The abbess raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes. The incompetence of your novices, for one.” He places undue emphasis on the word novice, I think.
“Twice now, she”—he jabs his finger in my direction—“has interfered with my work. The convent cannot keep sending out agents who destroy valuable sources of information.”
“Twice?” I challenge him, for I have seen him only once before.
“The tavern.” At my blank look, he hunches his shoulders and leers. “‘Hurry back down to Hervé when you are done, eh?’”
The oaf! He was the oaf at the tavern. My fists clench at the memory.
The reverend mother speaks, her cold voice drawing his attention back to her. “The convent has always acted alone in carrying out Mortain’s will. Are you suggesting we need your permission?” Her tone implies he should not be suggesting any such thing.
He folds his arms across his chest. “I propose only that some thought be applied to your actions. Twice now you have gotten to men before I did. And while you and your saint are interested in meting out retribution, I am interested in information that can guide our country out of this wretched hole we are in.”
“You wanted them for questioning.” The reverend mother’s flat tone does not reveal whether she feels remorse for having disrupted his plans.
Duval nods. “I am sure, given the right incentive, they could have led us to the puppet master pulling their strings.”
Crunard sits forward in his chair, suddenly alert. “Surely they come from the French regent?”
“Perhaps,” Duval says cautiously. “But she is working with someone at court and I would like to know who.”
Crunard spreads his hands in invitation. “Will you share your suspicions with us?”
“Not at this time.” Duval speaks quietly, but his refusal is shocking just the same.
Crunard recovers first. “Surely you’re not suggesting we are not trustworthy?”
“I suggest no such thing, but it would be unwise for me to voice any suspicions I have without sufficient evidence. Unfortunately”—he sends me another scathing glance—“someone keeps destroying my evidence.”
Mouth pursed in thought, the abbess folds her arms in her sleeves. “How do you propose we rectify this? Are we to consult with you every time the saint bids us act?”
Duval runs his hand through his hair and turns to the window. “Not necessarily. But we must find a better way to coordinate our efforts. Because of your novice’s actions, the duchess has lost valuable information.”
I feel as if I’ve been slapped. “Might have lost,” I correct under my breath.
He looks at me in surprise. “Excuse me?”
I willingly bow to my god and my abbess, but I’ll be damned if I will bow to this man. I raise my head and meet his gaze. “I said might have lost. It is not certain that these men had any vital information.”
He strides toward me then, coming so close that I must tilt my head back to meet his glower. He places his hands on the arms of my chair, imprisoning me. “But we will never know, will we?” His voice is soft and mocking and he is so near I feel his words move across my skin.
“Duval!” The reverend mother’s sharp voice breaks through our tense silence. “Quit intimidating my novice.”
He flushes and pushes away from my chair.
“I was not intimidated,” I mutter under my breath.
He glances angrily at me but says nothing. A small tic begins at the base of his jaw. He appeals to Chancellor Crunard. “Tell them. Tell them how delicate the balance. How each bit of information has the power to sway that balance.”
“He has no need to tell me,” the abbess says sharply.
Crunard spreads his hands. “Then you know it is true. The circling vultures grow bold. The regent of France has forbidden that Anne be crowned duchess. It is our enemies’ wish to make her France’s ward so that they may claim Brittany for their own. They also claim the right to determine who she will marry.”
Duval begins pacing. “Spies are everywhere. We can scarce keep track of them all. The French have set up a permanent entourage within our court, which has made some of the border nations uneasy.”
Crunard adds, “Not to mention that their presence makes it impossible to see our duchess crowned without their knowledge. But until we place that crown upon her head before her people and the Church, we are vulnerable.”
I cannot help but feel sympathy for our poor duchess. “Surely there is some way out of this mess?”
I have addressed my question to the abbess, but it is Duval who answers. “I will forge one with my bare hands, if need be,” he says. “I vow that I will see her crowned duchess, and I will see her safely wed. But I need information against our enemies if I am to accomplish this.”
The room falls so silent that I fear they will hear the pounding of my heart. Duval’s vow has moved me, and that he has made it on sacred ground proves he is either very brave or very foolish.
At last the abbess speaks. “I will concede your greater experience in the matter of gathering information,” she says.
At her words, Duval relaxes somewhat. The fool. The look she has given him is one that all of us at the convent have learned to fear, and I, for one, do not care for the gleam in her eye one bit.
“Your concern for our country is admirable, and it is true that few are as committed as you.” Her compliments lull him further into an illusion of safety. “And,” she continues, “I know you are as anxious to help us as we are to help you.”
Duval’s face creases into a frown as he tries to recall expressing such a thing. My heart swells with pride at how neatly the reverend mother is boxing him in. She glances at Chancellor Crunard, who gives a slight nod.
“We will be happy to work with you. And in order that we may do so more smoothly, we will place Ismae in your household for the next few weeks.”
The shock of her words forces all the air from my lungs, which is the only thing that keeps me from shouting No!
