Ismae frowns in puzzlement. “I thought Julian was the next eldest?”
“He was, but he too is dead.” For a moment, she looks like the old Sybella, brittle and damaged, but then her face settles into a determined look. “However, the d’Albret plans will not stop with their death. They have been negotiating with the French camped but a few leagues from Nantes for some time. I do not know the full extent of their plans, but if they are allying themselves with the French in any way, it cannot be good for the duchess.”
Ismae purses her lips in thought while Sybella dunks her head under the water to rinse the soap from her hair. “Could they simply have been playing both sides against the middle, or perhaps using false promises to hold the French at bay?”
“Anything is possible, but we should prepare for the worst just the same. Now, enough talk of my grim duty. I want to hear of Annith’s adventures and how she comes to be in Rennes in spite of the abbess’s wishes.” She rises up out of the water, reaches for the linen towel, and begins to dry herself off.
And so I find myself telling my story for Sybella while she dresses. By the time I am done, she is smiling at me with pride, as if she herself had been responsible for my daring. Which—I realize with a jolt of understanding—she partially is. In giving me love, Ismae and Sybella have given me strength.
“And what did our fair abbess say when she found you here, under her very nose?”
“She was as furious as you’d expect, but it seemed that there was more than just anger there. I want to say fear, except that emotion is not one I would ever ascribe to her.”
“Nor I.” Ismae gives a firm shake of her head. “But when I told her of my meeting with Mortain, told her that I believe the convent, at least some of the time, misunderstands His wishes, she grew furious with me, and I too thought there was fear lying at the heart of it.”
“What?” I stare at her in alarm. “The convent misunderstands Mortain’s will? Why do you think such a thing?”
Her gaze softens. “After seeing so very much death in this world, death not directed by the convent, I have come to learn that everyone who dies bears His marque, and that the marque alone does not indicate that someone must die at one of our hands. Every man who died on the field in front of Nantes bore a marque, and of a certainty, I was not meant to kill them all.”
Her words strike the very breath from my lungs and all I can do is stare at her as my mind struggles to make sense of this, to find a way to make it fit in with the precepts that I hold so dear. “Maybe that is why the seeress is so important?” I finally suggest. “Because that is the only way to tell which of those marqued are meant to die at the convent’s command?”
“That is what I had hoped as well, but I received orders after you informed me that Sister Vereda had fallen ill, and if those orders did not come from one of her visions, then whose visions did they come from? Yours?”
I shake my head. “It was not mine, for I have not yet Seen a thing. Certainly nothing I would be willing to stake a man’s life upon.”
There is another knock on the door—in truth, there is no end to the comings and goings here at court. Ismae hurries over to open it, then talks quietly to whoever is there.
I turn to where Sybella is drying her hair by the fire. “Why were you so angry when you first saw me?”
She closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. “I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t that I was not happy to see you.” She focuses intently on rubbing the wet strands of her hair with the towel. “The abbess said that if I would not return to d’Albret’s household and feed her information as required, then she would send you in my stead.” She looks up at me then, her entire face glowing with intensity. “I could not risk that. You are too good and pure. I could not have you tainted with the stain of my family. I could not bear that.” It is as near to a declaration of love from Sybella as I have ever heard, and I hold it close, trying not to feel slighted that she doubted I could handle myself in such a situation, a situation I have trained for longer than she.
Although perhaps that is not true. From what Ismae has told me of Sybella’s family, no manner of training could prepare one for their dark and twisted deeds. “Thank you,” I say softly. “For caring enough to return to the lion’s den yourself.”
Uncomfortable as ever with my sincerity, she waves my words aside just as Ismae steps away from the door. “We have been summoned to the duchess’s council chamber,” she says, and for a moment, I once again feel outside the circle of our friendship. I turn away so they will not see my longing and disappointment, but Ismae reaches out and tweaks the sleeve of my gown.
