Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy)

by Robin LaFevers

  “Yes. The message arrived in Brest just as our boat landed. It bore the Privy Council seal.”

  Duval takes a huge gulp of wine, as if fortifying himself. “Which means someone on the council has ignored the duchess’s wishes and called the meeting himself.” The table grows silent at this dire implication.

  “Could she not have changed her mind?” I cannot help but ask.

  Duval glances at me as if he had forgotten I was there. “No,” he says gently.

  De Lornay turns to study me. “You picked a fine time to launch a romance,” he tells Duval.

  “Demoiselle Rienne is my cousin, not a romantic liaison,” he says. “As such, I expect you to extend her every courtesy.” There is no mistaking the warning in his voice and I cannot help feeling a small glow of gratitude.

  De Lornay’s striking dark eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Cousin?”

  “Cousin,” Duval growls. “I am launching her at court.”

  De Lornay whistles. “To what purpose? Other than to cause gossip and speculation among the entire court?”

  Duval grins, a quick flash of white teeth. “Is that not enough of a reason? However,” Duval continues, “your news changes everything. We should retire so we can get on the road at first light.” He stands and looks down at me.

  It takes me a moment to realize that supper is over and I am being dismissed. He holds out his arm, in case I have not caught his meaning.

  I narrow my eyes at him. Does he truly think I do not know his plan? That I will sit quietly in my room while he talks of kingdoms and traitors with these friends of his? Well and so, if he is that stupid, let him think I will do exactly as he wishes.

  I smile sweetly at him. “Of course, milord.” I rise to my feet and bid the others good night. As Duval escorts me from the room, I school my features into a mild, placid expression. At my door, he bids me a polite good night and leaves. I close the door and lean against it, listening. When I am certain he is gone, I open the door and peer out into the hallway. It is empty.

  Quiet as a shadow, I slip out of my room and hurry to find the servants’ stairway.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I descend the narrow stairway and pass through a small, cramped antechamber, then come to a thick door. The kitchens, no doubt. It is late, and if the saint is with me, most of the workers will be done for the night. I push the door open, a ready excuse at the tip of my tongue. But there are only two boys inside, over in the scullery corner scrubbing pots nearly as tall as they are.

  I wink at them, then hold my finger to my lips and offer them two copper coins. Their eyes brighten at this unexpected largesse. They snatch the coins from me with red, raw fingers and nod their acceptance of our bargain. Their loyalty thus purchased, I make my way to the door that will lead me to Duval’s secrets.

  It opens onto another short hallway between the kitchens and the dining hall. Perfect. I slip into the hallway, hide myself among the shadows, and inch along the wall toward the dining room.

  Duval is just returning to his seat. Beast looks up and grimaces. “Catch that wench’s eye and order more wine, will you? She is too awed by my pretty face to heed my call, and Lord Dandy here will not do it.”

  “Most likely because she’ll try to follow him back to his bedchamber,” Duval mutters.

  Ignoring Duval’s jab, de Lornay leans across the table. “Are you really going to flaunt this girl before the entire court? Your bloodlines are far too well known for such a deception.”

  Duval snorts. “I am hoping they will hear cousin and think mistress.”

  “They would if it were anyone but you,” de Lornay scoffs. “You may as well be a monk with as few women as you take to your bed.”

  Beast tilts his head to the side. “What is truly going on? Politics is your mistress, not some rustic from the country, no matter how charming she may be.”

  I blush in the darkness, glad there is no one to see.

  “And therein lies the rub,” Duval says. “No one will believe us, as I tried hard to explain to the abbess of St. Mortain.”

  My limbs go rigid with shock as he exposes my true identity to the others. He must hold them in even greater regard than I thought. Or my safety in less.

  Beast gapes at him. “That girl is from the convent of St. Mortain?”

  Duval grimaces into his goblet. “One of Death’s handmaidens, my friend.”

  Beast whistles. “Has she been set on you?”

