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

by Robin LaFevers

  His eyes are clouded with desire and joy. His skin already seems less pale to me. He reaches up and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “I did not expect to find you here,” he says.

  It takes me a full minute to realize that here does not mean Guérande but that he thinks he has traveled into the realm of Death. “You are alive, my lord.” I cannot help it. I laugh with triumph as I say the words.

  He frowns, then tries to sit up as he remembers. “The duchess is safe,” I tell him. “She is safe and well guarded by half the garrison from Rennes. You did it, my lord. François reached us in time. You saved her.”

  He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. “Then I may die in peace.”

  “You are not dying. You were, but no longer.” At his puzzled look, I lean down once again. “I will save you,” I whisper against his lips.

  As I slip out of the rough, dark gown, I realize I have only the vaguest idea of how a woman lies with a man. Even so, I cast my shift aside and gently push Duval back down—it takes no effort at all. Slowly, I lower my body onto his so that every part of us is touching. My head rests on his chest and my feet lie atop his shins. He is warm, too warm, and everywhere his skin flinches and trembles. My hand goes to the scars on his chest, the one just over his heart. I place my hand there, savoring the stronger, steadier beat.

  I know he is growing stronger when he is able to pull me closer.

  His hands roam over my back, tracing my scar. I start to pull away, then realize I do not care. As his arms gain strength, his fingers travel in delicious trails along my back. Everywhere my skin touches his, it flutters and tingles, but whether it is from the poison moving from his body to mine or simply my own response to Duval, I do not know.

  Sometime later, I am the first to stir. I lay there, savoring the slow, steady beat of his heart as it thumps against my chest. When I open my eyes, I see his skin no longer has the gray pallor that heralds death. I feel damp, as if I have walked through a heavy mist. Small beads of the now harmless poison coat my skin like sweat. Just like a bezoar stone, I have neutralized its deadly effects.

  As the fog of our lying passes, it clears the way for thoughts other than Duval. I sit up. “Isabeau!” Panic jolts through me, but Duval’s hand clamps on my waist and pulls me back.

  “She is safe,” he murmurs.

  I stare down at him. “How can you know? I believe Crunard—”

  He lifts his fingers to my lips, quieting me. “She is gone from here.”

  My heart lurches. “You mean she is dead?”

  He laughs and gives a rueful shake of his head. “No, dear assassin. She was spirited out of the palace while Crunard slept.”

  I push out of his arms and sit up. “How? How did you manage this?”

  He folds his hands behind his head and looks up at me. “The morning you left, I woke feeling better. I knew Crunard must be planning a trap and that I had little time before he sprung it. I went to François and ordered him to fetch the garrison from Rennes and bring them to Anne at Nantes.”

  “He did it, my lord. He reached us at the very hour of our need.”

  Duval smiles. “Good,” he says. “It is good to have him as an ally again. The next greatest need was to get Isabeau to safety.” His face grows serious. “She is not well, not well at all.”

  “You do not need to tell me.” Our eyes meet.

  “Does Anne know?”

  “Not the full severity of it, I do not think.”

  He sighs and scrubs his face with his hand. “To get her to safety, I employed the talents of the loyal Louyse, who would lay down her life for one of the duke’s children, and my lady mother, who owed her life to your mercy and her newly sworn oath. It took a while to convince my mother that swearing fealty to Anne also meant endangering her life for Isabeau, but once she saw how frail the girl was and learned how Crunard had set her up, she was only too willing to ruin his latest plans.”

  “So you snuck them out through the tunnels?”

  “Exactly.” His smile is smug, and rightfully so.

  “And then what?” I ask, lightly punching his shoulder. “Did you secure the entire duchy while I thought you lay dying?”

  “No,” he says, growing serious. “Crunard is still out there.”

  “What is his aim, can you guess?”

  “I do not know. But I plan to find out.” Our eyes meet again, and this time our own warm feelings give way before our desire to make Crunard pay. “But first, tell me of your news. What miracle have you wrought that you have saved me from this poison?”

