Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  “Truly?” I take a step closer to him and he cringes. It is a mere tightening of muscle and skin, but I see it and suddenly I know he is not cringing in revulsion or rejection but because he is fighting a fierce battle with his own desires and his own heart. “What must I fear from you?” My voice is as soft and gentle as the caress I long to give him. “That you will touch me?”

  I reach out and put my hand on his neck, feel his flesh twitch and flutter beneath my fingers. I draw even nearer, pressing myself close against his unyielding side. “That you would do this?” I put my fingers in his hair and force him to look at me. The anguish and conflict in his eyes nearly break my heart anew. If ever anyone needed saving, it is this tortured man. “Or this?” I rise up on my toes and softly place my lips against his. He resists at first, and then it is as if a floodgate opens and all his need pours out.

  He turns from the battlements and pulls me into his arms as if he could pull me into his very chest so I might reside against his heart. His manner shifts, changing from resistant to possessive, and he cups my head in his hands and devours my mouth as if he would pull all that I am into him. Breathless, he stops and rests his forehead against mine, our hearts beating in a joint frantic rhythm.

  “How can you expect me to walk away from this?” I whisper.

  “But there is no freedom for me, only death.”

  “Even now? After all that you have done and all the years you have ridden with the hunt?”

  He shrugs, a sharp frustrated jerk of the shoulders. “It is the nature of my existence. And what I wish to save you from—giving your heart to someone who cannot be with you in the way you deserve. Who cannot be the man you deserve.”

  But his warning comes far too late. My heart is already his.

  I do not sleep much that night, not with thoughts of Balthazaar rolling around in my head like an uneven cart wheel. When I am not thinking about him, I worry about the duchess and the corner the French have backed her into. And when my thoughts finally turn from that, then it is young Isabeau who comes to mind, and I wonder just how much longer she will live and how the duchess will bear it when she dies.

  But when morning comes, I am determined to do something, anything. And that is when I remember Crunard, languishing in the dungeon, a traitor who once had the ear of the French crown and who may well still be in contact with the regent.

  I find Crunard in his cell, stretched out on the small pallet there. When he hears my footsteps, he sits up. Seeing it is me, he quickly runs a hand over his hair and straightens his shirt. I cannot decide if I find his gesture humorous or touching. He nods in greeting. I say nothing but simply stare at him, giving the whirlwind of emotions I feel every time I look at him a chance to subside.

  “What do you know of Marshal Rieux and his alliance with d’Albret?”

  “It was too much to hope for a pleasant father-and-daughter chat, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. What do you know of their alliance?”

  He leans back against the stone wall and shrugs. “That Rieux believed allying with d’Albret would be our best chance to gain enough force to repel France’s aggression.”

  “Did he not know of the rumors surrounding d’Albret’s earlier marriages, or did he simply not care?” For that, far more than the political betrayal, is what rankles me.

  “We had all heard rumors, but Rieux believed them to be just that, rumors that followed a brutish leader who was not loved by his people. I think he also believed that the duchess’s position would keep her safe, for it is one thing to have so many accidents befall one’s wives, when they are far from their homes and the people who would avenge them, but a far different thing to openly attack the beloved ruler of a nation.”

  “And you?”

  He meets my gaze steadily. “I feared them more than simply rumors. Whatever other treachery I may have committed, I was not willing to consign the duchess to d’Albret’s tender care.”

  “Duly noted.” I fold my arms across my chest and begin to pace in front of his door. “The question is, can the duchess trust Rieux’s offer to become her loyal subject once more?”

  “I do not see that she has any choice. Rieux is a brilliant military tactician, and he brings many troops with him, troops the duchess will no doubt need.”

  “But how can she be certain he will not betray her again?”

  “She cannot. But she can be certain he will not betray her with d’Albret again, and can take precautions in case his loyalty shifts with the winds of opportunity.” He rises to his feet and comes to stand nearer the door. “You have to understand, for years the French crown has bribed many in the Breton court to report all the duchy’s activity and options and counsel. A person was of little importance if the French did not try to recruit him. Most took the money. Some gave them useful information in exchange. Others gave them meaningless crumbs.

  “Madame Hivern, François, Madame Dinan, Marshal Rieux, fully half the nobles of Brittany took bribes or payments of some kind.”

  “And you.”

  He glances sharply at me. “No. I never took the bribes. Not until the duke lay dead and the promised payment was my last remaining son.”

  I shake my head. “No wonder the poor duke could never win a damned war,” I mutter.

  “Precisely. Oddly, some of his most loyal men were actually French—Captain Dunois, Louis d’Orléans.”

  That is the second time I have heard that name mentioned. “How many sons did you have, all told?” I ask softly, for we are speaking of my brothers.

  “Four.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Phillipe was the eldest, then Rogier, followed by Ives, then Anton.”

  “And Anton was the one the French held captive?”

  “Yes. He and Duval were great friends. They grew up together, trained together.”

  “And how would he feel about your betrayal of Brittany?”