“The duchess asked for you as well. The council wishes to hear not only Sybella’s account of what happened at Nantes but your message from the Arduinnites.” She winks, and I cannot help but smile back. With the duchess’s help, Ismae has outmaneuvered the abbess.
At least for the moment.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
AS SOON AS I STEP into the council chamber, I feel the abbess’s cold gaze upon me. Were the meeting even slightly less formal, I feel certain she would take me aside and reprimand me for my presence here.
I pretend she does not exist. It is a trick Sybella used in the past to drive the abbess nearly mad with fury, and I hope to use it to similar effect.
As Sybella tells the Privy Council what she told Ismae and me of what transpired in Nantes, I study the councilors and try to get a sense of their characters.
Across from Lord Duval sits a barrel of a man who looks as stalwart as a thickly rooted tree. He is dressed in soldier’s garb and I guess him to be Dunois, captain of the duchess’s armies. Next to him is a tall, slender man with gray hair at his temples. His eyes are kind, his smile sad, and a chain of office glints around his neck that marks him as the duchess’s new chancellor, Lord Montauban, and captain of Rennes, the city that has given her such needed refuge.
Across from him sits a bishop in scarlet robes with fat jeweled rings upon his fingers. I am somewhat startled to see Father Effram sitting beside him. He wears no trappings of high-church office, and I cannot help but wonder what his role is here. Next to him is a man whose sharp features put me in mind of the ospreys who hunt off the rocky shores near the convent, but I can glean no hint of his identity from his appearance.
More than once, my gaze is drawn to the Beast of Waroch. His sheer ugliness is nearly an affront in such polished company, not to mention shocking next to the beauty that Sybella possesses. And yet . . .
And yet the ferocity of his exterior matches the scarred ferocity of her soul, and I believe, against all appearances, that they will suit wonderfully. Any doubts I may have had are quickly dispelled by the quiet pride in the man’s feral eyes as he watches and listens to Sybella give her account. I can almost feel the weight of his regard for her reach across the table and wrap itself around her like a protective arm.
I also slip occasional glances at this Duval fellow who has stolen Ismae’s heart. I would never believe they had once fought like cats and dogs in the reverend mother’s office if I had not seen it with my own eyes. Although Duval spends less time gazing at Ismae than Beast does at Sybella, I can still feel the bond between them, like steady, nurturing roots from some invisible tree.
When Sybella has finished her tale, the room falls into a stunned but respectful silence. After a moment, Duval turns to Beast. “Tell us of the battle for Morlaix.”
Something in the way that Beast squares his massive shoulders makes me believe that he would prefer to be back on the battlefield rather than speaking before the council. “The abbess of Saint Mer was most helpful,” he begins, his voice deep and graveled. “As were the people of Morlaix, and the charbonnerie.” The bishop sniffs his disdain at the mention of the charcoal-burners, for they followed the Dark Matrona when the Church cast her out. Father Effram, however, folds his hands and smiles beatifically, as if especially pleased with beloved children.
“In truth,” Beast says, somew
hat sharply, “it was the charbonnerie and their way with fire that allowed us to take the town’s cannon back from the French and use the weapons against them.
“We sent another group to the winch house where the great chain that guards the mouth of the bay was secured. They seized control of the winch and lowered the chain. Once the dual threats of the cannon fire and the barricade had been removed, the British ships were able to pass.”
“And just in time.” Sybella picks up the tale. “For our group was small and there were a great number of French troops in the city. Once again, the charbonnerie were crucial, as they devised a most clever scheme to smoke the bulk of the enemy’s troops out of the barracks right over the city walls, which rendered their numbers manageable.”
With the grace and timing an accomplished dancer would envy, Beast now resumes talking, as if he and Sybella had planned this. “Once the British troops disembarked, it was all but over.” He falls silent for a moment before continuing. “Four brave charbonnerie lost their lives for the cause, as did six of our own men. But make no mistake, we would not have prevailed had it not been for the charbonnerie.”
