Grave Mercy (12 page)

Sometime later, I am awakened by angry voices. At first, I think they are in the room with me, then realize they come from Duval’s chamber. The door is thick, so I catch only snatches.

“ . . . you will ruin everything for us . . .”

“Have you so little respect for my father that you would . . .”

 “ . . . has nothing to do with . . .”
It is Madame Hivern. She and Duval are arguing. That brings me fully awake and just as I throw off the covers so I may go listen at the door, I hear another door slam with a thud. After a brief moment, there is a sharp, brittle crash from Duval’s room, a shatter of crystal that brings me to my feet. I have only ever heard that sound once before, in the abbess’s office, and before my head knows what my feet are doing, I am flying to the door, my hands fumbling at the bolt.

Duval sprawls in a chair by the fire, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. An open decanter sits at his elbow, and the rich fruity scent of wine mixes with the lingering traces of Madame Hivern’s rose perfume. Firelight glints off the shards of broken crystal on the floor, and I stop, afraid I’ll slice my feet to ribbons. “My lord?” I whisper, dread beating in my breast.

Duval’s head snaps up, his eyes filled with bleak despair. He quickly looks away, but too late. I have seen his expression, and sympathy for something I do not even understand pierces my heart. “I heard a crash . . .”

He raises one sardonic eyebrow at me, his face now a brittle mask. “And thought to save me from attacking crystal while clad only in your shift?”

I flinch at his mocking tone. Truly, why had I rushed in? even if he had been poisoned, what could I do?
His soul,
I think, relieved that a reason has come to me.
If he were to die, I must learn all I can from his soul before it departs.

He glances at the empty decanter at his elbow. “Unless you are checking to see if your poison worked? Am I one of your targets, then?” The weariness in his voice suggests he would not mind so very much.

And while I did not like Hivern before, now, for some inexplicable reason, I hate her. “Are you drunk?” I try to put as much scorn into my words as he did.

“No. Yes. Perhaps a little. Definitely not enough.” The bleakness is back and he turns to stare into the flames.
I am torn between wanting to leave him to wallow in his despair and wanting to rush to his side and chase that look from his eyes. That I long to do this appalls me, sets panic fluttering against my ribs.
“I suggest you return to your room,” Duval says, his gaze still fixed woodenly on the fire. “Unless you have come to practice your lessons of seduction on me?” His mouth twists in bitter amusement. “That could well entertain me till sunrise.”
I jerk my head back as if I have been slapped. “No, milord. I had thought only to pray for your soul if Madame Hivern had seen fit to poison you. Nothing more.” And with that, I turn and flee the room, then bolt the door against the disturbing glimpse of both his soul and mine. whatever games are being played here, he is a master at them, and I will do well to remember that.

* * * 

Things are strained between us the next morning. I won’t meet Duval’s eyes nor he mine as we take our leave and gallop from the yard. The sun rises, and the early-morning mist swirls up off the ground in gentle eddies, like steam from a simmering pot. Our awkward silence follows us on the road to Guérande. Nocturne doesn’t like that I hold myself so rigidly, and she whinnies. I force myself to relax my shoulders.

For his part, Duval acts as if I don’t exist. At least as far as La Baule. Then he turns in his saddle, his face stiff with discomfort. “I am sorry I insulted you last night. I was angry with Madame Hivern, and you presented an easy target. Please accept my apologies.” Then he turns forward again, leaving me to gape at his back.

No one has ever apologized to me before. Certainly not my family, or the nuns. It is disturbing, this apology, as if my feelings matter when I know that they do not. It is what Mortain and the convent want that is important. even so, I cannot help but whisper, “I accept,” mostly to myself. Or so I think — until I see Duval nod once, then put his heels to his horse.

Chapter Sixteen

Even though I grew up only three leagues away, I have never been to Guérande. My father went, many times, and he used each of those to taunt me with what he had seen. I had thought he exaggerated in order to rub my nose in what I had missed. Now I see that he did not.

The town is entirely enclosed within thick stone walls that stretch as far as my eye can see. eight watchtowers loom at regular intervals. I understand now why the duchess has chosen this city for her headquarters. Surely those walls are impenetrable.

