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

by Robin LaFevers

  “A kiss for luck, demoiselle?”

  I look into his dear, ugly face. He is not coming back. Neither is de Lornay. They will buy the duchess some time, and that is all they can do against the two hundred soldiers riding toward us. If he wants a kiss from me before he goes, I will give it willingly. I nod, and he slips his great tree trunk of an arm around me, pulls me close, and plants his lips on mine. The force of the kiss bends me back over the saddle, his thick arm nearly pulling me from my horse.

  It is a magnificent, lusty kiss and I feel nothing but deep regret that it may be his last.

  Just before he pulls away, he whispers in my ear. “Duval said to give you that should I get the chance. It is from him.”

  He puts his spurs to his horse and rides to the small group of men he must lead to their deaths. De Lornay draws near then. He says nothing but unties one of the two crossbows that hang from his saddle and hands it to me. “This will strike from greater distance than the peashooter you carry.” He winks, then turns and gallops to Beast’s side.

  Captain Dunois is already riding away, leaning low in the saddle and protecting the duchess’s body with his own. The two rear guards have taken up position behind him. Even as I fall in with them, I cast one last look over my shoulder.

  Battle fever burns bright within Beast now. He shouts an order that divides his men into two parties so they can delay both vanguards of the oncoming forces. “On my signal,” he says, but before he can give it, a long blast from a trumpet stops him. My head turns toward the sound.

  Soldiers on horseback are riding hell-bent toward us. De Lornay is the first to recognize their colors. “The garrison from Rennes!”

  He and Beast exchange an elated grin, then Beast gives the order to charge. Beast looks back and sees me hesitating. “Go!” he roars.

  And of course, I must. I cannot waste this chance he has given us. I spur my horse and gallop after the others.

  When I gain the copse of trees, I allow myself one backwards glance, just in time to see Beast rise up in his stirrups, battle-ax in one hand, sword in the other. Then d’Albret’s forces are upon him. The sound when they meet is deafening, the clash of weapons, the scream of metal, the terrified whinny of the horses.

  I urge my mount forward and continue on, the sounds of their terrible fighting echoing in my ears.

  ***

  Not half a league later we reach the main bulk of the forces from Rennes. Dunois barely has time to rein in his horse to avoid plowing into them. Reinforcements flow around us like a river of safety, encircling the fleeing duchess and her meager guard. Even if d’Albret’s soldiers were to reach her, they could never fight through the superior number of troops from Rennes. I rub my eyes for a moment, surprised to find that my cheeks are wet. As I quickly dry them on my sleeve, I am shocked to see a familiar figure riding toward us.

  “François!” The duchess’s voice is full of joy at the sight of her brother. My own heart lifts too. François has done far more than simply swear fealty to her; he has provided for her in what is surely one of her greatest hours of need.

  “It was you who brought these men to our rescue?” she says.

  He bows from the saddle. “Only in part. It was Gavriel’s idea to send for them. I was simply the one he dispatched.”

  I am not sure I have heard him correctly. “Duval?” I repeat stupidly as the duchess looks at me hopefully.

  He bows again. “Duval, my lady.”

  “But he was so ill when I . . . when we left. He could not even move from the bed!”

  François shrugs. “He was indeed ill-looking, but I can vouch that he was able to move. The night that your party left, he came to my room and gave me urgent instructions to ride for Rennes as if my sister’s life depended on it, for surely it did.”

  I can still scarcely credit what he is saying, but the commander from Rennes is already regrouping so that they may ride back to the city and get her behind its walls. Everyone agrees that the first priority is to get the duchess to safety.

  Before they ride away, the duchess directs Dunois to steer their horses to me. “Go,” she tells me in a fierce, urgent whisper. “Find de Lornay and Waroch. If they are wounded, have them brought back as soon as can be arranged.”

  I know full well they are all dead by now, bleeding from a hundred different cuts, but I say, “I will do as you command, Your Grace, with all my heart.”

