The duchess frowns. “How is that, Captain?”
He spreads his hands. “Ancenis is Marshal Rieux’s own holding. If the French have seized his lands, what better rallying cry to call him back to our side? Surely he will wish to put aside this petty alliance with d’Albret in order to protect his own lands.”
A small ray of hope appears on the duchess’s face, but Crunard stares at him stonily. “Do you mean reconcile with Marshal Rieux?”
Dunois nods.
“Do you think that is possible?” the duchess asks.
Dunois shrugs. “He is a good man at heart, Your Grace, and no doubt thinks he is doing what’s best for his country.”
“By holding my own city against me?” the duchess asks tartly.
“By allying with the strongest of your suitors. However, now that the French are on the march, he will no doubt see the need to face them with a united front and will abandon this path he has taken.”
Her face creased in thought, the duchess begins to pace. “How would we do this?”
“We would take a small party and ride for Nantes to parley with him.”
Crunard takes a step toward the duchess. “I do not think it is safe for you to leave the city, Your Grace.”
She glances at Captain Dunois, her arched brows raised in question.
“I think it is worth considering,” he says. “Whatever Rieux may hope to get from this rebellion of his, he will not want it at the cost of his own holding.”
The chancellor sighs heavily, as if deeply worried. “I think you are making a terrible mistake.”
But his is only one vote among three and he is overruled by both Captain Dunois and the duchess herself. And so it is decided. The duchess and her small party will ride for Nantes tomorrow.
Chapter Forty-seven
Duval is late. Either that or he is not coming. I pace in front of the fire and try not to fret, but the most likely explanation is that he has become too ill to move. That he is huddled in some corner on the verge of death.
This idea so distresses me that I grab my cloak and head for the door. If the hidden tunnels and corridors run the full breadth and depth of the castle, I will need help searching them. Besides, I will not be able to carry him back by myself.
The sergeant at arms will not let me into the garrison, but he sends a lackey to fetch Beast for me. A short while later, he and de Lornay arrive. I have caught them dicing. De Lornay still holds a pair in his hand and is rubbing them together cheerfully. When they see it is me, the casual smiles and laughter drop from their faces and they hurry forward. “What is it?” Beast asks.
I glance at the nearby sergeant at arms, and Beast takes my elbow and moves us outside. When we are standing in the middle of the training yard, far from any corners or doorways that might conceal an eavesdropper, de Lornay asks, “Has something happened to Duval?”
“He was supposed to come to my room tonight and he has not. He has told you where he is staying, yes?”
Beast nods slowly.
“Well, I fear he is lying somewhere in there. Have you seen him in the last few days? He is very ill. He—” My throat grows so tight that it is hard to get the words out. In the end, I cannot tell them I am afraid Duval is dying but say instead, “I fear he is too weak to move.”
De Lornay’s whole manner changes and his gaze sharpens. “It is not my doing,” I tell him, but I do not think he believes me.
“We will help,” Beast says before de Lornay and I can come to blows. “Show us.”
The hour is late and the court subdued, so there are few people about to see us. When we reach Duval’s apartments, I hesitate. It would not do for loyal Louyse to see me leading two men into my bedchamber. She would never forgive such a betrayal of her master.
But there is no one in the main chamber, so I motion to Beast and de Lornay and they move through the room, silent as shadows. When we reach my chamber, Duval is still not there. “The door he uses is here,” I say, showing them the wall by the fireplace. “But I do not know the mechanism that opens it.”
Neither, apparently, do they, for they poke and grunt and prod at the wall for long frustrating minutes until finally there is a solid thunk, and then the wall gives way. Beast puts his shoulder to it and shoves. Cool, dank air wafts into the room. “We’ll need light,” de Lornay says.
I hurry to the table and use the lone candle burning there to light three more tapers. I hand one to de Lornay, another to Beast. They glance at the candle I clutch in my own hand but do not try to keep me from coming.
