Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  He swiftly shuts the door, then pulls me closer. He lifts his hands to my face and cups it, his eyes searching mine. “Are you certain?”

  In answer, I put my arms around his neck again and press my entire body along the length of his. “Yes.” The word rings as clear and sharp as a bell, for I am certain of nothing but this. My waiting is over; it is now time to claim the life that I want, even if I must drag it kicking and screaming to a garrison closet.

  Then—finally!—he leans down to place his lips on mine.

  It is everything I remember. At first, they are surprisingly cool, but within seconds it is as if the heat of my own desire flows into him as he takes what I offer, moving his own mouth so that it completely captures my own. I fall into the kiss, like a stone into a deep pond, sinking deeper and deeper until I am not sure I will ever leave. I let go of everything, everything but the sensations that engulf me.

  He has beautiful lips, I realize, running my tongue along the fullness of them. They are shapely and full enough to invite kissing. Best of all, they chase away the taste of bitterness and despair that have threatened to drown me.

  The faint rasp of his whiskers. The silky spot of skin my fingers find, just below his ear. His hands, sure and strong, caressing my waist, moving up along my rib cage and then down again to my hip, as if he would memorize the shape of me.

  The feel of his heart echoing mine as they both beat too fast.

  I step back—just a bit—to give myself room to finish unlacing my gown. I meet his eyes and am thrilled to see no sign of bleakness or despair or grim duty there. They are warm and glowing like sun-warmed stones, and the heat in them causes my heart to race faster and my fingers to falter.

  “Here,” he whispers. “Let me.”

  And I do.

  Afterward, as I lie in his arms, savoring the feel of them around me, savoring the feel of his heart hammering under my hand where it lies upon his chest, I realize that I cannot even pretend our time together was enough. I am more drawn to him than ever, drawn to this meeting of not just our bodies and hearts, but our souls. It is an intimacy that I have hungered for my entire life yet have never been able to name. If I think this is all I will ever have of him, I fear I will weep.

  I saw hope in his eyes, and an easing of his bleakness, just as I felt hope in my own heart and no longer felt alone. I promise myself that this is just the beginning. Now that I have no obligation to the convent or the abbess, I can begin to shape the future I want for myself.

  Chapter Forty

  AS I MAKE MY WAY to my chamber, I send out a silent plea to let it be empty. Please let Sybella be visiting her sisters and Ismae be attending to the duchess. Or locked in some private chamber with Duval. With all that has happened in the past few hours, I am feeling far too confused and raw to explain anything to anyone, even my dearest friends.

  But my prayers are not answered. When I open the door, both Ismae and Sybella are there. Sybella’s gaze sharpens as her eyes rake over me, her nostrils flaring. If anyone could detect such activity as I have just been engaged in, it would be she. But to my immense relief, she says nothing about her suspicions. “Here.” She shoves a garment at Ismae. “Go put that on.” As Ismae disappears behind the screen, Sybella pours me a cup of wine and hands it to me. I am surprised at the thoughtfulness—just one more way in which she has changed. “Thank you.”

  “Are you all right?” she asks under her breath, dispelling any notion I might have had that I fooled her.

  I stare at my goblet as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world. “I am fine,” I assure her, then take a gulp of wine. The room is quiet except for the sound of Ismae slipping into her gown.

  When she is done changing, Ismae steps out from behind the screen and hurries toward me, a look of concern on her face. I wonder how on earth I am to tell her—tell them both—that that we are not sisters. That we do not share a father and that, indeed, I have no right to the title I have claimed all my life.

  When she reaches me, she grabs my arms and squeezes. “How did it go?” she asks. “How furious was the abbess?”

  I laugh. “Furious does not even begin to do her reaction justice.”

  Sybella frowns. “Is she going to punish you?”

  That, at least, I can answer honestly. “I do not know; she has not yet said.”

  Ismae goes over to Sybella and motions for her to lace up her gown. “What will she do with Crunard?”

