Grave Mercy
Page 33

“It is worse even than that,” the duchess says, following Duval’s pacing with worried eyes. “They flayed Gavriel with their lying, twisted tongues, and blamed him for Nemours’s death.”
"What?”
Duval drops his head and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “They said it was my fault for having kept Nemours a secret, for not having assigned a larger body of guards to him.”
“Did you point out that Nemours was perfectly safe until they learned of his existence?”
“Oh, yes, and you can imagine how well that went over. Marshal Rieux nearly flew across the table to strike me, and would have if Crunard had not held him back.”
we are all silent as we consider the full magnitude of this disaster. when the duchess finally speaks, her voice is laced with desperation. “Surely there is something we can do.”
“Oh, there is much we can do,” Duval says grimly. “But each action will have a cost. we can begin negotiating with the Holy Roman emperor now, the Privy Council be damned, but it will turn them more firmly against me. we can send a letter to the ecclesiastical council pointing out that the agreement was made without your consent and you had no idea what you were signing.”
Anne halts her pacing and whirls around to face Duval, determination writ plainly on her face. “Yes!” she says. “Yes to both of those things.”
“The rest of the Privy Council will not be pleased. They already think that you and I collude too much and that I am overstepping my station. They may follow through on their threat to bar me from your meetings.”
The duchess lifts her chin. “Then I will consult with you in private.”
Duval hides a smile. “Very well. I will arrange a preliminary meeting with the Holy Roman emperor’s envoy tomorrow, and if you will show me where you keep quill and ink, we shall draft your letter to the ecclesiastical council. D’Albret shall not have you. Not while I still draw breath.”
A chill scuttles across my shoulders just then, and I wish Duval had not made such a vow. It is never wise to taunt the gods.
Chapter Thirty-five
I am scheduled to attend the duchess this morning, but when I arrive at the solar, Madame Dinan will not let me in. She informs me that Isabeau took a turn for the worse during the night, and Anne is with her. Her refusal to allow me access is sharp and pointed and intended to make clear to me that I am not welcome. ever.
The old familiar shame nearly chokes me as I return to my chamber. Duval is off meeting with the envoy, so I cannot vent my anger and frustration to him. Instead, I spend the morning tending to my weapons: oiling and sharpening the blades, replacing the poisoned pearls on my golden hairnet, generally making ready for whatever comes. My healing shoulder itches fiercely. Perhaps that is the cause of this sense of restlessness that plagues me. I feel as if we are on a vessel moving inexorably toward some unseen destination. There is no one steering or tending the sails; only the dark tides and currents carry us to their preordained destination. It is not a pleasant feeling and there is little I can do to prepare myself.
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 ladies 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.