Mortal Heart

The faint rasp of his whiskers. The silky spot of skin my fingers find, just below his ear. His hands, sure and strong, caressing my waist, moving up along my rib cage and then down again to my hip, as if he would memorize the shape of me.



The feel of his heart echoing mine as they both beat too fast.



I step back—just a bit—to give myself room to finish unlacing my gown. I meet his eyes and am thrilled to see no sign of bleakness or despair or grim duty there. They are warm and glowing like sun-warmed stones, and the heat in them causes my heart to race faster and my fingers to falter.



“Here,” he whispers. “Let me.”



And I do.



Afterward, as I lie in his arms, savoring the feel of them around me, savoring the feel of his heart hammering under my hand where it lies upon his chest, I realize that I cannot even pretend our time together was enough. I am more drawn to him than ever, drawn to this meeting of not just our bodies and hearts, but our souls. It is an intimacy that I have hungered for my entire life yet have never been able to name. If I think this is all I will ever have of him, I fear I will weep.



I saw hope in his eyes, and an easing of his bleakness, just as I felt hope in my own heart and no longer felt alone. I promise myself that this is just the beginning. Now that I have no obligation to the convent or the abbess, I can begin to shape the future I want for myself.



Chapter Forty



AS I MAKE MY WAY to my chamber, I send out a silent plea to let it be empty. Please let Sybella be visiting her sisters and Ismae be attending to the duchess. Or locked in some private chamber with Duval. With all that has happened in the past few hours, I am feeling far too confused and raw to explain anything to anyone, even my dearest friends.



But my prayers are not answered. When I open the door, both Ismae and Sybella are there. Sybella’s gaze sharpens as her eyes rake over me, her nostrils flaring. If anyone could detect such activity as I have just been engaged in, it would be she. But to my immense relief, she says nothing about her suspicions. “Here.” She shoves a garment at Ismae. “Go put that on.” As Ismae disappears behind the screen, Sybella pours me a cup of wine and hands it to me. I am surprised at the thoughtfulness—just one more way in which she has changed. “Thank you.”



“Are you all right?” she asks under her breath, dispelling any notion I might have had that I fooled her.



I stare at my goblet as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world. “I am fine,” I assure her, then take a gulp of wine. The room is quiet except for the sound of Ismae slipping into her gown.



When she is done changing, Ismae steps out from behind the screen and hurries toward me, a look of concern on her face. I wonder how on earth I am to tell her—tell them both—that that we are not sisters. That we do not share a father and that, indeed, I have no right to the title I have claimed all my life.



When she reaches me, she grabs my arms and squeezes. “How did it go?” she asks. “How furious was the abbess?”



I laugh. “Furious does not even begin to do her reaction justice.”



Sybella frowns. “Is she going to punish you?”



That, at least, I can answer honestly. “I do not know; she has not yet said.”



Ismae goes over to Sybella and motions for her to lace up her gown. “What will she do with Crunard?”



At her question, one of Crunard’s assertions comes back to me. “He said that before, when you were in Guérande, you had a chance to kill him and you did not. May I ask why? Was he not marqued then either?”



She glances down at her hands, then back up at me. “He was marqued. However, I had just come from a battlefield where scores were marqued for death, deaths I had no hand in, so my uncertainty of how the convent was interpreting these marques had already begun to form. And now he is no longer marqued.”



Despair fills me as the knowledge that I will never see marques settles over me. “What do you think should be done with him?” I ask Ismae. “You are more familiar with his crimes than either the abbess or I am.”



Sybella smirks. “Notice she does not ask me.”



Ismae is silent for a long moment while she puts on her shoes. “I think it should be left to the duchess’s justice. Put him on trial. Have him answer for his crimes. Then, if he is to die, have it be for those crimes he has been convicted of, not some shadow that falls across his forehead that I do not trust the convent to correctly interpret.”



Her honesty has created a safe, almost holy space around us. It is the perfect opportunity to tell her of what I have learned. I take a deep breath, meaning to do precisely that, but find I cannot bend my tongue to my will. Besides, I do not yet know what I will do with my new knowledge.



Leave the convent? Report the abbess—but to whom? The sheer enormity of this revelation and its reverberations forces me to tread cautiously.



More importantly, as I stare into their dear faces, I realize that as strong as I have been, as much as I have endured, I am not strong enough to sever this bond. If I lose that, I fear I will unravel into a pile of tattered threads. “She still has not told me all.” While it is not the whole truth, it does not feel like too great a lie. That is when I notice they are both dressed most strangely. “Why are you wearing servant gowns?”



“Do you like it?” Sybella lifts her skirt and twirls prettily, as if it is some magnificent dress that she wears and not merely sewn-together rags. “I am sneaking out with Beast tonight when he and his men patrol the city. All the various troops and mercenary factions are teeming with pent-up energy and frustration, and they have nothing to fight. Except each other.”



Ismae arches an eyebrow. “I can’t believe he agreed to let you come with him.”



Sybella flashes a cheerful smile. “Oh, he did not. He does not even know that is what I intend. But I shall go mad if I must sit here one more day, twiddling my thumbs with embroidery.”



