It is clear he will not budge until he is good and ready. I settle back down under the covers, too aware of his presence, of the lack of space between us. Of only the thin linen of my nightshift covering me. I clear my throat. “Did you learn anything of our attackers?” I ask.
“Sleep now, Ismae. We will talk more in the morning.” His voice is low, naught but a faint rumble in the night air.
I am certain I will never fall back to sleep, and yet I do. And when I awake in the morning, he is gone. It is as if he was never there at all.
When Louyse comes to help me dress, I am unable to meet her eye. Does she know that Duval spent a good portion of the night in my room? If so, she gives no indication. She is either remarkably discreet or truly unaware.
With a pleasant “Good morning, demoiselle” she sets a ewer of water on the stand and lays a fresh chemise on my bed. As she moves to the garderobe to collect my gown, I slip quickly out of bed, eager to get into my chemise while she is not looking. When she returns with my gown, she blinks in surprise but says nothing. The woman is well trained.
I step into my skirt and she moves behind me to fasten it. “The viscount is in his study,” she says, lacing up the back of my gown. “He asked that you join him when you are ready.”
“Very well.” I hope she does not hear the reluctance in my voice.
The door opens again and I flinch slightly at this intrusion, but it is only the serving girl Agnez bringing me a tray so that I may break my fast. Once I am fully dressed and brushed, and after I assure them—twice—that I can manage my breakfast unattended, they finally take their leave. I close my eyes and allow myself to savor the solitude, even just for a moment. But the knowledge that Duval is waiting robs me of whatever peace it might bring. I tear a corner from the loaf of bread on the breakfast tray and nibble at it, hoping it will calm the roiling nerves in my gut.
Feeling restless and awkward, I pace as I nibble, unable to stand still. It is as if sometime during the night I have outgrown my own skin. Duval’s presence still lingers, like the faintest trace of perfume, and my ankle still bears the memory of that touch. I find myself wishing for a great throbbing bruise instead. That I would know how to deal with better than this.
Agitated, I go to the window and throw open the shutters, welcoming the chill morning into the room. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, pulling the sharp cold air deep into my lungs. I will it to clear my addled wits and am pleased when it does. But even with my wits restored, I cannot discern Duval’s strategy.
He could easily have made me his mistress in truth last night. With the spell he cast over me, I am not even sure I would have fought very hard. And yet he did not. Is he that honorable? Or is it but one more way to keep me unbalanced, to keep me wondering what his next move will be?
With a grimace of disgust, I toss the remaining bread out into the courtyard below and turn from the casement. It is a strategy, I tell myself. And an excellent one at that. But I will not let myself be lulled into a false sense of accord between us. I cross the room to the bed, then withdraw my blades and sheaths from where I have hidden them under the mattress. Only when I have strapped them firmly in place do I go to find Duval.
He is in his study behind a large desk. Gone is the travel-stained man I journeyed across the country with. In his place is a finely dressed courtier in a doublet of dark blue. He has shaved the whiskery stubble that lent such a dark and dangerous air to his face. A pot of ink and half a dozen quills are on one side of him, stacks of parchment on the other, and his fingers wield a quill with quick, bold strokes.
When he looks up, I am sorely vexed to be caught staring, so I step inside the room, holding my head high and fighting the shyness that plucks at me. “Good morning.” My voice is cool and remote.
“I will be with you in a moment,” he says, returning his attention to the letter in front of him.
Torn between annoyance and relief, I saunter to the two trestle tables that have been set up to hold the overflow of papers and maps from his desk. A map of Brittany is spread out, and small, colored pebbles are scattered across it. I squint my eyes and see a shape and pattern to the pebbles. The dark ones mark the towns and villages that France took easily during the Mad War. Is he trying to determine where the French will attack if they do not get their way? A shadow passes over my heart. Sweet Mortain, not another war.
Duval finishes his letter and sets it aside before looking up at me. “How did you sleep last night?” There is a gleam of amusement in his eyes—eyes that are very nearly blue from the reflected color of his doublet—that I do not care for.
“Poorly, I am afraid, milord. My sleep was much disturbed.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” he says, even though he knows full well he is the cause. Before I can point that out to him, he holds up his hand. “Peace,” he says. “We have much to discuss this morning before I leave and very little time.”
It costs me to let him have the last word, but I nod in agreement nevertheless.
Duval tosses his quill on the desk and leans back in his chair. “I was correct. Someone has called the meeting of the Estates without the duchess’s knowledge or consent, and she is most aggrieved. All the barons of the realm are now gathered here in Guérande like eager vultures. Even worse, the French envoy will no doubt witness the entire spectacle and report back to the French regent.”
“Perhaps he will bear a marque,” I say with hope. “Then I can kill him before he carries tales back to the French.”
Duval grimaces. “By all means, if you see a marque on the French ambassador, kill him with my blessing along with Mortain’s. However, if you think that will stop the leak of information from our court to France, you are more naive than you appear.”
I bristle at his words, wanting to argue that I am not naive, but it has become clear that the convent has woefully underprepared me for this assignment.
