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

by Robin LaFevers

  Just as I am putting away the last of my knives, there is a knock at the door. My heart lifts. Is Isabeau feeling better then? When I open the door, a page thrusts a sealed parchment in my hand, flops a short bow, then scampers away. Puzzled, I close the door and turn the message over.

  The wax seal is black, and the handwriting Sybella’s. I rip it open and read the loose, looping scrawl.

  Meet me where we last spoke, at noon.

  S

  Immediately I remember her drawn, pale face, her brittle manner. Is she in trouble? As it is nearly noon now, I grab my cloak and head for the east tower.

  The church bell strikes noon just as I enter the main hall in the palace, and I quicken my steps, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of Sybella as I hurry toward the east wing.

  At the top of a wide staircase, I nearly bump into Madame Dinan. “Madame,” I say, dipping a curtsy and cursing my ill luck. She is in a hurry herself, however, and barely pauses to acknowledge me. “Demoiselle Rienne. The duchess asked that I fetch her embroidery,” she says in passing.

  I frown. She has never explained herself to me before, and I cannot fathom why she would do so now. “Very well,” I say, then continue down the stairs.

  She stops. “Are you on some errand for Duval?” she asks.

  I decide it is as good an excuse as any. “Yes, madame,” I say, and start to leave, but she speaks again.

  “Where is Duval? I have not seen him all day,” says this woman who has ignored me most of my time at court. That is when I realize she is trying to detain me.

  Without bothering to answer, I turn and race down the stairs, a sense of dread growing within me. I am nearly there, only one more corridor. As I turn into the last hallway, I hear a man’s voice—a deep, cajoling rumble that slithers across my skin. D’Albret! Every instinct I possess comes alert. I hear another voice then, a young girl’s voice. Not Sybella.

  Anne.

  Pulling my knives from my sleeves, I rush forward, panic pounding in my breast. When I round the final corner, I see the duchess backed against the wall and d’Albret looming over her. One of his hands is braced on the wall, trapping her. The other grabs at her skirts as she furiously tries to bat him away.

  At the sight of his filthy hands on her, fury explodes in my heart, and a red mist rises up before me. I must make a sound, because d’Albret jerks his head up and swears. He snatches his hands away from Anne as if he’s been burned. The duchess sags in relief against the wall, her face pale as death.

  D’Albret’s eyes widen at the sight of my daggers, and he holds his arms out wide, far away from his sword. “Do all Duval’s mistresses walk about armed to the teeth?”

  My eyes never leave his face. “Surely it does not surprise you that Duval does not cavort with simpering maids.”

  His tone turns cajoling. “Now, demoiselle, my betrothed and I were merely having a private moment. It is not so very unusual as all that. There is no need to overreact.”

  “I am not your betrothed,” Anne tells him coldly. Her face is pale, but her voice is strong and steady, and I have never been more proud of her. “I have no memory of signing that agreement, and I have written to both the pope and the ecclesiastical council asking that it be nullified.”

  D’Albret whips his head back to Anne. Something frightening glitters in his eyes. “Be careful, little duchess, for I will not give you many more chances to spurn me.”

  “I will never marry you.” Her voice is low and furious.

  I take a step closer. “You heard Her Grace. She has given you her answer. Now move away.”

  With one last furious glance at Anne, d’Albret turns his attention back to me. “You are making a grave mistake.”

  “Am I?” I draw even closer, my eyes searching desperately for the marque of Mortain. Surely assaulting the ruler of our duchy counts as treason. But there is no marque on his forehead, nor on his neck above his fur-lined collar. Perhaps that is not where his deathblow will be. Perhaps Mortain intends for him to be gutted like a fish.

  Before I have fully thought it through, I reach out and slash at him. His scarlet doublet parts like a wound, exposing his fat white gut. It is pallid and covered in coarse black hair, but there is no marque. A thin red line wells up where the tip of my knife has scored his flesh.

  Disbelief and rage clouds his face, and his eyes burn with something that looks like madness. He reaches for his sword, but I bring my dagger down on his hand. “I do not think so.”

  His eyes narrow, and the rage in them nearly flays the skin from my bones. “You will pay dearly for this.” The cold flatness of his voice is somehow more terrifying than his fury.

  Footsteps sound behind us and d’Albret looks up. Fearing some trick, I do not remove my gaze from his face, but my shoulders itch in warning.

  “Madame Dinan!” Anne calls out, her voice hitching in relief.

  The governess ignores Anne and hurries toward d’Albret. “What have you done, you stupid girl?” she asks me.

  “I have kept our duchess safe. What have you done, madame?” Our eyes meet and she knows that I see just how heinous a betrayal this has been. The duchess catches the accusation in my voice and takes a step back from her governess, her features stark with disbelief.

  I am unable to act against either of these two traitors, and my temper flares. “Get out.” I gesture with my knives. “Both of you.” I make no effort to hide the contempt I feel for them.

  “But the duchess . . .” Madame Dinan starts to say, then trails off.

  In that moment, the balance of power shifts. I have caught her in an act of rank betrayal, and she knows I can use this against her. “I will tend to the duchess. You, my lady, have lost that privilege.”

