In addition to gowns and finery, we have sent a small trunk of the tools and supplies your service to Mortain will require. Vanth bears the key.
Yours in Mortain,
Abbess Etienne de Froissard
My hand crushes the note and in my frustration I cast it into the fire. These are not the instructions I was hoping for. Waiting, waiting. Always more waiting. Had they taught us to wait as well as they taught us to kill, I might be better at it.
Sighing, I pick up the second letter. It is from Annith.
Dearest Sister,
I would be lying if I didn’t allow how jealous I was at all your new finery. The entire abbey stitched and sewed, altering the gowns to Sister Beatriz’s exacting measurements so they would fit you and do the convent proud. Although how they will reflect on the convent when your association with us is secret, I know not, and Sister Beatriz only told me to stitch faster when I pointed that out.
I am near to bursting with curiosity to hear how court is, how many you’ve killed since you left, and all the other details. I think Reverend Mother suspects I am sore put out that you have been given this task and not me. She has assigned me to work closely with Sister Arnette so that I will not feel left out, but of course, it does no good.
Write me when you can so I can see with my own eyes how you fare, else I shall surely die of boredom. Still no word from Sybella.
Your sister in Mortain,
Annith
When I finish the letter I ache with homesickness, not for the convent but for Annith and her sharp, clever mind. I would dearly love to put all that I have learned before her and see what she makes of it. I briefly consider writing it all down, then realize Vanth could not possibly carry all the pages it would require.
Instead, I hurry to the cage and see that the crow has a small packet affixed to his left leg. Eyeing him warily, I reach into the cage, crooning in a soothing voice—only to wrench my hand back as he snaps at it with his sharp beak.
“Stop that,” I scold. “’Tis my key, not yours.” I try again, this time moving more quickly, and pluck the packet from his ankle. His vicious beak just misses my fingers and jabs futilely against the cage. “Traitor,” I chide.
I unwrap the packet, and a small gold key on a chain falls into the palm of my hand. Grasping it, I hurry over to the trunklet and fit the key into the lock. I lift the lid and bite back a laugh of pure pleasure. The trunk contains daggers of all sizes: a large anlace to wear against my back, a small easily hidden dirk, a long thin stiletto to slip into the top of my stocking, a needle-like stylet for the base of the skull, and a tangle of leather sheaths so that I may keep them all close at hand. There is a plain garrote as well as one hidden in a fancy bracelet. Sister Arnette has also included a small crossbow, no bigger than the palm of my hand. The quarrels are honed to a fine point.
The sharp metallic tang of my weapons is more welcome than the finest perfume.
But the trunk is deep and holds a second compartment. When I remove the top tray, there is the faint tinkle of glass vials. I pick up a small bottle, its contents the color of the cold winter sky. Mortain’s caress, a most pleasant, merciful poison that fills its victims with a sense of euphoria and well-being. I set that bottle on the floor and reach back into the trunklet. There is the deep amber of heretic’s lament, a quick-acting poison for those wishing to avoid the excruciating pain of being burned at the stake. A short, squat bottle of thick glass holds the rust-colored scourge, a poison designed with Mortain’s harshest judgment in mind: it eats away at the victim’s insides and is rumored to be as painful as martyr’s embrace. I recognize the blood red of dark tears, which causes the lungs of the victim to fill with fluid until he drowns, and the muddy green of St. Brigantia’s bane, so named because Brigantia is the goddess of wisdom and this poison does not kill its victims but instead eats all the knowledge from their brains, leaving them babbling simpletons with no memory of who they are.
In the very bottom of the trunk sit three carefully wrapped cream-colored candles, no doubt scented with night whisper. Beside those is a small box filled with white pearls, each one containing enough vengeance to fell a grown man. Last, there is a small earthenware jar of honey-colored paste nestled in the corner: St. Arduinna’s snare, a poison that is used for rubbing on surfaces so it can be absorbed through the skin.
I am now as well stocked as the convent itself. Much relieved, I quickly repack the trunklet and lock it. I slip the thin gold chain around my neck and tuck the key into my bodice, out of sight.
If I hurry, I will be able to write the abbess a letter and dispatch Vanth before I must dress for the evening.
Dear Reverend Mother,
It is exactly as you and Chancellor Crunard said: There is much afoot here at court, and very little of it good. Someone has gone over the duchess’s head and called a meeting of the Estates. The duchess has no choice but to face her barons under the watchful eye of the French ambassador. Anything they decide will be immediately reported back to the French regent.
Furthermore, the English king is refusing to send aid. The only bright spot is that Duval has been approached by a lord who keeps his identity hidden but claims to have a solution to offer our duchess. I will report more on this once the meeting has taken place.
One other incident of note. Duval and I were attacked upon our entry into the city. The men’s blades were coated in poison, so it was no mere robbery. (And I am saddened to report that Nocturne fell victim to their treachery.)
I pause for a moment and run the feathers of the quill along my chin as I consider whether to tell the abbess of Duval’s nightly visits so she will see that I am not shirking my duties. I fear if I do she will write back wanting more detail, so I say nothing.
