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

by Robin LaFevers

  When I peel away the thin veil between life and death, Nemours is there waiting. His distress at being outmaneuvered is thick and solid, a veritable wall of grief. But it is the despair he feels at leaving the duchess without a protector that touches my heart, for his last thought proves what an honorable man he was. I, too, am filled with despair. Why must the honorable die when so many dishonorable live?

  Sensing the presence of life, Nemours’s soul moves toward me. I gently reach past the cloud of grief and misery that surrounds him, searching for more of his last thoughts in this world, looking for something that will help us. There: The solid feel of a hand against his back, a sharp push, the sense of falling. The force of his landing sends me reeling. I do not realize that I have almost fallen myself until I feel Duval’s hand on my shoulder pulling me back into life and breaking the connection with Nemours. A gasp escapes me and I open my eyes.

  Duval stands over me, his warm, solid hand grounding me in this world, his face full of concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am fine,” I say.

  Duval’s free hand touches my cheek. It feels far warmer than Death’s caress but is just as gentle. “Then why are you so pale?” he asks softly.

  “I am not.” I shove his hand away and cast my eyes down to avoid meeting his. “Nemours was pushed. From behind. He does not know whose hand it was, for he never saw it.” We are both silent as we digest the full implications of this news.

  Someone on Anne’s Privy Council is a murderer.

  Chapter Thirty

  Duval stays late at the palace so he can inform the duchess of the events and see to the necessary letters and arrangements required by Nemours’s death. I sleep not a whit. I am furious that this chance at happiness has been snatched from the duchess, that such an honorable man has died by such a dishonorable hand. I want to fix it, to put things right, but it is beyond even the skills of Mortain.

  But perhaps I can grant the Duke of Nemours a small mercy.

  At daybreak, Louyse bustles in with a full pitcher of water and a cheery “good morning,” shutting the door behind her with her ample hip. “After I lay out your clothes, I will bring a tray to your room to break your fast. Also, my lord Duval left you a note.”

  “A note? Is he not here?”

  “No, demoiselle. He and the other lords have gone off on a hunt to stock the castle larders.”

  She hands me the note and turns to my garderobe. I am torn between opening it at once and using the moment to slip into my fresh chemise. Shame wins over curiosity, and my scar is securely hidden by fine linen by the time she returns. Once she has helped me into a gown, she excuses herself to fetch my tray. I tear open the note, cracking the seal and spilling small bits of red wax to the floor.

  Ismae,

  I have decided that we will be moving into the palace to be nearer the duchess. If last night’s activities are a sign of things to come, I would be close at hand when she needs me.

  Also, after much discussion, the council has decided to go on with the planned hunt—indeed, all court activities—as if nothing has happened. There is no reason the death of an unannounced stranger would alter our behavior, and thus are we bound and trapped by our own deception. It is better that as few as possible know the extent of this disaster.

  Be well,

  Gavriel

  He is right. No one but the Privy Council and he knew Nemours’s identity, so it would not make sense to accord Nemours any particular honors. But in denying him those, surely we are adding to our grievous insult against the man.

  I move toward the bed and fetch the sacred bone dagger from under my mattress. The reverend mother has given it to me for some purpose. Perhaps easing Nemours’s death is precisely what the misericorde is to be used for. I do not know if it is some whim of my own or some higher purpose of the god, but I am filled with an urgency to grant Nemours a small act of mercy.

  Even as I secure the misericorde at its customary place at my waist, a plan begins to form in my mind. I go to my small trunk, unlock it, and withdraw a long, thin dagger. I place it in a supple leather sheath and then strap it to my left ankle. I slip the plainest garrote bracelet on my wrist, and last, I remove the small crossbow and attach three of the quarrels. The bow is designed to be carried by a thin chain at my waist, under my overskirt. If someone were to press close against me, they would feel it, but other than that, it is undetectable.