“And you, Ismae?” I ask. “Are you going out to rein in the mercenaries as well?”



Sybella’s face sobers. “No, she is leaving for Nantes in a few hours.”



“You convinced Duval, then?”



Ismae snorts. “Let us just say that all his arguments were to no avail.”



“Which means,” Sybella says, plucking the wine goblet from my hands, “that you are to attend upon the duchess while we are busy. But not until we get you freshened up.”



“Isn’t that where you’ve been, with the duchess?” Ismae asks.



“No. I . . . needed some time to think, to cool my temper after my meeting with the abbess.”



Sybella begins combing my hair, her fingers gentle and light. I close my eyes and let the sheer comfort of the touch lull me into calmness. Now, I think. Now I will tell them. As I open my mouth to do that, there is a knock on the door. We all stiffen. “If it is the abbess, I’ve not returned,” I warn them.



But when Ismae opens the door, it is Duval’s deep voice that we hear. “I’m not going to argue any more about this,” she tells him.



“Good. I am not here to argue, but would like to see you before you leave.”



“Of course.” Before following him out into the hall, she comes and gives Sybella and me a hug. “Be safe, you two.”



“And you,” Sybella says. “And remember, the abbess at Brigantia will grant you sanctuary if it comes to that.”



“It won’t.” Then it is my turn to hug her before she is gone.



Chapter Forty-One



FOUR DAYS LATER, THE FRENCH ambassador arrives. With the mud of his journey still clinging to his boots, he comes striding into the hall where the duchess is holding court. As he steps through the door, Duval’s head snaps up, and he grows still, like a wolf who has just sensed another predator.



Sybella and I stand just behind the duchess’s chair. We exchange a glance, and, almost as if we have rehearsed it, our hands go to our weapons. Not that we will kill him on sight, but we will simply remind him to step carefully.



The ambassador is tall and leanly muscled, with a great beak of a nose and piercing green eyes. As he draws toward the dais, Duval motions subtly with his hands for the soldiers to begin clearing the others out.



As the people make their way to the door, the duchess looks up from the stolid burgher whose claim she has been adjudicating and sees what is happening. Although she keeps her face serene and composed, I can see the faint trembling in her fingers before she tightens her grip on the arms of her chair.



“Gisors.” Duval’s voice is pleasant, for all that his body is fairly humming with tension. “I did not expect to see you again. Ever.”



Gisors ignores him and executes a flawless bow, his attention ­never wavering from the duchess. “My lady.” There are small gasps from around the room, as he pointedly does not use the respectful form of address her title demands. Sybella’s hand closes around the hilt of her knife, her eyes narrowing in anticipation. The ambassador catches her movement and becomes slightly more circumspect. “I pray my visit finds you in good health.”



“It does, Lord Gisors. And I hope you have had a pleasant journey.” The duchess clings to the protocol and courtesies required by her position.



“I apologize for appearing before you in such an unworthy state, but the message I bring cannot be delayed.”



“By all means, then, let us hear it,” Duval says. Gisors continues to ignore him and waits for the duchess to nod her agreement.



“I have been sent by His Majesty to accept your unconditional surrender of Brittany, her offices and estates and lands and armies. Once you have surrendered these, I am authorized to offer you safe passage to the court of your new . . . husband.” He manages to imbue the word with utter contempt.



The entire room is as quiet as a crypt, with not even the sound of breathing to disturb the utter silence his words have effected.



Duval leans forward. “And this message comes from His Majesty the king or from the French regent?”



“It matters not, for they speak as one. My lady? May I report to His Majesty that you agree to the terms?”



By the tense line in the duchess’s jaw, I can tell she wishes to tell him that no, he may not, but even now, under such circumstances, her grace and bearing hold. “I fear I cannot make such an enormous decision without careful consideration, my lord. I would give you and your king”—she manages to infuse your king with as much acid as Gisors did the word husband only moments ago—“in a few days’ time.”



“Time is the one thing we do not have much of, my lady.”



“Nevertheless, I must insist. I have my people to consider and their interests must come first.”



Gisors opens his mouth to argue, but Duval motions for sentries to step forward and escort him away. Unless the man wishes to be dragged from the room, he has no choice but to comply. “I will expect an answer by tomorrow, my lady.”



“You may expect all you want, but you will not get it,” she mutters under her breath.



When he is gone, she turns shakily to Duval. “I think I will return to my chambers now,” the duchess says.



“But of course.” Duval leaps up and helps her to her feet. He glances at Sybella. “Find Beast for me, would you?” She nods and hurries off. Together, Duval and I escort the duchess to her chambers.



Once she and I are alone in her room, I slip the heavy headdress off her head and place it on the bureau.



“Have you ever been in love?”



Her question surprises me so much that I nearly drop the brush I hold in my hand.



Without waiting for an answer, she says softly, almost to herself, “I have. Once.” I begin brushing her hair. “I was very young.” She closes her eyes. “Do you think you can fall in love with someone when you’re that young?”



An image of Mortain sitting beside me in the wine cellar fills my mind. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.”