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

by Robin LaFevers

  “None of us did,” Duval says. “We must ban him from court. Her too.”

  The duchess promptly agrees, but this plan worries me. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but I think we must tread carefully here.”

  Duval’s head snaps up. “What do you mean?”

  “We cannot risk word getting out that the duchess was assaulted. In this world of ours, it matters not what actually transpired. The mere suggestion that she was exposed to such a situation could be enough to bring her virtue into question. What would that do to her chances of marriage?”

  All the blood drains from the duchess’s face, and Duval swears a black oath and resumes pacing.

  “I will not marry the baron, no matter if he is the last man in Christendom!”

  “Nor would we let you, Your Grace.” Duval’s pacing is making me dizzy. I keep waiting for him to step in and say something helpful, to come up with some strategy that will find us a way out. Instead, he is indulging in a fit of temper.

  “I know,” he says suddenly, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “We will issue an edict stating that you repudiate the betrothal agreement with d’Albret and have no intention of marrying him. If we do so publicly, he will have no choice but to accept it.”

  I shake my head. “Will that not simply back him into a corner and cause him to take even more drastic measures?”

  Duval spears me with a feral gaze. “What do you suggest instead?”

  And there he has me. I have no brilliant strategy or clever tactics. That is Duval’s gift, not mine. “I have no better plan, my lord. In truth, I am sorely disappointed in my god’s justice so far.”

  Duval stares at me a long moment, his eyes bright as if with fever. “Perhaps that is because you mistake death for justice, and they are not the same thing at all.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  In the morning, Vanth arrives bright and early, pecking at the window even before Louyse comes in to stoke the fire. I throw off the covers and hurry over, my toes curling away from the cold stone floor. When I open the shutter, Vanth hops in and cocks his head as if to ask what took me so long. “I was sleeping,” I tell him, then grab for the note on his leg before he can peck me.

  He squawks in annoyance when I retrieve the missive, then flutters off to his cage and puts his head under his wing.

  Much to my frustration, it is not instructions from the abbess but instead a note from Annith. I check the seal, then crack it open and read.

  Annith writes to say she has never heard any rumor or gossip about initiates of Mortain taking permanent lovers but begs that I tell her why I wish to know. Luckily for me, she spends little time pressing me on that issue; she is much preoccupied with her own situation.

  Sister Vereda has taken ill, she writes, and has not had a vision in over a week.

  Is that why I have received no orders from the convent? Because Sister Vereda is ill? If that is the case, then surely I must be even more watchful for Mortain’s marque.

  The nuns have been meeting behind closed doors more than usual, so of course I had to listen to see what they were about. Ismae, I overheard the reverend mother herself tell Sister Thomine that she thinks I will be able to serve as the convent’s seeress once Sister Vereda passes into the realm of Death! A seeress! After all that I have trained for, all that I have studied and practiced. I have spent my whole life preparing to step outside this convent in service to Mortain—and now she thinks to lock me up inside these thick stone walls forever. I won’t do it. I can’t do it. Indeed, the thought has kept me up the last four nights. Just the idea of it makes me feel as if I am suffocating. So please, in your spare moments, pray for Sister Vereda that she may recover and that I will not be consigned to the convent’s inner sanctum for the rest of my days.

  Yours in misery,

  Annith

  Poor Annith! Can the reverend mother be serious? Does she intend never to let Annith step outside the convent? Annith’s plight is so dire, it takes my mind off my own misery, but eventually, I have no choice but to dress for the special meeting of all the barons that the duchess has called.

  As the church bells strike noon, Breton nobles, courtiers, barons, and the Privy Council file into the great hall. Duval takes special care to be certain that Gisors attends. “Let him read it as a gesture of goodwill, even if it is nothing of the kind,” he says.

  I scan the faces of the gathered crowd. There is much gossip and speculation as to why this meeting has been called. Many glance at d’Albret, no doubt wondering if it has something to do with the betrothal he has been boasting about for the past two days.

