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

by Robin LaFevers

  I meet his gaze steadily. Only my promise to Duval of utmost secrecy prevents me from telling him of the duchess’s newest suitor and the hope he offers her. “To see if I could convince Mortain to give me permission to remove Count d’Albret.”

  He blinks in surprise. Whatever he expected me to say, it was not this. His face relaxes and I detect a glint of humor in his eyes. “By all means, search d’Albret for one of those marques. Then we can be done with him and move on to equally pressing problems.”

  While I am surprised to learn that Crunard knows of the marques—he is even more in the abbess’s confidence than I realized—I am pleased that we are in agreement on this. He turns back to the window. “Have you learned anything further of Duval and his true motives?” he asks.

  “No, my lord. I have found nothing to warrant your or the abbess’s suspicions.” I am aware that I must tread carefully here. “He seems most devoted to the duchess, and she seems to trust him above all others.”

  “And does that not seem highly suspect to you?” he asks. “That she would trust her bastard brother above all her others? It speaks to me of undue influence.”

  “Or perhaps he just puts her interests before his own,” I suggest, thinking of Madame Dinan and Marshal Rieux.

  Crunard’s head whips around and he fixes me with a piercing stare. “As do we all.”

  “I meant no disrespect, my lord, only that Duval appears to have her best interests at heart.”

  “And you trust his word on this?”

  “No, my lord. I trust my own eyes and ears. Everything I have seen and heard speaks of his absolute loyalty to his sister.”

  “But is that not the best way to avert suspicion? To profess deep and abiding loyalty?”

  I do not know what to say to this. I have no words with which to convince Chancellor Crunard of what I feel in my heart to be true.

  “Nevertheless, it is not wise to place too much trust in Duval.” His voice drips with contempt. “I know him to be an oath breaker.”

  I bite back a gasp. That is no small thing. “What oath did he break?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  The chancellor brings his steepled fingers to his lips and studies me. “The one he made to his saint,” he says. “I was there when he broke it, saw his blasphemy with my own eyes.” When I say nothing more, he nods his head curtly. “You are dismissed. Inform me as soon as you hear anything from the convent.”

  For a moment, the briefest moment, I consider telling him of the wonderful new possibility Duval has found for his sister, but something holds me back. What if the chancellor fears that I, like the duchess, have fallen under Duval’s spell and sends me back to the convent? Instead, I promise him I will keep him informed, and then take my leave.

  If the duchess is still up to the task, it is time for her to meet Nemours.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The duchess has withdrawn to her solar, surrounded by her ladies of the court. Her younger sister, Isabeau, is well enough to join them and reclines on a couch that has been pulled next to Anne’s chair. The atmosphere in the room is tense and nervous, everyone’s mind on the claims and accusations heard in this morning’s meeting. Even though the duchess’s face is pale and the skin around her eyes drawn tight, she greets me as if we are old friends. “Demoiselle Rienne! Come join us and let us see your pretty handiwork.”

  Would that I had thought to warn the duchess of my inept fingers. “Thank you, Your Grace. You do me great honor, but my handiwork is not worthy of such compliments.”

  She pats the chair next to her. “Come. Sit. It cannot be that bad.”

  From behind her sister’s shoulder, Isabeau gives me an impish grin, and I wonder if her sister has confided in her. I return the smile and take my place next to the duchess.

  “What are you working on, demoiselle?” she asks.

  “Well.” I pull the basket onto my lap and begin to rummage through it, looking for a suitable project. “Ah, here it is. An altar cloth for milord Duval, to thank him for sponsoring me here at court.” I stumble painfully through my words, like a toddler learning to walk. I have less talent for small talk than I do for embroidery.

  The duchess and Isabeau make a kind fuss over my embroidery pattern while the other ladies eye me with distrust. To them, I am nothing but an interloper, a cuckoo bird who has come to nudge them from the duchess’s favor and take their spot.

