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

by Robin LaFevers

  “You have heard the right of it, I’m afraid.”

  “So I offer a way out. I propose the same terms as the original betrothal agreement, so you will see that I am not trying to take advantage of your situation.”

  Duval is suddenly cautious. “Why? What is in it for you that you are so chivalrous?”

  “Is chivalry not its own reward?”

  “Not in my experience, no.”

  Nemours shrugs, then smiles. It very nearly reminds me of Beast’s maniacal grin. “In addition to the great fondness I bear your lady sister, is not beating the French at their own game enough? My father died at their hand.”

  “How many troops can you lend to enforce the betrothal? For the French regent will move quickly once she learns of it.”

  “Three thousand,” he says, “which I know is less than d’Albret’s considerable numbers, but at least I can guarantee they will be loyal to the duchess.”

  “And that is worth much, I think.”

  “There is more,” Nemours adds. “My cousin, the queen of Navarre, will send fifteen hundred pikemen to aid our cause.”

  Duval’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Not that we would not welcome them, but why would she bestir herself on our account?”

  A grim note creeps into Nemours’s voice. “Do not forget that she also is married to a d’Albret. She knows only too well what marrying into that family entails.”

  A dark look of understanding passes between the two men. “Very well then,” Duval says. “I will put your proposal before the duchess.” And although he tries to hide it, the relief in his voice in plain.

  It takes me a moment before I recognize the feeling burbling through me. It is not trepidation, or even apprehension, but joy. I am nearly giddy with relief that we may have found our duchess a solution to her tangle. And while it is not the task I was trained for, I savor it all the same. I tell myself that my happiness has nothing to do with coming that much closer to removing the suspicion that clouds Duval’s name.

  On our return trip to Guérande, Duval does not use the shortcut I showed him but instead leads us through St. Lyphard itself. If this is a test, it is easy enough to pass. I know in my bones that no one will recognize me.

  The town has not changed at all since I left nearly four years ago. We pass the blacksmith’s forge and the small square where we held our meager celebrations, the weaver’s home, the herbwitch’s cottage and that of the tanner. In no time at all, we have reached the town’s outskirts. A lone cottage sits there with smoke rising sluggishly from the chimney and a few threadbare linens hanging on the line.

  In the fields beyond the house, a man works, his back bent as he struggles with the hard ground. Even though he is a turnip farmer, in the winter he sows a crop of rye. I am surprised at how old he looks, how grizzled his hair, how stooped his shoulders. It is as if only his hatred of me had kept him going. Now the monster of my childhood nightmares is nothing but a broken old man struggling to eke out a living, while I have been chosen by a god to do His bidding.

  As if sensing my eyes upon him, the man looks up, surprised to see four nobles prancing through his fields. When he bows his head and tugs at his forelock, I know that my disguise is complete. Even my own father has not recognized me.

  Duval brings his horse closer to mine. “Someone you know?” he murmurs.

  “He is no one,” I say, and for the first time I realize it is true.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Before the walls of the city come into sight, we are met by an outrider looking for Duval. Captain Dunois has sent him to tell us that the footpad has not only awakened, but escaped. I glance sharply at Duval, briefly wondering if that could have been his purpose, to lure me from the city long enough for our assailant to escape. But since he is doing a fine job of looking poleaxed by the news, I dismiss that idea.

  We ride to Guérande with all due haste and hurry to the dungeons beneath the palace.

  “How?” Duval asks as he steps inside the small prison chamber that is now empty. It is made of four solid walls with no window and only the one door. “How did he escape?”

  The captain of the palace guard shrugs uncomfortably. “He was not bound or manacled, and the key hangs on the hook outside. Anyone could have opened the door.”

  “But why, is the question.”

  With reluctance, one of the guards steps aside so that I too may enter the chamber. The minute I am in the room, I know. Death has visited; the man did not walk out alive.

  “My lord,” I murmur to Duval. “I would speak with you alone.”