Duval sends me a horrified look—as if this has somehow been my doing! He opens his mouth to protest, but the abbess talks over him.
“We need someone at court. I don’t like being so far away when there is such turmoil surrounding our duchess. Posing as your mistress, Ismae will have access to all the people and information the convent requires. More important, she will be in a position to act when needed. And”—she gives him a beatific smile—“coordinating our respective duties will then be possible.”
I cannot help but admire the neatly set trap she has built around him. I would admire it even more if I had not been the bait. “But Reverend Mother—” I start, but she silences me with a look.
Duval, however, does not owe her the same blind obedience. “You are mad,” he says simply, and the reverend mother’s face hardens. “I shall do no such thing. I do not have time to play nursemaid to one of your novitiates.”
“Then any chance we have of coordinating our efforts is lost,” she says, her entire demeanor cold and distant.
“You are blackmailing me,” Duval says, aggrieved.
“No, only agreeing to the cooperation you yourself have requested.” And there it is. He is well and truly trapped, and he knows it.
When he huffs out a sigh of resignation, I know she has won. “I will not claim her as mistress. We shall say she is my cousin.” That barb finds its home. Am I so very repugnant?
The abbess looks incredulous. “And who will believe you? Your family and its ties are too well known for that to work.”
“Besides,” Sir Crunard adds, “no one would place an unwed maid in your care without female family members to chaperone. It is much more believable that you have simply taken a mistress.”
I clear my throat, and the abbess raises an eyebrow, giving me permission to speak. “Would it not work for me to be installed in his kitchens? Or as a maid?”
She waves her hand, brushing away my suggestions. “You would
not have access to court then, which is the whole point of this exercise.”
“Except,” Duval points out, “I am not known to favor mistresses. Not to mention that if I did, it would certainly not be one who was greener than a winter apple.”
I set my teeth at his words. I am not that unpolished.
Reverend Mother leans back in her chair and tsks. “You exaggerate, milord. Ismae has been well trained in all things, including how to act as a man’s mistress.”
Clearly now will not be a good time to confess to playing truant during most of Sister Beatriz’s lessons.
“But more important,” Duval continues, “with the way things are at court, I cannot assure her protection.”
“I do not need protection,” I say, offended at such a suggestion.
“No, she does not,” the abbess agrees. “She merely needs an opportunity to act.”
“You would leave such life-and-death decisions to a novice?”
“Of course not,” Reverend Mother snaps. “We leave such life-and-death decisions in the hands of Mortain, where they belong.” She turns to me. “You’ll leave with Duval within the hour. Go pack a small bag to take with you. We’ll have the rest of your things sent to his residence in Guérande. You may go.”
Dizzy at the speed with which my world has been turned upside down, I stall, trying to think of one last argument I can make. I have joined the convent to withdraw from the world of men, not to be thrust upon the mercy of one.
The abbess leans across her desk. “Have you forgotten your vow for complete and unyielding obedience in all things?” she asks in a low voice. “You are but a novice. You still have much proving to do before you can take your final vows.”
I swallow my remaining protests and go to my room to pack.
Chapter Ten
Before I finish packing, there is a knock at my door. When the reverend mother walks in, I am stunned into silence. She has never visited my quarters before.
She closes the door behind her, eyes alight with a cold, blue fire. “You see how conveniently this aligns with our plans, don’t you?”
It is true. Duval has given her an opening to carry out the very subterfuge she’d been planning minutes before he burst into her office. “It is what you wanted, Reverend Mother.”
“It is what Mortain wants, child,” she says sharply. “Or else it would not be so easily arranged. Settle your mind to this, Ismae. Even if Duval is guilty of nothing more than temper and poor manners, this arrangement will serve us well, for there are many at court who bear watching. I would know with whom Duval spends time, who his allies are, what correspondence he sends. And receives. Keep an eye out for anything from the French regent. Be truthful with him whenever possible. It will be the quickest way to lull him into trust. I am not overly fond of coincidences and would like to better understand why he was in that room. He has complete access to the duchess, and her complete confidence as well. I want to be certain he is serving her interests.”
“Is that whose interests we serve, Reverend Mother? Does serving the duchess serve Mortain? I am not being impudent,” I rush to add. “I truly do not understand.”
Her face softens. “But of course it is the same, child. Every day thousands of Breton voices beg our gods to keep them safe from the French and to keep our duchess strong. You can be certain France does not pray to our gods. Nor will the French honor the old saints as we do should they succeed in conquering our land. France is too closely aligned with the current pope, who would see all forms of worship but his own purged from the world. Of course Mortain does not wish that.”
She lifts her hand from the folds of her gown and I now see that she carries something wrapped in soft, worn leather. “You have made only two kills, not three, but you are close to completing your training. This assignment is your final test. Once you pass it, you will only have to say your vows to be fully committed to this convent.”
Dismayed that she would think otherwise, I meet her gaze, willing her to see the truth of my words. “I am fully committed already, Most Holy Mother.”
