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

by Robin LaFevers

  Feeling foolish, I turn my back on my mirror and hurry to the bed and snatch up the net of gold and pearls. I hastily twist my hair into a knot, then secure the net around it.

  Next, I go to the mattress and reach for my weapons. The moment my fingers touch my ankle sheath, certainty flows in my veins once more. I strap it in place, then take up the wrist sheath. There is barely enough room for it under the tight sleeve, but after a long struggle, I am able to make everything work. I slip the lethal golden bracelet onto my wrist, then put my hand to my waist. At the comforting touch of the misericorde, I smile, and a sense of purpose settles over me. Surely Mortain will make His wishes known to me tonight, and I will be able to deal with our country’s traitors in a manner suited to their crimes.

  I am still smiling at that thought as I go to meet Duval. He is waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, and when I appear at the top of the steps, he forgets what he is saying to his steward and stares as if he has never seen me before. Even though this may well be an act, it pleases me more than it should. It cannot all be an act, for Duval is master at having the last word and would never knowingly grant me such an advantage. “That will do for now,” he finally tells the steward.

  “Good evening, milord,” I say as I descend the stairs, trying to tamp down the bubble of pleasure.

  When he takes my arm, he looks at me with suspicion. “What is wrong?” he asks.

  “May I not smile without arousing your misgivings?”

  “No,” he says with a wry twist to his mouth.

  “You need not look so distrustful; I am but practicing my role for tonight’s masquerade. If we—if I—cannot convince the court of my role, then I will have no access to the duchess’s enemies and will fail in the task the convent set for me. I have no intention of failing.” The unwelcome truth is, until Chancellor Crunard returns, Duval is my only ally at court. Furthermore, the Breton nobility does not take kindly to the lowborn prancing among them. The last commoner to reach so high had been hung from the gibbet when his aspirations proved greater than his birth.

  “What shadow just crossed your face?” Duval asks, and I curse his eyes that always see too much.

  “I was thinking of your father’s late chamberlain.”

  Duval grows somber. He tucks my arm closer against his. “That will not happen to you.” His words sound almost like a vow, which discomfits me greatly.

  To distract us both, I cozy up to him and flash my most brilliant smile, one I have copied from Sybella. “That is settled then. Shall we go?”

  He blinks. “If you are not careful, I will begin to think you are enamored of me.”

  At his words, something flutters happily in my breast, pleasure, perhaps, but I am at last finding my footing in this game we play. “It is what we want the court to think, my lord.”

  The grandeur of the Breton court can scarce be described. The rustle of fine silk and brocades, the whisper of plush velvet and softest leather. The air is heavy with perfume, from the shy scent of violets and bold bouquet of roses to the subtler scents of vetiver and sandalwood. The very air drips with richness and opulence that puts every place I’ve ever been to to shame.

  I cannot imagine a gathering where I would be less at home; a turnip mislaid in a rose garden. I feel Duval’s eyes upon me and risk a quick glance at him. “What?” I ask, reaching up to discreetly adjust an escaping tendril of hair.

  He bats my hand away. “Leave it. It looks charming thus.”

  My cheeks grow warm at this unexpected compliment. Then he leans down. “Just how many of those pearls are poisoned?”

  The warmth of his breath tickles my ear in an unsettling manner, but his words embolden me, reminding me of my purpose. I turn back to the gathered nobles with a lighter heart. Surely now that I am here, Mortain will reveal His wishes to me.

  It is like watching a large group of birds of prey, all hooded eyes and hungry gazes, all waiting to pounce. What tasty morsel they hunger after, I know not. Gossip? Intrigue?

  The nobles cluster in small groups, much like the chickens at the convent when they find a nest of slugs. All of the ladies are as poised and graceful as Madame Hivern, and while there are varying degrees of beauty, the style is the same: bold and well practiced, artfully achieved, demanding to be noticed.

  “First things first, I think,” Duval murmurs. “I must introduce you to the privy councilors so you do not kill one of them in error.”

  “If Mortain wills it, my lord, it will not be in error.”