  At her question, one of Crunard’s assertions comes back to me. “He said that before, when you were in Guérande, you had a chance to kill him and you did not. May I ask why? Was he not marqued then either?”

  She glances down at her hands, then back up at me. “He was marqued. However, I had just come from a battlefield where scores were marqued for death, deaths I had no hand in, so my uncertainty of how the convent was interpreting these marques had already begun to form. And now he is no longer marqued.”

  Despair fills me as the knowledge that I will never see marques settles over me. “What do you think should be done with him?” I ask Ismae. “You are more familiar with his crimes than either the abbess or I am.”

  Sybella smirks. “Notice she does not ask me.”

  Ismae is silent for a long moment while she puts on her shoes. “I think it should be left to the duchess’s justice. Put him on trial. Have him answer for his crimes. Then, if he is to die, have it be for those crimes he has been convicted of, not some shadow that falls across his forehead that I do not trust the convent to correctly interpret.”

  Her honesty has created a safe, almost holy space around us. It is the perfect opportunity to tell her of what I have learned. I take a deep breath, meaning to do precisely that, but find I cannot bend my tongue to my will. Besides, I do not yet know what I will do with my new knowledge.

  Leave the convent? Report the abbess—but to whom? The sheer enormity of this revelation and its reverberations forces me to tread cautiously.

  More importantly, as I stare into their dear faces, I realize that as strong as I have been, as much as I have endured, I am not strong enough to sever this bond. If I lose that, I fear I will unravel into a pile of tattered threads. “She still has not told me all.” While it is not the whole truth, it does not feel like too great a lie. That is when I notice they are both dressed most strangely. “Why are you wearing servant gowns?”

  “Do you like it?” Sybella lifts her skirt and twirls prettily, as if it is some magnificent dress that she wears and not merely sewn-together rags. “I am sneaking out with Beast tonight when he and his men patrol the city. All the various troops and mercenary factions are teeming with pent-up energy and frustration, and they have nothing to fight. Except each other.”

  Ismae arches an eyebrow. “I can’t believe he agreed to let you come with him.”

  Sybella flashes a cheerful smile. “Oh, he did not. He does not even know that is what I intend. But I shall go mad if I must sit here one more day, twiddling my thumbs with embroidery.”

  “And you, Ismae?” I ask. “Are you going out to rein in the mercenaries as well?”

  Sybella’s face sobers. “No, she is leaving for Nantes in a few hours.”

  “You convinced Duval, then?”

  Ismae snorts. “Let us just say that all his arguments were to no avail.”

  “Which means,” Sybella says, plucking the wine goblet from my hands, “that you are to attend upon the duchess while we are busy. But not until we get you freshened up.”

  “Isn’t that where you’ve been, with the duchess?” Ismae asks.

  “No. I . . . needed some time to think, to cool my temper after my meeting with the abbess.”

  Sybella begins combing my hair, her fingers gentle and light. I close my eyes and let the sheer comfort of the touch lull me into calmness. Now, I think. Now I will tell them. As I open my mouth to do that, there is a knock on the door. We all stiffen. “If it is the abbess, I’ve not returned,” I warn them.

  But when Ism
ae opens the door, it is Duval’s deep voice that we hear. “I’m not going to argue any more about this,” she tells him.

  “Good. I am not here to argue, but would like to see you before you leave.”

  “Of course.” Before following him out into the hall, she comes and gives Sybella and me a hug. “Be safe, you two.”

  “And you,” Sybella says. “And remember, the abbess at Brigantia will grant you sanctuary if it comes to that.”

  “It won’t.” Then it is my turn to hug her before she is gone.

  Chapter Forty-One

  FOUR DAYS LATER, THE FRENCH ambassador arrives. With the mud of his journey still clinging to his boots, he comes striding into the hall where the duchess is holding court. As he steps through the door, Duval’s head snaps up, and he grows still, like a wolf who has just sensed another predator.