  I do not expect to be questioned at the palace, but I have an excuse prepared just in case. I carry a small offering to leave on Saint Arduinna’s altar in the chapel in the hope that she will smile on today’s hunt.

  The castle is nearly empty since all the nobles are off chasing stag or boar or whatever it is that has caught their fancy today. The servants and attendants are busy at their tasks, relieved, no doubt, to be spared from dancing attendance on so many nobles and courtiers.

  I pause for a moment, wondering where Nemours’s body might be. Remembering the strange, unerring way I found Martel’s grave, I cast out my senses, searching for Death.

  It is harder here, with so many sparks of life flickering about their duties, but even so, I am drawn to Death like a moth to a flame. As I follow the trail, I quickly realize the path leads to the small chapel where Anne and Nemours first met.

  The chapel is empty and I make my way to the bier, the soul’s despair guiding my steps more surely than the small, sputtering candles in the nave. When I reach the body, the soul seems to recognize me and rushes toward the familiarity and life that I offer.

  I open myself to it, let it warm itself against me, surprised when it curls up and settles into me like a despondent hound with nowhere else to go.

  We sit together for a while, this soul and I. When I am certain no stray mourners or triumphant gloaters will appear to pray over this mystery corpse, I allow myself to turn my mind fully inward to Nemours’s soul.

  I have brought with me the means to unite you with your god at once, if you wish it.

  When the soul stirs hopefully at my words, I rise to my feet and step closer to the bower. The poor twisted body has been straightened, but the grimace of shock is still on his face. I slip my hand through the slit of my gown, and my fingers close on the handle of my misericorde. My hope, my small plea to Mortain, is that by my setting this dagger on Nemours’s flesh, his soul will be able to depart immediately.

  Before I can draw the dagger from its hiding place, a scrape on the stone behind me stays my hand. “What an interesting surprise.” Count d’Albret’s deep, grating voice destroys the sanctity of the chapel. “I had not thought to find Duval’s cousin grieving next to a lowly wool merchant from Castile.”

  Stiffly, I turn and face the count. I have not seen him since my attempt to examine him for a marque and I brace myself, unsure whether to expect mockery or anger. I find neither. Instead, his dark eyes glitter with unholy mischief. I cannot help but wonder if it was his hand that pushed Nemours. “Surely not a surprise.” I keep my head bent low, as if reluctant to cease my prayers. “I was convent raised and have been taught to honor the dead and pray for their mercy.” I blink innocently. “Have you come to pray too?” I know full well he has not. Whatever he has come for, it is not prayer.

  “I am afraid I have come out of morbid curiosity, demoiselle,” d’Albret admits without a hint of shame. “I confess to being fascinated by this poor merchant who met his death in our fair city. Besides,” d’Albret continues, “I have little belief in accidents.” He looks pointedly at me. “Or coincidence.”

  “Ah,” I say. “Then you and my lord Duval have something in common.”

  There is a movement back by the door of the chapel, and the duchess and her governess enter. I drop into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see d’Albret sketch a perfunctory bow. “My dear duchess,” he says. “Have you come to pray for a lowly wool merchant as well? Surely he is blessed beyond his station.”

  The duchess
meets d’Albret’s insolent gaze. “I would pray for any poor soul who met his death under my roof.” Her voice is sharp with disapproval. “And you, sire?”

  D’Albret shrugs and throws his arms out to his sides. “I have been found out! My motives are nowhere near as fine as you ladies’.”

  The duchess smoothly changes the subject. “I am curious as to why you chose not to join the others in the hunt today.”

  D’Albret’s hooded eyes capture Anne’s and I feel my pulse quicken at the affront in them. “They do not hunt for prey that interests me.”

  The duchess pales; her fingers gripping her prayer book turn white. My hand hidden on the dagger in the folds of my gown tightens as well, and I imagine what it would feel like to stick d’Albret like a pig.

  Perhaps he senses my thoughts, for he makes another short bow. “I will leave you to your prayers.”

