Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  He stares at me a long moment. “What if I gave you my word that I will not attempt to escape? I am just as eager to be gone from this city as you are.”

  “Gone from this city, yes, but I am not at all convinced you wish to face the duchess’s justice. Besides, why would I trust the word of a confirmed traitor?”

  After another moment of hesitation, he does what I ask. I hope he will not argue every step of the way, else it will be a most tedious journey. Perhaps I shall have to gag him.

  Once he is settled and retied, I mount Fortuna, glad to have her solid, friendly bulk beneath me once more. I hold out my hand to the hellequin so that I may take my own reins and Crunard’s as well. He hands me mine but does not release Crunard’s. “Let me lead him,” he says, sounding surprisingly like Aveline when she is eager for some task that she knows will be denied her.

  I bark out a laugh. “I think not.”

  “I would not toy with him. Much,” the hellequin grumbles.

  “No.” I hold my hand out, and with great reluctance, he gives the reins to me.

  I secure Crunard’s reins to my saddle, then nudge Fortuna to the open road.

  “So how do you know of the marques?” I finally ask when we have been traveling a while. “That is a well-guarded secret of Mortain’s.”

  “As the liaison between the convent and the Breton court, I have worked closely with the abbess for many years. Of a necessity, we have had to share information with each other so that we could ensure no mistakes were made.”

  “And yet, not only were mistakes made, but you betrayed the duchess and every measure of trust the abbess has put in you.” I make no effort to hide the censure in my voice, and I wonder again at how the abbess came to judge this man so wrongly. “So, now that I have decided to spare your miserable life, tell me of how Matelaine died.”

  “Who?”

  I study his face for the signs of lying we have been taught to look for, but there are none. Or else he is an exceptionally accomplished liar. “The first assassin sent to kill you.”

  “Other than Ismae, you are the first.”

  “You are wrong,” I say firmly, hoping it is not I who am wrong, steered down a false path by the scheming abbess.

  “What did she look like?” he asks softly.

  “She was young. All of fifteen. Skin as pale as milk and bright red hair.”

  “Ah,” he says, and I pounce.

  “Tell me.”

  There is a long moment of silence before he speaks. “Since you are hungry for information, as I am, I propose an exchange. A trade, if you will. I will answer one of your questions, and you will answer one of mine.”

  Before I can respond, Balthazaar butts in. “Or we could play the game my way: If you do not simply answer her question, I will run you through with my sword.”

  Crunard does not so much spare him a glance. “Have we a deal?”

  “Be careful,” Balthazaar warns me. “He is toying with you, lulling you into a false sense of security.”

  “Not that I do not agree, but what makes you think so?”

  The hellequin glances over at Crunard, his face growing dark. “Let us just say that one hunter is easily able to recognize the tactics of another.”

  I follow the direction of his scowl. “You’re jealous!” I am so surprised I scarce remember to keep my voice low.

  He flinches at the word, then looks sorely affronted. “Jealous? Of that old man? Nay, it is just that if anyone is to hunt you, it should be me.”

  A flutter of something both terrifying and thrilling moves low in my belly. I know him well enough now to recognize that when he appears to be disgusted with me, it is actually himself he is unhappy with. Before I can say anything, he puts his heels to his horse and, with a flapping of his dark cloak, draws to the front of our group.

  I turn my thoughts back to Crunard’s proposal. I have no secrets to hide, and he appears to know nearly as much as I do as to how the convent operates. “Very well. We will trade. What do you know of Matelaine?”

  “The truth is, I never met her,” Crunard says. When I open my mouth to protest, he raises his bound hands in an appeasing gesture. “However, one of the kitchen maids used to carry on a flirtation with one of my guards. She fits your description of this Matelaine.”

  Matelaine. Flirting with a guard. Most likely so she could get close to Crunard.

  “But I have not seen her in weeks,” Crunard adds.

  “Because you recognized she was from the convent and killed her.”