Or perhaps it is the convent that is underprepared. It is a most unsettling thought, and I push it away. “Did you learn anything further from the footpad who attacked us?”
A grimace of embarrassment crosses his face. “No.” He rises to his feet and stalks to the window. “I’m afraid I clouted him a bit too soundly. He has yet to wake up.”
“Did you search through his belongings? Was there nothing that hinted at who they were or why they were there?”
“No, they had no standard or signed note of instruction stuffed neatly in their purses.” His mocking tone prods me to my feet as well.
“Of course not. But had they been paid? What coin did they carry? Were their cloaks of Flemish wool, or their boots of Italian leather? We can learn much from these details.”
Duval’s brows lift in respectful surprise. “They carried French coin, but that tells us little, as half the coinage in the realm is French. Their cloaks were of cheap make, but their boots were of the finest leather, so they made some attempt at concealing their origins.”
I try not to look smug, but before I can enjoy my small victory, he changes the subject.
“I have a number of meetings today. As you can imagine, the duchess has much to sort out with these newest developments, and I would be there to offer her guidance.”
“Will they not question my presence, my lord?”
He looks at me in amusement. “They would indeed, demoiselle, which is why you will not be there.”
“But what am I to do? Shall I question the footpad when he awakes? Or perhaps I should attempt to learn who it was that called for the meeting of the Estates in the first pla—”
He raises his hand to stop my flow of words. “None of those. In fact, you will have a meeting too, of sorts.” I do not like the smile playing about his mouth. “A seamstress, one of the duchess’s, will be here shortly to fashion a gown for you to wear tonight when I present you at court.”
“A . . . gown,” I splutter. He cannot be serious. He cannot think I will sit and be poked and prodded with pins and silk while he is off attending to ma
tters of state. “That is not in our agreement, my lord.”
“A good subterfuge requires preparation and attention to detail. Surely the convent taught you that much? If you are appear tonight as my mistress—”
“I thought we had settled on cousin,” I say stiffly.
He leans against the wall near the window and folds his arms across his chest. “You must realize the futility of that now. My bloodlines on both sides are too well known for me to pull a cousin out of my lineage like a conjurer’s trick.”
My cheeks flame red at this reminder of my earlier blunder. He purses his lips and taps his finger against them, studying me. “In fact, that is what you can do once your gown has been properly fitted. You can study the noble families of Brittany so that when you meet them face to face tonight, you will not make similar mistakes.”
I raise my chin. “I have already studied them, my lord, but unless they carry their shields or colors or display their coats of arms, I have no way of recognizing them.”
“True enough, but you will forgive me if I am somewhat leery of what you learned at the convent. I would like to be certain you possess the basic facts of the situation.”
A hot bubble of anger rises up inside me, but I force it back down. At first, I think it is his arrogance that has made me angry, but then I realize I am angry because he has planted tiny, wicked seeds of doubt within me.
He strolls to a chessboard near the window. There is a game in progress, I see—but no, there are far too many pieces for that. There are, in fact, twice as many pieces as in a regular game.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“No.” This is a lie. I do play, just not very well.
“I am surprised,” he says. “I would think the convent would find chess a useful tool for their novices.”
“They do.” Honesty compels me to admit it. “But it is not one of my strengths.”
A corner of Duval’s mouth lifts in amusement. “Too impatient, perhaps?”
I force myself to unclench my jaw. “So I was told,” I mutter.
Ignoring my discomfiture, he reaches down and lays a finger on top of the white queen. She is flanked by a small cluster of white pieces. Surrounding her are dozens of dark pieces. “The French,” Duval says, “press hard against us. They look for any excuse to step in and swallow us whole. They not only wait but actively plot and plan. If they can create discord within our ranks, they will cheerfully do so and use that as a justification to help themselves to our country. I know they are paying off some of our barons, but I do not yet know which ones. I am working on gathering that information.”
“That is precisely what the convent explained to us, my lord.” With the exception of the barons being bribed by the French regent, but I will bite off my tongue before admitting that to him.
“There are two things we must do,” he continues, as if I have not spoken. “Secure a strong marriage alliance for the duchess, and see her crowned. Both are made more difficult by the French envoy’s presence here at court. What do you know of Anne’s suitors?” he asks.
“That she was dangled like bait in front of all the princes in Christendom and promised to nearly half of those,” I say.
Duval’s lips twist in a sour smile. “Precisely so. However, the one who is most determined to ensure that promise is kept is Count d’Albret. His suit has some support among the Privy Council, as well as among the barons. He has a number of large holdings and thousands of men-at-arms that he can call upon to fight against the French. It does not hurt his cause any that his half sister, the duchess’s governess of many years, sits on the Privy Council. She is much in favor of his suit. The duchess herself, however, is greatly opposed to the match, as am I.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He looks at me, incredulous. “You have seen the man.”
“Not truly. He was surrounded by his outriders yesterday. I only caught a glimpse of his bulk and his poor lathered horse.”
“Yes, well, he treats his wives much as he does his horses, but he goes through wives much faster.”