  Still pale, the duchess nods, and d’Albret departs. Anne turns to Madame Dinan. “You may leave us as well. I know you have no love for this task I have set myself. I shall pray with Demoiselle Rienne.”

  And while it is clear her governess does not want to be here, she wants the duchess left to my influence even less. “But Your Grace—”

  “Leave us.” The duchess’s voice brooks no argument. After a moment’s hesitation, during which a multitude of resentments crosses Madame Dinan’s lovely face, she curtsies and leaves. When she is gone, the duchess turns to me. “She does not like you, you know.”

  “She no doubt thinks you should not be in the company of Duval’s dubious cousin, Your Grace.”

  A smile of satisfaction crosses her lips and I am suddenly aware of just how much she enjoys thwarting her overbearing governess’s wishes. Then her smile disappears. “So, why are you here?”

  “You do not believe I came to pray for the man’s soul?”

  “Oh, I believe you pray, but I cannot but wonder if it is something else that brings you.”

  The Breton court—indeed, all the kingdoms of Europe—would do well not to underestimate this duchess. “There is something else that brings me, Your Grace.” I look down at Nemours’s still form. “Did you know that he cared deeply for you? Not just your duchy or your power, but you. He was filled with a desire to rescue you from an unpleasant fate.”

  The duchess blinks, then looks down at the man who would have been her husband. “I had begun to hope so.” Her pale cheeks blush. “It seemed as if he cared. I sensed within him an enormous capacity for kindness and felt I would be able to grow to love him. That is a great blessing for someone such as myself, who feared love would have no place in a marriage between two kingdoms.”

  I say nothing. Since the age of four, she has been dangled before half the kingdoms and duchies of Europe, like bait at the end of a stick. The best she had hoped for was a marriage of mutual respect and no cruelty. But to have the potential for love snatched away by a false hand . . .

  She looks up at me and says again, “So, why are you here?” Her firmness of manner will not tolerate any falsehood or evasion.

  “I had thought to release his soul from the misery of his death.” I am careful to keep my voice pitched low so that any lurking outside the chapel will not hear it. “Souls must linger near their bodies for three days after their deaths before moving on. But Lord Nemours’s soul is so tormented by what he sees as his failure to protect you that I thought to hasten him to his forgiveness.”

  The duchess’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”

  I think so. “Yes.”

  She nods. “Do it then. And may his soul rest in peace.”

  “As you command.” I am pleased with this authority she has given me. Neither Duval nor the abbess can find fault with me for acting under her order.

  “What are you waiting for?” the duchess whispers.

  I meet her clear brown gaze. “Solitude, Your Grace. The rites of Mortain are most private.”

  Arguments and orders flit across her face, her desire to watch and know these mysteries at odds with her desire to honor the sanctity of death. “Very well,” she says at last. “I will leave you.” She reaches across the body and clasps my wrist. “Thank you,” she whispers. With one last look at her betrothed, she turns and quits the chapel. “Madame Dinan?” she calls as she reaches the doorway.

  Her governess appears so quickly that I am thankful we kept our voices low. The two women make their way down the hall, their voices echoing faintly behind them.

  Once again I grip the bone dagger. Using my other hand, I pull aside Nemours’s shirt collar and the fur trim of his doublet. It is best if this scar remains hidden.

  Casting up a brief, heartfelt prayer to Mortain to guide my hand, I lift the dagger and run the edge lightly across Nemours’s neck.

  I feel, rather than hear, a gasp. Not of pain or shock, but of release.

  “Go in peace and with our prayers,” I whisper. There is a rustling sensation, as if a score of doves are flying past my cheek, their pale wings filling the air with a joyous sense of flight. Protect her, his soul begs me as it departs.

