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

by Robin LaFevers

  “Someone called this Estate meeting, Your Grace, and d’Albret is her half brother.”

  The duchess wrinkles her nose. “Do not remind me! She presses his suit at every turn until I fear I shall scream.”

  “We will find you a better marriage, I promise,” Duval says.

  She dimples prettily at this, making her look impossibly young, and her affection for Duval is plain on her face. In that moment, I am fiercely glad she has a brother to protect her from this marriage they have planned for her. It is unthinkable that she has been promised to d’Albret. Surely it cannot be Mortain’s desire to see the duchess wed to such a foul man.

  Duval grabs my hand and pulls me forward. “Ismae Rienne is sent from the abbess at the convent of St. Mortain.”

  The duchess’s eyebrows shoot up. “Mortain? The patron saint of death?”

  “The very one, Your Grace. It is but another thing your advisors would keep from you.” Duval quickly explains the convent and its purpose.

  When he is done with his explanation, she turns to me. “You are truly trained in death?”

  It feels too bold to meet her gaze, so I look down at the floor. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Sit, sit.” She waves her hand and chooses a chair for herself. After an uncertain glance at Duval, who nods, I sit also.

  “How do you kill a man, demoiselle?”

  I am certain her advisors would be shocked if they could see the hungry curiosity in her eyes. “With a knife. Or poison. Or by strangling. There are many ways. Hundreds of them. It depends on the circumstances and Mortain’s wishes.”

  She leans forward slightly in her chair, her brow furrowed. “How do you decide who to kill?”

  “Yes,” Duval drawls from where he stands by the fireplace. “How do you decide who to kill?”

  And there he has me, for while the rites of Mortain are closely held, if Chancellor Crunard can know of them, so can the duchess. Just as I must know what weapons I have in my arsenal in order to do Mortain’s work, so must the duchess know what tools are available to her in her struggle to maintain her country’s independence. “Your Grace, I would tell you of our mysteries, but our knowledge is sacred and revealed only to a chosen few.” I glance at Duval, indicating that he is not one of the chosen few.

  When she sees where I am looking, her expression grows unyielding. “I trust my lord brother with my life,” she says. “I have no secrets from him and want him to know of these rites as well. Now tell us.”

  I fair grind my teeth in frustration. Is that why he arranged this meeting, knowing she would demand answers and that I would have to give them? “We are mere instruments of Mortain, Your Grace. His handmaidens, if you will. We do not decide who to kill or why or when. It is all determined by the god.”

  “You mean saint, do you not?” she asks.

  I have forgotten the conventions of the Church that must be followed outside the convent. “But of course, Your Grace. Forgive me. The saint.”

  She nods graciously. “How, then, does the saint inform you of His wishes?”

  “One of our nuns, Sister Vereda, has a vision. The saint communicates through her, then she and the abbess direct our hands.”

  “How does Chancellor Crunard fit in?” Duval asks.

  “He acts as liaison to the outside world and keeps the abbess up to date on the politics at court.”

  “And you have only the sisters’ word that there has been a vision?”

  I turn on Duval. “Their word is above reproach. They serve Mortain.”

  “He raises an interesting question,” the duchess points out. “How can you be so certain their visions are correct? How do you know they serve Saint Mortain and not their own interests? And what if they make a mistake?”

  “They don’t.” I direct my answer to the duchess and do my best to pretend Duval is not in the room. “If they did not speak truly, then we would not see the marque of death on our victims and we would stay our hands.”

  The duchess is intrigued by this idea. “Marque? What does that look like?”

  “It looks as if the saint has dipped His finger into the darkness of a man’s soul and anointed him with it. Sometimes the marque will show how a man is to die.”

  “And that is how you will know how to strike here in Guérande, away from your seeress?”

  I shake my head. “It is our plan for the abbess to communicate the visions to me by crow. But should I happen to see such a marque without an order from her, I am allowed to strike.”

  “Mon Dieu!” The duchess sits back in her chair and looks at Duval. “Do all the Privy Council know of this convent?”

