Grave Mercy

Because I am a coward, that is why.



But surely Crunard is correct in where my duties lie, and the abbess would want me to create every opportunity to determine if d’Albret bears a marque anywhere on his body.



A strike to the head is not the only way to kill a man.



* * *



Unwilling to face her fractious barons that evening, the duchess decides to dine in her chambers with her sister. I cannot help but wonder if it is also to hide the smile she now wears. Truly, she and Nemours are well matched, and his suit is a gift from both God and the saints. even better, if there is no formal court tonight, it will be easier for me to go in search of some answers.



My brief meeting with Chancellor Crunard and an afternoon of prayer have convinced me that I have made a grave error in assuming Mortain would marque d’Albret in plain sight. As the abbess is so fond of reminding me, that is not how our saint works. Indeed, the man may well have been marqued for days — someplace where I cannot see it.



I glance around the dim hallway, trying to get my bearings in the east wing of the castle, the section assigned to d’Albret. A pair of doors stand wide open. Raised voices and laughter spill out into the hall along with the candlelight. The laughter has an unpleasant edge to it, a faint tinge of cruelty that makes my heart beat faster and my hands long to reach for the knives at my wrists. Instead, I force them down to my sides, where they grip the heavy velvet of my gown.



I have given much thought as to how I will extricate myself should d’Albret not bear a marque but have yet to come up with a satisfactory plan. I would like to believe I can just turn and walk away, but I fear it will not be that easy. The boys in the village had ugly names and taunts for girls who promised kisses but never delivered them. even so, I take a deep breath and slip silently into the chamber.



The room is full of noblemen and their retainers, and half the nobles sprawl in chairs drinking wine. D’Albret himself sits in the middle, arrogance apparent in every line of his body, from the way he lounges in his chair to the disdainful gaze with which he surveys the room.



Even as anticipation surges through me, my mind whirs. I know I cannot just glide up to him and ask that he unlace his doublet so that I might peer at his chest. Once again I curse my awkward, graceless nature. Sybella and even Annith would know what to do.



And then it comes to me. I have only to pretend I am Sybella. She would find an excuse to approach her target, then she would wrap her delicate web of seduction around him. I glance at the room, pleased when I spy a half-full flagon of wine on one of the chests. I pick it up and make my way toward d’Albret.



Feeling more sure of myself now, I slip around the knot of men so that I can approach d’Albret from behind. The fact that he and his men have eyes only for their own magnificence makes this easier than it should be. I take a deep breath and remember Sybella’s throaty laugh, the way her lip curls delicately so that you cannot be certain who she is laughing at, the tilt of her head and the slant of her eyes as she peers at you, trying to decide if you are worth her efforts.



At my approach, the man on d’Albret’s left looks up. Having been spotted, I can delay no longer. even though my fingers are desperate to pull away, I force them to rest lightly on d’Albret’s shoulder. He smells of wine and sweat and the braised venison he had for dinner. I curl my lip in a knowing smile and lower my voice. “My lord,” I purr. “May I refill your wine cup?”



He lifts his head and somehow manages to look down his haughty nose at me even though I stand over him. He holds up his goblet, and his eyes narrow in recognition. “Ah, what do we have here?”



As I pour his wine — slowly — my eyes inspect every inch of exposed flesh, looking for the faintest hint of Mortain’s dark shadow. There is none. Merde. That means I must take this even farther. when his goblet is full, I clutch the flagon to my chest and cast my eyes downward. “It is just as you said, my lord. I fear I am left alone far more than I would like.” I glance up from under my lashes in time to see a triumphant smile spread across his thick lips. My heart skips a beat and I look down once more so he will not see how badly I wish to strike that smile from his face.



“Leave us,” he tells the others abruptly. There is a moment of surprised silence, then, with knowing winks and a bold comment or two, the other men file out of the chamber. The last one to leave shuts the door behind him.



I can feel d’Albret’s eyes on me, as cold and hard as winter hail. “Now it is just us, demoiselle.”



