I close my eyes and reach inside for the spark of the presence I now carry, hoping to borrow its strength. “I do.”
When she turns back to me, her face is pinched with fury. “You would throw away all that we have given you for a man’s love?”
“Not a man’s love,” I say softly. “But Duval’s. And I would find a way to serve both my god and my heart. Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.”
Her head rears back, as if she has been struck. “So now you are an expert on the will of Mortain?”
I do not flinch. “I came face to face with Him on the battlefield before Nantes. He was not as I thought He would be.”
Her lip curls in disdain. “You saw Mortain? He came to you in a vision?”
“No, Reverend Mother. In the flesh, or such flesh as the saints will wear. He spoke to me and called me daughter, and I found peace with Him. I wish to serve in honor of His mercy rather than His wrath.”
I can tell she wishes to punish me. At first, I think it because I have defied her, and then I realize it is because I have seen Mortain and she has not. “You cannot expect to take your final vows now.”
“I do not want to take my final vows, Reverend Mother.” In truth, I am surprised at how much I do not want to. I think of Annith facing the rest of her life sealed away in the convent, never leaving its walls. I think of Sybella stuck in some hellish assignment that is surely driving her mad. Is that truly what Mortain wishes for them?
Besides, now that I finally have some choices in my life, I have no desire to hand them all back to the convent. “The convent focuses on only one aspect of Mortain’s glory, Reverend Mother. I want to better understand these other parts of Him before committing to such a path.”
“Clearly I was wrong about your devotion to your duties and obligations.” The abbess looks at me as if I am some lowly worm, and it is all I can do to hold fast to my newfound strength.
“You misunderstand me. I am committed to serving Mortain. It is the convent I am uncertain of.”
Her nostrils flare and her lips grow white. She breathes hard for a moment, then, clenching her jaw, she lifts her skirts and storms from the room.
Exactly one fortnight after her thirteenth birthday, Anne of Brittany is carefully dressed in finery befitting a duchess. When she is done, Isabeau kisses her on both cheeks, then Anne turns and leaves the abbey of St. Brigantia. A small procession of attendants accompanies her: myself, Duval, Dunois, and François. The abbess of St. Brigantia also comes with us, as does the abbess of St. Mortain. Night has fallen, and torches light our path as we wind our way to the main entrance of the city, where the drawbridge is closed to us. When she reaches the moat, Anne steps away from our small group and stands alone before the city gates. She raises her young, clear voice and speaks the ancient words that all the rulers of Brittany have spoken and promises to guard the privileges and liberty of both the nobility and the common people of her country.
In answer, the crowd erupts in joyous cheers. They are eager to receive their new duchess, and heavy chains rattle and clank as the drawbridge is lowered. A great clang rings out when it reaches the ground, as triumphant as any bell. The city now open to her, Anne alone steps onto the drawbridge and enters.
Trumpets blare and children shout and throw small handfuls of seeds and dried flower petals as the crowd escorts her to the great cathedral. As demanded by custom, Anne will spend the night in prayer before her coronation in the morning. The six of us will stand over her and watch her, but from a distance. This is a vigil she must keep alone. Her burden is made lighter, however, by the coronation gift Duval has given her: six thousand English troops to fight at her command.
It is a long night, but that is just as well, for every one of us in that church has much to think upon. Many times throughout the dark hours, I feel the gaze of my abbess settle on me, puzzled and brooding. I am surprised when I realize this bothers me not at all. Whatever hold she once had over me is gone.
Duval is another matter, however, and every time he glances at me I feel it just as surely as if he has reached out and run his finger along my soul. It is all I can do not to smile at the sheer wonder of it.
Although the brightly colored glass windows hide the sky outside, I can feel the moment night gives way to morning. As dawn breaks, Duval edges closer to me. When I look up at him, our eyes meet, and even in that solemn place and this most solemn of occasions, I cannot help but smile. His hand moves, and when I look down at it, I see that he is playing with the red ribbon he took from my own hair. He has tied nine knots in it, invoking the blessings of the nine saints. As he reaches for my hand, my heart begins to pound. Does he think to pledge ourselves now, before the duchess and God and all our saints? While I am certain of my love for him, I do not yet know if this is what I want.
He holds my hand gently in his and before I can snatch it back, he wraps the ribbon around not both our wrists, but mine alone. He leans in close, his whisper so quiet I can barely hear it. “Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours, until Death do us part. Whatever that may mean when consorting with one of Death’s handmaidens.”
A small bubble of joyous laughter rises up from my heart, and I lean over and seal his vow with a kiss, not caring that God and the saints and even the abbess of St. Mortain might be watching. For while I am Death’s daughter and walk in His dark shadow, surely the darkness can give way to light sometimes.
Keep reading for a sample chapter of
DARK TRIUMPH
by Robin LaFevers
Chapter One
NANTES, BRITTANY, 1489
I DID NOT ARRIVE AT the convent of Saint Mortain some green stripling. By the time I was sent there, my death count numbered three, and I had had two lovers besides. Even so, there were some things they were able to teach me: Sister Serafina, the art of poison; Sister Thomine, how to wield a blade; and Sister Arnette, where best to strike with it, laying out all the vulnerable points on a man’s body like an astronomer charting the stars.