“I know. Which is why I am giving you one of Mortain’s own daggers.”
I blink in surprise. I have never heard of such a dagger before.
“Full initiates carry them, and since you will be acting as such, I would see you properly armed with a misericorde.” She unwraps the leather and reveals an ancient dagger with a handle made of antler and chased with silver. The blade is a handbreadth long and worn with age. “This knife possesses an old, ancient magic, one of Mortain’s greatest gifts,” she says, holding it out to me. When I take it in my hand, it is warm.
“On a living man,” she continues, “the misericorde needs only to pierce the skin in order to release the soul from the body. Because the dagger was fashioned by Mortain Himself, only a cut or scratch will send a person’s soul to Him, quick and sure. It is meant as a weapon of grace—a way to invoke death and release the soul from painful days spent lingering and pondering one’s sins and wrongdoings.”
Awed by the power of this gift, I slip it through the slit in my gown and attach it to my waist; the weight of it is reassuring against my leg. This talk of souls has also reminded me of Martel. “Reverend Mother, as Martel’s soul left his body, I felt it rush through me. Is that . . . normal?”
The abbess stares at me a long moment, then frowns slightly. “But of course. It was your first encounter with a soul, yes?” When I nod, she continues. “The encounter was no doubt powerful and unexpected, as it is no small thing to experience a soul in all its richness.” She reaches out and puts her hand to my cheek as a mother would her babe’s. “You came to us a lump of clay, and we molded you into an instrument of Death. Duval is the bow through which we will launch you at our common enemies. Go now, and make us proud. Do not shame us with doubt or hesitation.”
And indeed, I am filled with remorse at her words. I am naught but a tool of the convent, to be wielded at need. Who am I to question those who have raised me up from the cellar floor?
I am a handmaiden of Death. I walk in His dark shadow and do His bidding. Serving Him is my only purpose in this life, and I have let my annoyance drive that duty from my mind. It will not happen again.
Instead of heading directly to the courtyard, I take a quick detour to tell Annith goodbye. Sybella did not have time to say farewell, and I would not have Annith suffer that twice.
She is in the rookery, helping the elderly Sister Claude. She startles at my approach, her eyes widening as she takes in my traveling cloak and satchel. She presses her lips firmly together and she turns away.
I pick my way across the bird droppings to where she is resealing a small parchment with beeswax. Guilt at having been chosen before her—yet again—fills me. I try to lighten the mood. “Sister Claude will catch you,” I tease.
Annith keeps her attention firmly on hiding the signs of her snooping. “And I will argue that this is what they have trained me for.”
“True enough.”
Silence stretches out between us as she finishes her task. When she speaks, it is as if she is pushing bitter pips off her tongue. “You are going out again.”
There is no answer I can give her but the truth. “I am to become a member of Viscount Duval’s household.”
Her head snaps up, her interest caught in spite of her disappointment. “The one who burst in on the reverend mother this morning?”
I nod. There are still no voices in the courtyard, so I quickly tell Annith of the night’s events and what transpired in the abbess’s office. When I finish, she tosses the resealed message down on the table with disgust. “It should be me,” she says with quiet fierceness.
“I know. I can only think that the abbess must have something truly special she is saving you for.”
“It is because I failed at the lesson with the corpse.”
It is the only one of the convent’s lessons at which Annith failed to excel—the time we were made to practice our skills on corpses.
Sybella and I had our pasts to give us strength for the task, but Annith did not. “Faltered, not failed,” I say. “And you did it in the end. Sister Arnette said you passed. That cannot be it. Mayhap it is simply because you are younger?”
“I am only a year younger than you and Sybella. And Sybella was my age when they first sent her out.” She glares at me, not wanting my words of comfort. “Do they know how many classes you’ve skipped?”
“Sister Serafina needed my help in the workshop!”
“Even so,” she sniffs. “I am better at dancing and coquetry, not to mention I can beat you seven out of ten times in our practices.”
Her words pluck at my own worries. This assignment will not be a case of quickly slipping in and then out again undetected. It will be a prolonged deception before those who can easily sniff out an impostor. “I am sure she knows that,” I say, and hope that it is true.
Her haughty expression crumples. “If it is not the corpse, then it makes no sense,” she whispers, and I feel her despair as if it were my own.
“Have you asked the abbess?” I would never take such a risk, but Annith is far more at ease with the reverend mother than I am.
“And have her question my faith and dedication to Mortain?” she scoffs. “I think not.”
I hear a male voice in the courtyard, reminding me where my current duties lie. “I must go. Please don’t let us part in anger.”
She steps closer and throws her arms around me. “I am not mad at you.”
I hug her back and wonder how long it will be until I see her again. “Perhaps you will join me at court soon?” I suggest.
“I will pray for it nightly.”
I glance at the resealed parchment on the table before her. “No word from Sybella?”
“None.” Then her face brightens. “Perhaps you will learn of her at court.”
Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 7