  The back door to the chamber opens and two men-at-arms stride in. The duchess comes next, followed by her Privy Council. The privy councilors are clearly disgruntled that such a meeting has been called without their approval. My gaze goes to Madame Dinan, whose face has an annoying air of smugness to it. Does she really think she has won? Can she know so little of the girl she helped to raise? Once again, Sister Beatriz’s words come back to me: People hear and see what they expect to hear and see.

  Madam Dinan smiles at d’Albret and he smiles back. I am eager to see just how long those smiles hold.

  The duchess takes her seat and motions for Duval to hand her the parchment. As she unrolls it, the room falls silent. I cannot help but admire her fortitude—it is not an easy thing to renounce a man in front of his peers.

  “I, Anne of Brittany, do hereby declare that the betrothal agreement made between me and Count d’Albret is null and void, as I did sign it with no knowledge of the commitment I was making. While we appreciate the count’s valiant service during my father’s reign and continue to value him as an ally, I will not now nor ever enter into a marriage arrangement with Lord d’Albret.”

  When she is finished, every head in the room turns to Lord d’Albret. His face is a deep, mottled red, his jaw clenched so tight I fear his teeth will snap. Next to him, Madame Dinan sways a little. Marshal Rieux surges to his feet and opens his mouth, but Chancellor Crunard puts a hand on his arm and holds him back with a small shake of his head.

  Aware that everyone’s attention is on him, d’Albret makes a small, mocking bow to the duchess, then turns on his heel and strides away. The crowd parts before him like butter before a hot knife. Madame Dinan rises to her feet, lifts her skirts, and hurries after him, two bright spots of color burning in her normally pale cheeks. Moving as if in great pain, Anne rises to her feet and turns to leave the hall.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Two days after the duchess reads the edict against d’Albret, she, Duval, and I stand at her window and watch him ride away. He has so many retainers and attendants that it feels as if half the castle goes with him. I fear Sybella is among them. How else would she have been able to warn me of the trickery planned in the corridor?

  The idea that the abbess would place Sybella in d’Albret’s household is so repellant that I thrust it aside and pray to Mortain that I am mistaken.

  If d’Albret has taken a large part of courtiers with him, he has also taken a fair amount of the court’s gloom. The serving maids in particular have a renewed bounce in their step now that they no longer have to endure his pinches. Even young Isabeau’s health seems to improve, as if it were d’Albret’s presence that had clouded her lungs.

  ***

  One week before Christmas, the duchess calls for a full court dinner, complete with entertainment. The night before the feast, Isabeau is so excited she nearly makes herself sick. At the duchess’s request, I give her another tisane so she can sleep.

  The castle steward has spared no luxury for tonight’s feast. The tables are covered with rich damask cloth embroidered with silver thread. Liveried servants stand near the walls, and gold and silver vessels adorn the table. In an especially fancy touch, notes from a horn summon us to the great hall. We are all, as ordered, dressed in our gayest finery. Long fur-trimmed capes mingle with embroidery-encrusted waistcoats and colorful slashed sleeves. Shoes of brightly dyed
leather or rich velvet peek out from beneath thick satin skirts.

  The duchess and Isabeau take their places at the high table on the raised dais, and the privy councilors join them. And while it seems as if I have done nothing but drink Duval in with my eyes for the past two weeks, tonight he looks different. He has grown thinner, and there are deep shadows under his eyes as well. The negotiations with the Holy Roman emperor have been fierce. Both the duchess and Duval know they bargain for the very life of their country. The Holy Roman emperor’s envoy knows it as well and tries to use it to his best advantage. I worry that the strain is getting to Duval. He grows edgy and has taken to checking the doors and windows, certain that someone is listening in.

  Most likely someone is.

  I am shown to a seat at one of the lower tables with the lesser ladies and knights, but I do not mind. In truth, I need to pinch myself, for I fear this is all a dream. I can scarce believe that one such as I has been allowed into so fine a celebration.