The blackness inside the corridors is absolute, and the faint glow from my room is swallowed up in a matter of seconds. There are no windows, no doors, no openings of any kind. Just thick gray stone pressing down on us from all sides. It reminds me of the crypt at the convent, and I do not know how Duval has stood it all this time.
The main corridor branches off in many directions. Carefully and methodically we explore each one. It is slow going in the dark, with few landmarks to guide us. We do not dare call out his name for fear of being heard in the bedrooms and chambers on the other side of the walls.
The corridor twists and turns like a writhing serpent, and just when I fear we will never be able to find our way back, there is an “Oof” from Beast, followed by a voice in the darkness: “I think I would rather die of the poison than be trampled by a great oaf like you.”
“Duval!” My breath hitches in my throat and I dart around de Lornay and Beast. Duval leans against the stone wall, his face alarmingly pale. “You are alive,” I say, and do not add, but barely. It is as witless as anything I have ever uttered, but relief sings so sharply in my veins it has chased away my wits.
“Alive,” he says, then grimaces. “But unable to move my legs.”
I turn my gaze to his lifeless legs so he cannot see my face. The poison has seeped further into his body and has begun paralyzing his limbs. Surely, his lungs and heart will soon follow.
Beast shoulders past me, shaking his head and tsking like a nursemaid. “Never could hold your drink.” De Lornay goes to the other side of Duval and I see they mean to haul him to his feet and carry him. I know he would not want me to watch, so I take the men’s candles from them and turn back toward the corridor, ready to light the way once they have a solid hold on him.
I use the moment to compose myself. Why have I not heard from Annith? Could it be that the abbess has intercepted my note? Or is my request so contrary to the teachings of the convent that Annith will not honor it? A note of hysterical laughter comes close to escaping. I, a mistress of poison, am willing to trade my soul for an antidote, if only I could find one.
Now that we have located Duval, I find the passageway does not seem so impossibly long or hopelessly dark. In a matter of minutes we are back in my chamber. I set the candles down and busy myself with stoking the fire, giving Beast and de Lornay a chance to settle Duval on the bed.
The men murmur softly among themselves as I take a pot of broth from the hearth. I am close to throwing myself on Duval’s ruined body and weeping. Instead, I square my shoulders, put the warm broth on a tray, and carry it to the bed. “There is much news,” I tell him.
He tries to push the tray away, but I glare at him. “And I will not tell you a word of it unless you eat something.”
He exchanges a glance with Beast, and in that glance I see he thinks it a pointless exercise. He accepts that he is dying. Not only accepts it, but prefers it. He does not want to be carried like a scarecrow for the rest of his days. But I do not accept it, so I hand him the spoon.
“Tell me,” he says, lifting it to his mouth.
“The French have crossed the border into Brittany and taken Ancenis, Fougères, and Vitré.”
The spoon stops in midair. “Marshal Rieux’s own holding?”
“Aye,” I say.
Off to my side, Beast whistles.
“Keep eating.” When he puts another spoonful of broth into his mouth, I continue. “Captain Dunoi
s thinks we have a chance of using this to reconcile with Marshal Rieux.”
“She must not reconcile with Rieux,” Duval says, his voice fierce. “She must demand that he come to her to beg forgiveness; she must not go to him.”
I cannot help but wonder if this is the poison talking, for surely the duchess is in no position to demand anything. “As much as I detest Marshal Rieux and what he has done, if there is a chance to reclaim an ally, mustn’t she at least consider it?”
“How do they propose to effect this reconciliation?” he asks.
“They will ride to Nantes and attempt to persuade him to return to Anne’s side so he can lead her armies against the French.”
“What does Crunard say?” Duval asks around a bite of bread.
“He wants to keep her safe in Guérande, but Dunois and the duchess overruled him.”
“When do they leave?”
“At daybreak tomorrow,” I tell him. “They want to get under way before word of their plan leaks to Nantes or the French regent.”
Duval swears a black oath. “Do they not realize they are most likely riding directly into a trap?”
“Not to mention that the French are inside our border, and there is no way of knowing how many scouts or sorties they have sent out,” Beast adds. “How large a company will they be taking?”
