is no sound but the faint crackle and hiss of the fire. “I see,” he says at last. “Or rather, I do not, for if you received orders from the convent, surely they would both be dead?”
“The order came only for your mother, and when I went to . . . visit her, another option presented itself.”
“Go on.”
“You do not sound especially surprised, my lord.”
“I am not surprised, no. I knew this was a possibility from the moment I brought you here. Remember, I have known of her plans all along.”
Perhaps that is why he fought so hard against my coming. “It occurred to me that if she was consigned to death for her plots against the duchess, then perhaps by renouncing those plots, she could earn herself a reprieve and the saint would unmarque her.”
“And did he?”
I clear my throat. “Not yet. But I do not think He will reverse His judgment until the oath passes from her lips.” I risk a quick glance at him. His face is flushed, but whether from my words, the heat of the fire, or the wine he has downed so quickly, I do not know. “Just as Runnion’s marque had not left him before he performed his act of contrition—it is the act of atonement that removes the marque, not simply the wanting to atone. Or so I believe.”
“Does the convent know you have taken matters into your own hands in such a way?”
“No.” I smile wryly. “Not yet.”
“And Crunard?”
I shake my head. “What actions the convent does or does not take are no concern of his. Or shouldn’t be. But I suspect he will figure it out soon enough, since it was he who reported your mother’s plot to the convent.”
Duval eyes me curiously. “Not you?”
Embarrassed suddenly, I rise to fetch his dinner tray. “I had not had a chance to write to the abbess yet, no.” Still feeling his eyes upon me, I fiddle with the tray, rearranging the food and dishes. Only when he looks away do I feel comfortable enough to turn around. Even so, I am careful not to meet his eyes as I set the tray before him.
When I do manage to glance up, he is holding the white queen and studying her, his dark brows drawn together.
“I must find a way to tell the duchess of Madame Hivern’s and François’s need to swear fealty to her. I was hoping you might have some insight on how I may do that without letting her know the full extent of their betrayal.”
He tilts his head, reminding me for a moment of Vanth. “You wish to keep that from her?”
“I wish to protect her young heart from any more bruises. Truly, how many more people can betray her?”
“How many more barons are there?” is his unsettling reply.
And so it is that on Christmas Day, Madame Hivern and François kneel before the duchess and swear everlasting fealty to her. And mean it.
Madame Hivern has come within an angel’s breath of her own death and is aware of the mercy that has been granted to her and her son.
As I watch her swear the oath, the purple, bruised marque slowly fades from her throat. My breath leaves me in a rush, and my knees grow weak with relief. Mortain has indeed granted her mercy. Which means I did not fail Him or subvert His will. Joy fills my heart as I realize I have not stepped outside His grace.
When the ceremony is over, I slip away and return to my room, eager to give the news to Duval. The servants are enjoying their own feast, and my chamber is dark except for the reddish glow from the fireplace. It is nearly full dark outside, and little light comes in through the windows. Just as I turn to light some tapers, there is a scritch of sound at the window and a faint caw. Vanth.
I hurry to the shutter. When I open it, the crow tumbles in, a scramble of black feathers and rushing wings. At least he no longer tries to snap my fingers off.
Vanth lands near his cage and cocks his head. He caws and ruffles his feathers before going in. I take my time teasing the note from him, not sure I want to read the scolding I am certain the reverend mother has sent me. At last I snag the message from Vanth’s leg, break the seal, and unfold the parchment.
Daughter,
Once again I have received no word from you on the most recent developments at court and must rely on Chancellor Crunard to guide me. What he has told me is so shocking that I can scarce credit it. Not only does the French whore still live, but you have neglected to inform me of Duval’s true allegiance. The chancellor has laid out the case against Duval and there can be no doubt that he is guilty. He has driven away all of the duchess’s allies, one by one, and when that failed, he arranged an assassination attempt on the duchess. Have you known all along that he was spying for the French regent? Or have you been blinded to his real purpose? Indeed, the only reason I do not judge you an accomplice in this matter is that the chancellor informed me that it was you who saved her life.
Duval must pay for his crimes, and you must pay for your negligence. Dispatch him immediately, then pack your things and return to the convent at once so I may decide what is to be done with you.
My heart stops beating for one—two—long beats and the note falls from my numb fingers and flutters to the floor. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, hoping t
o expunge the words from my mind. But it does no good. I have been ordered to kill Duval.