  I lean in low over the saddle and urge my horse to go faster. Every moment that those I love must suffer, languishing above their wounded, broken bodies, is a sacrilege to me. For I have realized that I love not only Duval, but also Beast and de Lornay, each of them in a different way. I do not think on how I will reach them or how I will dodge any enemy that still lingers on the field. I know only that I will do so with my last breath if necessary.

  When I break free of the trees beyond the ridge, I am surprised by the silence. There is no sound of battle, no clashing swords, no screaming horses. It is completely, eerily quiet. I pull back on the reins so the horse will not take the ridge in one bone-jarring leap, and he stumbles to a halt.

  D’Albret’s fighting force has already withdrawn back behind the city gates. Once they saw their trap was ruined, they retreated. Only bodies remain on the field. I climb off my horse and tie him to a tree. My hand moves to the misericorde at my waist as I go the rest of the way on foot, gripping Mortain’s own dagger firmly.

  I wade among a sea of shattered limbs and bleeding wounds. I try not to let my gaze linger too long, for it hurts. Even though half of them have betrayed their country, in death they are naught but dying men, their lives leaching out of them to water the grass. I am surprised to learn that I have not left all of my heart back in Guérande, and I am not strong enough to steel the small remaining piece of it to their plight.

  Or their cries. Soft, pitiable cries float over the sea of the fallen. I wrap my cloak around myself, wishing for wax to stop up my ears so I won’t have to hear the quiet, broken noises they make. I scan their faces, bruised and bloodied, grimacing with the rictus of death. As I draw closer to the walls of Nantes, there are a few men that I recognize as our own, and none of those still alive. Until there, finally, a familiar face.

  I lift my skirts and run to de Lornay. He lies on the ground, his body scored with cuts. Two arrows stick out from his ribs. I fear he is already dead, until I draw close enough to hear his labored breathing.

  I fall to my knees in the blood-soaked mud. “De Lornay?”

  At the sound of my voice, his eyes flutter open. A look of awe fills them when he sees it is me. “Ismae?” he croaks.

  I grab his hand. “I am here.”

  “Did she get away?”

  “Yes, my lord. She is safe with Captain Dunois and two hundred men from Rennes.”

  He closes his eyes and I can feel the shudder of relief that goes through him.

  “Have you seen Beast?” I ask.

  He starts to shake his head, but stops as a fit of coughing overtakes him. Blood oozes up between his lips. “He was taken. Set a dozen men on him.” He stops to catch his breath. When he speaks again, it is fainter. “Cut him down and dragged him back to the city.”

  Bile rises in my throat to think of the Beast of Waroch dragged through the dirt to be strung up on the city walls like a common traitor.

  “I am sorry,” he whispers. “I am sorry I treated you so ill. I thought only to protect Duval.”

  “It was not I who was poisoning him,” I say.

  “No, but you had stolen his heart and I was afraid you would rip it from his chest when you left.”

  Every ill feeling I have ever felt for this man flees, and I am filled with sorrow. Sorrow that I am only now learning his true nature. Sorrow that we did not bridge this gap earlier. Sorrow that we did not let ourselves become friends.

  “I would ask your forgiveness, Ismae, so I will have one less sin to linger over.”

  “You have it, my lord.” And he does. I hope his heart i
s lighter for it.

  “Good.” His mouth twitches in an attempt to smile. “Then I would also ask a favor of you.”

  “Ask and it is yours.”

  “Kill me.”

  The stark request drives the air from my lungs. “Please,” he begs. “I would rather not linger here for a day while the crows pick at my guts.”

  I look down and see that his other hand—the one I am not holding—is clutching his stomach together.

  “It does not need to be a coup de grâce. Any killing blow will do.”

  “No, my lord,” I say.

  Hope leaves his face. “It was too much to ask.”

  I lift my finger to his lips and hold them still. “That is not what I meant. A hero such as yourself deserves the misericorde, and all our thanks besides. I know the duchess would wish it as well.”

  He smiles weakly and squeezes my hand, but it is a feeble grip.