  Duval shakes his head. “I believe only Crunard works with the abbess. Marshal Rieux has some vague knowledge of it, and Dunois has probably heard rumors among his men, but as he is French, he was not made privy to Breton secrets by our late father. Madame Dinan has no knowledge—or should not—which is why I requested she be kept from this meeting.”

  The duchess tilts her head and studies me. “Who else knows Ismae’s true identity?”

  “Only Chancellor Crunard.”

  “Then I agree we should keep it that way.” I stand as she rises to her feet. She holds her hand out to me. “I am glad you are here, Ismae. It is a comfort to know that you and the patron saint of death are helping Duval guard my flanks.”

  I kiss her ducal ring, awed that the daughter of a turnip farmer is being raised to her feet by her sovereign. “It is my greatest honor to serve, Your Grace.”

  She smiles again, transforming her young face. “I welcome you to my court. Your skills will come in most handily with my fractious barons,” she says in jest.

  At least, I believe it is in jest.

  Chapter Twenty

  I lie in bed, my head still buzzing from the babbling voices that filled the court this evening. In truth, I have learned much and nothing at all. Duval is still an enigma, and if he is a traitor, as the chancellor and abbess suspect, I have no idea whom he might work for.

  His hatred of both d’Albret and the French envoy is palpable, but of course he could easily fake that. But what of the fierce protectiveness he feels for his sister? I remember the grim set to his mouth, the fury in his eyes, and the anger that fair sparked off him, and I must admit that even he could not feign that. Which turns all my other arguments to dust.

  Perhaps Duval is exactly who he says he is, a devoted brother intent on seeing his sister crowned duchess and safely wed to a man who can stand with her against the French. Of a certainty that is what the duchess believes.

  Hoping a night’s rest will bring clarity, I close my eyes and urge my thoughts toward sleep. Instead, Count d’Albret’s thick, fleshy lips rise up in my mind, and my eyes snap open. Guillo. That is who d’Albret reminds me of, why he disturbs me so.

  I fear the dreams will come tonight. Whether they will be the old ones of Guillo or some new nightmare built around d’Albret, I cannot guess.

  There is a whisper of sound near the door, and my heart stutters in my chest even as my mind whispers, Duval. But my hand creeps toward my stiletto, just in case.

  “I thought we had gotten past that.” Duval’s deep voice stirs the darkness of the room.

  I lift my head from the pillow to see where he is. “Perhaps you have, but I have not.”

  “Do not be tiresome.”

  I follow the sound of his voice. There. In the faint glow cast by the dying embers, I can see him make his way to the chair in front of the window. I relax somewhat. As unwelcome as he is—and he is unwelcome, I assure myself—he will chase away the even more unwelcome dreams. “What are you doing here?”

  “Performing my nightly duties to my young mistress.”

  His words cause something to flutter inside me. I have no idea what it is, but it frightens me almost as much as my dreams. “I am too tired to spar tonight, my lord.”

  “As am I. Go to sleep. I will sit here but an hour or two, then leave.”

  I yawn. “So ve
ry long as that?”

  When he answers, there is a wry note in his voice. “I do have my reputation to protect.”

  I have no idea what he is talking about. I yawn again, then pinch myself, not wanting to fall asleep. “Why did your father promise your sister to Count d’Albret? With her kingdom as dowry, surely she could have made a better match than that? To someone who wasn’t so repulsive.”

  There is a long moment of silence before Duval answers. “It was a desperate bid to save that very kingdom. Our lord father was short on troops with which to fight the French. D’Albret agreed to supply those troops, but at a price.”

  “The duchess’s hand in marriage.”

  “Yes. My sister’s hand in marriage.”

  The utter betrayal of this leaves me speechless, for while the price paid was considerably higher, the arrangement was not so very different from my father’s bargain with Guillo.

  “Perhaps my father thought he would live long enough to assure the marriage never came to pass,” Duval says. “I would like to believe that.” There is a faint note of anguish in his voice, and I know that he feels the betrayal as sharply as I do.