  At last everyone turns back to their needlework, and I am left to blunder on with my own. As I try to decide how best to approach it, the duchess leans close so that only I will hear her words. “It will cause the linen no pain if you stick it, demoiselle.”

  I bite down on a small bubble of laughter.

  “Have you no practice at needlework?” she asks.

  “Only with a much larger needle,” I mutter.

  She smiles grimly at my joke. “Ah. Perhaps we can find some larger pieces for you to practice on.”

  I incline my head solemnly. “Any project you desire, Your Grace.”

  Then she winks at me and adjusts her arms so that I may watch her hands at their work. Biting my lip, I study the angle at which she applies her needle, the twist of her wrist as she brings the thread through, the easy rhythm with which she sets the needle to the piece again.

  I turn to try it on my own work. I am able to poke the needle through the cloth well enough, but when I try to pull the thread through, it snarls and knots so that I have to set the needle aside and untangle the mess. I catch Madame Dinan watching me with her cold eyes, a hundred questions lurking in their depths. Angling my shoulder to block her view of my clumsy work, I pray for the hour of the chapel visit to arrive.

  In the end, I manage well enough, but I am heartily glad when the hourglass runs empty. The duchess notes the direction of my gaze and smiles. “Demoiselle, I would grant you a boon and free you from your embroidery so you may accompany me to chapel. Perhaps you can pray for more nimble fingers.”

  “Your Grace,” Madame Dinan says sharply. “I do not think—”

  “And you, Madame Dinan, may sit with Isabeau,” the duchess says. Ignoring her governess’s raised eyebrows, she rises to her feet.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” My thanks are heartfelt enough as I set aside my embroidery, only too gladly follow her from the solar.

  Once alone in the hallways, we exchange glances and some of the strain leaves her face. Even so, I am compelled to ask, “Are you sure you wish to do this today?”

  “Now more than ever,” she says, her voice firm. “The only path open to me is one I cannot take. It is weak of me, I know, but . . .” Her voice falters and she turns stricken eyes on me. “I cannot,” she whispers. “D’Albret terrifies me.”

  “I do not blame you, Your Grace. He terrifies me as well. No one should ask such a sacrifice from you.”

  She is somewhat comforted by my words, and we walk in silence a short way before she speaks again. “You have seen Lord Nemours, yes? How did you find him?” She is every bit the twelve-year-old girl eager to meet her new suitor.

  “Were you not betrothed to him once before?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Yes, but I have not ever seen him.”

  “We-ell, he is quite old, with a long white beard and crooked back. And his teeth are yellow.”

  Her look of horror turns to one of exasperation when she realizes I am joking, and then she laughs. “You are as bad a tease as Duval,” she says. But my jest has worked. When we reach the chapel, the remnant of her laughter lingers in her eyes and plays about her lips.

  The chapel is small and nearly empty, and I am pleased to see the nine niches under the crucifix honoring the old saints. The only other supplicant in the chapel wears a dark green cloak with the hood drawn close around his head. At our approach, he rises to his feet and pulls the hood from his face, revealing the red-gold hair and handsome face of Fedric of Nemours. He and the duchess stare at each other for a long moment, and then he gives an elaborate, courtly bow.


  “Lord Nemours?” she says, a small spark of hope lighting her face. “You may wait by the door,” she murmurs to me, then lifts her skirts and joins Nemours in a pew at the front of the church.

  I take up position at the door, folding my hands and trying to look as if I am praying rather than pining of curiosity.

  Their voices are but soft murmurs, and Anne’s manner is somewhat awkward at first, but Nemours quickly puts the duchess at ease. Once I see their heads draw together and hear soft laughter, I turn my thoughts to my own plans.

  Chancellor Crunard’s words still echo in my ears: By all means, search d’Albret for one of those marques. Why had I not realized that I must search d’Albret before I can be certain there is no marque upon him?

  Because I am a coward, that is why.

  But surely Crunard is correct in where my duties lie, and the abbess would want me to create every opportunity to determine if d’Albret bears a marque anywhere on his body.