  “It is one of my gifts from Mortain.” I grimace. “One the convent either does not know about or chose not to tell me of.”

  “And what of Beast and de Lornay?” he asks. The careful note in his voice indicates he expects the worst. I tell him of our battle before Rennes, of the falling of de Lornay and the taking of Beast. During the telling, his grief mounts and grows until it threatens to swallow us both. And then his mouth sets in a hard line. “I must get up.”

  When he rises to his feet, I am pleased to see that he does not sway, but he is not as steady as he once was. His body will need time to fully heal. “You cannot mean to storm into Crunard’s chambers and challenge him to combat,” I say.

  “I cannot?”

  “You are only just able to keep on your feet.”

  “Even so, I will face him, for I am sick of hiding in the dark while he destroys all that we have fought for.”

  We are silent as we make our way back through the tunnels to my chamber, both of us consumed by our own thoughts, for Crunard has cost each of us much. Even though he is still weak, Duval leads the way, for he is more familiar with these tunnels than I. Once again, I marvel at how he has stood it all this time, for the close stone walls press down on me, stealing my breath and making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  At last I see a sliver of light ahead and I quicken my pace, nearly treading on Duval’s heels. He grunts, then stumbles forward. When he reaches the doorway, he freezes, then puts out his arm and shoves me back into the tunnel. “Crunard,” he says loudly, and every nerve in my body comes alert.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  “Ah, you are still alive. I thought as much. It was the only explanation that made sense.”

  Careful to stay well out of sight, I press my back against the stone wall, heart hammering in my chest as the chancellor’s cold, hard voice fills my ears.

  “Come in, come in, don’t hover at the door.” At first I think he is talking to me, then I see Duval move away from the tunnel and step into the room. “Besides, you and I have a game of chess we must finish,” he says coyly, and that’s when I know.

  I know precisely where Duval picked up Arduinna’s snare. I want to bang my head against the wall in frustration.

  “Is that what we have been doing, Crunard? Playing a game of chess? If so, I will confess that I did not realize it was you I was playing against, not until Ismae voiced her suspicions.” Duval sounds strong and steady, and I do not know if this is because he has fully recovered or because he is simply determined not to show weakness in front of Crunard.

  “The girl figured it out before you, did she? That must sting, but the convent is not known for raising fools.”

  “She also did not have a lifetime of memories and family loyalties to cloud her vision. I defended you against her accusations.” Duval’s voice shakes now, but with the pain of Crunard’s duplicity rather than weakness. “I told her that one of our country’s greatest heroes and my father’s closest ally would never betray my sister in such a way.”

  Crunard says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is so quiet I must inch closer in order to catch every word.

  “Four sons, Gavriel. I have lost four sons to this never-ending war with the French. And for what? So they can turn around and invade our borders once again? In the end, do you really think it matters to the people who rules over them? Do you really think maintaining Britta
ny’s independence is more important to their lives and prosperity than ending the constant war?”

  “How can you ignore everything we’ve fought for for the last twenty years? How can you dishonor your own sons’ memories this way?”

  “You may not speak to me of my sons,” Crunard says, his voice tight with fury. “Not when you have lived and they have died.” He grows quiet, and when he speaks again, he is calmer. “I do not expect you to understand how hard it is to watch your own sons die, struck down in battle for a cause that pales when it is set next to what you have lost. Even more, I do not expect you to understand what it is like to learn that one of those sons still lives—”

  “Anton?” There is joy in Duval’s voice, and I remember that the chancellor’s youngest son and Duval were of an age. They were likely friends.

  “Anton,” Crunard says. “I saw him struck down on the battlefield of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier. So you cannot begin to imagine my joy when I received word that he still lived. All I had to do was deliver Anne into the hands of the French regent— something that was clearly inevitable—and my son would be returned to me.”