If only they had taught me how to watch innocents die as well as they taught me how to kill, I would be far better prepared for this nightmare into which I’ve been thrust.
I pause at the foot of the winding steps to see if I am being watched. The scullery woman scrubbing the marble hall, the sleepy page dozing against the doorway—either one of them could be a spy. Even if neither has been assigned to watch me, someone is always willing to tattle in the hopes of earning a few crumbs of favor.
Caution prevails and I decide to use the south stairs, then double back through the lower hall to approach the north tower from that side. I am very careful to step precisely where the maid has just washed, and I hear her mutter a curse under her breath. Good. Now I can be certain she has seen me and will not forget if she is questioned.
In the lower hall, there are few servants about. Those who have not been driven out are busy with their duties or have gone to ground like wise, clever rats.
When at last I reach the north wing of the palace, it is empty. Quickening my pace, I hurry toward the north tower, but I am so busy looking behind me that I nearly stumble over a small figure sitting at the base of the stairs.
I bite back an oath of annoyance and glare down to see it is a child. A young girl. “What are you doing here?” I snap. My nerves are already tightly strung, and this new worry does them little good. “Where is your mother?”
The girl looks up at me with eyes like damp violets, and true fear clutches at my gut. Has no one thought to warn her how dangerous it is for a pretty child to wander these halls alone? I want to reach down and shake her—shake her mother—and shout at her that she is not safe, not on these steps, not in this castle. I force myself to take a deep breath instead.
“Mama is dead.” The child’s voice is high and quivery.
I glance to the stairs, where my first duty lies, but I cannot leave this child here. “What is your name?”
�
��Odette,” she says, uncertain whether to be frightened of me or not.
“Well, Odette, this is no place to play. Have you no one to look after you?”
“My sister. But when she is working, I am to hide like a little mouse.”
At least her sister is no fool. “But this is not a good place to hide, is it? Look how easily I found you!”
For the first time, the girl gives me a shy smile, and in that moment, she reminds me so much of my youngest sister, Louise, that I cannot breathe. Thinking quickly, I take her hand and lead her back to the main hallway.
Hurry, hurry, hurry nips at my heels like a braying hound.
“See that door?” She nods, watching me uncertainly. “Go through that door, then down the stairs. The chapel is there, and it is a most excellent hiding place.” And since d’Albret and his men never visit the chapel, she will be safe enough. “Who is your sister?”
“Tilde.”
“Very well. I will tell Tilde where you are so she may come and get you when her work is done.”
“Thank you,” Odette says, then skips off down the hall. I long to escort her there myself, but I already risk being too late for what I must do.
I turn back around and take the stairs two at a time. The thick wooden door on the landing has a new latch, stiff with disuse. I lift it slowly to be certain it will not creak out an alarm.
As I step into the cold winter sunshine, a bitter wind whips at my hair, tearing it from the net that holds it in place. All my caution has cost me precious time, and I pray that I have not been brought up here only to see those I love slaughtered.
I hurry to the crenellated wall and look down into the field below. A small party of mounted knights waits patiently while an even smaller party confers with that braying ass Marshal Rieux. I recognize the duchess immediately, her dainty figure poised on her gray palfrey. She looks impossibly small, far too small to carry the fate of our kingdom on her slender shoulders. That she has managed to hold off a French invasion for this long is impressive; that she has done so in spite of being betrayed by a full half of her councilors is close to a miracle.
Behind her and to the right is Ismae, sister of my heart and, possibly, my blood, if what the nuns at the convent told us is true. My pulse begins to race, but whether in joy that I am not too late or in panic at what I know is coming, I cannot tell.
Keeping my gaze fixed on Ismae, I gather up all my fear and dread and hurl them at her, like stones in a catapult.
She does not so much as glance in my direction.
From deep in the bowels of the castle, off toward the east, comes a faint rumble as the portcullis is raised. This time when I cast my warning, I fling my arms out as well, as if I am shooing away a flock of ducks. I hope—pray—that some bond still exists between us that will allow her to sense me.
But her eyes remain fixed on the duchess in front of her, and I nearly scream in frustration. Flee, my mind cries. It is a trap. Then, just as I fear I must throw myself from the battlements to gain her attention, Ismae looks up. Flee, I beg, then sweep my arms out once more.
It works. She looks away from me to the eastern gate, then turns to shout something to the soldier next to her, and I grow limp with relief.
The small party on the field springs to life, shouting orders and calling to one another. Ismae points again, this time to the west. Good. She has seen the second arm of the trap. Now I must only hope that my warning has not come too late.
Once Marshal Rieux and his men realize what is happening, they wheel their mounts around and gallop back to the city. The duchess and her party move to fall into a new formation but have not yet left the field.
Flee! The word beats frantically against my breast, but I dare not utter it, afraid that even though I stand on this isolated tower, someone from the castle might hear. I lean forward, gripping the cold, rough stone of the battlements so hard that it bites into my gloveless fingers.