  I will, I promise. Then there is naught but silence and I am left alone to stare at a thin cut along his dead white flesh that does not bleed. I carefully put his collar back in place.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Upon leaving the chapel, I am pulled toward Nemours’s chambers, almost as if tugged by an unseen hand. I have no idea why, but an insistent itching at the back of my neck bids me hurry. Mayhap my god is on the move at last.

  Just outside Nemours’s apartments, the itching at my back grows stronger. Without bothering to knock, I reach out and open the door.

  One of Nemours’s men-at-arms is behind a desk, rifling through a saddlebag. He is dressed in riding leathers and a breastplate, and his helmet is tucked under his arm. A small black marque sits in the middle of his forehead. Smiling, I close the door behind me.

  He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. “Who are you?”

  I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. “Vengeance,” I say softly.

  His eyes widen slightly at my words, then he grows alarmed as I draw the crossbow from its hiding place. Within the space of a single heartbeat, I cock the bow, fit the quarrel to the string, and level it at his head, aiming directly for the marque. For a moment I am torn, balancing the duchess’s and Duval’s need for information against my desire to prove myself to my god and my convent. I decide it cannot hurt to ask. “Who paid you to push your lord to his death?”

  The man’s face pales. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No? I think you do. I think you are the man who betrayed the Duke of Nemours. If you tell me what I need to know, I will kill you as quickly and painlessly as possible. If you do not, it will be slow and lingering. Your choice. Either way, you will die.” My blood is singing in my veins, so happy am I to be doing my god’s work.

  Keeping his eyes on mine, the man comes out from behind the desk. “Who says I killed my lord Nemours? Do I get no chance to defend myself? Be tried and judged?”

  “You have been,” I say. “By Saint Mortain Himself. And found guilty. Now, I will ask you one last time: On whose orders did you push?”

  I see in his eyes the moment he decides to rush me. Grunting in annoyance, I release the bolt. It flies straight and true and strikes him in the forehead, precisely where Mortain has marqued him. As he falls, his eyes shift from my face to the door behind me. Swearing, I drop the crossbow and go for the knife at my ankle.

  The action saves my life.

  There is a breath of air at my back followed by a searing pain, then I am turning toward my assailant, thrusting upward with my knife before I have even laid eyes on him.

  My aim is good, and the knife plunges into his gut. His brown eyes widen in surprise, then in pain, as I shove the blade upward, hastening his death. In spite of my threat to the other man, I do not deal in long and
lingering deaths.

  Before I can do more, however, the soul of the first man flees his dead body. It rushes at me, swirling with cold hostility. I force myself to concentrate on the myriad images it sends flickering through my mind, desperate to find some small tidbit of information that will tell us to who is behind this disaster. While I am distracted by this task, the second man’s soul also rushes at me. I gasp as if I have been plunged into a frozen river and stagger back against the wall, shivering so hard I can barely stand. As the second soul floods me, I am filled with anger and pain and regret. An aching sense of loss. A sense of fear so thick it coats the back of my tongue with its bitter taste.

  Then, as quickly as they came, they leave, and I sag against the wall. The faint, faraway blare of the hunting horns sound outside. The hunting party has returned.

  I kneel on the floor next to the second body long enough to retrieve my knife and wipe it clean on his tabard. When I rise to my feet, I am surprised at the small wave of dizziness that passes through me. I turn for the door, then blink at the smear of red where I leaned up against the wall. I am injured.

  Desperate to be away from here, I grab a rough woolen cloak from the bed and use a corner of it to wipe the wall clean as best I can. Then I throw it around my shoulders and hide the crossbow beneath my skirts once more. I can hear the faint clatter of horses’ hooves on cobbles and the excited barking of the hounds. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I step from the chamber out into the hall and begin the long walk down the corridor and away from the evidence of my actions.

  As I wind my way through the palace corridors, I debate whether to return to Duval’s residence or meet him outside. In the end, I decide he must know what has transpired sooner rather than later, and better from my own lips than a stranger’s. Besides, someone must clean up the mess.