  His eyes widen in surprise. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Understanding dawns and he pulls me away from the others.

  “He did not escape,” I murmur. “He was killed first, then taken from here afterward.”

  His dark eyebrows shoot up. “You can tell this merely from being in the room?”

  I nod.

  His eyes narrow in thought. “That at least makes more sense.” He turns back to the guards. “Find everyone who visited this room within the last two days, then bring a list of those names to me.” He sighs heavily. “Let us go speak to the duchess. At least we have one piece of good news to trade for this latest setback.”

  We find the duchess in her solar, sitting with her ladies and Madame Dinan, embroidering an altar cloth for the new cathedral. A young girl lies on the couch beside her. Isabeau, her younger sister, is delicate and frail-looking and cannot be older than ten. Both of their faces light up when Duval steps into the room.

  He bows and I drop a deep curtsy. “Your Grace; my lady Isabeau.”

  “Hello, Gavriel.” Young Isabeau smiles at him. “What brings you out from behind your stuffy desk?”

  “Since the sun is not shining today, I thought to catch sight of your face instead.”

  I have to look twice to be certain this is the same Duval I walked in with for I have never heard such pretty words fall from his lips, not even when he was with the duchess. But young Isabeau throws back her head and laughs, amused by his flattery. Before long, her laughter gives way to coughing; great, racking coughs that shake her frail body. Instantly the duchess is at her side, rubbing her back and trying to soothe her.

  Madame Dinan slaps her needlework down and hurries to Isabeau. She scowls at Duval. “Your teasing is unseemly, my lord Duval. It is too much excitement for the girl.”

  “Nonsense, madame,” Anne snaps back. “Isabeau coughs like this with or without my brother’s words, and at least he brings a smile to her face.” She turns to her ladies in waiting, who hover nervously. “Leave us, please.” With rustling as faint as butterfly wings, the ladies set down their embroidery hoops and leave the room. But not Madame Dinan, who boldly stands her ground.

  A look passes between Duval and the duchess, and then Anne turns to her governess. “Madame, sit with Isabeau, if you please, as I must speak with my brother.”

  Dinan wishes to argue, it is there in her eyes, but Duval does not give her the opportunity. “Walk with me, Your Grace.” He holds his arm out and the duchess takes it. He leads her to the far window, and I stand there like a bump in the floor, unsure if I should follow or stay and distract Madame Dinan. Anne glances over her shoulder and gives a quick motion for me to follow. I lift my skirts and hurry after them, Madame Dinan’s scorching gaze fair burning a hole through the back of my gown as I go.

  The three of us gather in front of the oriel window. It is a large room, and Duval speaks softly enough that his voice will not carry back to Dinan. “I bring interesting news, Your Grace.”

  “That is good to hear, as there is a desperate shortage of that just now.”

  Keeping his voice low, Duval tells her of our meeting with Nemours. When he is done, she clasps her hands together, hope lighting her young face. “Are my prayers being answered in such a fashion?”

  When Duval smiles at her, I realize that I have never seen him truly smile. Not like this, where it warms his entire fac
e. “It would appear so, dear sister. But I would warn you not to speak of it to anyone. Gisors’s men followed us today, but we evaded them.” Duval glances over to where Madame Dinan is attending to Isabeau. “Nor do we want word to get back to d’Albret. Who knows what mischief he could make for our plan.”

  The duchess quickly nods her understanding. “I will say nothing to anyone, but I cannot deny it will give me something to cling to during the meeting with the barons tomorrow. I cannot tell you how much I am dreading it.”

  Duval’s face settles back into seriousness. “I think the simplest course is to plead your grief over our father’s death. It is too fresh right now for you to consider marriage to d’Albret or anyone else.”