  Sybella and I stand just behind the duchess’s chair. We exchange a glance, and, almost as if we have rehearsed it, our hands go to our weapons. Not that we will kill him on sight, but we will simply remind him to step carefully.

  The ambassador is tall and leanly muscled, with a great beak of a nose and piercing green eyes. As he draws toward the dais, Duval motions subtly with his hands for the soldiers to begin clearing the others out.

  As the people make their way to the door, the duchess looks up from the stolid burgher whose claim she has been adjudicating and sees what is happening. Although she keeps her face serene and composed, I can see the faint trembling in her fingers before she tightens her grip on the arms of her chair.

  “Gisors.” Duval’s voice is pleasant, for all that his body is fairly humming with tension. “I did not expect to see you again. Ever.”

  Gisors ignores him and executes a flawless bow, his attention ­never wavering from the duchess. “My lady.” There are small gasps from around the room, as he pointedly does not use the respectful form of address her title demands. Sybella’s hand closes around the hilt of her knife, her eyes narrowing in anticipation. The ambassador catches her movement and becomes slightly more circumspect. “I pray my visit finds you in good health.”

  “It does, Lord Gisors. And I hope you have had a pleasant journey.” The duchess clings to the protocol and courtesies required by her position.

  “I apologize for appearing before you in such an unworthy state, but the message I bring cannot be delayed.”

  “By all means, then, let us hear it,” Duval says. Gisors continues to ignore him and waits for the duchess to nod her agreement.

  “I have been sent by His Majesty to accept your unconditional surrender of Brittany, her offices and estates and lands and armies. Once you have surrendered these, I am authorized to offer you safe passage to the court of your new . . . husband.” He manages to imbue the word with utter contempt.

  The entire room is as quiet as a crypt, with not even the sound of breathing to disturb the utter silence his words have effected.

  Duval leans forward. “And this message comes from His Majesty the king or from the French regent?”

  “It matters not, for they speak as one. My lady? May I report to His Majesty that you agree to the terms?”

  By the tense line in the duchess’s jaw, I can tell she wishes to tell him that no, he may not, but even now, under such circumstances, her grace and bearing hold. “I fear I cannot make such an enormous decision without careful consideration, my lord. I would give you and your king”—she manages to infuse your king with as much acid as Gisors did the word husband only moments ago—“in a few days’ time.”

  “Time is the one thing we do not have much of, my lady.”

  “Nevertheless, I must insist. I have my people to consider and their interests must come first.”

  Gisors opens his mouth to argue, but Duval motions for sentries to step forward and escort him away. Unless the man wishes to be dragged from the room, he has no choice but to comply. “I will expect an answer by tomorrow, my lady.”

  “You may expect all you want, but you will not get it,” she mutters under her breath.

  When he is gone, she turns shakily to Duval. “I think I will return to my chambers now,” the duchess says.

  “But of course.” Duval leaps up and helps her to her feet. He glances at Sybella. “Find Beast for me, would you?” She nods and hurries off. Together, Duval and I escort the duchess to her chambers.

  Once she and I are alone in her room, I slip the heavy headdress off her head and place it on the bureau.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  Her question surprises me so much that I nearly drop the brush I hold in my hand.

  Without waiting for an answer, she says softly, almost to herself, “I have. Once.” I begin brushing her hair. “I was very young.” She closes her eyes. “Do you think you can fall in love with someone when you’re that young?”

  An image of Mortain sitting beside me in the wine cellar fills my mind. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.”

  Her eyes flash open and she turns to look at me, surprised. She smiles. “You are the first to agree with me,” she confides. “I knew we would get along.” She turns back around so I may finish her hair. “His name was Louis, Louis d’Orléans, and he came to my father’s court when I was but five years old. He was so charming and gallant, but mostly kind, kind and gentle with the child I was then. And of course, I had heard plenty of stories of how bravely he fought beside my father as they tried to restrain France’s encroachment on her surrounding duchies.”