  That arrow strikes home. Crunard’s nostrils flare in irritation and he looks away, but not before I see a brief twinge of shame. “He would not understand because he is young and full of noble ideals and has no idea what it is like to watch your children crumple before you like so many trampled weeds.”

  I do not know what to say to that, for part of me agrees. How can any of us know the heartache such a loss would create? How can any of us know how we would live—or try to live—with such pain?

  But I am unwilling to stay here and sympathize with him. I lift my skirts and turn to leave, but one last thought occurs to me. “Would any of the duchess’s suitors have helped her stave off the French invasion?”

  “Does it matter? She is now married to the Holy Roman emperor.”

  “Who has helped her very little. I want to know if she would have stood a chance with any of the others.”

  He thinks for a long moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

  “So all this has been for naught? The outcome was fixed from the start?”

  “Yes.” He laughs, a painful, defeated sound. “Her only hope of avoiding the war would have been a betrothal to the heir to the French throne himself.”

  “Why wasn’t she?”

  “Because at the time, the dauphin was betrothed to another, and the old king held too much animosity for the duke to award him such a prize as making his daughter queen. Once he died, the French regent was just as rigid in her thinking as her father.”

  “One last question. Does the French regent intend to allow the duchess to join the Holy Roman emperor in Austria? Or will some mysterious harm befall her along the way?”

  He meets my eyes and shakes his head. “That, I do not know. We can always hope that she will be true to her word.”

  And while he might be willing to pin the duchess’s future on such thin hopes, I am not.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  TWO DAYS LATER, THERE IS yet another Privy Council meeting. As they debate Marshal Rieux’s true intentions and his trustworthiness to lead troops who will actually fi
ght for the duchess and not turn against her when he snaps his fingers, I feel someone’s gaze on me. It is the abbess, looking at me like a hungry vulture watching a dying fox and wondering if the fox is worth the effort or if the vulture herself will be taken down in the struggle. I consider smiling coolly at her, but it takes more energy than I wish to expend on her behalf. Instead, I simply ignore her. Which has the added benefit of inflaming her further.

  I still do not know what I wish to do with the knowledge of her treachery. Whom I will tell. As I pointedly turn away from her, I glance at Father Effram, his lively blue eyes intent upon my face. When our gazes meet, he does not even have the grace to look away. Not knowing what to do, I bow my head in his direction, acknowledging him. He smiles broadly, so much so that it catches the abbess’s attention, who in turn scowls at the both of us. I nearly laugh, that she thinks she can silence us like two restless children in church when we are respected peers in this elevated company.

  I study the wooden cross that hangs around Father Effram’s neck and the hempen prayer cord with the nine beads. He is old. Older than anyone I have ever seen, and he clearly follows and respects the old ways. And from what I gathered from our conversation in the chapel, he seems wise and knowledgable. I glance once more at the abbess, who has returned her frigid gaze to the conversation going on. If anyone would know what sort of court or church council oversees the convent, it is he.

  “Very well, we will trust him.” Duval’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “But with caution, and we will appoint his second in command and make certain that person is someone loyal to us.”

  Everyone at the table agrees, except for Captain Dunois, who cannot find it in his heart to forgive the man.

  Chancellor Montauban clears his throat. “The French ambassador visits my chamber nearly every hour, demanding an audience with the duchess—and her answer.” The older man looks at the duchess with fondness and deep sympathy.

  “Is there no word from François?” she asks worriedly.

  “No, Your Grace. Which we must assume means there will be no more help from the Holy Roman emperor.”

  “I told you there wouldn’t be,” Chalon points out. “He is already spread too thin.”

  Duval turns his steely gaze upon Chalon, who tries not to flinch under it. “Oh, that is not why he cannot come.”

  “No?” Chalon sounds surprised.

  “No. He cannot come because the French regent has brokered a truce with him.”

  “My own husband betrayed me?” The duchess tries to sound strong, but it is hard not to hear the distress in her voice.

  “He did not betray you, Your Grace.” Chalon comes to his liege’s defense. “He has been fighting this war for years, and it has cost him untold resources in material and lives. He needed that truce for his own people and the security of his kingdom.”

  “At the expense of ours,” she murmurs.

  Duval nods. “Yes, for it has the undeniable effect of essentially tying his hands where Brittany is concerned, because if he makes a move to aid us, he finds himself embroiled in war with France once again.” In spite of Duval’s ire, there is also a note of begrudging admiration at how neatly the French regent has boxed us in and cut us off from our own allies.

  “What of the English forces? Have any more of their troops arrived in Rennes?”

  Captain Dunois shakes his head, looking almost ill. “No, Your Grace. The rest of the English troops will not be joining us here in the city.”

  Her brow creases in puzzlement. “Why not?”

  Dunois takes a deep breath. “They will be staying in Morlaix.” He and Montauban exchange a glance. “They are holding it as surety against payment for their aid,” he says softly.

  “And so the net tightens,” mutters Duval in disgust.