  “I have already said that I have not. I have nothing to gain from lying at this point.”

  “Nevertheless, she is dead.” I stare at him, willing myself to see past the flesh and bone to his soul and discern whether or not he is telling the truth.

  “How did she die?” he asks.

  I look away. “I do not know. There were no marks on her body, no bruises, cuts, or injuries.”

  “Surely the convent has ways of determining the cause of death.”

  “True, but we cannot discern it from a glimpse of the body in a bone cart on the side of the road.”

  Crunard’s eyes are narrowed in thought. “And she had nothing on her?”

  “Only her gown.” She was wearing a plain gown, maid attire, now that I think about it. “And she was holding a white chess piece in her left hand.”

  The skin around his eyes tightens imperceptibly, as does his mouth. “I do know how she died, then, and I fear it was naught but an accident,” he says gently. “She was merely caught in a trap set for someone else.”

  “An accident,” I repeat hollowly. It was terrible enough that Mat­elaine had died on a mission she was not qualified to undertake. But to have her death be an accident makes it not only tragic but a waste.

  Sensing my hesitation, Crunard continues. “If it is the truth you are after, perhaps you should ask yourself why I had access to Arduinna’s snare, the convent’s own poison. If it is the truth you are after, perhaps you should ask yourself why the abbess has sent you here now. Is there to be a trial? Does the duchess know? Duval? Do you truly know whose orders you are carrying out as you stand there and hand out death like God on Judgment Day?”

  “You are guilty.”

  “No,” he says dryly. “The man I sought to poison is very much alive.” He frowns, as if still unable to understand how that happened, and I think of Ismae and her gift and her love for Duval.

  “Perhaps you do not know quite as many convent secrets as you think you do,” I tell him. “Now, what is your question? I would be done with you, at least for now, but I will not go back on my promise.”

  “What has the abbess told you of me?”

  I am puzzled by the question, but even more so by his manner, which is almost tentative and seems out of character for him. “Nothing,” I say truthfully. “I know only that you were her liaison at court, but she never spoke of you. Not until she explained you were responsible for ­Matelaine’s death.”

  He is quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. “Have you another question, demoiselle?” While Crunard’s words are most polite, there is an underlying tightness in his tone that perplexes me.

  “No more for now,” I tell him. “Only a warning. If you annoy me too much, I will kill you, the abbess and Mortain’s justice be damned.”

  At the sound of the god’s name, the hellequin quirks one eyebrow and holds up three fingers. It is the third time I have mentioned the god tonight. I glare at him, until he too falls silent.

  Two leagues later, I call a halt for the night. Our horses need rest, even if we do not. It is a tedious camp, with Crunard making exaggerated, stilted movements, as if his bindings are cutting off his very life force, and the hellequin’s moroseness filling the small clearing like smoke from the stuttering fire. I do my best to ignore them both, get Fortuna settled, and locate a soft spot on which to pass the rest of the night.

  In an attempt to give Balthazaar something to do beside glare at Crunard
, I hand him a length of rope. “Here. Tie Crunard up so that he cannot escape during the night.”

  Balthazaar visibly cheers at this, snapping the rope against his hands and carefully considering Crunard as he stalks toward him.

  “I will not try to escape,” Crunard says. “There is no need to tie me up.”

  “There is every need, as I do not trust you any more than I would a fox who has caught scent of a hen house. Your freedom calls to you so loudly that I can hear it singing in my ears. So, yes, we will tie you up.”

  With a sigh, Crunard settles on the ground where the hellequin has pointed. “I have no bedroll,” Crunard observes.

  I give a short laugh of disbelief. “I am not some maid to do your bidding and see to your comfort. You are a prisoner being escorted to a trial, a trial where you will very likely be sentenced to death. I care not how comfortable you are.” I glance around us. “It is warm enough that you won’t freeze, and there are no rain clouds nearby. Besides, surely a seasoned soldier such as yourself is well accustomed to a little hardship.”