Father Effram smiles and spreads his hands wide. “It is almost as if it were willed by God and His Nine.”
Beast appears to notice the old man for the first time and gives him a bemused look. “I do not believe we have met before . . .”
The bishop in red sniffs again, and Duval passes a hand across his mouth. I do not know him well enough to be sure that he is hiding a smile, but that is what I suspect. “Allow me to introduce Father Effram. He was once the bishop here in Rennes—”
“A long time ago,” the current bishop mutters.
“—but is retired now. His wisdom has proved most helpful,” Duval adds, pointedly not looking at the current bishop.
The duchess leans forward. “Sir Waroch, Lady Sybella. The charbonnerie have fulfilled their part of the bargain, and now I would fulfill mine. They were promised a place at our table, and I would honor that. Do you have suggestions?”
Beast and Sybella exchange a thoughtful look, considering. “I believe they simply wish to continue their way of life, Your Grace, but without being reviled.”
“That is just as well, as our treasury is utterly depleted and we have nothing with which to pay them,” Chancellor Montauban says dryly.
“It was never about money,” Sybella says sharply.
Montauban bows his head. “I know that, my lady. It was but an attempt to lighten the mood of a grim situation.”
Sybella blinks in surprise at his apology, then smiles prettily to let him know it has been accepted.
“What they need is to be treated with honor and respect,” Beast says.
“What if,” Duval muses, pulling on his chin, “what if we created a military order just for them, like an honor guard, but of the realm rather than of the duchess’s person? That would both elevate their status and recognize their past deeds.”
“Continuing deeds,” Beast corrects. “They have no intention of withdrawing their assistance. They are, if anything, even more committed than before.”
“An order.” The old priest presses the tips of his fingers together. “I like that. May I suggest calling it the Order of the Flame?” He shrugs apologetically. “If no one has any other proposals.”
Duval looks at Beast and Sybella, who turn to the duchess. She nods. “It is perfect. It speaks to their unique gifts and form of service. Lord Duval, see that it is so. And we will have a ceremony to honor them.”
Poor Chancellor Montauban winces. “How extravagant a ceremony did you have in mind, Your Grace?”
“I take it by your dour look that our coffers do not hold even so much as crumbs?” Duval asks.
Montauban shakes his head. “I am afraid not. The funds received for the duchess’s jewels have already been used to pay the mercenary troops some of what we owe them in order to prevent them from sacking the city from the inside.”
“Our soldiers have not been paid in a long while either,” Captain Dunois says. “It does not sit well with them that the mercenaries have been paid first. More than one fight has broken out because of it.”
Duval spears the man with a look and gives a curt shake of his head. He does not wish to discuss this now, whether due to the duchess’s presence or some other reason, I do not know.
For the first time the duchess looks over at the hawklike man. “Any word from my lord husband?” She stumbles over the word husband, and I realize the man she addresses must be the Holy Roman emperor’s vassal Jean de Chalon.
“Your Grace, I am sorry, but he is most beset by increasing problems of his own—and not by chance. The French regent has increased the troops along his borders, thus necessitating he stay engaged there. That they have managed to make a barrier of themselves between you two is but an added benefit.”
The duchess tries to keep her face impassive, but her color drains away at this news. As if to shore up her own hopes, she says, “There are others who will fight by our side.” She looks to me. “Lady Annith, please tell what the Arduinnites have offered.”
As I relay their offer of aid, all eyes in the room turn to me. “Surely they are mere legend!” Chalon exclaims when I have finished.
Beast raises one craggy eyebrow at him. “That is also what you claimed of the charbonnerie.”
The bishop leans forward, the look on his face a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “But they are women!”
The abbess, who has been as still and silent as a statue this entire time, slowly turns her cold gaze on the bishop. “As, may I remind you, are we who serve Mortain.”
The bishop swallows once, twice, and all but squirms in his chair. Captain Dunois casts a sympathetic glance at the man before speaking. “Surely their numbers are too small to be of great use to us.”