  When the council meeting is over, the abbess rises and heads my way. I pretend I do not see her and mutter into Sybella’s ear, “Distract her for a moment, would you?”

  She smiles wickedly. “But of course.” I do not linger to see how she does it, although part of me would like to, because I am certain it will be entertaining. Instead, I slip away to the old chapel. I do not know if I will find Father Effram there, but other than the council meetings, the chapel is the only place I have ever seen him.

  I walk slowly, hoping he will see where I am headed and that his curiosity will compel him to follow.

  Even if he does not, I could certainly do with some quiet contemplation and prayer right now. I have no earthly idea what to do. With the duchess and her council—nay, the very country—so beset by enemies and turmoil, I can hardly bear to add to it by telling them of the newest in a long line of betrayals. And yet . . .

  And yet surely those who have been wronged by the abbess’s choices and actions deserve justice, if not vengeance.

  The chapel is empty but for the nine flickering candles in front of the nine niches. As I stare at the Nine, an emptiness opens up inside me. Even the comfort of prayer has been taken from me, for I am no longer certain whom to pray to. I ball my hands into fists and force myself to take a deep breath.

  “Lady Annith? Is that you scowling at my altar?”

  I whirl around. “Father Effram! No, I wasn’t scowling. Well, not at your altar, at least. Only at all the weighty problems that bedevil us.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “And by us, you mean the duchess and Brittany? Or is there some other us?”

  The man may be older than time itself, but he is nobody’s fool. “Father, I would have you hear my confession.”

  He blinks in surprise, but he is not half as surprised as I am. “I did not know that followers of Mortain must needs confess their sins.”

  “That is part of what I must confess to you.”

  His curiosity is as pungent as the incense burning in the chapel’s censers. He motions for me to follow him to a small corner. “I cannot imagine you have anything to confess, my child. Surely you move within your god’s grace—”

  “But that is what I must tell you.” Tell someone. The secret presses against me, so heavy and full that I fear it will burst from me like an overripe plum from its skin.

  But once we are seated and his kind, curious eyes are on me, all the words that were crowding to get out flee before the immenseness of my confession.

  “What is it, my child? What troubles you?”

  “How great a sin is it to spend your entire life pretending you are one thing, only to find out that you were not that thing at all?”

  “I assume you are talking of yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “What thing did you pretend to be?”

  “A daughter of Mortain, sired by Him to be His handmaiden.”

  “And you are not His daughter?”

  “No. I have learned that I am not.”

  “Ah.” He leans back in his seat. “And now you feel as if you’ve tricked everyone?” When I nod, he tilts his head and studies me. “How old were you when you came to the convent?”

  “A babe.”

  “Well, then.” He spread his hands wide. “It cannot be your fault at all. If the convent made that assumption and had no methods for confirming such claims . . .”

  “But they were tricked. Someone knew. My mother, the abbess, for one.”

  His eyes widen in surprise, and I proceed to tell him the whole sordid story. It rushes out of me in one enormous surge of relief.

  When I have finished, he looks at me with a gentle expression. “Surely you must know that you are innocent in all this?”

  While I wish to believe this, I cannot. I look down at my hands, which are tangled in my lap. “Not so innocent, Father, for I have killed men.”

  He takes my hands in his own, forcing me to look up at him. “I believe He will understand, for even Mortain has been known to make mistakes.”

  I recoil in surprise. “Surely He has not!”

  “Ah, have you not heard the tale of how He took Amourna by mistake when it was really her si
ster He was after?”

  “Well, yes, but that is just a story those who follow Salonius tell. It is not what actually happened.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No! We at the convent know what truly happened.”

  “So say the followers of each of the Nine.”

  I sigh in exasperation, and he holds up his hand. “I did not say your version was wrong. But think on it: Why would they tell a story about a god as feared and revered as Mortain making a mistake?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.” In truth, I am in no mood for theological puzzles.

  He leans forward. “To show that even someone such as Mortain is capable of making a mistake.”

  “But He is a god!”

  “He is a god, but not God.” He points heavenward.

  I do not know what to say that. Instead, I change the subject. “One more thing, Father, and then I will leave you to your duties. Whom do those who worship the Nine answer to?”

  “Their gods, of course.”

  “Yes, but in matters of more earthly jurisdiction. I know there is a council of bishops who oversee the new church’s matters, but surely they do not hold authority over the Nine, do they?”

  “Authority? In what way?”

  “If someone must be brought to account, much like a Catholic priest might be stripped of his office, who would address such matters?”

  “Are you speaking of your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  He leans back, sighing. “That sort of thing has not come up in a very, very long time, but when it has happened in the past, a convocation of the Nine was called to preside over and judge such things.”

  “And that is?”

  “A council, a convocation, attended by the heads of each of the Nine, where the matter is brought before them and they decide what punishment, if any, is to be meted out.”

  “And how does one call a convocation of the Nine?”

  “A message is sent to the high priest or priestess or abbess of each of the Nine, and they in turn each send a representative to attend. But again, it has not been done in years. Certainly not in my lifetime.”