The desires of my convent have collided with the path of my heart.
Chapter Forty-three
Slowly, as if every bone in my body has turned to melted wax, I sink to the floor. How can this be? Did the abbess not get my most recent letter? And what of Crunard? Does he believe his own argument, or is there some darker purpose here? For everything he accuses Duval of could also be laid at his own feet.
My mind begins turning over every conversation I have had with the chancellor, looking for rips or tears in the cloak of loyalty he wears with such sincerity. Was it he who first suggested Duval might be guilty? Or the abbess? He was most insistent I turn my attentions away from d’Albret and back to Duval. And it was Crunard who informed the convent of both Runnion and Martel. Could he have purposefully brought about those kills in order to work against the duchess? But why?
And most important, is Sister Vereda well enough to have Seen this? Surely not, for Mortain would not send a false vision, and I know that these accusations are false. Even hearing it from the abbess does not persuade me otherwise.
When my brain has exhausted itself with questions for which I have no answers, I turn to prayer. I open my heart to Mortain and pray as I have never prayed before. But as I listen for His voice, all I can hear are those of Chancellor Crunard and the abbess.
After a while—a long while—I stand up and straighten my skirts. I am so hollow inside that it feels as if I have left some vital piece of myself on the floor. I know—know—that the convent is mistaken. They have been fed false information or have drawn the wrong conclusions. Or both. My own arrogance shocks me, and yet I know they are wrong. That the convent can make such a mistake unnerves me. The nuns are not supposed to make mistakes.
There is a scraping sound by the fireplace as the heavy door begins to swing open. Duval! Without thinking, I crumple the note into a ball and toss it into the fire. I watch the convent’s orders turn to ash as Duval strides into the chamber. Much to my surprise, he heads straight for me and wraps his arms around my waist, then whirls me around the chamber as if we are dancing. “The tide is turning!” he says, his eyes bright. “D’Albret is gone, the agreement with the Holy Roman emperor is finalized, the English king grows closer to meeting our terms, and my family’s plotting has ended!”
I am breathless with his whirling and try to smile back, to act as if nothing has changed, but my face feels frozen. I push at his hands, but they do not budge from my waist.
“Truly,” he says, slowing down, “your saint can work miracles.” As he looks into my eyes, his smile fades and his eyes grow dark with emotion. Slowly, he leans toward me.
His lips are soft and warm as they touch mine. His mouth moves urgently, as if he is trying to experience every nuance and curve of my lips. The utter rightness of this fills me, for it feels I have waited all my life for just this moment.
His mouth opens slightly, and he shifts the angle of his kiss, nudging my mouth to do the same, and I am lost in a whole new world of sensation. His mouth is soft compared to the strong, callused hands that grip my waist. He tastes faintly of wine and victory and something bitter and astringent.
Even as the realization dawns, my lips begin to tingle, then grow numb. “My lord!” I gasp and pull away.
He looks at me, his eyes full of desire, his pupils grown so large they have swallowed up nearly all the gray in his eyes. It cannot be! I lean in close again, press my lips to his, then run my tongue lightly over his lips and inside his mouth. Even as he responds by pulling me closer, the acrid tang fills my senses.
I pull away and take his hands from my waist. “My lord,” I repeat, hoping he will hear the urgency in my voice. “Stop. Think. What have you had to eat today?”
He stares at me intently, trying to make sense of my words, as if I have spoken in some strange language from a far-off land. “Nothing but what you gave me last night. Why?”
I lean in and press one last soft kiss against his lips—to be certain, I tell myself. “You are poisoned. I can taste it.”
His pulse beats frantically in the hollow of his throat. “Poisoned?” he repeats, as if the word is new to him.
I hold my fingers to my lips, tasting them again. “Yes,” I whisper.
His eyes fill with unspeakable sadness. “You—”
“No!” I grasp his face with my hands, his whiskery stubble rough beneath my palms. “It is not I who have poisoned you. I swear it!” I hope he does not push me further and ask if the convent is behind it, for I do not know the answer. Did the reverend mother not trust me to do as she ordered? Or has someone else taken matters into his own hands?
He smiles then, a quick fey thing that displays the small dimple I have seen only twice before. Nearly stupid with relief that he believes me, I smile back. His hands reach out and cup my face. “I should not have doubted you,” he whispers, then he lowers his mouth to mine.