  Once we take our seats, servants bring us basins of warm water scented with verbena so we may wash our hands before eating. While we dry them on soft linen towels, the food is carried in on platters. Meat carvers set to work slicing venison and roasted boar, peacock and pheasant. There is also braised rabbit and roast goose, porkpie, pastries, and frumenty.

  I am pleased to find myself seated next to Beast and wonder if Duval had something to do with this. “I have not seen much of you of late,” I say.

  His face creases into a grotesque smile. “Duval has kept me busy overseeing scouting parties. We scour daily, looking for signs of d’Albret making good on his threat or of the arrival of the French.”

  “Which is the greater danger?”

  Beast shrugs his huge shoulders. “I do not know. If d’Albret has retired to his holdings in central Brittany, all he must do is prevent loyal barons and their armies from answering the duchess’s call for troops. That will play havoc enough with our defense.”

  I take a pinch of salt from the saltcellar and sprinkle it on my venison. “And the French? Where do you anticipate they will come from?”

  “From the north and east. They still hold Saint-Malo and Fougères per the terms of the Treaty of Verger. They will use those as strongholds and strike out from there. But enough of this depressing talk, demoiselle. Surely you have spent your days more pleasantly than I?”

  I grimace. “Actually, no. I am not overfond of either embroidery or the chattering of ladies in waiting.”

  “What would you rather be doing?” Beast’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

  “Something helpful,” I mutter, then I take a sip of wine to wash the sense of helplessness from my tongue. It is not a feeling I relish.

  His face grows somber. “Is it not helpful staying by our duchess’s side, offering her peace of mind?”

  “But of course, if my presence brings her peace of mind, it is most worthwhile. In truth, she seems most vulnerable since her governess’s betrayal.”

  “What of young Isabeau?” Beast’s eyes turn to the high table. “She looks frail to me.”

  “Her health is not good. Her lungs are weak, and, I suspect, her heart.”

  Beast sends me a strange look. “Does your assassin’s training tell you this?”

  His bold question makes me sputter on the wine I have just sipped. I look around to be certain no one has overheard. “No, my lord. But I worked closely with our herbalist at the convent, and it was she who tended to our illnesses.”

  “I had hoped she would recover by now. That she has not is unwelcome news,” he says, then tosses back the contents of his goblet. The lord on his right asks him a question, and Beast begins talking with him. Remembering the social pretenses I must uphold, I turn to the knight on my left, but he is leaning so close to the lady next to him that I fear he will fall in her soup. Only too happy to ignore him, I look out among the feasting nobles, their chins greasy with meat, eyes slurry with wine. This celebration has the doomed feel of trying to raise a Maypole in a thunderstorm. I can only hope an order from the convent comes through. This entire room stinks of desperation and betrayal.

  Madame Hivern sits between two of the coastal barons and I wonder just how close she is to making her move. Her hand was brilliantly played; she waited for d’Albret to quit the field, and now her opposition has been reduced by half.

  My gaze then turns to François, who is always at the heart of whatever festivities are taking place. Twice he has tried to pull me into his merrymaking, but both times I have politely refused. I do not have the heart for his flirtations.

  The blare of a sackbut heralds the arrival of the evening’s entertainment, and a parade of masked performers troop into the great hall. The leader wears a donkey-headed mask and is followed by an ape, a lion, and a bear. The bear is real and reminds me uncannily of Captain Dunois.

  An old bent-over man pushes a cart holding two fools. Another fool gambols in, a pig bladder hanging from the stick over his shoulder. It is mayhem as they cavort and frolic, looking both humorous and grotesque. The fools draw up to the tables and begin dicing with the diners.

  The duchess has eyes only for Isabeau, who laughs and claps her hands, delighted. Another mummer comes in rolling a great barrel. There is a rapid beating of drums, a dark, primitive sound. A stag-headed man bursts out of the barrel and leaps into the fray; he represents the patron saint of horned creatures, Dea Matrona’s consort. He is killed every year at the end of harvest so he may rise again when Dea Matrona gives birth to the new year.