Beast shifts in his seat so that he can see the man. “I think the charbonnerie would disagree with that assessment.”
“As would the Arduinnites,” I say. “Though their numbers are small, they did great damage to the French at Vannes.”
“We will accept whatever aid our countrymen are willing to give.” The duchess’s voice is loud and firm. Then she turns to Duval. “Will the defeats at Morlaix, Vannes, and Guingamp deter the French regent?”
“If that doesn’t, your marriage should,” Chalon mutters.
Duval addresses the duchess. “We can hope it deters them,” he says. “And at least we do not have d’Albret and his troops to worry about any longer.”
Sybella shifts in her seat. “Do not be so certain of that, Lord Duval.”
His gaze moves to her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that whatever d’Albret was planning will not necessarily end with his death. He had been negotiating with the French, who are camped only a short way down the Loire from Nantes. I was not able to learn what he had planned, but if his men are working with the French, I am sure it will not benefit the duchess in any way.”
“Do you think they have learned of the marriage by proxy to the Holy Roman emperor?” Chalon asks.
“Of a certainty, d’Albret knew. Whether he—or someone else—got that information to the French regent is anyone’s guess.”
“With as many spies as they have at court, I have no doubt they’ve learned it by now,” Duval mutters.
“More importantly,” Captain Dunois says to no one in particular, “will it cause them to take action?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
WHEN THE COUNCIL DISPERSES, THE duchess requests that Ismae attend her, and Sybella excuses herself so she can check on her sisters at Saint Brigantia’s convent to see that they are comfortably settled in. As I watch them all go, my heart aches with the all too familiar sensation of being passed by. Only this time, it is not some thrilling assignment I am being left out of but life itself, and I feel as lonely and trapped as I did back at the convent.
Ismae now has someone with whom to build a life outside the convent walls. So
does Sybella, and while I do not know much about the Beast of Waroch, I can see the great joy and peace he brings her, and that alone is enough to make me love him greatly.
But what of me? What role is it my destiny to play? For the only thing that would have made being seeress bearable was seeing Sybella and Ismae when I had visions of their assignments and hearing the tales of their adventures. I could at least have lived vicariously through them.
But now—now it does not look like they will ever set foot on that small island again.
Even though I am a hundred leagues away from the convent, I can suddenly feel the walls pressing in on me as surely as if I were in the seeress’s chamber itself. Or perhaps after several weeks on the open road I have simply grown accustomed to being outdoors. Either way, if I do not get some fresh air, I fear I will suffocate.
I go to my room to grab a cloak, wrap it around my shoulders, and return to the palace corridors.
Even though I have no idea where I am going, I stride off purposefully, ignoring the few curious gazes directed my way. Surely if I just keep walking, I will get to a door of some kind.
However, there is no doorway at the end of this hall. Instead, it ends in another hall, forcing me to choose right or left. I go left, assuming that will lead to the outer edges of the palace. However, I do not find a doorway, but a staircase. I follow the narrow stone steps up and up and up again until, at last, there is a door. But it is guarded by sentries.
Remembering Ismae’s claim that as one of Mortain’s own, I can go where I please, I give the men-at-arms a serene nod and motion for them to open the door. Much to my surprise, they do. When I walk through, I find that I am at last outside. I take a deep breath of fresh air and try to get my bearings. I am not in the front of the palace, as I had hoped, but instead have come out the back, where the palace abuts the city wall. There is another set of stairs, which I climb until I gain the ramparts.
As I stand on the battlements looking out over the valley beyond the city wall, something deep inside me uncoils. I lift my face to the cool night breeze that whips at my hair and my cloak. I think of the Arduinnites, their camp hidden out there among the trees. I think of the hellequin and their desolate existence brightened only by the distant promise of redemption and the individual gifts they bring to their duties. I marvel at all I have learned, which hardens my resolve. I will not let the abbess, or self pity, defeat me.
Mortal Heart Page 21