  Suddenly everything is clear. Every move Crunard has made, every person he has betrayed—all of it was done in the hope of ransoming his son.

  “So you thought to trade my sister’s life for your son’s?”

  “It seemed a fair exchange, since if it weren’t for the blood of my sons spilled on the battlefield, none of this would be hers. Besides, I wasn’t trading her life, merely her duchy. They are quite different things.

  “At first it was easy. I worked quietly behind the scenes, gently bending the tides of war to France’s favor without harming a soul, and then you stepped in. You and your damned strategies and tactics and pigheaded stubbornness. If you had been content to let things happen, none of this would have come to pass. But you were not. You were determined to single-handedly deliver an independent duchy to your sister along with the means to keep it. You can be certain I did not value your life above my son’s, so you gave me no choice but to remove you. Now, sit down so we may finish this game.”

  “Do you always play chess with a loaded crossbow in your lap?” Duval asks, and at last I understand why he shoved me back into the tunnel.

  “Only with particularly challenging opponents,” Crunard replies.

  But that is easily enough fixed. I take my own crossbow from the chain at my waist. It may be smaller than Crunard’s, but it is just as deadly. I fit a bolt to it, and move silently toward the door.

  “You shall move first, I think,” Crunard tells Duval.

  “No!” I shout, stepping into the room and aiming the crossbow at Crunard’s forehead. “That is how he was poisoning you, by coating the chess pieces with Arduinna’s snare.”

  “Demoiselle Rienne, I hardly recognized you in your new gown. Whatever can the convent have been thinking, sending you out in such garb? Or have you thrown away your future with them for Duval here?” Even though his voice is dry and mocking, his face pales and his eyes grow wary.

  As I stare at him, my anger at all this man has stolen from me rises up, nearly choking me. His treachery has tainted the purity of the convent and dragged us into his worldly struggles. He has used me—and the abbess as well—as pawns in these games he plays. He has nearly killed Duval and has come close to preventing Anne from claiming her throne. And while I have sympathy for his son, that sympathy does not come at the cost of everything I hold dear.

  But even as I stare at him with death in my heart, I falter. Now that I have come face to face with His mercy, I see it in everything. For while Crunard has wronged many, the seeds of his treachery lie in his love for his son.

  Killing him now would bring one sort of justice, but it would also spring from the anger in my heart. And when I moved through the battlefield, I swore to myself that I would have nothing more to do with vengeance.

  Filled with equal parts wonder and disgust, I realize I cannot kill this wily old fox, no matter how much he might deserve it.

  I huff out a sigh of frustration, drop the arm holding the crossbow, then swing out and clout him alongside the head with it. His eyes have just enough time to register surprise before they roll up in his head and he slumps in his chair.

  Duval turns to look at me, his eyes unreadable. “Did your god guide your hand in that?”

  “No,” I say, looking down at Crunard’s inert body. “That was my own idea. Did you have a better one?”

  “Other than wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing the life out of him, no.”

  There is a long moment during which I feel him watching me, so I am careful not to meet his eyes. “That option crossed my mind as well, but we need him alive so that we may clear your name with the rest of the council,” I say, but I do not think he is fooled by my excuses.

  I would curse at him for seeing too much, except I am too pleased he is alive to see at all.

  It is two days’ ride to Rennes, but due to Duval’s weakened state, it takes us three.

  I do not begrudge the slower pace. In truth, it is the first time we have been alone with only ourselves and our own pleasure to consider. Once we are away from Guérande, the mists lift, and the days are cold yet bright. Mortain’s summer, we call it, and I feel certain it is a gift from the god Himself.

  The cold fresh air chases the last vestiges of the poison from Duval’s lungs, and his health improves quickly. We talk and laugh as we ride. Indeed, I have never laughed as much as this. Duval points out his father’s holdings to me, and I stop and give thanks at every standing stone we pass.