The first line of d’Albret’s troops rides into my sight, my half brother Pierre in the vanguard. Then, just when I am certain it is too late, the duchess’s party splits in two, and a paltry dozen of the duchess’s men turn their mounts to meet the coming onslaught. Twelve against two hundred. Hollow laughter at the futility of their actions escapes me but is snatched up by the wind before anyone can hear it.
As the duchess and two others gallop away, Ismae hesitates. I bite my lip to keep from shouting. She cannot think she can help the doomed knights? Their cause is hopeless, and not even our skills can help the twelve who so valiantly ride to their deaths.
“Flee.” This time I do utter the word aloud, but just like my laughter, it is caught up by the cold, bitter wind and carried high above, where no one can hear it. Not the one it is meant to warn, nor those who would punish me for the betrayal.
But perhaps something has carried my warning to Ismae all the same, for she finally wheels her mount around and gallops after the duchess. The iron band squeezing my lungs eases somewhat, for while it is hard enough to watch these men meet their deaths, I could not bear to watch Ismae die.
Or worse, be captured.
If that happened, I would kill her myself rather than leave her to d’Albret, for he will grant her no mercy. Not after she ruined his plans in Guérande and nearly gutted him like a fish. He has had many days to hone his vengeance to a razor-sharp edge.
It is folly for me to linger. I should leave now while there is no chance of being discovered, but I cannot turn away. Like the rushing water of a swollen river, d’Albret’s forces swarm the duchess’s guard. The resounding clash is like thunder as armor crashes into armor, pikes break through shields, and swords meet.
I am astounded at the ferocity of the duchess’s men. They all fight as if they have all been possessed by the spirit of Saint Camulos himself, slashing through their attackers much as farmers scythe through stalks of grain. By some miracle, they hold the oncoming line, and their efforts delay d’Albret’s forces long enough for the duchess’s party to reach the safety of the trees. D’Albret’s greater number of men will be less of an advantage if they all must duck and dodge branches and bracken.
From the east, a trumpet sounds. I frown and look that way, fearing d’Albret has thought to arrange for a third mounted force. But no, the black and white banner of the Rennes garrison stands in stark relief against the crisp blue sky as an additional dozen men ride into the melee. When the duchess and the others finally disappear over the horizon, I allow myself to draw my first full breath.
But even with the infusion of new troops, it is a crushing defeat. The duchess’s guards have no chance, not against so many. My hand itches for a weapon, but the knives I carry will do no good from this distance. A crossbow would work, but they are nigh unto impossible to conceal, and so I watch helplessly.
D’Albret had only ever planned for a trap—a quick in-and-out, thrust and parry, and then return with the prize. Once he realizes the quarry has escaped and he no longer has the element of surprise, he gives the signal for his soldiers to fall back behind the castle walls. Better to cut his losses than waste any more men in this failed gambit.
The battle below is nearly over. Only one soldier continues to fight, a great big ox of a man who doesn’t have the sense to die quickly like the others. His helm has been knocked from his head, and three arrows pierce his armor, which is dented in a dozen places. His chain mail is torn, and the cuts beneath it bleed profusely, but still he fights with a nearly inhuman strength, stumbling ever forward into the mass of his enemies. It is all right, I long to tell him. Your young duchess is safe. You may die in peace, and then you will be safe as well.
His head jerks up from the blow he has just taken, and across the distance our eyes meet. I wonder what color they are and how quickly they will film over once Death claims him.
Then one of d’Albret’s men lunges forward and cuts the knight’s horse out from under him. He gives a long, despairing bellow as he goes down, then like ants swarming a scrap of meat,
his enemies are upon him. The man’s death cry reaches all the way up to the tower and wraps itself around my heart, calling for me to join it.
A fierce wave of longing surges through me, and I am jealous of that knight and the oblivion that claims him. He is free now, just like the gathering vultures who circle overhead. How easily they come and go, how far above danger they fly. I am not sure I can return to my own cage, a cage built of lies and suspicions and fear. A cage so full of darkness and shadow it may as well be death.
I lean forward, pushing my body out past the battlements. The wind plucks at my cloak, buffets me, as if it would carry me off in flight, just like the birds or the knight’s soul. Let go, it cries. I will take you far, far away. I want to laugh at the exhilarating feeling. I will catch you, it whistles seductively.
Would it hurt? I wonder, staring down at the jagged rocks below. Would I feel the moment of my landing? I close my eyes and imagine hurtling through space, rushing down, down, down, to my death.
Would it even work? At the convent, the sisters of Mortain were as stingy with their knowledge of our deathly skills and abilities as a miser is with his coin. I do not fully understand all the powers Death has bestowed upon me. Besides, Death has already rejected me twice. What if He did so a third time and I had to spend the rest of my life broken and helpless, forever at the mercy of those around me? That thought has me shuddering violently, and I take a step away from the wall.
“Sybella?”
Fresh panic flares in my breast, and my hand reaches for the cross nestled among the folds of my skirt, for it is no ordinary crucifix but a cunningly disguised knife designed for me by the convent. Even as I turn around, I widen my eyes as if excited and curve the corners of my mouth up in a brazen smile.
Julian stands in the doorway. “What are you doing out here?” he asks.
Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 37
