Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  Marshal Rieux shakes his head. “I had nothing to do with the trap d’Albret sprang before Nantes. We argued fiercely over it, and it is one of the many reasons he and I have parted ways.”

  Duval glances at Sybella, who gives a tiny nod of confirmation. Rieux’s gaze follows the movement, his eyes growing wide when he sees who Duval is communicating with. “What is she doing here?”

  “You have no authority to question those who serve me.” The duchess’s reprimand is swift and sharp and I wish to hug her for her staunch support of Sybella.

  With some difficulty, Rieux swallows whatever further arguments he had been planning on making. “That is true, Your Grace, but she can also vouch for me. She was there and saw me arguing with d’Albret. We nearly came to blows over it. Tell them,” he demands.

  All of us turn to look at Sybella, who studies him much as a cat deciding whether a skinny mouse is worth the effort. “It is true that you argued with him over that trap. But it is also true that you were at his side when he took Nantes, that you stood idly by while his men slaughtered innocent palace retainers and city folk.”

  The room is as quiet as a tomb, and Rieux himself has gone pale as Sybella throws his crimes at his feet. “Yes, but what you cannot know—since you did not ride out on those sorties yourself—is that neither I nor my men participated. We had no idea his methods would be so brutal, else I would never have supported him in the first place.”

  “You mean, else you never would have betrayed the duchess in the first place.” Duval’s voice is harder than stone.

  Rieux turns to the duchess and speaks directly to her. “Your Grace, your father assigned me to guard over you, as both your tutor and your advisor.”

  “A sacred duty that you not only abandoned, but betrayed.”

  He takes a step forward, and as one, Sybella, Ismae, and I place our hands on our weapons. He stops. “Your Grace, it was but a play to force you to do what I thought best for you and the country. In my own way, I was being loyal to the duty your father had entrusted to me.”

  “But you were not loyal to me.”

  “I have never stopped being on your side,” he insists. “Which is why I left d’Albret once I understood the full scope of his plans. My troops and I have chased the French from three towns.”

  “But how do we know you speak the truth?” Lord Duval asks. “How do we know you are not here simply because d’Albret is dead and you wish to throw your lot in with the stronger side now that the tide has turned?”

  Marshal Rieux’s head snaps back to Duval. “D’Albret is dead?”

  “As good as.”

  The marshal looks over at Sybella, who gives a brief nod, confirming Duval’s words. He looks stunned for a moment, then shakes his head. “Though it pains me to say it of any man, that is probably a good thing, I fear.”

  At his words, Lord Duval and Captain Dunois exchange a look. “So why are you here?” the captain asks.

  Marshal Rieux looks up again, as if surprised they need ask. “Why, to offer my fealty to the duchess and serve her as marshal once more. This is no time for internal differences to divide us.”

  “It was no time to be divided four months ago either.”

  “And I have seen the error of my ways. I am asking for a second chance and offering you the not insignificant resources I have at my disposal.”

  “How could we trust you again?” the duchess asks, and this time, her voice sounds young to my ears, as if there is as much heartbreak beneath her question as political calculation.

  “I know that I will have to earn that trust back slowly, piece by agonizing piece, but I am asking for a chance to do so.”

  It is the right answer, and Duval and Dunois exchange glances once more. “You cannot expect Her Grace to decide this immediately. She will need to think on it.”

  “Of course. I await your pleasure, Your Grace. But do not wait too long, for of a certainty, the French regent will not.”

  “Wait!” It is Sybella who speaks, drawing all eyes toward her. “Does that mean you know what plot d’Albret was hatching with the French regent?”

  Rieux stares at her, surprise etched clearly on his face, as if he realizes he has just been granted an opportunity to make himself valuable. “And you do not?”

  Sybella gives a sharp shake of her head, and Rieux turns back to the duchess. “D’Albret always claimed that if he could not have the duchy as his own, he would hand it over to the French regent. When he received word that Your Grace had been married by proxy to the Holy Roman emperor, he began negotiations with the French. He plans to hand over the city of Nantes to them.”

  A collective gasp goes up around the room, and the duchess’s small hands grow white as she grips the arms of her chair.

  “That is the reason I am here, Your Grace. If we do not join forces, we shall surely fall.”

  The shocked silence that fills the room is louder than a hundred murmuring voices. Then, almost as one, all turn to look at Sybella, myself included. Although she holds her head high and proud, I sense the tangle of feelings in her: anger, embarrassment, defiance, and shame. Instead of acknowledging any of those, she meets Duval’s questioning gaze. “Well, now we know,” she says.

  “Are you certain—very certain, my lady—that you did not know this earlier?” It is Chalon who asks the question.

  Before she can answer him, Beast turns on Chalon, who visibly blanches at the anger and heat he sees there. “I know you are not questioning the lady’s loyalty, my lord, for she has done more than any of us here to ensure the duchess’s and our kingdom’s safety.” Beast’s voice is soft, polite even, but there is no mistaking the threat that underlies his every word.

  The entire room watches silently as Chalon splutters out an apology. When he has finished, Sybella answers the question he posed.