  The duchess’s mouth trembles ever so faintly. “It is not even a lie,” she says, and I am struck by how few choices she has for all that she is a duchess.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The great hall, which once seemed impossibly large, now seems impossibly small, stuffed as it is with this many bodies. Oh, they are noble enough bodies, but ripe with sweat and perfume and unbridled anticipation. I cannot tell if they are expecting disaster or farce. My sincerest hope is that my god will marque all the traitors today and my duty will be clear.

  I worm my way to a spot by the far wall, and my shoulders press painfully into the carved paneling at my back. Even so, I am glad for the space and am all too happy to defend it with my elbows when others press too close.

  As the main players assemble on the raised dais in the front of the room, I scan the crowd. The men have left their swords with guardsmen at the door so that none may be drawn during the meeting, but no one has been searched for knives or daggers. My hand drifts to my own hidden weapons at my wrists, and I wonder just how many other blades are nestled inside sleeves or hidden in folds of satin.

  Once all of Anne’s councilors have taken their place, the assembly rises and the duchess herself comes into the room. Her chin is high, her spine rigid with determination. Of their own accord, my eyes search out Duval, who sits at the far end of the dais. He is dressed in his customary black and is the very picture of somber reason. De Lornay and de Waroch stand near him at the front wall. They have kept their swords, most likely at his insistence.

  D’Albret sits directly before the dais, sprawling in his chair, trimming his nails with a knife, either a subtle threat or a sign of just how uncouth he really is. I study him carefully, but no matter how much I will it, there is no visible marque upon him.

  Chancellor Crunard calls the meeting to order, and the room grows quiet. Before the chancellor has finished the formal opening remarks, Count d’Albret puts away his knife and rises to his feet. There is the swish of skirts and creak of boot leather as the courtiers lean forward to hear better. The duchess eyes him shrewdly but gives him her full consideration, much as one gives a venomous serpent.

  “My lords.” He runs his gaze along the dais, then turns to the crowded room. “I am here to collect what was promised to me by your late Duke Francis. Namely, marriage to his daughter—my rightful payment for lending aid against the French last fall.”

  “A war we lost,” Chancellor Crunard is quick to point out, and I cannot help but think of his two sons who died in that war.

  A rumble reverberates around the room, but whether it is one of outrage or approval, I cannot tell.

  The duchess’s clear young voice carries over the crowd and they grow quiet once more. “My lord d’Albret. While your offer is worthy of our consideration, I am afraid I am too consumed by my family’s recent loss to turn my thoughts to marriage, and I beg your understanding a little while longer in this matter.”

  “You do not have the luxury of time, my lady. Your very country is at stake.”

  “You do not need to remind me of that, sir,” the duchess snaps.

  “But perhaps I need to remind you of your duty. Dukes and duchesses do not have the luxury of long mourning periods. The needs of their kingdoms come first, even before their grief.”

  Of course, he is right, and the duchess knows it as well. “I have always put my country first.” There is true anger in the duchess’s voice now.

  D’Albret’s tone softens in an attempt to coax. “With this marriage I offer, you will be able to turn your attention to more womanly concerns and let me shoulder your burdens. Then you may mourn all you want.” He glances briefly at the dais, but I cannot see who he is looking at. Madame Dinan? Marshal Rieux?

  There is a long quiet moment during which it looks as if the duchess is considering the idea. “I see you have thought of all my needs, Lord d’Albret. Even so, I must beg more time.”

  The count’s face grows red as he tries to keep his anger in check. He turns to address the barons directly. “This is a dangerous time for our kingdom. War beckons, and enemies circle. It is no time for young girls or old men to whisper behind closed doors and plot and plan. It is time for action. Time to face our enemies on the field of battle.”

  But at what cost to the duchess, I wonder, as I watch all the color drain from her young face. Duval’s mention of the man’s six former wives rustles through my head, as does Nemours’s disturbing whispers of his cousin’s marriage to a d’Albret.

