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

by Robin LaFevers

  The darkness in the room is not absolute. I hug my knees while trying to read his face, but it is too hidden in shadow. “He is the crow sent by the abbess so that she and I can communicate.”

  “Ah, did she have any news for you? Any assignments that I should know about?” Is that a note of concern I detect in his voice?

  “Why, my lord? Are you afraid she has learned of your mother’s plot to put her son on the throne?”

  His head snaps up and I can feel the intensity of his gaze. His silence is proof enough of their guilt.

  “When were you planning on telling me? Or did you truly believe I would not find out?”

  “No, I knew that you would eventually, and when you did, I hoped that you would ask me about it.”

  “Then I am asking you.”

  He leans his head back against the chair, and when he next speaks, his voice sounds impossibly weary. “My mother got it into her head that what our country needs is a duke, not a duchess. She does not believe that Anne will be able to weather the current crises with both France and the barons. Instead of risking the duchy going to one of them, Madame believes it should go to one of the duke’s sons, bastard or no.”

  There have been bastard dukes before, but not in a long while. “Why François and not you?”

  “Can you not guess?”

  “I can, but I want to hear it from you.”

  “Because I refused.” His words are clipped.

  “Which is why you and she are estranged.”

  “Exactly so.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

  “Then why did you not tell me?”

  “And seal their death warrant? Perhaps I am not as cold-blooded in my pursuit of justice as you and the convent. Until I understood your full orders and how you would act, I did not dare tell you.” There is a moment of silence, then he speaks again “So, are they marqued for death by your god?”

  “No,” I say. “Not that I can see.”

  He lets out a long slow breath. “Then how did you learn of their plans?”

  “The French envoy, Gisors. He not only tried to purchase my loyalty tonight but also warned me that once your family’s plans were known, I would be a pariah at court.”

  Duval swears. “If nothing else, this should prove to you how badly I want Anne crowned duchess. Aside from the love I bear her, it is also the only way I can be certain my mother and François will put aside their ill-conceived schemes.”

  “But I have only your word that that is so.”

  There is an impatient whisper of velvet as he leans forward. “We must call a truce, you and I. If we are constantly at each other’s throats, it will serve only our enemies, not our duchess. I would ask that you set aside your abbess’s suspicions and listen to your own heart, for even though you pretend you don’t have one, I know that you do. I ask not for my sake, but for my sister’s.

  “D’Albret presses her to honor her father’s promises to him; the Holy Roman emperor wants her hand but does not have the troops to secure her realm once she agrees to that betrothal. The French are breathing down our necks, and there are very few options open to her that do not either plunge her country into war or consign her to a marriage too horrible to consider. If we do not work together, we further reduce those options.”

  Of course he is right, but even so, it is a dangerous bargain we strike. I cannot help but think the abbess would never approve. I do not know how dearly she holds her belief in Duval’s guilt or whether she and Crunard will thank me if I prove them wrong. But I have searched high and low for any signs of treachery to give weight to their suspicions, and the only evidence I found has just been neatly explained. It also has the convincing ring of truth to it, especially as I have witnessed the open animosity between him and his mother.

  It is a narrow line Duval asks me to walk, seeing to both the duchess’s needs and my convent’s. For although their goals are the same, I fear their methods are very different. If I am wrong, I risk losing the convent’s trust, which is surely the thing I value most in this world. Even so, there is no other choice. Not with the duchess in such dire straits, for if she fails to maintain her country’s independence, the convent will surely suffer. “Very well, milord.”

  He smiles then, and even though it is well past midnight, it as if the sun has just come out. “Excellent,” he says. “This is what I need you to do.”

  Early the next morning Duval and I ride out into the country. Louyse asks him to repeat himself twice when he requests a hamper to take with us. Clearly, this is out of character for him, and she slides her wise old eyes to me, a look of pleased speculation in them.