  Crunard’s mouth draws into a tight, firm line. My words have displeased him, and I can see the wheels of his mind turning as he tries to determine how to make me pay for this slight.

  I turn to Balthazaar. “Shall I take first watch, or shall you?”

  He pauses in his tying. “Hark! What sound is that? Does the fair maid ask for my help?”

  I fold my arms. “If I did not plan on using you, I would not have allowed you to accompany us. Now, shall I take first watch, or shall you?”

  “I will, as my need for sleep is less than yours.”

  “Do I have your promise that you will not somehow manage to kill the prisoner while I sleep?”

  He glances at me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Do you trust me so little, then?”

  “Let us just say that it is easy to recognize the tactics of one who is as eager to do Mortain’s work as I am. Your word.”

  After a pause, he nods. “You have it.”

  Crunard protests. “I cannot believe you will take his word but not mine.”

  I shake out my bedroll with a loud snap. “He has had occasion to prove his worth to me—more than once. You have not. Now, hold your tongue, else I will have him gag you.”

  After that, there is blessed silence. But even once I have made myself as comfortable as the forest floor will allow, I cannot settle my mind. It is as restless as a horse who has scented a pack of wolves, and I would do well to heed its warning.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  TWO DAYS LATER, WE REACH Rennes in the early afternoon. I do not wish to announce to all and sundry that I have brought a traitor into the city—at least, not until I better understand the nature of the orders I have been given. I glance over at Crunard. “Pull your hood as far forward as you can.”

  He shoots me a questioning look, as if challenging me. “Don’t tell me your courage has failed you, demoiselle?”

  I lean over so he can hear me more clearly. “Lest the townsfolk recognize you, pull you from your horse, and decide to administer the duchess’s justice on their own.”

  He does as instructed.

  We are not stopped at the gate, although one of the sentries gives Balthazaar a long hard look, but then he sees me and recognizes that I serve Mortain.

  Our journey through the streets of the city is similarly unimpeded and people almost seem to make way before us—whether because of the faint sense of darkness that clings to Balthazaar as firmly as his cloak, his pawing, prancing stallion, or the fact that Crunard’s hands are tied, I cannot tell. Whatever the reason, by the time we reach the palace courtyard, a small crowd has gathered and follows us at a distance.

  I angle my horse to block the sight of Crunard somewhat, then dismount. A groom hurries forward to take the reins, looking nervously at Balthazaar’s horse. The hellequin ignores him and speaks directly to me. “I do not think you will be needing my help anymore.”

  “No. I do not think that I will.” I long to ask when—if—I will see him again. On the ramparts—perhaps even later tonight? But I do not.

  He bows in his saddle, then turns his mount and canters out of the courtyard, causing grooms and the overly curious bystanders to scatter like ashes before the wind.

  When I look away from Balthazaar’s departing figure, I find Crunard watching me. Before I can tell him to keep his bedamned eyes to himself, there is a small flurry of movement at the entrance to the palace, and a slim, black silhouette emerges from the door. It is the abbess, her hands clutched tightly in front of her, her gaze searching the courtyard. Seeing me, she relaxes somewhat and a welcoming smile touches her lips. As if she believes I have done precisely what she asked and now everything will be as it once was between us.

  I smile back, but there is no warmth in it. Then I step out of the way to show her who I brought with me. When she sees Monsieur Crunard, a mask of anger slams into place.

  But not before I see the glimmer of fear. She is not simply angry that Crunard is here—she is terrified.

  Ismae comes running out of the palace just then and spots me immediately. If she is relieved that I have returned, she does not show it as plainly as the abbess. Or mayhap she simply had more faith in my abilities.

  At the sight of Monsieur Crunard, her eyes widen in surprise. She lifts her skirts and hurries down the steps to join me in the courtyard. As she draws closer, her gaze goes again to Crunard, narrowing this time, and the heat of her glare reminds me of all that this man has done to betray his country and our convent. Unable to help myself, I search out the abbess once more, only to find she is no longer waiting upon the steps, but has returned inside.