  “She says no, as does her abbess. But the girl is about as trusting as the French regent, so I have my doubts.”

  Mayhap he is not as foolish as I think.

  Duval refills his goblet and recounts the story of how he was ensnared in the reverend mother’s trap. When he is done, Beast throws back his great, ugly head and laughs, frightening the serving maid even more.

  Duval stares morosely into the dregs of his cup. “It is not funny.”

  “Oh, but it is,” de Lornay says. “The master of more plots than a whore has lovers has been neatly caught in someone else’s.”

  Duval waits patiently for his friends’ mirth to pass. In truth, he is handling it much better than I would. I would have clouted them both by now.

  “If you’ve quite finished . . .” he says.

  “Sorry,” Beast murmurs, wiping his eyes with his massive fist. “What will you do?”

  “Lie as convincingly as I can and pray she doesn’t kill someone important.”

  This glum reply sets off Beast’s laughter anew until Duval has to reach out and kick him to get him to shut up. “You’re scaring the other patrons,” he mutters. “Now, tell me what news you bring from England, since I was not able to hear it from Runnion.”

  “Runnion truly did not reach you? What happened to him?” de Lornay asks.

  Duval jerks his head up toward the ceiling and my room.

  Beast’s eyes widen. “She happened to Runnion? But I thought the convent served Brittany?”

  “It does, or so I believe. But there has been a breakdown in our communications, which is why they’ve saddled me with this green stripling of a novitiate.”

  De Lornay leans forward, his face aflush with curiosity. “Have you bedded her yet?”

  Beast’s face takes on a rapt look. “They say to lie with a handmaiden of Death is the sweetest end imaginable.”

  “They do?” Duval looks momentarily surprised. Which is nothing to how I feel at this announcement. No one at the convent has thought to mention this to me.

  De Lornay shakes his head. “That is but a rumor,” he says with great authority.

  The other two turn to look at him.

  He shrugs. “I didn’t realize she was from the convent until the next morning, when the corrupt commander was found dead.”

  Although it is small of me, I cannot help but wonder who he has lain with. Sybella? Or one of the older initiates?

  “Enough.” Duval holds up his hand. “I would have your news from the English king.”

  Beast’s face grows somber. “He would not speak to us himself,” he says.

  “Or so his chancellor claimed,” de Lornay adds. “We could never be sure which it was.”

  “Either way, official channels were closed to us.”

  “What about unofficial channels?”

  “Ah, that is where we learned much, and most of it contradictory.” There is a long moment of silence, then Beast speaks. “The English king is considering an offer from the French regent. She will pay him an annual pension if he will not stand in the way of France invading Brittany.”

  Duval strikes the table with his fist, making us all jump. “Even after all the aid we gave him in his struggle for the crown?”

  Beast nods. “Even after.”

  “There is some good news,” de Lornay offers.

  “It would have to be very good to counter that,” Duval says.

  “Well, for one, the French regent is reluctant to pay the fifty thousand crowns the king is asking for. But more important,
the English king let it be known that he would put aside the negotiations and lend us aid if we would give him the four Breton cities the French still hold.”

  Duval lifts his goblet and studies it. “Everyone has a price, it seems.” He falls silent a moment, then shakes his head. “I fear the age of kingdoms and duchies is coming to an end. France is eating its way through Europe like a beggar at a banquet.” He leans back and fixes his companions with a considering gaze. “The French regent is doing her best to outfox our every attempt to join with our allies. The question is, is she simply being cautious and anticipating our moves? Or does she have specific knowledge of our plans?”

  Beast and de Lornay exchange a look. “I thought we were the only ones who knew our plans, outside of the Privy Council.”

  “Exactly,” Duval says, “which is what makes it such a burning question. If someone is feeding our secrets to the French, it is one of Anne’s closest advisors. And now we must wonder if that traitor is the same one who called this estate meeting or if there is a second traitor we must deal with.”