  The music changes yet again, and a man dressed as a young maid and holding a bouquet of flowers frolics between the tables. The music deepens, grows more terrifying. Out from the shadows steps the black-robed, skeletal figure of Death Himself. Everyone gasps.

  The maid tries to run, but four masked men leap out of the shadows riding four stick horses. Their red and black masks obscure their faces, and I shudder. They are hellequin, the Wild Hunt who came for Dea Matrona’s daughter and carried her away to Death’s underworld, leaving Dea Matrona to make our world stark and barren in her sorrow.

  The maiden evades them. Once. Twice. But the third time, the hellequin surround her. My heart begins to beat faster. Surely this is too frightening for young Isabeau?

  I look to see how she is faring, and my breath catches in my throat when I see how close the hellequin have drawn to the high table. Some inner alarm—perhaps Mortain’s own whisper—sounds in my head, and I am on my feet, pushing through the cavorting mummers, reaching for the crossbow hidden beneath my overskirt.

  The entire court gasps as a hellequin leaps onto the table in front of the duchess and draws a knife. Most think it is part of the play. Duval and Dunois know better and reach for their swords, but they are too far away. With a heartfelt prayer to my god, I slap the quarrel in place and pull the trigger.

  The quarrel catches the hellequin in the back of the neck, just below the protection of his mask. He freezes; the knife drops from his spasming fingers, and he topples forward.

  The duchess just manages to leap away in time to keep from being crushed by his falling body. Dark red blood splatters onto her pale face.

  The pandemonium is instantaneous.

  Ladies scream, courtiers shout and scramble away. Men-at-arms pour in from the corridor and surround the mummers, who look in shocked silence at the dead hellequin.

  Captain Dunois’s eyes widen in admiration. “Excellent shot.”

  I incline my head in acknowledgment of his compliment. “Catch Isabeau,” I tell Duval just before she crumples. But Duval’s reflexes are quick and he snatches her before she hits the floor. “Waroch! De Lornay! Question them.” He nods his head toward the stunned mummers. “Your Grace, I think we should get you back to your quarters,” he says to the duchess.

  Pale and trembling, the duchess nods shakily and follows him as he carries their sister back to the solar. Marshal Rieux stares at me as if he fears I, too, have sprung from the mummer’s drum. “What
is the meaning of this?” Rieux thumps his hand on the table.

  Chancellor Crunard steps in to smooth things over. “I think explanations are best made in private. Perhaps we should all adjourn to the duchess’s chambers.” His eyes seek out mine. “You as well, demoiselle,” he says.

  Now that the moment is over and the danger passed, my body begins to tremble. So close. Too close. Ignoring the whispers and the pointing, I follow them out of the hall. Was the assassin a parting gift from d’Albret? Or an opening shot fired by some new enemy?

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Who is this woman?” Marshal Rieux demands.

  I ignore his question, go to the ewer near the duchess’s canopied bed, and pour water into the basin. I grab a linen cloth from the stand nearby, wet it, then carry it to her. “May I?”

  She looks at me in puzzlement.

  “You have blood on your face,” I explain.

  Her eyes widen in horror and she gives a frantic nod. Gently I begin sponging the spatters from her cheek. Now that she is safe, I am calm. The god truly guided my hand, for I could never have made that shot otherwise. Let the others say what they will, they cannot take that away from me.

  “Who is she, Duval? We knew she was not your niece. I, for one, did not begrudge you a lightskirt—”

  “Careful.” Duval’s voice is a warning growl.

  “—but clearly she is much more than any of us guessed.”

  “Some knew.” Duval shoots a glance Crunard’s way. It is an excellent strategy. This whole idea was cooked up between the chancellor and the abbess, so let Crunard answer to his irate fellow council members.

  “Chancellor Crunard? Did you know about this? Who is she and what just happened out there?”