The taste of poison is strong on my lips and yanks me back to the matter at hand. “Are you sure you haven’t eaten any food or wine other than what I gave? Did you notice any strange taste?”
He snorts. “No and no. If so, I would not have eaten it.”
But of course, there are hundreds of poisons, many of them too subtle to be detected by the tongue. Others are administered by different means. “Then perhaps it passed through your skin.”
He holds his arms out to his sides. “As you can see, all I have left to me are the clothes on my back.”
“I know, and that is what I would like to inspect.”
“What?”
“Poison can be placed in your gloves, on the inside of your doublet, your shirt, your hat, anything that touches your skin.”
He blinks, at last understanding what I am saying. With a sudden movement, he reaches down and tears the gloves from his belt and throws them on the floor. Frantic now, as if his clothes are coated in stinging nettles, he pulls off his belt, then yanks his doublet over his head and tosses it onto the chair.
I hurry over to inspect each piece, all of them still warm from Duval’s body, but there is no trace of poison. No waxy residue, no trace scent.
“There is nothing on any of these,” I tell him. “May I see your boots?”
He recoils in horror. “You are not going to smell my boots,” he tells me flatly. He tramps to the chair, drops into it, and pulls off his boots. “What would it smell like?” he asks.
I shrug, hating this helpless feeling. “It depends on which poison was used. It can smell sweet as honey or like bitter oranges. Some have a metallic tang.” My heart falters at all the possibilities, for how can I cure him if I do not know what is being used?
He sticks his nose into his boot. “They smell nothing like that,” he says.
I am not sure if I should take his word, but he looks ready to come to blows over it, so I let it be for the moment. “Here, let me hold that one while you check the other.” I brace myself for another argument, but he grunts at me and shoves the boot into my hand. While he is busy with his other foot, I let my fingers brush against the inside of his boot. There is no tingle, no numbness, nothing.
“This one is fine too,” he says, shoving his foot back into it. He holds out his hand for the other one and I return it to him.
“Now your shirt, my lord.”
He gapes at me. “You want to examine my shirt?”
I let my impatience fill my words. “Did you not just hear me say it could be on anything that touches your skin? There are no end of ways to poison a man. You must trust me to know this better than you.”
However, there is another reason I wish him to remove his shirt. I need to see if he bears a marque.
His eyes on mine, Duval rises to his feet, undoes the lacings of his shirt, then pulls the fine cambric over his head.
I swallow back a gasp, my eyes fixed on the map of silvery white scars that crisscross the left side of his rib cage. A deep, puckered
scar sits just inches from his heart. Unthinking, I step closer, my fingers reaching out to touch the pale tracks some keen blade left. He flinches as if in pain. “Do they still hurt?” My voice comes out as a whisper.
“No.” His voice sounds strained.
I trace the longest of the scars that spans his chest. “How close you came. How very, very close.” I shiver, unbearably warm and chilled at the same time. Surely Mortain did not spare him then only to have me kill him now.
His skin under my fingers twitches and suddenly I no longer see the scars, but the shift of taut muscle and the broadness of his shoulders. Heat rushes into my cheeks and, unable to stop myself, I look up to meet his gaze. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Dear, sweet Ismae.”
The longing and wanting that rise up inside me is as sharp as any blade and cuts as deep. It is also more terrifying. I snatch my hand out of his grip and turn to fumble for the shirt he has so carelessly dropped on the floor.
I busy myself with picking it up and turning it inside out. I can feel his eyes on me, the room full of unspoken dreams and desire. I concentrate on the shirt, checking the seams carefully, the cuffs, any place a smear of poison might hide. However he is being poisoned, it is not from his garments.
“It is clean,” I say, then slowly turn around to hand the shirt to him.
Duval is all business and takes the shirt and slips it over his head. I use that moment to inspect him for a marque. Other than his scars, there is nothing on his chest or his throat, which confirms he has not eaten nor drank this poison. But the room is lit only by the fire and a brace of candles, so I cannot tell if the grayish pallor to his skin is due to the poor light, the effects of the poison, or the marque of Mortain. But of course, it does not matter. I cannot kill him, marque or no.
“If it is not you poisoning me, who is it?” he asks as he tugs his sleeves into place.
“There are so many who wish you ill, my lord, it is difficult to say.”
Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 30