  “I’m sure you are right, my lord,” I say, surprised that I feel the need to comfort him.

  “I have sworn that no matter how much d’Albret bellows or what he threatens, he will have to step over my dead body to marry her.”

  I cannot help but admire Duval greatly in that moment and find myself wishing that his father had cared half so much about Anne. Even so, I am not altogether comfortable with this small bit of harmony. Luckily, it does not last long.

  “Now, enough questions, Ismae, or else I will have to think of some way to silence you.”

  At his threat, my mind immediately goes to his disconcerting game of the previous night. From the faint note of humor in his voice, I suspect he is thinking of it also. Not wishing to test that theory, I settle down under my covers and close my eyes. I am certain I will not sleep with him in the room, but the sooner I fool him into believing I am asleep, the sooner he will leave.

  I am locked in Guillo’s root cellar; my face presses against the floor, and the sharp smell of dirt is in my nose. Something heavy pushes down on me, forcing me farther into the dirt. Straining my neck, I look up. Guillo is before me, fumbling at the front of his braies, leering. The weight on top of me grows heavier, and my arms are wrenched up behind my back, nearly to the point of breaking. I twist around, trying to peer through my hair, and find the flat black eyes of Count d’Albret. His long, careless fingers fumble at my skirts while Guillo beckons to me from the shadows. I struggle and buck against him, trying to throw him from my back, but he grips my arms tighter and forces me back down. “No!” I shout. My hand scrabbles in the dirt until it closes around the handle of a dagger hidden there. I grip it tightly, then roll out of d’Albret’s grasp and thrust the knife in his throat.

  He swears a black oath and I feel the warmth of his blood trickle down my arm. Now free of his grip, I blink and shove the hair out of my eyes.

  Only to find Duval sitting on my bed, staring at me. He holds his hand to his collar, blood seeping between his fingers, the dagger still in my hand.

  “God’s Teeth,” he says. “I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep.”

  “I was not,” I say, then look from his neck to my knife.

  “When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me.” He sounds sore put out, and I cannot blame him.

  “Merde.” I am fully awake now and filled with remorse. I toss my knife onto the bed and scramble out from under the covers. While Duval tries to keep the blood from dripping on the bed, I hurry to the washbasin and dip one of the linen towels into the cold water. “Let me see how bad it is,” I say, returning to the bed.

  “Not serious, I think.” He lifts his chin to give me better access. “But you have ruined one of my favorite shirts.”

  I gently mop the blood on his neck and collarbone. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t sneak up on people when they are sleeping.”

  “You were whimpering and crying. You’d rather I left you to the tender mercies of your dream?”

  Heat creeps into my face at the memory of my nightmare. “No,” I admit. “Perhaps not.” I’ve wiped away most of the blood and can see a two-inch scratch along his collarbone. “I must resume practicing,” I mutter. “I missed.”

  Duval barks out a laugh. “Only because I have very good reflexes and you were asleep.” He grows quiet for a moment, and I become aware of the intimacy of our positions. We sit on the bed, our knees touching. My hand rests at the base of his throat and I can feel the steady beat of his heart under my wrist. His dark eyes study me.

  Trying to ease my sudden discomfort, I take the towel from his neck and begin folding it. My wrist still throbs where it has lain over his heart.

  “Do you care to share your dream?” His voice is low and warm and like as not could coax secrets from a stone.

  “It was nothing. I have already forgotten it.”

  “Liar.” His voice is so soft I am not sure I heard it. Even so, I keep my gaze on the linen towel as I search it for a clean, unbloodied spot.

  There is a long moment of awkward silence, then Duval speaks. “I can tend to it from here, I think.” His fingers brush against mine as he takes the towel from my hands. He stands up, leaving me alone on the bed, the warmth of his solid body no longer between me and my nightmares.