His words strike a chord of memory. “Six,” I say, remembering Sister Eonette’s teachings. “He has had six wives so far. Indeed, he has gained much of his wealth and many of his holdings through those marriages.”
Duval plucks a black knight from the board and scowls at it viciously. “You will forgive me if I mislike those odds.”
I gape at him. “What are you suggesting?”
His jaw twitches. “Only that marriage and childbirth are hard on women, especially d’Albret women. Besides, I harbor suspicions of his role in our final and losing battle with the French.”
“But I thought d’Albret rode to our rescue with four thousand troops?”
“Yes, but he was supposed to charge the center with those troops during the battle, and instead they hung back. I cannot decide if it was due to the normal chaos of battle or some ulterior purpose.”
I am quiet a long moment as I ponder the many reasons d’Albret would be a most unsuitable match. “But surely he is not the only one of Anne’s suitors who wants to claim her hand? She has been promised to so very many.”
Duval drops the chess piece back on the board, then holds up his hand. “The Spanish prince is too ill right now to think of pursuing his betrothal agreement, although his royal parents have offered fifteen hundred troops to aid us. The English prince went missing from his tower over five years ago and is unable to follow through with those betrothal plans. Two of the other contenders are already married, although they are seeking annulments from the pope even as we speak. That leaves the Holy Roman emperor. He is by all accounts a good leader and a decent man, as well as a powerful ruler over both Germany and the Holy Roman Empire. But he is mired in wars of his own and cannot send us any aid. Further, if we betroth Anne to the Holy Roman emperor, France will call it an act of war, and we will need troops to defend the alliance.”
“Thus the plea to England for support.”
“Exactly so. And we still do not know which side the English king will favor.”
I stare at the board, painfully aware just how desperate the duchess’s situation is. “She is well and truly under siege then,” I murmur.
“That is a most excellent assessment of the situation, I’m afraid.” Duval’s gaze lingers on me for a long moment before he reaches toward the board once more. He lifts up a discarded white pawn and sets it in front of the white queen.
“Who is that, my lord?”
When he looks up, his eyes are so dark they seem almost black. “You,” he says, our eyes holding for a long moment. “I can count you among those loyal to the duchess, can’t I?”
“Of course, my lord,” I murmur, struggling against the unexpected warmth his words bring me. But, I remind myself, I am not the issue. Better for me to ask if I can count him among those loyal to the duchess. Instead, I look back down at the board and wonder what piece Duval has assigned to himself.
Chapter Eighteen
I stand among a gaggle of women who are clucking and honking like a flock of geese. They are tugging and pulling and patting and smoothing until I fear I will scream. Instead, I stare out the window at the lengthening shadows and wonder how they would react if they knew what I planned to hide under this fine skirt and these elaborate sleeves.
Louyse gives a final tug, then steps back. “You look a wonder, demoiselle.” There is a warm glow in her old cheeks.
Young Agnez clasps her hands together as if in prayer. “It is the finest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I want to dismiss their foolish prattle, but as I finger the heavy silken brocade, I cannot help but agree. I do not know where these seamstresses have found this gown or whose it was supposed to be, but it is mine now, and I must remind myself that assassins should take no pleasure in their finery and frippery.
But surely even a knight can admire his armor?
“Go get the mirror from the master’s chambers,” Louyse tells the others.
“That is not necessary,” I tell her. “I trust what you have done.”
“Pish.” Louyse flaps her hand. “You should see how lovely you look.”
I realize then how much she misses having a lady of the manor. I also realize that she does indeed know that Duval has spent the night in my room and is much pleased by it. The housekeeper appears to have a taste for romance, and I do not have the heart to take that from her, so I keep silent.
Agnez and the other two women return to the room, lugging the heavy mirror between them. When they lean it against the wall, Louyse takes my hand and gently pulls me toward it. “There.” The triumph in her voice is unmistakable.
“Well? What do you think?” Young Agnez is practically bouncing on her toes in her excitement.
Slowly I lift my eyes to the image in the mirror and for one heart-stopping moment I do not recognize that person. It is most certainly not me, for my complexion has never been that fine nor my cheeks tinged with such a becoming shade of pink. The dusk-colored gown has done something to my eyes, and they shine back deep and luminous. I am filled with a ridiculous desire to lift my skirts and twirl to see how the fabric moves. Instead, I scowl at my image and turn away abruptly. “It will do,” I say, and I harden my heart against the women’s falling faces. “Now leave me, please. I would like a few moments alone before I go.”
“But your hair,” Louyse says, her old face uncertain now.
I soften my voice. “Thank you, but I can dress it myself. You forget that I am convent raised and all this vanity sits poorly on me.”
“Ah.” Her old face clears with understanding, and she reaches out and pats my hand. Then she shoos the others from my room as she leaves, and I am blessedly alone. At least for a moment. I allow myself another quick look in the mirror, and—with no one to see—I do give a twirl, savoring the thick drape of the heavy skirt and the way the fabric ripples like water.
Grave Mercy (Book I): His Fair Assassin, Book I (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 13