  The nights are our own. We sit in front of the fire Duval has built, our bodies touching from hip to shoulder, and share wine from a skin and roasted meat from a spit. We talk of small things, private things. It is a sweet, glorious time and I know it will be over far too soon.

  On our last night on the road, Duval is more quiet than usual. He has pulled a ribbon from my hair and sits playing with it in his hand. “What is wrong?” I finally ask.

  He looks at me, his dark eyes reflecting the flames of the fire. “We have decisions to make when we arrive in Rennes.”

  I look away, unhappy that the real world will intrude on this last night. “I know.” I pick up a nearby stick and poke at the fire.

  “Ismae, I would offer you marriage if you would have it.”

  My whole body stills, shocked at the honor he would do me, an honor I never dared to imagine.

  He smiles. “I think that Saint Camulos and Saint Mortain could easily come to terms. They work hand in hand often enough in the mortal world.”

  I cannot help but smile, for it is such a practical Duval-like thing to say. “Perhaps, my lord. War and Death are known to be closely aligned. But I must speak with my abbess first.” There are still so many unanswered questions about the convent and my service to it.

  “Do you plan to remain with the convent then?”

  “I do not know yet. All I know is that if I do, it will be different, especially now that I know can no longer trust the integrity of their orders.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  We catch up to the duchess and the others just outside the walls of Rennes at the old abbey of Saint Brigantia. Isabeau is already there, spirited out by Madame Hivern and the faithful Louyse. When Anne and Isabeau see their brother, they give cries of joy and launch themselves at him. For one brief moment, they are not princess and duchess and bastard but a family reunited.

  I am surprised to find myself enfolded in Louyse’s sturdy arms as she hugs me to her bosom, relieved to see me unharmed. Not knowing quite what to do with such affection, I pat her awkwardly on the back.

  The sisters of Brigantia give us a few moments to enjoy our reunion, then escort us to the rooms that they have prepared for us. They assume, rightly, that we need to rest and refresh ourselves after our journey. In truth, I am travel weary and already mourning the loss of the private time Duval and I shared on the road. A novice opens th
e door for me, then quietly withdraws. Alone at last, I close my eyes and sag against the thick wooden door.

  A faint rustle of fabric startles my eyes open. The abbess of St. Mortain sits in a chair by the fireplace, dressed in her black ceremonial habit. Her pale face gives away nothing of her thoughts.

  Fear and regret and remorse shoot through me, ugly, shameful feelings that have me falling to my knees. “Reverend Mother!” I say, my wits leaving me as my forehead touches the cold, hard floor.

  “Daughter.” Her voice is icy, and my mind grows blank with panic. I had thought there would be time to think upon all I must say to her. And that I would do it in a letter, which she would read while tucked behind the convent’s sturdy walls, not sitting before me like retribution incarnate.

  There is a rustle of parchment. I peer up beneath my lashes to see her spreading a message out on her lap. My message to her. “It seems we have much to talk about.”

  “Yes, Holy Mother. We do.” I am pleased that my voice does not shake overmuch.

  And then I remember my resolve and rise to my feet even though she has not invited me to. I take a moment to straighten my skirt and compose my features, then meet her gaze steadily. “Chancellor Crunard has betrayed us all.”

  Her face is still as marble. “Explain.”

  And so I do. I tell her of his stealth and cunning and how he hovered in the background maneuvering people as if they were pawns and destroying lives. When I am done, I cannot tell if she believes me or not. At last she speaks. “If this is indeed true, Chancellor Crunard will have much to answer for.”

  I nod, accepting that what I have told her must come as a great shock. “He is secure in the dungeons at Guérande, awaiting whatever justice the duchess and her council choose to mete out.” I grip my hands tightly in front of me. “There is something else, Reverend Mother. Something I must warn you of.” She raises her brows, but does not interrupt, so I continue. “I have come to believe that the marques Mortain uses to guide our hands are much more complex than we thought. I fear they are not always meant to direct our actions but are rather a reflection of what will happen—”