I carefully set the flagon down, and my mind scrambles for the best way to get him out of his shirt and doublet as quickly as possible. However, before I can say anything, d’Albret rises to his feet and reaches for me. As his thick, coarse hand clamps down on my arm, I am nearly overcome with fear and loathing.



“Jumpy, demoiselle?” His voice is mocking.



As I start to answer, the door behind me bursts open. D’Albret’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow. Before I can turn around, there is an iron grip on my other arm.



It is Duval, tight-lipped and glaring at me, and I am ashamed at how glad I am to see him, how relieved I am to be kept from completing this task I have set for myself.



The count’s expression shifts when he sees who it is. "Eh, Duval? Have you lost something?” I do not know why d’Albret’s good humor returns. Does he take that much pleasure in taunting Duval? “Perhaps we can make a little trade, you and I,” d’Albret says, letting go of my arm. “I will return your mistress to you if you will give me your sister.”



“They are not horses to be traded at the fair,” Duval growls. “No? Is that not a woman’s role, to act as broodmare to a sire?”



The pulse in Duval’s jaw beats fiercely. "We must agree to disagree on that point.” He gives a curt, shallow nod, then drags me from the room. I feel d’Albret’s chilling gaze at our backs until we are well clear of him.



Out in the hallway, Duval releases me with a little shove. “Sweet Jesu, do not poison him so openly! Has the convent not taught you any better than that? why not just create a trail of blood leading to my door?”



I glare back. “I was not poisoning him.”



All the color drains from Duval’s face. "What were you planning then?”



when I do not reply, he reaches out and shakes me. “Have you heard nothing I’ve told you about Count d’Albret?” His voice is low and urgent and tinged with fear. Fear for me.



Suddenly it is all too much. His concern, my relief at being found. Frustration and impotence boil up inside me. I reach out and push Duval — hard — so that he stumbles back.



“This is my job, my calling. It is why I am here. My duty is to my god, not to you and your political maneuverings. I am here to do His will, not yours.” I turn away from him. My frustration is so great, I am afraid hot angry tears will spill from my eyes, and I will not let Duval see that.



when he speaks, his voice is filled with certainty, and I so envy him that certainty that I want to hit him all over again. "Whatever it is your saint demands of you, I am certain it is not what would have happened in that room.”



I glance back at him. "What do you know of gods and saints?” I ask, filling my voice with scorn.



His fingers drift to the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos on his cloak. “I know that what our saints want is not always made clear to us. Sometimes, it is their wish for us to flail and struggle and come to our own choices, not accept ones that have been made for us.”



easily enough said by one who forsook his own vows.



"Everything I know of the saints and old gods,” he continues, “is that they and Brittany are one. Anything that serves our kingdom, and by extension our quest to remain independent of France, serves them.”



I am sorely tempted to throw his forsaking of his saint in his face, but something stops me. Instead, I spin on my heel and begin making my way toward the main door of the castle.



Outside, the night is cool, but the moon is full, casting a bright, silvery light on the streets of Guérande. we walk in angry silence, using back ways and alleys, both of us clinging to the shadows, our dark cloaks rendering us nearly invisible. Small tendrils of mist have begun to creep in from the sea, bringing with them the moist tang of the nearby salt marshes.



when we have nearly reached his residence, Duval speaks. “The duchess is well pleased with Nemours’s offer.” His voice is wooden, formal. "We will put the proposal before the Privy Council in a few days to gain their approval.”



And though I have vowed never to speak to him again, I am surprised into looking up. “Is that wise? I thought secrecy was of utmost importance.”



He grimaces in frustration. "We do not have much choice. She has not yet been crowned duchess, so she does not yet have the ability to act on her own behalf. we must have the Privy Council’s signatures on any agreement we enter into. After that, we will move quickly to maintain the element of surprise.”



when we reach his residence he takes us through the front door, merely nodding at the surprised man-at-arms. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs and motions for me to go on ahead. “I think we have shared each other’s company enough for one night. Besides, I have much to prepare for tomorrow’s council meeting.”