  Dinan’s nostrils flare. She raises her chin and glares down at her charge. “If you had but listened to your advisors, Your Grace, and not acted like a stubborn child, all of this could have been avoided.”

  “And if you had but honored the sacred trust placed in you by the duke,” I point out, “this could have been avoided.” I wave my knives as if I am about to lose my patience, which in truth I am. “Go.”

  D’Albret pulls his tunic over his belly and holds it in place with his arm. “You have just made the biggest mistake of your short life,” he says. “Both of you.” He turns and storms down the hallway. With one last reproachful glance at the duchess, Dinan follows the count, fluttering nervously behind him.

  When they are out of sight, I turn back to Anne. Slowly, she slides down the wall until she is sitting on the floor. A single tear escapes her bright eyes, and she swipes it away angrily with a trembling hand. Gone is the proud, brave duchess, and in her place is a young, frightened girl, using anger as best she can to shield herself from what has just happened. Not stopping to think of stations and rank, I kneel beside her on the floor and put my arms around her shoulders, hugging her to me. I have no fine or fancy words to bring her comfort, so I say the only thing I can. “You are very brave, and he will think twice before trying that again. On anyone, I hope.”

  Anne takes a great, shuddering, sobbing breath. “Madame Dinan said she needed to fetch a page, as she had a message to send. I thought it odd, but she has been much distracted of late, and there has been great discord between us. I never thought . . . never suspected such a . . .” Her voice falters as her throat tightens up, closing off her words.

  “Come,” I say gently. “We should get you back to your chambers. Can you walk, do you think?” I do not know what I will do if she says no. I cannot carry her, and I dare not leave her side to fetch help.

  “I can walk,” she says, her face full of steely resolve. I stand first, then help her to her feet. We slowly make our way back to her solar. We pass a few courtiers and nobles, and when we do, Anne makes an effort to straighten up and raise her head proudly; her regal bearing drives away any curious glances.

  When at last we reach the solar, I am relieved to find that Madame Dinan has not returned. A handful of lad
ies in waiting are in attendance.

  “Leave us,” Anne orders. I have never heard her speak so sharply, and neither have her ladies, for they look startled, but they do as she demands nonetheless. “Wait!” she calls out. They stop like dogs that have reached the ends of their leashes. “Have water sent up for a bath. Hot water.”

  The ladies in waiting look among themselves. One brave soul finally speaks. “Shouldn’t we stay here to assist Your Grace?”

  Anne glances at me, a silent question in her eyes. I nod my assent. “No, Demoiselle Rienne will attend me. Now go.”

  Flustered as a flock of pigeons disturbed from their roost, they scuttle from the room. As soon as they are gone and the door firmly shut, the duchess begins ripping off her fine clothes. At first, I fear she is having a fit, until I hear her words: “I can still feel his fingers on me.” Her voice catches, and I hurry over to help her.

  She claws at the collar and tears at the sleeves, pulling the gown off before I have the lacings undone. The fabric rips and there are tiny pinging sounds as a dozen seed pearls fall and scatter across the floor. “Your Grace, you will destroy your dress,” I murmur.

  “That is the point,” she whispers, staring at the tattered gown at her feet. She kicks at it. “I will not wear it again. Not ever.” She is shivering in her shift, looking younger and more vulnerable than even poor Isabeau.

  There is a knock at the door. I remove my cloak and wrap it around the duchess’s shoulders, then admit the attendants so they may set up her bath. They politely fill the copper tub with hot water, stoke the fire, lay out fresh linen towels, then hover uncertainly.

  “Leave,” Anne says, her voice weary.

  When they are gone, I turn my back to give her a moment of privacy to step into the bath. As a person of rank, she has always had ladies to attend to her, to scrub her back, hand her a towel, brush her hair. Except when she needed them most, I think, anger rising up again. “Would you like me to wash your hair for you, Your Grace?”

  A corner of her mouth tilts in a valiant attempt at a smile. “Part of your assassin’s training?”

  I smile back. “No, merely something my sisters in arms and I used to do for one another.”

  Her dark brown eyes meet mine. “Today I feel as if we are sisters in arms, and I would be honored if you would do for me what you have done for your friends.”

  I bow my head low, humbled by this gesture. “But of course, Your Grace.”

  I retrieve the ewer and fill it with warm water from the tub, then pour it over her long brown hair. I have never seen her without her headdress, and her hair is as rich and thick as mink. We scrub and rinse in silence; the soap she uses smells of roses.

  When she speaks again, her voice is steadier. “Once I am clean and dressed, I must send for Gavriel.”

  “He is whom you would speak with first?” This pleases me, this trust she has in him.

  She turns to look at me. “Above all others,” she says, her face and eyes solemn. She turns back around, and I pour another pitcher of water on her hair to rinse the soap from it.

  “When I was born, my father took Gavriel aside and explained that I was to be his first duty from then on. My happiness and my safety were his to guard.”

  “How old was he then?”

  “Twelve or thirteen, I believe.”

  Not much older than she is now. “So much responsibility for one so young.”