  Unwilling to watch him suffer any longer, I take the misericorde from my waist. I bend over and press my lips to his bruised and bloodied cheek, a kiss as gentle as a mother gives her child, then put the tip of the misericorde to his neck.

  His soul bursts from his body, a joyous exultation as it rushes past me and I feel as if I am awash in holy light. The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.

  I stand and survey all the fallen around me. I know what I must do.

  I move to the closest fallen soldier next to de Lornay’s now empty body. I bend over and put the tip of the misericorde to his shoulder. In a rush of grace and gratitude, his spirit leaves his body. Once again I feel the touch of that holy light. “Peace,” I whisper as his soul departs.

  I go on to the next, and then the next. As I move through the fallen, I notice something: they each bear a marque. And Death has found them even without my aid.

  It is not until I have released the last soul from the battlefield that I see a tall, dark figure standing under the nearby trees. I try to get a better look, but the light is failing now and I cannot be sure if I truly see something or if it is just one of the lengthening shadows. But no. Something—someone—is there, and he has been watching me move from one body to the next.

  He is tall and cloaked all in black. And still. He holds so very, very still. My hand does not move to my knife, for I now recognize His presence, a light, lingering chill and the faint scent of freshly turned earth. With my heart thudding painfully in my chest, I rise to my feet, my gaze never wavering as I walk toward Death.

  “Daughter.” His voice is like the rustle of autumn leaves as they fall from dying trees.

  “Father?” I whisper, then fall on my knees and bow my head, every particle of my being trembling. I am afraid to look upon His face, fearing His wrath, His retribution for all the wrongs I have committed, from loving Duval to disobeying the convent to releasing these fallen men’s souls.

  And yet, in this copse of trees, with the shadow of Death so close, I feel neither wrath nor retribution. I feel grace. Warm and flowing like a river, it pours over me. I am awash in grace and cannot help but raise my face to it as I would to the sun. I want to laugh as it rains down on me, ripples through my limbs, cleanses them of fatigue and self-loathing. I am reborn in this grace, and suddenly, I can do anything.

  I feel Him kiss my brow, a chill weight on my forehead. In this kiss is absolution, yes, but understanding as well. Understanding that it is He that I serve, not the convent. His divine spark lives within me, a presence that will never leave. And I am but one of many tools He has at His disposal. If I cannot act—if I refuse to act—that is a choice I am allowed to make. He has given me life, and all I must do to serve Him is live. Fully and with my whole heart. With this knowledge comes a true understanding of all the gifts He has given me.

  And then I know. I know why Duval was able to rise from his deathbed long enough to send François to Rennes, and I know how to save him from the poison.

  If it is not too late.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  I gallop like the wind. It is as if Mortain has blessed my horse and lent wings to his feet. I have no idea what I will find, what further mischief Chancellor Crunard will have wrought, but even if I am mistaken about Duval, I will have the opportunity to face Crunard, and that is worth much.

  My mount may ride as if he is a winged messenger of Death, but in actuality, he is not, and I must stop for the night so that both of us may rest. I choose a clearing next to a stream within sight of a small stone cottage. I walk the horse to cool him, then let him drink from the brook.

  I try to rest as he does, but I cannot. I can hardly accept this gift I’ve been given, although I dare not question it for fear my doubts will cause it to evaporate. Instead, I focus on the sense of unending possibilities I had when in the presence of Death and hold on to that.

  In the morning, I am up with the birds and we are off again. I am a light load for my horse, accustomed as he is to long marches with heavily armed knights, so we reach Guérande in excellent time.

  I rein in just outside the city. The gates are open, and people are coming in and out. No one seems to be subjected to any extra scrutiny. Even so, I cannot bring a warhorse through the gates; that would raise unwelcome questions. In the end, I leave him with one of the cottagers who live outside the city, giving him a handful of coins to keep the horse safe for me.

  And promising him retribution if he does not.

  As we make our transaction, his wife stands in the corner of the yard where she had been taking her laundry from the line. I throw in an extra two coins and my own fine gown in exchange for the homespun dress she has hanging there.