  My mind scrambles to the tapestry back at the convent, but Louis d’Orléans was a French noble, not a Breton one, so I knew little about him other than that he is a cousin of Charles VIII, and that he fought in the Mad War beside the duchess’s father.

  “Why did your father not betroth you to him? Surely it would have been a good match.”

  The duchess sighs in sorrow. “Louis was forced to marry Joan, the daughter of the late king, when he was only fourteen years old. It was especially hard because his wife’s physical infirmities left her sterile, so he would have no hope of producing an heir.”

  “And thus there would be no threat to the French crown,” I murmur.

  “Precisely. There was talk, during that visit, of having his marriage annulled so that we could marry, but the plan was vehemently blocked by France, which held much sway with the pope.

  “And then he was captured last year and has been kept as a prisoner ever since.” There are tears in her eyes. Whether because he is imprisoned or due to her lost dreams, I cannot tell.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  IT IS LATE, FAR TOO close to dawn. I should grab a few hours’ sleep before morning, but I am filled with a need to see Balthazaar, even as an unwelcome sense of shyness and uncertainty settles over me at the memory of the things we did together four nights ago. I wonder if that is all he will think of now when he sees me.

  I wonder if he will want to do it again.

  And how soon.

  When I reach the ramparts, I step quietly onto the catwalk. The sentries are so familiar with my habit of haunting their domain that they barely acknowledge my presence except to stand a little more alertly and shake themselves awake. I turn and walk in the opposite direction. Usually by the time I reach the far corner, Balthazaar is there waiting for me. But tonight as I peer into the shadows and whisper his name, I can see that they are empty.

  My heart twists uncomfortably in my chest, then I scold myself for being foolish. He does have other things to do—hellequin duties he must attend to. It is unreasonable to expect him always to be here when I need him. And yet, he is, and I do.

  I whisper his name again, then wait a few moments. I lean on the battlements so that if the sentries should look my way, they will think me pensive or in prayer.

  The minutes drag into a quarter of an hour and still he does not come. A most disturbing thought fills me. Does he feel he has gotten what he wanted and so sees no reason to return? He is a hunter, after all, and I his prey. Now that I have been duly lure
d into his trap, has his interest faded? My hands grip the stone wall in front of me. No. Our connection is more than simple lust, although that is part of it, no question. But it wasn’t only my body he was after.

  I glance at the sky. Nearly an hour has passed and I have run out of arguments and justifications as to why he is not here. I put my hand on my chest, over the tender place there, and tell myself it is not pain I am feeling. As I turn to leave, I detect movement in the shadows. “Balthazaar?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he steps forward.

  “How long have you been there?” I ask.

  “Not long. It is late. Surely you should be sleeping.”

  “I will, but I wished to see you.”

  “Why?”

  I frown. “Because I am daft, clearly.”

  He sighs, then steps over to the battlements, puts his hands on the wall, and leans out, staring at the city below, careful to keep a goodly distance between us. “Do they not miss you when you come up here?” His voice is gruff, guarded, and he does not look at me.

  “I am careful not to come that often.” I do not slip away nearly as often as I would like.

  “You should not come here anymore.”

  I hold very still, trying to study his face, but he keeps it turned toward the city. “What are you saying?” I keep my voice very low. “Are you rejecting me?” Outrage mingles with mortification.

  “No.” The word is harsh. He turns to face me, and I recoil at the intensity of the emotions in his eyes. He takes a step closer, looming over me. “I am not rejecting you—I am trying to save you. To save you from being pulled any further into my bleak existence.”

  “It is not I who need saving, but you.”

  He blinks in surprise, his mouth parting slightly, but no words emerge and I realize I have hit the mark far more accurately than I dreamed.

  He turns to look back over the city. “Do not be ridiculous.” His voice is ripe with scorn and mockery. “It is others, including you, who must find safety from me.”