  “I did not,” she says. “But I cannot say it surprises me, for it became clear that he was like an enraged child who would break a toy completely before allowing another to play with it.”

  I cannot help but think it is a frighteningly apt description of what Count d’Albret has done to our country.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  CONTEMPLATING THE FULL WEIGHT OF what Rieux has told us, ­Duval begins stroking his chin. “We will need to know if the city is resisting, or if its citizens have accepted French rule as easily as they did d’Albret’s.”

  Marshal Rieux shifts on his feet. “There are rumored to be small pockets of resistance, my lord, for while few understood that d’Albret was not acting with the full blessing of the duchess, most everyone knows that the French assuredly have no such blessing.”

  “Do we know what they plan to do? Simply hold the town? Use it to launch their offensive?”

  “No,” Rieux says. “D’Albret did not trust me with the full details of his plan.”

  “Do we know if he made the deal with the French regent or the king himself?”

  “Does it matter?” Chalon asks.

  “It could, possibly. The regent, the king’s sister, has been in charge since their father’s death, and even though the king reached his majority two years ago, she still appears to be holding the reins. If they are not in agreement, or if the king is champing at the bit to take control on his own, perhaps we can use that to create some sort of wedge between them.”

  “To what purpose?” the bishop asks.

  Duval shrugs, then glances pointedly at Marshal Rieux. “To weaken them, as our wedges have weakened us. And perhaps to buy us enough time for an opportunity to present itself.”

  “Buy us a miracle, you mean.”

  Duval nods. “That is precisely what I mean. Opportunity, miracle—I welcome them all.”

  “How do you propose to determine who is in charge?” Captain Dunois asks.

  Beast’s voice rumbles through the room. “Do not even think of sending the Lady Sybella.”

  Duval glances over at his friend. “It never crossed my mind,” he assures him.

 
; Chancellor Montauban speaks for the first time. “But the information could prove most beneficial, as you have stated.”

  “I will go.” Ismae’s quiet words cause the room to fall silent.

  Duval looks at her as if she is mad. “No, you will not. We have others we can send. Besides, what of your duties to the duchess?”

  Ismae nods at me. “Annith is here now, and she is more than capable of serving the duchess in my stead. Indeed, she is far better suited for it than I.”

  The two of them stare at each other a long moment before Ismae speaks. “This is what I am trained for,” she reminds him softly. “You cannot turn a wolf into a lap dog.”

  Duval opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “We will speak of this later,” he finally says.

  Ismae smiles. “We will, my lord.” And I have no doubt that she will be going to Nantes.

  The meeting winds down quickly after that, in no small part because it is clear from the dark glances Duval keeps sending Ismae that he wishes to dissuade her from going. As for me, my thoughts are taken up with the abbess and what I will say to her once we are alone.

  The duchess formally dismisses us with thanks for our counsel. As she stands, her eyes seek out mine and she smiles. “I look forward to having you as one of my ladies,” she says.

  I drop a curtsy. “The honor is all mine, Your Grace.”

  She smiles again and shifts her attention to her brother, releasing me from her presence. I turn to find the abbess has already quit the room so that I must hurry to catch up with her. There are enough other courtiers in the hallway that I do not wish to gallop after her, so instead I call out softly, “Reverend Mother! If it please you, I would have a word.” She halts her progress but does not turn to greet me.

  When I reach her, I dip another curtsy. “I would speak with you of my trip to Guérande and what I learned there. I think you will find it as enlightening as I did.”

  “I know everything I need to know about your trip.” The barely controlled fury in her voice fair blisters my skin. “You have failed in the duties Mortain set before you.”

  I open my mouth to explain that Crunard was not marqued, but she does not let me so much as speak. “Clearly,” she continues, her voice low and heated, “I was correct in not sending you out on assignment earlier. Now leave me. I do not have time to discuss your mistakes in depth.” She glances over my shoulder, then gives me a sour smile. “Besides, I believe the duchess has need of you.”

  Then she continues walking down the hall, her head held high, and I am left standing in her wake, all my questions and accusations rolling around like stones in a barrel with nowhere to go.

  “Lady Annith?”

  The duchess’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I whirl around and sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  “I would request you attend upon me and Isabeau, as Ismae wishes to argue with my brother over whether or not she will be going to Nantes.”

  “But of course, Your Grace. It would be my honor.” I hope for Ismae’s sake that her arguments will prove more fruitful than mine have.

  As I walk with the duchess back to her solar, she gives me an apologetic glance. “I am sorry if you have other pressing duties you wish to attend to.” I detect a faint note of curiosity in her voice and realize she is intrigued by my role at the convent. If only she knew how little I’ve truly done.

  “Not at all, Your Grace. The reverend mother and I were just making arrangements to meet later.”

  “Good.” She smiles, showing a charming dimple. “Isabeau has been begging for stories, and I have none. Perhaps you will have one or two.”

  “But of course, Your Grace. I know a number of stories. How is her health, by the way?” I feel a sharp pang of guilt for having done nothing to help the young princess.

  The dimple disappears. “She is holding steady and has grown no worse. Neither does she grow any better, however.”