  Feeling miserable, although not sure why, I wrap my arms around myself. “I am sorry, my lord. I did not wish to harm you.” The truth of my words surprises me, for it seems as if I have done naught but long to be rid of him.

  His smile flashes, quick and surprising in the darkness. “When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice. I bid you good night.”

  He leaves the room, and I lie back down on the bed, unable to tell if I am overly warm or chilled to the bone.

  The next morning, Louyse bustles in with a cheerful smile and a pitcher of hot water. I have not slept since Duval left and am awake when she arrives. “Good morning, demoiselle.”

  “Good morning, Louyse.” I stretch, then climb out of bed. Since there is no towel this morning, I cup my hands into the basin and splash the warm water on my face. “No word of my trunks yet?” I ask as I hurriedly dry my face and hands on my night shift.

  “No, demoiselle,” she says as she straightens the covers on the bed.

  “In that case, I will wear the dark gray gown today.”

  When Louyse doesn’t answer, I turn and find her staring at a smear of blood on the sheets. Sweet Mortain! What must she think?

  Not wanting to acknowledge the blood, I hurry over to the garderobe. She bustles to my side and casts me a look, her face full of concern. “Is demoiselle sure she feels well enough to be up and about today? Would you like me to bring you more hot water? Or I could arrange for a bath, if demoiselle likes?”

  “No,” I say shortly. “I am fine.”

  The older woman reaches out and pats my arm. “Do not worry.” She lowers her voice. “It will not always hurt so.”

  With dawning horror, I realize what conclusions she has drawn from the blood on the sheets. My cheeks flame bright red.

  My reputation as Duval’s mistress has just been firmly established.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Duval is breaking his fast in the winter parlor. At my entrance, a servant pulls out a chair. I sit stiffly, filled with shame that Duval has seen me having a nightmare as if I were nothing but a child. Nor can I forget the feel of his skin beneath my fingers as I tended his wound. Even worse, I am afraid all of this will show on my face.

  “How did you sleep?” he asks politely.

  I risk glancing at him, expecting to see a glint of amusement or a smirk. Instead, there is a hint of concern. It is this kindness of his that unsettles me most. I can dodge a blow or block a knife. I am impervious to poison and know a dozen ways to escape a chok
ehold or garrote wire. But kindness? I do not know how to defend against that.

  “Like a babe,” I answer. The lie falls easily from my lips as I glance pointedly at his throat.

  He fingers the small ruff on the high collar he is wearing this morning. “Mayhap I will set a new fashion at court.”

  His words prick my conscience. I raise my chin slightly and refuse to utter the apology that hovers on my tongue. It is his own fault for skulking about my room at night. “I have not yet received any message from the reverend mother. Have you word from Chancellor Crunard?”

  His face sobers immediately. “No, why?”

  I shrug and take a pear from the platter on the table. “I have been in Guérande three days. As urgently as the abbess wanted me here, I would think there should be someone who needed killing by now.”

  Duval throws back his head and laughs. “You are a bloodthirsty thing, I’ll give you that.”

  I stab a knife into my pear. The golden skin splits, and fragrant juice drips onto the plate. “Not bloodthirsty, merely eager to do Mortain’s work. It is why I am here, after all.”

  “True enough.”

  “What are our tasks for the day?”

  He raises one of his eyebrows at me. “I have received word that a messenger has arrived at the palace and requests a meeting with me.”

  My hand stills. “Who is it?”

  “I do not know, as the messenger has cloaked himself in secrecy. He claims he will speak only to me, which is why you will stay here and entertain yourself this morning.”

  I clench my knife. “I can easily hide, my lord. That will not be a problem.”

  “Yes, but I have promised the man a private meeting and I would keep my word.”

  “But what of your promise to the abbess?” I begin cutting the pear with quick, clean strokes.

  “I have not said that I will not inform you of what transpires, merely that I have promised him a private audience. Besides, there is still much you are keeping from—sweet Jesu!”

  I look up, alarmed. “What?”

  He nods at my plate. “You are supposed to eat it, not disembowel it.”