  There is a disturbance in the middle of the room as the French emissary Gisors steps forward. The crowd opens up around him, much as it would if a wolf were emerging from its lair. “It seems to me,” he says into all that silence, “that this would be a good time to remind you of the Treaty of Verger, which clearly states that Anne may not marry without France’s approval. I’m afraid her marriage to Count d’Albret is out of the question. She is a ward of the French Crown and thus everything must be negotiated through us.”

  And praise the saints for that small mercy, I think.

  “How did he get in?” Duval asks no one in particular. To Beast and de Lornay, he says, “Get him out of here.” With grim, satisfied smiles they begin making their way through the throng of nobles. Before they can reach Gisors, however, he turns and heads to the back door. Before him, the crowd moves aside quickly, eager to get out of his path before de Lornay or Beast catch up to him.

  It is as elegant and unhurried a retreat as one can imagine, but it is a retreat nonetheless.

  “And see that he is confined to his chambers!” Duval calls out after them. By the way the councilors on the dais snap their heads around to stare at Duval, I am guessing this is a great overstep of his duties or a disregard of protocol.

  D’Albret moves smoothly into the breach created by Gisors’s departure. Ignoring Anne, he speaks once more to the nobles. “If you wish to keep your independence, you must support my marriage with the duchess. I will keep you safe from the French.” He smiles, but there is no warmth or humor it in. “Me and my five thousand troops.”

  He turns to face the duchess and council, his voice growing hard. “But if you do not support this marriage, I will have no choice but to hold the house of Montfort in breach of contract and will use all of my considerable resources to get by force what I could not gain by reason.”

  The room explodes in an uproar. I lean forward slightly, hoping that the count will now bear a marque. But there is nothing. I turn my attention to the dais, hoping that a marque will at least appear on whoever called this meeting and set this trap for the duchess, but again, nothing.

  Chancellor Crunard rises to his feet, his cheeks flushed with anger. “You are but one of many who was promised the duchess’s hand in marriage; there is no way we can honor all such agreements. Indeed, if we were to take them in the order they were made, yours would be the fifth in line.”

  D’Albret’s face is expressionless, but his eyes burn with an intensity that is most disturbing. “But do all those others have an army of five thousand just outside your borders?”

  The blood drains from Chancellor Crunard’s face. Satisfied at the effect his words have had, d’Albret turns on his heel and quits the chamber.

  The newly adjourned courtiers erupt i
n excited, nervous voices. Crunard motions for the guards and they throw open the large doors at the back of the chamber so the nobles may begin filing out of the room. I do not have a clear plan, but unable to help myself, I move to follow d’Albret. I am like a small boat moving against the tide of the crowd, but I ignore the bumps and stares that come my way, my attention never leaving my target.

  A practical knight at arms opens the small door to the side of the chamber in order to allow some people out that way. D’Albret moves in that direction, and so I too begin making for that door, silently cursing the laggards and dullards who stand between me and d’Albret. I cannot accept that Mortain has not seen fit to marque d’Albret for his threat—for after all, he is half Breton and owes some allegiance to the rightful duchess.

  When d’Albret steps out into the hall beyond, he is surrounded by nearly a score of his own men-at-arms. Merde. I cannot take on that many armed men.

  “Demoiselle Rienne!” There is a tug on my skirt and I glance down to find a young page. “What is it?” I ask.

  “Chancellor Crunard requests you attend him immediately.”

  I cast one last frustrated glance at d’Albret’s retreating back, then give my full attention to the boy. “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No, milady, but please come.”

  Hoping that the chancellor has received news from the convent, I let the boy lead me to his chamber. The page knocks once on the door, then opens it. If Chancellor Crunard is ruffled by the disastrous Estates meeting, he hides it well. “Come in, demoiselle,” he says as the page scampers away.

  His desk is nearly as large as a bed and has a neat stack of correspondence on one side and three maps on the other; there is also a small pot of ink and a handful of quills. He does not offer me a seat. Instead, he rises and moves to the window. After a long moment of silence, he turns to face me, his expression impassive. “Where were you hurrying off to?”