“A small one. Not more than twenty.”
“Easily overpowered by a large scouting party then,” Beast says.
Duval drops his head back against the wall in frustration. The loud thud makes me wince but he barely even registers the blow. “By the Five Wounds of Christ, this is a wretched time to be poisoned.”
“Poison!” De Lornay’s fist clenches around the dice he has been fidgeting with and he takes a step toward me. But it is Beast’s reaction that cuts me to the quick. He lifts his great head and looks at me with wounded eyes, as if I have betrayed him as well as Duval.
“It is not by my hand,” I snap. When they say nothing, I grow agitated. “Think! Would I have fetched the two of you if I wanted him to die?”
That seems to convince them somewhat, although de Lornay keeps casting dark, sullen glances toward me as I carry the empty tray back to the table by the fire. Behind me, Duval starts to put together a plan. “Beast, de Lornay, when you leave here tonight, go to Dunois. Tell him you want to be in that party that leaves for Nantes. Do not let him refuse you. Ismae!” he calls out.
I stop what I am doing and turn to face the bed.
“I want you to go as well. Attach yourself to the duchess as if you were her shield, for in truth, you may be. Do not leave her side.”
My hands grip my skirt and I hurry back to him. “My lord, that is not what my convent has ordered.” I do not let myself think on what my convent actually wants me to do. The herbwitch’s words rise up in mind and I cannot tell if they are meant to taunt or comfort: It is a dark god you serve, daughter, but remember, He is not without mercy. Is this His mercy, then? That I will not have to slay Duval with my own hand because he is already dying from poison? A dark god indeed.
“Perhaps not,” he says, “but surely it is what they would want you to do if they knew of her plans.” When I do not speak, he turns to Beast. “Make her go with you. No matter how sick I am or what Crunard or Dunois say, make sure she rides out with you. Carry her if you have to. Swear it.”
“I swear it.” Beast’s deep voice rumbles through the room.
Duval turns to me, his voice more gentle now. “This is what I have worked for my entire life, Ismae, the duchess’s safety. I cannot finish this task, so I ask that you do it for me.”
And of course I cannot say no. Not to his dying wish. “Very well,” I whisper.
A faint tremor shudders through Duval’s body, as if it is only his determination to make these last arrangements for his sister that has kept him going. Our eyes meet. “Thank you.”
When Beast and de Lornay take their leave, Duval leans back against the pillows, his face taking on a grayish pallor. I have spent the day longing to share my news of Crunard’s signet ring with him, but he is so ill, I do not have the heart to add to his cares. “You really must sleep, my lord. You can give us more instructions when you wake up.”
He says something I cannot make out. “What?” I ask, coming closer to the bed.
“If,” he says. “If I wake up.”
I reach down to caress his cheek, his week-old whiskers rough and scratchy against my palm. He is burning as if with fever.
“Do not cry,” he says.
I scrub at my face with my free hand. “I am not crying, my lord.”
“Lie with me,” he says, and I do not know if he means to lie next to him on the bed or rather to lie with him as a woman lies with a man. “They say it is the most glorious way to die, lying with Death’s handmaiden.”
There is a hint of the old Duval in his smile and it fair breaks my heart all over again. I want to tell him he is not dying, but my throat is so tight with grief I cannot force the words out. Even if I could, he would surely know it as a lie. I kneel beside the bed. “My lord,” I whisper, “you are too ill.”
He falls silent then, and regret pierces me so sharply it is all I can do not to cry out.
Too late, too late. Everything is too late. I want to raise my voice and shout and rant at all the gods and saints in the heavens. Instead, I step out of my gown and let it puddle on the floor. I remove the sheaths at my wrists, then the one at my ankle. When I am left in nothing but my shift, I lift the bedcovers and climb into bed beside him.
His arms are waiting, and as I slip into them, the rest of the world falls away. The skin and muscle in his arms twitch and spasm, damaged as they are by the poison, but he pulls me close until my head is on his shoulder and our chests are touching through the thin linen of my shift.