  “Even so, I suggest you consult with the duchess before dispatching any of them.” He leads me to two older men standing a bit removed from the others.

  It is easy enough to guess who they are. The man on the right is built like a bear and stands as if he has been riding a horse for a fortnight. Surely he must be Captain Dunois. There is something about his quiet, unassuming strength that makes me inclined to trust him at once, a sentiment that I remind myself has no place in this game we play.

  The other man is taller, with iron-gray hair and a surfeit of square yellowed teeth that put me in mind of a braying ass. He must be Marshal Rieux, and it is clear from the way he stands and surveys the room that he is much in love with his own opinion.

  Captain Dunois greets Duval warmly, but Marshal Rieux is vexed and takes no pains to hide it. “You picked a fine time to disappear,” he snaps.

  Duval meets the older man’s eyes steadily. “Indeed, I would never have left if I’d known someone would call an Estate meeting over my sister’s wishes.”

  Marshal Rieux doesn’t flinch. “The barons have every right to be addressed and apprised of the situation, and sooner rather than later.”

  I glance at Duval. Does that mean that the marshal called the meeting? If so, he would surely bear a marque, but he does not. Or at least, not one that I can see. Duval takes a step toward Marshal Rieux. “So it was you who called the meeting?”

  Marshal Rieux’s manner grows cold and distant. “You forget yourself, Duval,” he snaps. “You are naught but a bastard, tolerated only for your sister’s sake. You do not have a formal place on the council, or a voice. You are in no position to demand answers from me.” Without giving Duval a chance to respond, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

  Captain Dunois watches him a long moment before turning back to Duval. “Were you intending to have that effect on him?”

  Duval gives an irritated shake of his head. “No, he is just more prickly than a damned hedgehog. Was it Rieux that called the meeting, do you think? Is that why he grew so angry?”

  “No, I think he grew angry because he did not call the meeting and does not like being reminded that someone disregarded not only Anne’s authority but also his own.”

  “Since Chancellor Crunard has been away from court nearly as long as I have, that leaves Madame Dinan. But to what purpose? Does she mean to put her half brother’s marriage proposal before the barons? Surely she knows Anne will refuse him. What does she gain by forcing the issue in such a manner?”

  Captain Dunois shrugs. “Perhaps it is intended as a show of support and strength to deter our French guests?”

  “French plague is more like it,” Duval mutters. “Perhaps now is as good a time as any for us to greet the French parasite.”

  Dunois bows. “You will forgive me if I do not linger to watch the resulting tempest,” he says, then takes his leave.

  With a sigh, Duval begins leading me across the room. “If the French ambassador bears a marque, do feel free to kill him at once. It would save us all a great deal of trouble.”

  Only too pleased at the chance to open myself to Mortain’s will, I let Duval steer me to the far corner of the hall where the French envoy sits like a fat brown spider, patient and cunning, tending his carefully woven web. He is a hatchet-faced man surrounded by smirking, fawning courtiers. He makes no move to acknowledge us as Duval and I approach, but I feel him study us all the same.

  When we reach the envoy, Duval looks conte
mptuously at those gathered round him. “Still here, Gisors?” That Duval does not even feign politeness surprises me. I thought honeyed words a requirement here at court.

  The French noble spreads his hands. “But of course. I am here to oversee the wardship of young Anne.”

  “Anne is no one’s ward,” Duval counters. “You are here to guard France’s interests and care nothing for our duchess.” While Duval’s words are sharp, he delivers them almost cheerfully, as if he enjoys tearing down the carefully constructed web Gisors has built.

  “Tsk-tsk. So little trust, Duval.”

  Duval narrows his eyes. “Says the wolf as he sniffs at the door.”

  As Duval keeps Gisors distracted with conversation, I study the French envoy intently, looking for any hint of a marque, but I see nothing, not the faintest smudge or shadow anywhere.