  De Lornay and Beast are waiting for us outside, their horses fresh and pawing at the morning. Duval is lending me a dappled gray mare of his for the day, and I slip her a bit of apple I snuck from the table.

  Our horses’ hooves ring out on the cold cobbles as we ride toward the north gate. The town is even more crowded than it was the day we arrived; every Breton noble—and many French ones—are tucked up inside its walls, waiting to see what drama will play out at the Estates meeting. The tension in the city is thick enough to slice with a knife and feed to the peasants.

  As we ride through the streets, de Lornay tosses his head back and laughs, as if Duval has said something clever. Duval himself grins, and Beast turns his ugly face to me and smiles. I smile back. We are, for all the world, a happy little party out to enjoy the fine autumn day.

  But of course, we are not.

  Duval is well aware we may be riding into a trap, but the duchess’s situation is desperate enough that we will take our chances. De Lornay and Beast are the muscle of the operation. I have been brought along as a decoy, for surely the serious, stalwart Duval would not leave town at a time such as this unless he was utterly besotted with his new mistress.

  Once clear of the city, we head north through the woods that surround Guérande, and our gaiety falls from us somewhat. It is a crisp, chill morning and I am grateful for the fur-lined cloak Sister Beatriz has sent. My thoughts hop and flutter, just like the nearby birds searching out the last of the season’s offerings before winter arrives. I tell myself that if the abbess learns of this outing, I will simply explain I am being her eyes and ears, just as I was instructed. She has no need to know I have agreed to work with Duval. Indeed, I do not know myself if I truly meant it or just agreed in order to placate him and be included in his plans. Either way, until it requires that I do something in direct conflict with the convent’s orders, it seems harmless enough.

  We ride for nearly an hour before Duval sends de Lornay to double back and check if we are being followed.

  “Who do you think would follow us?” I ask.

  Duval shrugs. “Anyone who saw us leave. The French envoy would dearly love to know what we’re about, as would my mother. D’Albret. Anyone on the Privy Council who is jealous of the trust Anne places in me.”

  “So very many,” I murmur.

  He cocks an eyebrow but says nothing as the sound of galloping hooves reach us. De Lornay rides into view, nods his head, and holds up five fingers, then one. Six pursuers. Duval mutters an oath. “How far back?”

  “Not far at all,” de Lornay says.

  “Could you tell who they are?”

  De Lornay shakes his head. “They are men-at-arms, wearing no identifying tabards or colors.”

  Duval nods grimly, then waves us off the road and into the surrounding forest. His eyes search the area until he spies a small glade with a log and dappled sunlight. He steers his horse toward that, and the rest of us follow.

  By the time I reach the glade, he has dismounted and is waiting to assist me. He lifts me from my saddle, then grabs the bag slung across his horse’s neck. He points Beast and de Lornay to a flat boulder that sits closer to the road, then takes my hand and leads me to the log.

  He lowers himself onto the grass and then leans back against the log and tries to pull me down beside him. “My lord!” I squeak as
I nearly tumble into his lap.

  He looks at me. “Would you rather I put my head in your lap?”

  “Can we not just sit side by side?”

  His eyes glitter as brightly as highly polished steel. “We are besotted lovers, remember? I, who never leave the duchess’s side except on her business, am out lolling around with my mistress. Or so we must make them believe.”

  I glance away, ashamed. It is the plan we concocted last night, but it is harder than I expected to play this masquerade. I clear my throat. “If I must choose, I would rather sit and have your head in my lap.” I will feel less helpless that way.

  He rolls his eyes but quickly switches positions. I have hardly settled my rump to the ground before he is stretching his long body out beside me, and then his head is in my lap.

  It is heavy and solid and warm, and for a moment, it consumes all of my attention. Embarrassed, I glance over at de Lornay and Beast, but they are busy doing their part, sprawling and dicing, looking for all the world like bored attendants waiting on their lingering lord.