  A strike to the head is not the only way to kill a man.

  ***

  Unwilling to face her fractious barons that evening, the duchess decides to dine in her chambers with her sister. I cannot help but wonder if it is also to hide the smile she now wears. Truly, she and Nemours are well matched, and his suit is a gift from both God and the saints. Even better, if there is no formal court tonight, it will be easier for me to go in search of some answers.

  My brief meeting with Chancellor Crunard and an afternoon of prayer have convinced me that I have made a grave error in assuming Mortain would marque d’Albret in plain sight. As the abbess is so fond of reminding me, that is not how our saint works. Indeed, the man may well have been marqued for days—someplace where I cannot see it.

  I glance around the dim hallway, trying to get my bearings in the east wing of the castle, the section assigned to d’Albret. A pair of doors stand wide open. Raised voices and laughter spill out into the hall along with the candlelight. The laughter has an unpleasant edge to it, a faint tinge of cruelty that makes my heart beat faster and my hands long to reach for the knives at my wrists. Instead, I force them down to my sides, where they grip the heavy velvet of my gown.

  I have given much thought as to how I will extricate myself should d’Albret not bear a marque but have yet to come up with a satisfactory plan. I would like to believe I can just turn and walk away, but I fear it will not be that easy. The boys in the village had ugly names and taunts for girls who promised kisses but never delivered them. Even so, I take a deep breath and slip silently into the chamber.

  The room is full of noblemen and their retainers, and half the nobles sprawl in chairs drinking wine. D’Albret himself sits in the middle, arrogance apparent in every line of his body, from the way he lounges in his chair to the disdainful gaze with which he surveys the room.

  Even as anticipation surges through me, my mind whirs. I know I cannot just glide up to him and ask that he unlace his doublet so that I might peer at his chest. Once again I curse my awkward, graceless nature. Sybella and even Annith would know what to do.

  And then it comes to me. I have only to pretend I am Sybella.

  She would find an excuse to approach her target, then she would wrap her delicate web of seduction around him. I glance at the room, pleased when I spy a half-full flagon of wine on one of the chests. I pick it up and make my way toward d’Albret.

  Feeling more sure of myself now, I slip around the knot of men so that I can approach d’Albret from behind. The fact that he and his men have eyes only for their own magnificence makes this easier than it should be. I take a deep breath and remember Sybella’s throaty laugh, the way her lip curls delicately so that you cannot be certain who she is laughing at, the tilt of her head and the slant of her eyes as she peers at you, trying to decide if you are worth her efforts.

  At my approach, the man on d’Albret’s left looks up. Having been spotted, I can delay no longer. Even though my fingers are desperate to pull away, I force them to rest lightly on d’Albret’s shoulder. He smells of wine and sweat and the braised venison he had for dinner. I curl my lip in a knowing smile and lower my voice. “My lord,” I purr. “May I refill your wine cup?”

  He lifts his head and somehow manages to look down his haughty nose at me even though I stand over him. He holds up his goblet, and his eyes narrow in recognition. “Ah, what do we have here?”

  As I pour his wine—slowly—my eyes inspect every inch of exposed flesh, looking for the faintest hint of Mortain’s dark shadow. There is none. Merde. That means I must take this even farther. When his goblet is full, I clutch the flagon to my chest and cast my eyes downward. “It is just as you said, my lord. I fear I am left alone far more than I would like.” I glance up from under my lashes in time to see a triumphant smile spread across his thick lips. My heart skips a beat and I look down once more so he will not see how badly I wish to strike that smile from his face.

  “Leave us,” he tells the others abruptly. There is a moment of surprised silence, then, with knowing winks and a bold comment or two, the other men file out of the chamber. The last one to leave shuts the door behind him.

  I can feel d’Albret’s eyes on me, as cold and hard as winter hail. “Now it is just us, demoiselle.”

  I carefully set the flagon down, and my mind scrambles for the best way to get him out of his shirt and doublet as quickly as possible. However, before I can say anything, d’Albret rises to his feet and reaches for me. As his thick, coarse hand clamps down on my arm, I am nearly overcome with fear and loathing.