  When Gisors finally turns his hooded gaze on me, I am struck by how very green his eyes are. Those eyes travel languidly down my body and back up again, but he says nothing to acknowledge my presence. Under my hand, the muscles in Duval’s arm stiffen, and he glances at me. When I give a little shake of my head, his mouth flattens in disappointment.

  Completely unaware of our silent exchange, Gisors says, “I hear Anne has received correspondence from the Holy Roman emperor. What did he have to say?”

  “I believe that is between the Holy Roman emperor and the duchess.” Duval’s mild voice is at odds with the tension in his arm.

  “Since he is petitioning for a betrothal that the French Crown forbids, it is most certainly our business as well.”

  “Brittany is a sovereign nation, and our duchess free to choose whom she pleases.”

  I peer up at Duval from under my lashes. This is not quite true and I wonder if Gisors will call the bluff. He does.

  “And I would remind you of the Treaty of Verger,” the envoy says. “Furthermore, young Anne has not yet been crowned duchess.”

  “A mere formality,” Duval replies, “since that treaty you’re so fond of quoting agrees that she keeps the duchy and will rule over it as duchess.”

  “Only if she marries whom the French Crown says she should marry.”

  “We have yet to see a serious offer put forth by you or your regent,” Duval points out.

  “We have given you two.”

  “A foppish minor baron and a doddering sycophant older than her father.” Duval flaps his hand at the far wall, where for the first time I notice an old, gray-bearded courtier dozing in a chair. “Neither is remotely suitable.”

  Gisors gives an indifferent shrug. “Then we are at an impasse.”

  “Again,” Duval says, then gives a curt bow and escorts me away. As we pass beyond Gisors’s hearing, I glance once more at the dozing figure against the wall. It takes me a moment to realize that his spirit is growing dim, like a candle flame shrinking and sputtering before going out. “It is just as well the duchess is not inclined to accept France’s candidate for a husband. That one over there will be dead within a fortnight,” I tell Duval.

  He stops to stare at the aging courtier. “He is marqued by Mortain?”

  “No, he is merely dying of old age or some slow disease.”

  “You can tell this from looking at him?”

  I nod, pleased that he is impressed with my gifts. Before Duval can say anything further, a large hand clamps down on his shoulder.

  “That is quite a subtle touch you have there, Duval, to have angered two men in so short a time. First Marshal Rieux and now the French envoy.”

  We turn to find a brute of a man just behind us. He is tall and fat, and a bristly black beard covers his face. Amid all that blackness, his lips stand out like wet pink slugs. His hooded eyes study me with the hungry intensity of a hawk. Something cold and chilling slithers in their depths, and then it is gone, so swift and fleeting I do not know if it was truly there or was simply my own dark fears awakening.

  Duval’s greeting is less than warm. “Count d’Albret,” he says. “What brings you to Guérande?”

  This is the man the late duke promised his twelve-year-old daughter to? I can scarce wrap my mind around it.

  D’Albret casts Duval a sly look. “Always the wit, aren’t you, Duval.”

  “One hopes so,” Duval mutters, his voice dry as bone. “Allow me to present my cousin Ismae Rienne.”

  I look demurely down at the floor and sink into a curtsy.

  “Ah, yes. I, too, have a cousin,” he says. “I am quite fond of her.” D’Albret reaches out, takes my hand, and brings it to his slack, fleshy mouth. Revulsion, sharp and hot, spikes through me and it is all I can do not to reach for my knife. As his wet lips press against my hand, I shudder. Duval places a bracing hand at my back, and I am grateful for something to focus on besides d’Albret’s touch. “Enchanté, demoiselle,” the count murmurs.

  “The honor is all mine, my lord,” I reply. As soon as his grip on my hand has loosened, I snatch it back and bury it in the folds of my gown where, unable to help myself, I wipe it on my skirt.

  Count d’Albret smiles at me as if we are the closest of friends, as if we share some secret that Duval is not privy to. “Do not let Duval bore you with all his talk of politics and intrigue, demoiselle,” he says. “There are much finer pleasures to be had at court.” The leer on his face leaves little doubt as to which pleasures he is thinking of.