  “Ah, but he welcomed it. It gave his life purpose. He now had a reason to excel at his lessons, beat his tutors in chess, practice for hours in the sword yard.” Her voice changes, growing softer. “And he doted on me. He told me once that from the moment he first held me, he was besotted. I demanded no cleverness or victories of him, asked only that he love and protect me. And that he has done ever since.”

  “Were there so many demands on him at that age?”

  “Have you not met his mother, demoiselle?”

  I laugh outright at that. “Yes, I have, Your Grace.”

  “She has been working on schemes and plots since his birth, most involving him. Until I was born, he tolerated it. Once I was put in his charge, he would have nothing to do with her plots. Even then, his honor shone brighter than most men’s. I believe she quite hates me for it.”

  “No doubt,” I murmur, captivated by this peek at the young Duval.

  “And if ever I had any doubts—which I did not, although others did—they were erased when I was five years old. Did you know I was betrothed to the English crown prince?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. At the convent we study the actions of your family, as your safety and well-being is our first priority.”

  She looks around and dimples prettily at this. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “No wonder that you and Gavriel are so well suited,” she says, turning away again so I can continue rinsing her hair. I frown at this, but before I can protest, she is speaking again and I am loath to interrupt her.

  “Anyway, the betrothal enraged the old French king, who had spent years fighting the English and had no wish to see Brittany come under English rule. So he hatched a plot to send his agents into Nantes and abduct me so that I might become his pawn rather than such a liability.

  “We received news of this even as they entered the city. As my father’s advisors stood around arguing about what action to take and how best to respond, Gavriel grew impatient, fearing the French would knock down our door any moment. Instead of listening to their arguments, he came to our nursery and roused Isabeau and me from our beds. He tucked one of us under each arm and, accompanied by his staunch companion de Lornay, spirited us away to safety. Even as he galloped out of the stables, the French plotters broke into the nursery. I will never forget the terror of that night, the feeling that my whole world had been turned upside down. Nor will I ever forget the safety of Gavriel’s arms as he carried us out of harm’s way.”

  I stare at the back of her head, my mouth open in surprise. And yet, some small part of me is not surprised. It all fits with the Duval that I see, if not the one seen by Crunard and the abbess.

  The duchess shakes her head. “I still do not know how he managed two young girls on that horse of his.” She turns around to look into my face. “How could I not trust such a man as that, Demoiselle Rienne?”

  “Indeed, how could one not?” I whisper.

  “I know some call him oath breaker, for although the oath he swore to Saint Camulos required him to stand and fight, he turned his back on the fighting and instead carried me to safety. But as he explained to me later, what good is fighting if what you are fighting for is lost?”

  “True enough, Your Grace.” Then we both fall silent, consumed by our own thoughts, while she finishes her bath. My heart feels lighter now that I know the circumstances behind Duval’s oath breaking. From what I am learning of my own god, it seems just the sort of thorny trial they love to torment us with.

  When all the traces of d’Albret have been scrubbed from her skin and she is dressed and warm and calm, we send a page to find Duval.

  He arrives shortly after, tugging off his riding gloves and looking slightly mussed, as if the wind is blowing mightily outside. His gaze darts from her to me, then back again. “What has happened?”

  The duchess grips her hands together tightly. “There has been an incident,” she says, then falters and looks to me for help.

  “D’Albret assaulted her in the hallway.”

  Duval grows impossibly still and I am reminded of a viper before it strikes. “What do you mean, assaulted?” His voice is deceptively quiet.

  “I mean, he backed her up against the wall and fumbled at her skirts.” Anger at the memory makes the words come out harsher than I intend.

  Duval’s face grows pale.

  “Mumbling all the while about how I would like it if I would only give it a chance,” the duchess adds.

  I look at her in horror. “I did not know that.”

  “You were too far away to hear.�
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  Duval’s entire body is as taut as a drawn bowstring. Rage fills his eyes, but he tries to tamp it down for his sister’s sake, as concern wars with fury. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine. Ismae arrived in time.”

  He turns then and bows low to me, which shocks me to the core. “Our debt to you is immeasurable,” he says. When he rises, his face is calm and still. “We will kill him,” he announces, then looks at me thoughtfully. “Unless you already have?”

  “Alas, no, milord. He ceased his attack when I approached, and he did not bear the marque.”

  “Saints take the marque! Look harder.” He begins to pace.

  A faint glimmer of amusement touches the duchess’s features. “She fair gutted him looking for it,” she says.

  At her words, I feel sheepish. “I admit I did not stop to give thought to maintaining the deception we had in place.”

  “Good,” Duval says. “Perhaps others will think twice before trying something similar.”

  I clear my throat. “There is more.”

  Duval stops pacing and stares at me. “More?” Even the duchess looks at me curiously.

  “Madame Dinan set the duchess up. She made an excuse to leave her alone in the hallway when she knew d’Albret would be there.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I met her on the stairs. I was heading toward the duchess and she was moving away. She tried to detain me.”

  Duval explodes. “That traitorous sow!”

  The duchess looks uneasy at this rare display of temper from Duval. I try to say something to turn the conversation to strategy rather than anger, though Mortain knows I have plenty of that as well. “We knew she favored her half brother, but I never guessed she would go this far in pursuit of his claim.”