I have met our duchess and can clearly see the hands of the saints upon her. Truly, they have chosen well, for she is wise and strong beyond her years. Honesty compels me to tell you that she appears to trust Duval completely and values his counsel above all others’.
I eagerly await your next orders and pray that Sister Vereda will See some way I may be of service to my god and my duchess.
Sincerely,
Ismae
The next letter is much easier to write. I know Annith will find a way to read the letter to the abbess, so I do not waste time repeating what I have already written there.
Dear Annith,
I wish someone had thought to tell me Duval was one of the duke’s bastards! You might mention to Sister Eonette to include the bastards’ names when she speaks of them. It would prevent future misunderstandings.
I saw Sybella! There was a mob of people trying to enter the city when we arrived, and she was among them. She did not speak to me, but I was much relieved to see her alive and well. Alas, I have seen no marques. Soon, hopefully!
Your sister in Mortain,
Ismae
The duchess is in attendance at court tonight, so Duval takes me to be formally introduced. She is surrounded by her ladies in waiting, the local prelates, and her advisors. I am surprised to see that d’Albret is with the duchess. No—not with her, but staying close, much like a wolf stalking a rabbit. She sits, rigid and tense, looking pointedly away from him, her face pale. She looks like a young child trying to pretend a monster from a hearth tale has not just sprung to life beside her. It is Madame Dinan who chats gaily with d’Albret, ignoring her young charge’s acute discomfort.
Duval’s hand tightens on my arm and he quickens our pace, propelling me to the duchess and her entourage. I am heartened to see Chancellor Crunard has arrived, as we need every ally we can find. Even better, he stands behind the duchess, one hand on her shoulder, as if steadying her. My heart warms toward him.
To the duchess’s credit, when Duval introduces us, she greets me as if we have never met, shows not so much as a flicker of recognition. She is well made for these games of deception. “My lord Duval tells me you are fond of hunting,” the duchess says politely. “Will you indulge in the sp
ort while you are here?” As she speaks, she glances over at d’Albret, then lets her hand drift to her neck and gracefully runs one finger along the base of her throat, as if adjusting the heavy jeweled cross that hangs there.
I nearly laugh out loud and am very careful not to look at d’Albret. “If the opportunity arises, Your Grace, I would happily partake in the hunt.”
“Let us hope, then, that the opportunity presents itself,” she says graciously.
As we murmur pleasantries, a man-at-arms approaches and bows before Captain Dunois, then speaks quietly in his ear. The captain nods, then moves to Duval and takes him aside. “Your prisoner is awake, my lord.”
Duval turns to me with an eager gleam in his eye. “I must go and question him.”
“Surely I should come with you.”
“Surely you should not. How would I explain allowing either my young cousin or my mistress to be in the presence of such a criminal?” As he speaks, he searches among the gathered nobles. “No, you will stay here and play your part and keep your ears open.” He releases my arm and to my utter horror calls out, “De Lornay!”
“No!” I whisper to Duval, but too late. The young lord disentangles himself from a group of admiring women and heads our way.
Duval glances down at me in surprise. “You cannot just stroll about unattended. People may turn a blind eye to a discreet liaison, but a lone woman wandering on her own is no lady and will quickly find herself with a reputation that keeps her from the duchess’s presence.”
His words feel like the bars of a cage clanging down around me, and I suddenly feel trapped in a prison of silk and velvet. He looks faintly amused. “Do not act as if you’ve been consigned to the executioner’s block. Most women are quite fond of de Lornay’s company.”
“I am not most women, my lord,” I say, and I assume his snort is one of agreement.
De Lornay bows in front of us, and I am gratified when his eyes move past me, then sharpen.
Duval gives his friend a wry grin. “She cleans up nicely, does she not? I have something I must see to and I would leave her in your tender care.”
De Lornay’s dismayed look mirrors my own. “What, pray tell, am I to do with her?”
Duval waves his hand in the air. “I don’t know. Whatever it is you do with your lady friends—”
“Not that, surely,” de Lornay murmurs.
“Dance then.” Duval casts a worried look at me. “You do know how to dance, do you not?” he asks.
“Yes, but—”
“Good.” Before de Lornay or I can issue another protest, Duval abandons us and walks away.
De Lornay and I stare at each other with twin expressions of distress before we both quickly look elsewhere. Even as I plot an escape, the music starts up and the dancers move to the floor. With an ungracious sigh, de Lornay gives me a perfunctory bow. “Let us dance then.”
I dip a shallow curtsy but do not take his offered hand. “I appreciate this noble sacrifice you are making, but rest assured, it is not necessary. I have as little desire to dance with you as you do with me.”
He reaches out and snags my hand. “Nevertheless, Duval said dance, so dance we shall.”
I try to pull my hand away, but his grip turns to iron. I set my teeth and tug harder. “Do you always do what he tells you?”
“Always,” de Lornay says as he begins dragging me toward the dance floor. “I would ride into the fires of hell itself upon his command.”
Forgetting our tug of war, I glance at his face to see if he is serious. “Does he demand such things of you?”