  “Jumpy, demoiselle?” His voice is mocking.

  As I start to answer, the door behind me bursts open. D’Al­bret’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow. Before I can turn around, there is an iron grip on my other arm.

  It is Duval, tight-lipped and glaring at me, and I am ashamed at how glad I am to see him, how relieved I am to be kept from completing this task I have set for myself.

  The count’s expression shifts when he sees who it is. “Eh, Duval? Have you lost something?” I do not know why d’Albret’s good humor returns. Does he take that much pleasure in taunting Duval? “Perhaps we can make a little trade, you and I,” d’Albret says, letting go of my arm. “I will return your mistress to you if you will give me your sister.”

  “They are not horses to be traded at the fair,” Duval growls.

  “No? Is that not a woman’s role, to act as broodmare to a sire?”

  The pulse in Duval’s jaw beats fiercely. “We must agree to disagree on that point.” He gives a curt, shallow nod, then drags me from the room. I feel d’Albret’s chilling gaze at our backs until we are well clear of him.

  Out in the hallway, Duval releases me with a little shove. “Sweet Jesu, do not poison him so openly! Has the convent not taught you any better than that? Why not just create a trail of blood leading to my door?”

  I glare back. “I was not poisoning him.”

  All the color drains from Duval’s face. “What were you planning then?”

  When I do not reply, he reaches out and shakes me. “Have you heard nothing I’ve told you about Count d’Albret?” His voice is low and urgent and tinged with fear. Fear for me.

  Suddenly it is all too much. His concern, my relief at being found. Frustration and impotence boil up inside me. I reach out and push Duval—hard—so that he stumbles back.

  “This is my job, my calling. It is why I am here. My duty is to my god, not to you and your political maneuverings. I am here to do His will, not yours.” I turn away from him. My frustration is so great, I am afraid hot angry tears will spill from my eyes, and I will not let Duval see that.

  When he speaks, his voice is filled with certainty, and I so envy him that certainty that I want to hit him all over again. “Whatever it is your saint demands of you, I am certain it is not what would have happened in that room.”

  I glance back at him. “What do you know of gods and saints?” I ask, filling my voice with scorn.

  His fingers drift t
o the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos on his cloak. “I know that what our saints want is not always made clear to us. Sometimes, it is their wish for us to flail and struggle and come to our own choices, not accept ones that have been made for us.”

  Easily enough said by one who forsook his own vows.

  “Everything I know of the saints and old gods,” he continues, “is that they and Brittany are one. Anything that serves our kingdom, and by extension our quest to remain independent of France, serves them.”

  I am sorely tempted to throw his forsaking of his saint in his face, but something stops me. Instead, I spin on my heel and begin making my way toward the main door of the castle.

  Outside, the night is cool, but the moon is full, casting a bright, silvery light on the streets of Guérande. We walk in angry silence, using back ways and alleys, both of us clinging to the shadows, our dark cloaks rendering us nearly invisible. Small tendrils of mist have begun to creep in from the sea, bringing with them the moist tang of the nearby salt marshes.

  When we have nearly reached his residence, Duval speaks. “The duchess is well pleased with Nemours’s offer.” His voice is wooden, formal. “We will put the proposal before the Privy Council in a few days to gain their approval.”

  And though I have vowed never to speak to him again, I am surprised into looking up. “Is that wise? I thought secrecy was of utmost importance.”

  He grimaces in frustration. “We do not have much choice. She has not yet been crowned duchess, so she does not yet have the ability to act on her own behalf. We must have the Privy Council’s signatures on any agreement we enter into. After that, we will move quickly to maintain the element of surprise.”

  When we reach his residence he takes us through the front door, merely nodding at the surprised man-at-arms. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs and motions for me to go on ahead. “I think we have shared each other’s company enough for one night. Besides, I have much to prepare for tomorrow’s council meeting.”