  I take Ismae’s arm and pull her a short way from Crunard so he cannot hear us. “Is he marqued?”

  She glances at him again, her eyes raking over him in open disdain. “No. And why that is the case, I do not know. What will you do with him now that he is here?”

  “Ismae, he knows things about the convent and the abbess. Things that may help us determine what game she is playing. He seems to think I was sent to kill him because the abbess wished to be rid of him rather than because of his actual crimes. And while it is not surprising that he would claim such a thing, if you see no marque on him, then that bears him out somewhat.”

  She nods reluctantly. “It at least warrants careful consideration.”

  “Can we put him in the dungeons here? It should not make any difference as to where he is imprisoned, should it?”

  She pats my arm reassuringly. “If it does, we will find a way to turn it to our advantage. Let me escort you and help get him settled.”

  I look at her in surprise, and she laughs. “Oh, I do not mean to see to his comfort, only to be certain the guards know he is a prisoner and that he is to be well guarded.”

  I gratefully accept Ismae’s offer, for I do not know where the dungeons are, nor do I know if the men would take an order from me. But mostly, I do not wish to appear a bumbling green fool under Crunard’s sharp gaze that misses nothing. Every time I hesitate or fumble, I fear I have unwittingly given him some new weapon to use against me.

  Once Crunard is safely locked behind a wood and iron door, Ismae and I make our way back to the palace proper, my mind churning like a water wheel.

  “What are you thinking on so furiously?” Ismae asks.

  “How to get the abbess to tell me the truth.”

  Ismae laughs. “You may as well ask how to keep an ass from braying or a bird from flying. I am beginning to think she has lost the ability to tell a plain truth.”

  “I fear you have the right of it. Perhaps I will simply claim that Crunard has told me everything and demand to know if it is true. As if I am giving her a chance to clear her name before I condemn her in my own mind.”

  Ismae smiles. “You are frighteningly good at playing these games with her.”

  “Only because I have done so my entire life,” I mutter. Just then, a page comes racing t
oward us, breathless as he skids to a stop.

  “My lady,” he huffs out to Ismae. “You are to report to the duchess’s chambers immediately.”

  Ismae grabs the boy’s shoulders. “Is it Princess Isabeau?” she asks, her fear for the young girl plain in her voice.

  The page replies, “Oh no, my lady! It is Marshal Rieux. He is here and requesting an audience with the duchess.”

  “Go,” I tell her. “I can find my own way to the abbess’s chambers.”

  In answer, Ismae reaches out and grabs my hand. “No, come with me. Best you hear what is said as well. Besides, the abbess will no doubt already have been summoned.”

  The duchess’s privy chamber is nearly full by the time we arrive. All of her councilors—Duval, Captain Dunois, Chancellor Montauban, Jean de Chalon, the bishop, and even Father Effram—are there. Ismae and I slip in unnoticed by most except for Duval, who appears to be attuned to Ismae’s presence like a bee to a flower, and the abbess, who notes my arrival with a look of dour disapproval.

  Once the duchess is seated, the rest of her councilors take their seats. Ismae, Sybella, and I remain standing. Duval has us positioned just behind the duchess’s chair and motions us to expose our weapons. As I step into place beside Sybella, she reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze of greeting.

  Then Marshal Rieux is announced and brought into the chamber. He is a tall man with an imposing manner and is dressed in an elegant doublet and cloak. “Your Grace,” he says with a deep bow. For all that he has come to worm his way back into the duchess’s good graces, it looks as if it pains him to bend his knee to her.

  “Marshal Rieux.” The duchess tilts her head in greeting, her voice cool and distant.

  “I am pleased to see you are well, Your Grace.” His words are awkwardly delivered but seem sincere nonetheless.

  “With no thanks to you.” Duval throws the words down like a gauntlet.