  They all digest this somber question in silence, then Duval lifts his goblet and drains it, grimacing at the dregs he’d forgotten in the bottom. “To bed, I think. We’ve an early start.”

  They stand up and clatter out of the room, and I turn and begin making my way back to my own chamber. I had hoped to learn something that incriminated Duval. Instead, I have learned just the opposite. Even when I am not present, his story is the same.

  Why, then, would he not discuss this in front of me? Unless he truly does not trust the convent? I bite back a sigh of frustration. Things would be much easier if I could just prove him traitor and be done with it. But no matter how I turn each word and gesture upside down, looking for hidden meaning and betrayal, I can find none.

  We are up early and on the road before dawn. Duval has sent Beast and de Lornay on ahead. I know that he chafes at our slower pace, but there is naught I can do about it.

  Recent rains have made the countryside wet and muddy, which further hampers our progress. As dusk falls, it becomes clear that in spite of Duval’s best efforts, we will not make Guérande by nightfall. Resigned, he turns off the main road and heads toward La Roche Bernard.

  La Roche Bernard sits on a rocky outcropping overlooking the Vilaine River. Its greatest feature is the new chateau the Geffoy family built after their last castle had been razed to the ground in the first war of succession.

  At the chateau, we are escorted to a great hall filled with rich, colorful tapestries and a roaring fire. A rotund man with sandy hair and beard leans in close to an elegant woman as if he’s hanging on every word she says. When the steward announces us, the woman pulls back and looks demurely into the fireplace, while the gentleman—the baron, I presume—rises to his feet and hurries to greet us.

  “Duval! What a pleasant surprise this is,” Baron Geffoy says, but his face gives lie to his words. In truth, there is a harried look about him that has me wondering if Duval isn’t precisely the last person he wishes to see right now. “We are graced with all sorts of visitors from court. Madame Hivern is staying with us for a few days.”

  Duval’s head snaps up, and his cold gray eyes zero in on the lovely woman by the fireplace.

  The baron lowers his voice. “Being at court right now is too painful for her, as you well know.”

  “So she keeps claiming,” Duval murmurs. There is an angry, bitter note in his voice that I have not heard before. I glance again to the fireplace. Madame Hivern sits with her head bowed, the very picture of pious contemplation—indeed, it is the same pose I adopt at the convent when I fear I have been caught whispering to Annith or Sybella.

  “Baron, I would like you to meet my cousin Demoiselle Rienne.”

  Geffoy smiles knowingly at the word cousin. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says. An unsavory gleam appears in his eye. “Please make yourself comfortable in my home, my dear,” he says. “Will you be joining us for dinner, Duval? Or are you too exhausted from your journey?”

  Duval’s eyes are still pinned on Madame Hivern when he answers. “We would join you and hear the news at court.” Surely the woman can feel him looking at her. Why does she not glance up?

  Almost as if hearing my thoughts, she lifts her head just then. Although her charming expression never changes, her hostility toward Duval is palpable.

  “Excellent! I will have someone show you to your rooms so you may refresh yourselves.” The baron leans in close to Duval. “I will be sure you and your cousin have adjoining rooms, mais oui?”

  His vile wink has my hand itching for my dagger. Perhaps sensing this, Duval grabs my elbow and escorts me to the stairs.

  My chamber is large and well appointed. I cast a longing glance at the immense canopied bed that I cannot enjoy for hours yet. I sigh with regret, then turn to make myself ready for the evening. As I disrobe, my mind returns to the baron’s unease at seeing Duval, Hivern’s hostility, and Duval’s tightly controlled reaction. Mayhap I will learn something of importance tonight.

  At least the mystery of what lies between Duval and Hivern will provide some small measure of entertainment during dinner. I cannot help but wonder how much of Duval’s wish to dine in the great room has to do with her. Even from far away, I could tell she is very beautiful; her skin pale, her hair the color of spun gold and dressed in an artful style. The elegant Hivern has made me exquisitely aware of every lesson on court manners and womanly charms I have missed.