De Lornay looks at me then with a fierce expression on his face. “If he did, I would do it gladly and welcome the chance.”
The music begins in earnest, and the other bodies around us fall into the steps of the dance. Even though my mind still mulls over de Lornay’s fearsome loyalty, I move easily into the opening reverence. As I go through the steps of the dance, I cannot help but wonder why de Lornay dislikes me so very much. Indeed, I have never found dancing so painful. He glares at me over the other dancers’ heads and I am surprised our mutual loathing does not set their hair on fire.
When the music finally ends, I nearly shout with joy. De Lornay takes my arm and escorts me from the dance floor. “You dance very prettily.” For a lowborn assassin.
The actual words do not cross his lips, but I hear them all the same. I pay them little mind, for we have danced as Duval has commanded and surely now he will leave me to my own devices.
I curtsy with as much gratitude as I can muster. “Thank you for the courtesy you have shown me.” I keep my head down so he does not see the resentment in my eyes, and I begin to move away.
Once again, his hand clamps down on mine. “Oh, we are not done, demoiselle.”
I jerk my head up and snatch my hand away. “We most certainly are.”
He shakes his head. “Listen. The musicians are readying their instruments for another dance—a basse dance, I think. I am quite fond of the basse dance. Are you?”
I stare at him. Does he intend to blindly follow Duval’s orders until he returns? “No,” I say flatly. “I am not.” Then, before he can reach out and grab my hand again, I turn and leap away from him, putting as much distance between us as I can and hoping that he will not lunge after me and cause a scene.
I quickly worm deeper into the crowd and lose myself among the gathered nobles. As I move through the richly dressed and heavily perfumed bodies, I try to decide how best to make use of my hard-won freedom. I wish a marque of Mortain would appear on any one of these silly, vain nobles, but alas, it does not.
I spy François flirting with a venomous-looking lady dressed in peacock blue. His mother is in the far corner, laughing gaily and flirting with the half-dozen barons who surround her. Is that why Duval is so angry with her? Because she is not wasting any time finding a new paramour? If he was close with his father, then mayhap he considers it a betrayal of his memory that his mother is seeking a new bed to warm so soon after his death.
Madame Dinan, Count d’Albret, and Marshal Rieux have left the duchess and now stand together, buzzing among themselves like busy little bees. That could prove a most interesting conversation.
I shift directions and move toward them, determined to hear what they are plotting. I am nearly halfway there when a tall figure steps boldly in front of me and I must stop suddenly or plow right into him.
The French envoy Gisors looks down at me from his towering height. “Demoiselle Rienne,” he says.
“Milord Gisors.” I give a small curtsy.
“It occurs to me that I did not greet you as warmly as you deserved yesterday. You must forgive me, as I had weighty matters on my mind.”
“But of course, my lord ambassador. I understand completely.” Indeed, I am a marvel of restraint and cunning.
“You are young and innocent of the ways of court, even such a small court as this one. I would be honored if you would allow me to act as your guide in some matters.”
“That is very kind of you, my lord, but that is what Lord Duval has promised to do.”
Gisors’s green eyes seek out Duval. “And yet he is not at your side. And you may not realize it, but a small flock of young cockerels are lining up behind you even as we speak. I would help you learn who it is wise to associate with when your Duval is otherwise occupied.”
I open my mouth to demur, but he steps closer—far too close—and places his hand across my mouth. The boldness of the gesture shocks me into silence. “Do not say no, demoiselle. I only ask that you think about it. I can make it worth your while. Living at court is very expensive, and no woman should be without her own resources. Especially since you cannot be sure just how long Duval’s protection will last.”
I push his hand away. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, once it becomes widely known that Duval’s mother is plotting to put her son on Anne’s throne, you will find yourself a pariah at court. I wager you will not be too proud
to accept my friendship then.” And then he moves away, back to whatever rock he has crawled out from, and I am left breathing hard, shock simmering in my veins.
Duval and his family are plotting treason.
Chapter Twenty-three
I cannot sleep. My mind worries and gnaws at this newest revelation about Duval like a rat on a bone. A week ago, I would have been thrilled with the discovery, eager for the proof needed that would compel my god to act against him. But tonight— tonight it does not feel like a victory at all. I tell myself it is because the duchess trusts him so much and has so few allies left, but that is a lie. I fear my lack of pleasure has more to do with Duval himself, and it pains me that my heart has been so easily swayed.
It is also possible—likely, even—that he is not involved in his mother’s schemes. Indeed, it would go a long way to explaining the rift between them. So too would acting as if they were estranged prevent suspicion from falling on him.
There is a faint click at the door and everything inside me stills. I have no idea if I will confront Duval with what I have learned. I am torn between wanting to leap out of bed and rail at him for his duplicity and wishing to hide in shame because I was so easily misled. Instead, I pull the covers up under my chin and close my eyes, hoping he will think me asleep. I will my heart to slow its beating and my breathing to become deeper. My elaborate efforts are foiled by a muffled curse exploding out of the darkness. “God’s Teeth! What is this you have used to barricade the path to the window?”
Grave Mercy (Book I): His Fair Assassin, Book I (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 17