I am all too happy to bid him good night. when I reach my room, I do not undress but instead go to the window and kneel in the puddle of moonlight spilling onto the floor.



I pray to Mortain for the insight and clarity to see my way through the thicket of loyalties and alliances that surround me. I pray for the wisdom to discern His will in this matter. And most of all, I pray that I am not falling in love with Duval.



I do not know why I am drawn to him. He is not as pretty as de Lornay or as easy to be with as Beast. His brother has more charming manners, and yet . . .



It is Duval who sets my heart to racing, who addles my wits, who makes me short of breath. For even when he is angry, he is kind, and not the mere surface kindness of good manners, but a true caring. Or at least, the appearance of true caring, for I am well aware it could all be an act. An act designed to earn my trust. And just like some poor, dumb rabbit, I have stumbled into his snare.



Chapter Twenty-eight



It does not take but three days for the duchess and Nemours to fall in love, and who could blame them? Nemours is young and handsome and kind, but there is a depth to him as well, for he has known sorrow, just as our duchess has. It does not hurt that he has come to rescue her, nor that she is a true damsel in distress, surrounded as she is by fire-breathing barons. It is as romantic as any troubadour’s tale.



But she does not let this go to her head. During these three days, she and Duval hammer out the most favorable betrothal terms possible. If they can present a strong, solid contract for marriage to the Privy Council, it will be all the harder for her councilors to refuse.



Everyone is in an uproar over d’Albret’s threat of war. There are meetings upon meetings as the council and barons discuss how best to address this newest menace. Meetings the duchess begs off from now and then, pleading a headache. Her ambitious guardians are all too happy to have her out of the way while they plot and plan her duchy’s future.



The Privy Council meets in the duchess’s private chamber, away from the prying eyes and straining ears of the court. Two men-at-arms stand at the door to her rooms. However, no matter how well trained they are, they cannot see around corners, and there is an antechamber that abuts the solar that could easily be used to eavesdrop.



Duval has put me in this room to act as secondary guard. But there is no rule that says I cannot guard and listen at the same time.



This wall is every bit as thick as the last one I tried to listen through, so I head directly for the window and perch myself on the sill. The murmur of voices is stronger here, although I will be hard-pressed to explain why I am embroidering while hanging out the window if someone should happen upon me. even so, I know the abbess will want a full report on the deliberations.



Chancellor Crunard’s deep rumble calls the meeting to order. Someone wants to know why this unexpected meeting has been called, and by the way his voice sets my teeth on edge, I am sure it is Marshal Rieux.



“I have called this meeting.” Anne’s voice is easy to discern. “But I will let my lord Duval explain the why of it.” when Duval finishes telling of the Nemours offer, there is a small uproar from the council members.



“How has this happened?” Madame Dinan asks, as if it is a disaster and not a boon. “There has been no envoy from Nemours.”



“No open one, no,” Duval says. His words cause another wave of outrage from the council.



"Why did Nemours come to you?” Marshal Rieux asks, his vanity and pomposity sorely pricked by this breach in protocol. “You are not regent here; stop acting like one. Or is that what you are angling for?”



“If he wanted to seize a regency, I doubt he would be putting this before all of us,” Captain Dunois points out.



"Enough,” Chancellor Crunard says, and they all quiet down. “This is good news for our duchess and our country, let us not forget that. How much aid will Nemours bring?”



“Three thousand men-at-arms and fifteen hundred pikemen.”



There is a long, painful silence. “Surely you jest,” Marshal Rieux says at last.



“That is not nearly as many as d’Albret has offered,” Madame Dinan points out.



“Madame.” There is a faint tremble in Anne’s voice. “As I have said more times than I can count, I will not wed him. His is more than fifty years old and a grandfather.” She does not say that he is ugly and coarse and makes her skin feel as if it wants to crawl off her bones, but I know that is so.