  We have arrived at the solar, and I follow the duchess into the room. Isabeau is snuggled deep in her bed, her skin nearly as pale as the snowy linen sheets, her eyes too large in her small, pointed face. She may not be any worse, but one does not need to serve Mortain to know that this child will never get any better. Her days are truly numbered.

  The duchess motions me toward Isabeau, then goes to speak with the girl’s attendants. I sit myself down on a nearby stool and pull it close to the bed. We have not spent much time together, Isabeau and I, but I am immediately drawn to her fragility coupled with her valiant spirit. “I hear you are wishing for more stories. What story is your favorite?”

  “My favorite is the one about how Amourna went to the Underworld to become its queen.”

  Ah, how very clever of Ismae to tell her that story. What story should I tell? The younger girls at the convent love the story of the time Salonius, the god of mistakes, tricked Death, but I do not wish to give Isabeau false hope. Instead, I tell her the story of how Saint Brigantia outsmarted Camulos, the god of war and battle.

  When I am done, she asks, “Did you know my sister is dedicated to Saint Brigantia?”

  “No, but I am not surprised, for she is very smart.”

  “Maybe she can outfox France, just as Saint Brigantia did.”

  “If anyone can find a way,” I assure her, “it will be she.” Then I think of the tale I have not told her yet, one I’m sure she would dearly love to hear. “Have you heard the story of Saint Arduinna? Of how she came to a young ruler’s aid?”

  Isabeau grows absolutely still, her eyes huge. “No,” she whispers.

  “Well, once upon a time, a young woman ruled over our fair land. She was wise and kind and much loved by her people, but she was beset by enemies on all sides. Enemies in the north, enemies in the south, and especially enemies just across her eastern border.

  “The young ruler had many resources at her disposal—a valiant army, a skilled navy, and many, many wise counselors to advise her.

  “She also had something that no other ruler had ever had before, and that was a young sister who loved her with a love that was stronger than all those armies put together.” She ducks her head, but not before I see a small, pleased smile.

  “The poor ruler’s enemies were great, and her problems many, so one night her young sister decided to take matters into her own hands. She snuck out of bed when no one was looking and crept down flights of stairs and long dark hallways to the small chapel.”

  “Was she frightened?”

  “She was terrified, but she was determined to do this for her sister. It was the only way she could think of to help. Finally, she arrived at the chapel. Once there, she placed an offering on the niche of Saint Arduinna and said the sacred prayer to invoke her protection.

  “Then she crept back to bed, exhausted and made ill because of her nighttime journey.”

  Isabeau coughs just then and looks faintly guilty.

  “The stories do not say what sort of protection the sister wished for the young ruler. What do you imagine she prayed for?” I ask.

  “Well.” Isabeau makes a great show of thinking upon the question, her face scrunched up and one small finger placed under her chin. “She had armies and knights to help with the fighting, so that probably was not it.”

  Good, I think. They have been able to protect this child from knowing how dire our situation is.

  “My guess would be that the girl was worried about her sister’s heart.”

  “Her heart?”

  “Yes. For the young ruler had no one to love, save for the little sister, and the sister wished for the young ruler to have someone to love in case . . . in case anything ever happened to her.”

  I stare into Isabeau’s eyes and see that she knows full well that she is not long for this world. That she worries about her sister at a time like this is a testament to her remarkable character.

  “Well.” Unable to help myself, I reach out and smooth the silky strands of hair away from her face. “The ways of Arduinn
a are mysterious, but the goddess of love heard the young girl and accepted her offering. Shortly thereafter, she sent a handful of her best warriors to see what they could do to assist the young ruler.”

  Isabeau settles back against the pillow, a small, satisfied smile upon her lips. “I know,” she says, surprising me, for I have made up the entire story on the spot as a way to tell her that the Arduinnites have come.

  “How do you know?” I ask, in mock outrage. “How can you know the end to my story?”

  She giggles, a truly delightful sound. “Because Father Effram told me.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.” She looks around the room to see where her sister is. When she is certain we cannot be overheard, she leans forward slightly. “And he told me that you are who they sent.”

  When the child has fallen asleep, I leave her side and cross the room to attend the duchess. At my approach, she looks up from her embroidery. “You are good with children, demoiselle.”

  “I was raised in a convent full of motherless girls, many of them younger than me. I am used to their ways and their needs.”

  “Did you know that is one of the options the French regent has offered me? To have me sealed away in a convent for the rest of my life?”

  I raise my brows. “I had not heard that, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, it is not their official position, of course. Officially, they have located several suitable husbands for me, nearly all of them over sixty and in possession of no more than half their original wits. It is either wed one of them or be sent to their convent, and I assure you, the convent the regent has in mind is not nearly as interesting as the one you serve.” She looks up at me suddenly. “Have you been satisfied with your life? Spending your days in prayer and devotion and service to your saint?”

  Ah, and what do I tell her? That I thought I was until I learned that the abbess is corrupt and no longer trust anything she says? But, I remind myself, that is not the whole of it. “I have always wished to serve the Divine, Your Grace.”

  “When did you first realize that was your life’s wish?”