  I slip out of my own clothes, eager to be free of the convent’s finery. As I step into the rough brown garb, something inside me shifts. I am no longer a creature of the convent but my own true self, naught but a daughter of Mortain.

  Leaving the trappings of the convent behind, I depart from the cottage on foot dressed as the peasant I am. I keep only the weapons.

  The guards at the gate hardly glance at me as I pass into the city. These are not guards I have seen before, but as I have passed through the gates only a handful of times, that means nothing. They do seem to be paying closer attention to those who are leaving rather than to those who enter.

  My heart races as I move through the city. I long to break into a run and hurry to Duval’s side, but that would draw far too much notice. Instead, I force myself to walk sedately and keep my head down, as a modest serving woman would. But it is hard. So hard.

  I approach the palace from the back, where the kitchen deliveries are made. I pause long enough to grab a basket of cabbages from a wagon and then carry it inside. No one pays me any heed—truly all my actions seem god-touched—and I slip into the palace unobserved.

  It is a long, tense walk from the west wing to the north tower, where my old chamber is, but that is the only entrance to the hidden tunnels that I know.

  I keep my head down as I move through the hallway, but even so I can see much has changed. The pages stand at rigid attention, no longer cheerful and good-natured. The servants hurry on their business, all of them with glum countenances.

  I am filled with relief when I finally reach Duval’s apartments, especially when I see they are deserted. There are no servants, no Duval, nothing.

  I let myself into the main chamber, then quickly cross to my own room. Once inside, I shut the heavy door and bolt it.

  My bed is empty but messed, as if it has not been made since the day I left for Nantes. There are candles but no fire in the hearth from which to light them. I waste precious minutes setting flint to tinder so I can have some light in the dark corridors beyond. My hands are trembling so badly that it takes five tries before the tinder catches. When at last a small fire burns in the grate, I light a candle, then head for the wall near the fireplace.

  I stare at it, wishing I had
thought to ask Beast how he got it to work. I poke at the bricks one at a time until one gives way, just a little bit, but enough to release the spring that holds the stone door so tightly shut. I put my shoulder to the revealed door and push. It gives perhaps an inch. Grunting, I push again, bracing my feet on the floor and throwing my whole body into it until it finally moves enough for me to slip through.

  I am not sure where to begin my search, for if Duval was up and walking, he could be anywhere. He could even, I realize, be gone from here. Although if Crunard had caught him, surely I would have seen his head on a pike at the city wall.

  The thought has my heart plummeting like a stone, and I push away from the door and cast out my senses, searching for Death, afraid I will find it. When I do not, I allow myself to draw my first deep breath since reaching my chamber. Thus encouraged, I begin winding my way to the spot where de Lornay and Beast found Duval the first time we came here. A sharp lance of pain bites through me as I think of those two, but I push it aside. Saving Duval is my goal now.

  I get lost twice, then finally the feeble light from my candle shows a corner of a blanket. Afraid to hope, but unable to stop myself, I drop to my knees beside him. He still breathes, but it is a shallow, labored breathing. I feel the beat of his pulse. It is thin and going faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “My lord,” I whisper.

  His head turns toward my voice and his eyelids flutter weakly.

  Not too late, not too late beats in my breast and pounds through my veins. I do not know if it is a prayer or a plea or a demand.

  I put my hands on the sides of his face, savoring the rough scratch of his whiskers. I lean down and place my lips on his and kiss him.

  His lips are dry and cracked, but I do not care. I can taste the poison. I cover his mouth with my own, deepening the kiss, kissing him as Beast kissed me—thoroughly, wantonly, as if I am gulping the finest wine from a silver goblet. My heart soars when I feel him stir beneath me.

  Then he opens his mouth and our tongues meet, a shocking sensation as I allow him in. My hands upon his cheeks grow numb, as do my lips. I kiss him and kiss him, wanting to draw every drop of poison from his body into mine. When his eyes finally open and he murmurs my name against my lips, I laugh, and the exhilaration I feel spills from my mouth into his. Needing to look at him, to see his face, I pull back—but not too far.