  When Duval’s hand closes around mine, I jump like a startled rabbit, and his eyes crinkle in amusement. “How long must we stay this way?” I whisper.

  “Until they are satisfied that we are naught but the besotted lovers we claim to be.”

  It is my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Do not scowl so.” His voice is amused, tender. “Pretend I am de Lornay, if it is easier.”

  I snort in disgust.

  “My brother, then, if you fancy him. I do not care, but God’s Teeth! Paste a smitten look on your face or our ruse will not work.”

  I soften my eyes and force my mouth into a smile. “I do not care for your brother either,” I murmur, as if it is a declaration of love.

  Something in Duval’s face shifts. “Good,” he whispers, and I must remind myself he is but playing the game. It should not surprise me that he is so very, very skilled at it.

  Then our pursuers are upon us. Beast and de Lornay spring up and draw together, as if trying to protect us from prying eyes. It is no great struggle for me to look discomfited by the intrusion, especially when the mounted soldiers do their best to peer around the two men. Lewd curiosity has replaced their suspicion, and after slowing down to gawk, they quickly ride on.

  As they canter away, some of the tension leaves my body and I allow myself to sag against the log at my back. When I open my eyes, I find Duval staring up at me. “We really must work on your skills of seduction,” he says.

  Without thinking, I reach down and hit him in the arm. He laughs, and reluctantly, I smile. I am bad at this, but only with him. I was able to play the flirt with Martel and even François. It is only with Duval that my skills leave me.

  Duval reaches up and brushes away a strand of hair that has fallen across my cheek. I expect to see amusement or jest in his eyes, as if he is trying to teach me how to play this game. But there is no hint of amusement there—only his gray eyes, which are deep and serious.

  I hear a quail call just then, the signal Beast was to give once the soldiers had ridden out of sight. As if some master is pulling on my strings, I leap to my feet, nearly sending Duval’s head thudding to the ground. He looks at me as if I have lost my wits. Perhaps I have.

  I brush the grass and twigs off my skirts as Duval rises. De Lornay and Beast join us. “Did you recognize them?” Duval asks.

  Beast shakes his head. “But now that they have passed, will you tell us where we are meeting this mysterious fellow of yours?”

  Duval glances down the road, as if assuring himself they are well beyond hearing. “At the church in St. Lyphard.”

  At his words, all the blood drains from my face. Not wanting the others to see, I turn and lead my horse to a stump so I may mount. But Duval—damn his eyes—misses nothing. When I am settled on my horse, he nudges his own mount closer to me. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “I am fine, my lord.”

  “Then why is your face the color of chalk?”

  I manage a crooked smile. “It is just that I was born in St. Lyphard and have not been there in years. It was not a happy place for me.”

  “You mean you did not spring wholly formed from drops of sweat off Mortain’s brow?”

  I smile. “Not wholly formed, no.”

  No longer teasing, he looks at me in concern. “Will you be recognized, do you think?”

  “No, it was many years ago, and I have changed much. Besides, they would never think to look for the turnip farmer’s daughter in such finery or among such exalted company. People see what they want to see.” Perhaps if I repeat it enough, it will be true.

  His eyes hold mine a moment longer. They are filled with understanding and I want to slap such kindness from his face. Does he not realize it erodes my defenses just as surely as salt erodes his armor? I look away abruptly. “If you do not wish to be seen, I know a shortcut to the church,” I say, eager to be out from under his shrewd gaze. When at last he nods, I put my heels to my mare’s flanks and fly.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  As we draw near the church, I catch a glint of sunlight on steel behind a wall of shrubbery. I slow my horse so that I fall back alongside Duval. Dipping my chin, I look up at him as if flirting. “There are armed men in the trees,” I tell him in a low voice.

  A quail calls just then, and Duval flashes a quick grin. “They are mine,” he says. “I had them ride out at first light to watch the place in case any trap was laid.”

  I say nothing, but I admit to myself that I am impressed.