His heart beats impossibly fast, as if he has just run some great race. Wishing I could slow his heart by my touch, I place my hand on his chest, the ridges and bumps of his scars rough beneath my fingers. He smiles and captures my hand. He tries to bring it to his lips, but his grip is too weak and he drops it. I snuggle up against him, my arms draped around his neck and shoulders, determined to stay as close to him as humanly possible.
It is all that we have left to us. And while it is more than I ever dared dream, it is nowhere near enough.
Chapter Forty-eight
I do not sleep at all that night, afraid to lose one single moment I have left with Duval. Just before dawn I peel myself away from him, one small inch at a time, so that he does not wake. I hold my breath as I put my full weight onto the mattress, afraid the shifting movement will disturb him, but it does not. Indeed, he is sleeping deeply, his breathing shallow. His pulse beats in his throat, thin and thready. Truly, this is a small mercy that my god has granted me. I do not have to even raise my hand and Duval will be dead by nightfall.
Perhaps Mortain knew I could not kill him even if he bore the marque. I cannot kill the only man I have found it in my heart to love.
And no matter how much I long to stay by his side, I have promised all my choices away; to the convent, to the duchess, to Duval himself. I am caught in a web of my own making, my crisscrossing promises ensnaring me as neatly as any trap. Only duty, which once held such joy for me, is left. It is as sharp and bitter in my mouth as bile.
I am dressed and ready before Beast comes to collect me. I have no wish to be dragged from the bedside and have no doubt that Beast will do exactly as he promised. Leaving Duval is as painful as cutting out my own heart and giving it to the crows to feed on. I do not look at Beast when he arrives. I do not dare meet his eye, for if I see one drop of sympathy there, I fear I will splinter into a thousand pieces like shattering crystal.
While Duval has not been seen around the palace for the last few days, it is only the duchess and the Privy Council who know he has gone into hiding. With the rest of us en route to Nantes, he should be safe enough in my chamber. My eyes are dry as bone, my face as still a
s the cold marble floor beneath my feet as I move through the palace in a daze. Beast sends me a number of worried glances, small flickers of concern that prick against my skin. I barely register their existence.
How much has Duval told Beast? I wonder. Will he believe me if I confide my suspicions of Crunard to him? In the end, I decide it is worth the risk. If something happens to me, no one will know where the true danger lies. “We cannot trust Crunard,” I say without looking at him.
His head does not move, but I feel his eyes swivel in my direction. “In what way, demoiselle?”
“I believe it is he who is poisoning Duval, and that he is behind much of the misfortune that has befallen the duchess. I fear he is in league with the French regent.”
He is quiet a long moment, then asks the same question Duval did. “To what purpose?”
“I do not understand the why of it, I know only that his actions point to his guilt, and I want someone other than myself to have this information. Mayhap you can help keep a close eye on him on the trip to Nantes.”
Beast turns and looks at me fully then. “He is not going with us.”
I stop walking. “What?” Apprehension makes my voice sharp.
“Isabeau is too ill to travel, and the duchess was reluctant to leave her side. Crunard offered to stay with her.”
“Duval!” I turn to head back to him, but Beast grabs my arm.
“There is little more Crunard can do to Duval,” he says gently, and I remember his promise to carry me if need be.
After a long moment of weighing my options, I nod, and he releases my arm. We continue walking. “Do you think Isabeau will be safe?” I ask.
Beast scowls. “I cannot believe he would harm a poor, sick child.”
I can only hope he is right. Trying to see to Isabeau’s safety is yet one more thing that is at odds with my promise to Duval.
In the courtyard, a score of men-at-arms are mounted. Four horses wait beside them. Crunard is there but dressed in his robes of office rather than for travel. “The duchess was not comfortable leaving Isabeau on her own, and my age will only slow down your progress,” he explains, which is in itself suspicious, for he owes me no explanations. I cannot help but wonder what he gains by staying. No matter how I poke and prod the question, I can find no answer.
Grave Mercy (Book I): His Fair Assassin, Book I (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 33