  I catch my reflection in the small oval of polished silver hanging on the wall. We could not be more different. She has the feel of a delicately wrought treasure. I, on the other hand, am dark and serious; a faint frown draws my brows together. In my mind, I can almost hear the mocking laughter when the baron and his wife learn of my fakery and deception. I will not let that happen. I relax my scowl, which improves my looks somewhat but not nearly enough.

  I dip the linen cloth into the warm water—scented faintly with rose petals, a true luxury—and take the opportunity to wash my face and arms and anywhere else I can reach.

  I travel with only one gown grand enough for this evening, so with reluctance I put it on. I have not grown any more fond of it since I wore it last. And while I have no fancy headdress such as Madame Hivern wears, I do have my hairnet with the pearls. I smile at this reminder of the dark skills I possess that Hivern does not.

  As I poke the last stubborn tendril of hair into place, there is a knock at my door. I open it to find Duval, ready to escort me to dinner. He takes in my greatly altered appearance, much as I take in his. He has changed from his riding leathers to an elegant black doublet with fresh white linen at his neck. I wonder briefly if black is a signature color for him. He eyes me thoroughly, and I grow a bit flustered under the warmth of his gaze. “I am not certain I would let my cousin appear in public in such a gown,” he says at last.

  “Your cousin has no other choice available to her, milord.”

  A look of resignation settles over his face. “And so our lots are cast.” He holds out his arm. “Come, let us join the others.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I gingerly place my hand on his sleeve. Annoyed by these courtesies I must endure, I look for a way to torment him. “Madame Hivern did not look especially pleased to see you,” I point out. “Nor the baron, come to that.”

  He snorts, and the earthy noise catches me off-guard. “Madame Hivern and I do not see eye to eye on many things. The baron’s discomfort is somewhat newer.” Then he looks down at me, a faint air of amusement touching his eyes. “You do know who she is, do you not?”

  I curse my own ignorance. It is even worse than being assigned to Duval’s care. “No,” I say shortly. “I do not.”

  Duval gives a short bark of a laugh. “That, dear assassin, is the late duke’s mistress.”

  I gasp in surprise. “The French whore?”

  He glances at me sharply. “Why do you call her that?”

  I shrug as
I try to peer ahead into the room, full of lewd curiosity now that I know who she is. “That is what the sisters at the convent called her,” I tell him.

  There is a long, heavy moment of silence. When I look back at him, his whole demeanor has shifted and the amusement is gone from his face. “Yes,” he says. “And just so you are clear, I am the French whore’s son.”

  I feel as if a giant cavern has just opened up at my feet as Duval’s words clang through my head like a great bell. He is one of the duke’s bastards. Half brother to the duchess.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Duval tugs my arm and pulls me into the great hall. It is ablaze with a roaring fire and candles burning brightly in heavy silver holders, but I hardly register any of this as my mind scrambles back to Sister Eonette’s tapestries. The French whore is listed there, along with her five children by the late duke, but they are listed by first name only, and the name Gavriel is common enough.

  Did the abbess know that I was going into this blind? Was this part of her test? Or was there merely a mistaken assumption that I would know the duke’s bastard by the name Duval?

  As if from a great distance, I hear Baron Geffoy say, “Here they are now.” With effort, I try to concentrate on the introductions. “Viscount Duval, Demoiselle Rienne, this is my ladywife, Katerine.” She is a drab peahen of a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes, and I warm to her immediately.

  “Her brother, Anthoine de Loris, and my steward, Guy de Picart. And of course, Duval, you already know the charming Madame Hivern.”

  The clash of Duval’s and Hivern’s gazes as they meet is as loud as the opening parry of any duel, but what makes my breath catch is the brief glimpse of pain I see in Duval’s face before he shutters it. It is so fleeting, I cannot help but wonder if I have imagined it.

  When Hivern puts her hand out for Duval to kiss, he dons his formal court manners like a suit of armor and bows over it. “As always, your presence leaves me speechless, madame.”