  The church in St. Lyphard is an old one, made of solid Breton stone and thick wooden timbers. Small alcoves are set into the walls, each housing one of the old saints. My eyes are drawn immediately to the carving of Mortain. This statue is old, older than any I have seen, and shows Mortain at His most skeletal, clutching an arrow with which to warn us all that life is fleeting and He could strike at any moment.

  While Beast and de Lornay take up positions on opposite ends of the churchyard, Duval dismounts, then comes to assist me from my horse.

  “Why this place?” I ask in an attempt to distract myself from the sensation of his hands at my waist.

  He sets me on my feet. “Because the priest here still makes prayers and offerings to the old saints and I can be certain he is loyal to his country. Besides, men are less likely to plot treachery in a church.”

  The arch over the front door is covered with more carvings, this time of cockleshells and sacred anchors of Saint Mer. Some pious soul has hung a sheaf of wheat for Dea Matrona. Duval pulls open the door, puts his hand on my back, and nudges me through.

  The inside of the church is dark and damp and filled with the rich, smoky scent of incense. The shimmering, golden halos cast by the burning candles do nothing to lift the chill of the place. I can feel the weight of all the souls that have passed through here, feel the pull of the thousands upon thousands of prayers that have been said inside these walls. The pulpit is carved with scenes of the early lives of the saints, the copper gone green with age and dampness. Behind that, above the altar, is an exquisite, if newer, sculpture of the Resurrection.

  I make my way to the niche of Saint Amourna and take the small loaf of freshly baked bread from my pocket. It is the traditional offering all young maids make when asking for true love, the disguise Duval and I have devised for our trip to the church. In order for the offering to work, it must be fashioned by the maid’s own hands. This one is not, but even so, the old saints are thick in this place and I do not like putting a false offering before a saint for a blessing I do not wish. To ease my conscience, I pray instead that the duchess will find happiness in whatever match she is forced to make.

  When I am done, Duval motions me to a back doorway, one only the priest uses. I am to stand here and be certain no one approaches him from behind.

  We wait in silence for what seems an eternity before I hear the scrape of a boot heel upon the stone step. Harsh light slices through th
e darkness as the door opens.

  A lone figure enters the church. His hair is blond with a reddish cast to it, and his clean-shaven jaw is strong. While he is clearly of noble blood, he is neatly dressed in a breastplate and vambraces. Not just some court dandy then, but a man with soldierly experience. The two men greet each other cautiously, then the stranger gets right to the point—yet another thing to admire about him. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  Duval nods. “Your caution was well founded. We evaded a party of soldiers following us.”

  The stranger smiles. “Ah, yes. My own men intercepted them just before we split off the road for the church. They are even now leading them on a merry chase toward Redon.”

  Duval tilts his head, studying the man. “I know you,” he says at last.

  The young man smiles. “You have a good memory. I am Fedric, Duke of Nemours.” He bows deeply.

  Duke of Nemours! My mind scrambles back to Sister Eonette’s lessons. Nemours is a small but rich holding that, like Brittany, pays only nominal homage to the French Crown. The old Duke of Nemours had fought alongside Duke Francis in the Mad War, and died there. The young lord before us was one of the many men betrothed to the duchess.

  “I come to offer to reopen negotiations for the hand of your sister,” Nemours says.

  “But I thought you were already married.”

  Nemours’s face grows somber. “I was. My wife and young son died of the plague that passed through Nemours at the end of the summer.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Duval says.

  Nemours’s grin is somewhat forced. “Which is why I come to you seeking a new bride. When word of your sister’s circumstances reached me, I thought to approach you.”

  “What have you heard?” Duval asks warily.

  Nemours barks out a humorless laugh. “That the French regent has bribed half your barons to join France’s cause and that the Holy Roman emperor is too mired in his own wars to come to her aid. And the duchess’s own barons are too busy fighting for her crown to fight on her behalf.”