  “My cousin is young and from the country, d’Albret. Surely you can do your hunting in more verdant pastures.”

  “Nonsense, Duval. I just wanted to make her feel welcome at court. After all, it can be overwhelming, and she will quickly learn how serious and dull you are.” D’Albret turns to me. “When he leaves you in a corner somewhere so that he may discuss politics like an old man, I will find you, my dear.” And even though this promise will surely give me nightmares, he smiles as if he has just offered me the moon.

  Duval stares steadily at the older man, his dislike rolling off him like fog from the sea. It is a wonder the count does not see it.

  D’Albret winks at me. “Come find me when you grow bored.” And with that, he saunters off.

  Once he is well out of hearing, I give voice to my outrage. “I cannot believe your father promised that man your sister’s hand in marriage. He is so old,” I say. “And vile!”

  The look Duval sends me fair trumpets the words I told you so.

  “Does he care anything for the duchess herself or is it merely the duchy he is after?”

  Duval’s mouth quirks in disgust. “The duchy is his first and foremost goal, but I am sure being married to a young maid of Anne’s beauty and charm will be no hardship for him.” Something dark and dangerous shadows Duval’s face, but before I can question him further, he speaks again. “Now, come with me. I have one more person I would have you meet.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The heat of Duval’s hand passes through the silk of my sleeve all the way down to my marrow. I am sorely tempted to throw it off, but I need his solid warmth to chase away the clammy chill d’Albret has left behind.

  Duval leads me up a wide stone staircase, then down one corridor, then another. For the first time I get a feel for just how big the duchess’s residence in Guérande is. After leading me through many twists and turns, he stops in front of a thick oaken door and knocks. When there is no answer, he lets himself in.

  The room is a sumptuous receiving chamber with several ornately carved chairs, thick velvet tapestries covering the stone walls, and a fire burning in the fireplace. “Why have you brought me here?” Duval lets go of my arm and prowls around the room. He looks behind the tapestries at the window, then strides to the small door in the far corner and confirms that it is locked. “Because I would have you meet our duchess face to face and see who precisely it is that you are serving.”

  The main door opens just then and the duchess herself comes into the room. She is very young, but she holds herself with pride and not a little arrogance. Her forehead is high and noble; her cheeks sti
ll bear the slight fullness of her youth. Her brown eyes are keen with intelligence. It would be a mistake to underestimate her, yet because of her youth, I am certain many do.

  She is followed by an older noblewoman whom I can only assume is her governess, Madame Dinan. She was strikingly beautiful once, and her bones still hold the truth of that beauty even with her hair gone white. It is hard to believe she shares any blood with Count d’Albret.

  Duval bows low and I sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace; Madame Dinan,” he says.

  “You may rise.” The young duchess’s voice is as clear and true as a bell. She turns to the other woman. “And you may leave us.”

  Madame Dinan glances at Duval. “Your Grace, I think I should stay. It is not fitting that you are alone, with no chaperone.”

  “You would keep me from speaking with my own brother?” the duchess asks sharply.

  “I would keep you from nothing, Your Grace, only suggest you should have a chaperone, as is fitting.”

  The duchess glances at Duval, who gives the tiniest shake of his head. “We have a chaperone,” she says, indicating me. “You may leave.”

  The command in her tone is unmistakable, and Madame Dinan rears her head back slightly, nostrils flaring. “Very well, Your Grace. I will wait outside.” Her unhappiness with this arrangement is palpable, but whether it is because she resents being left out or because she is truly worried to leave the duchess with her own brother, I cannot tell.

  The room is quiet until she leaves, then the duchess crosses over to the fireplace and holds her hands out to the flames. “Was that necessary, Gavriel?” she says. “It is hard for her to take orders from me.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.” Even though he is her brother, Duval remains formal with her, and I wonder if it is for my benefit. “But I wanted you to meet Demoiselle Rienne and learn from her own mouth who and what she is. It is knowledge best kept to ourselves for a while.”

  The duchess tilts her head, curiosity shining in her eyes. “You do not trust Madame Dinan?”