Provided the enemy comes from without.
As we draw closer to the city, I see a crowd near the gate tower. Legions of servants and carts piled high with household goods block the road. Knights and noble lords mill about on horseback, their horses prancing impatiently at the delay. Duval mutters an oath. “I will not reach the palace till midnight at this rate.”
“Are they refugees?” I ask, remembering the desperate families and townspeople who had been displaced by the Mad war.
Duval looks at me askance. “No. They are here for the estates Assembly. Come, we will try the north gate.”
Before he can wheel his mount around, a trumpet sounds from behind. A standard-bearer approaches, his gold and blue banner snapping briskly in the crisp autumn air. A long entourage snakes behind him on the road, the outriders and trumpeters heralding its arrival. People and horses do their best to make way, but it is a narrow road and there is nowhere to go.
The knights do not slow down. They gallop full tilt into the crowd, forcing people to leap from the bridge or risk being trampled. I recognize the banner at once; it is that of Count d’Albret, one of the wealthiest Breton nobles and one of the duchess’s suitors. A most insistent one, according to Sister Eonette.
The count is surrounded by men-at-arms, so my only impression of him is one of great girth and a lathered horse with far too many spur marks upon its flanks. It is enough for me to take an immediate dislike to the man. even so, I am surprised by the intensity of Duval’s reaction — his eyes grow dark and flinty, while his lip curls in disgust. I cannot help but note that there are now two people we both heartily dislike — Madame Hivern and Count d’Albret — and I am reminded of Sister Eonette’s maxim that our enemy’s enemy often makes a good ally.
Duval tears his gaze away from the count and looks to the road. “I think we can get through now,” he says, then puts his heels to his horse. It leaps forward. Caught off-guard, I do my best to follow, but I am not as quick. Nocturne balks, then bolts out in front of an approaching horse. My hands are so full trying to manage Nocturne that I barely spare a glance for the other rider. As she struggles to regain control, she utters a foul oath at her mount.
The familiar voice is like a pail of icy water down my back. I whip my head around, but she has already passed. All I can see is her slender shoulders and the defiant tilt of her head. Until she turns around to send me a scathing glance, annoyance writ plain on her face.
Sybella.
My heart begins to race even as the rest of the riders converge on the road between us and she is lost to my eyes. Jubilation surges through me. She is alive! And in Guérande! That is more than I knew before. It is enough to lighten my heart as I hurry to catch up to Duval.
Once we are inside the city, our horses clop down the cobbled streets. Stone and timber houses jut jauntily into the street, like gossiping housewives. Shops line the narrow lanes, their shutters drawn up to display bolts of wool and silk, perfumed oils, and all manner of goods. we pass candle makers’ stalls and food stalls. I look longingly at the latter. Our breakfast was hours ago. “Try not to gawk,” Duval says, amused.
“I am not gawking,” I say, piqued that he has caught me.
“You most certainly are. Have you never been to a town before?”
“Not one this size,” I admit reluctantly.
Duval shakes his head. “At least you will have no trouble playing the country rustic.”
It is clear that Duval wants to gallop through the town, straight to court. He holds himself in check, however, as we are boxed in by townspeople and pedestrians clogging the streets and hurrying about. Trying to avoid these, we turn down a side street. Duval mutters an oath as we come upon an overturned cart blocking the road. Bags of grain and flour spill out onto the cobbled street, and the driver studies the broken axle in dismay.
“This way,” Duval orders, turning into a narrow alley.
we have gone but a few paces when Duval gives a garbled shout. He reaches for his sword as three men drop seemingly from the sky into his path. Another one lands directly behind him, on the horse itself. The beast stumbles, but he is battle trained and quickly recovers. The stallion prances and snorts, nearly trampling one of the assailants. Duval shoves his elbow deep into the belly of the attacker behind him, dislodging him from the horse. “Turn back!” Duval shouts.
But I am not some simpering maid to flee at the threat of a fight. There is a ringing of steel as Duval draws his sword, then he is swinging at a second man who is trying to pull him from his saddle. even as the wet, soft
thunk
tells me the blade has connected with flesh and bone, I am reaching for the long knife at my ankle.
But too late.
Two — no, three — more men emerge from the shadows. Nocturne prances and rears. One of them grabs my bridle, then has to dance backwards to avoid Nocturne’s flailing hooves. I free my knife and regain my balance. I kick my right foot out of the stirrup, swing my leg over the saddle, and send both feet into the face of my attacker. He reels back, giving me just enough room to get my long knife between us.
But my movements have unbalanced me again and I am pitched from the saddle. I use the momentum and throw myself forward, landing neatly on my feet. I lunge to meet the bandit.
He does not see my knife in time.
His eyes widen as it sinks into his belly. I brace myself, but there is no whisper of soul. Not a killing blow, then. There is a sucking sound as I pull the blade out, but before I can strike again, another man is upon us.
I duck low to avoid his short sword and spin out from under his swing. There is a whinny from Nocturne as the blade misses me and cuts along her flank.
A hot wave of fury crashes through me and I straighten for my next strike but my hand explodes in pain as one of the men’s kicks finds its target. My knife clatters to the cobbles.
The two men draw together, silent but deadly, as their companion writhes on the ground, his hand clamped to his middle to keep his guts from spilling onto the street.
I reach through the slit in my skirt, hand closing around the smooth, worn handle. when I pull the misericorde free, the bandit on my left laughs at the puniness of my weapon.
I smile.
One nick, the abbess said. Just one scratch. And while I am loath to use a weapon of grace on two men such as these, I am certain Mortain will forgive me, as we are allowed to kill in self-defense.
I settle into my fighting stance.
The man spits out a mouthful of blood, then rushes forward with his short sword thrust out.
Merde,
but he is stupid. Does he truly think I will just stand here and wait to be skewered?
I duck under the outthrust blade and roll onto the ground, swiping at the man’s ankle as I pass. when I come up on my knees, there is a puzzled look upon his face. He stops moving and slowly sinks to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. There is a flutter of his passing soul, but it disappears quickly.
His companion’s eyes widen at this uncanny trick. If he is smart, he will run, but he is not. He panics and lunges forward. I leap back and get the misericorde between us. It connects with his bony knuckles, just a scratch, but he stiffens, and then looks from his cut to my face.
“You cannot win against Mortain’s own,” I whisper. Then he, too, settles to the ground, as if giving a deep curtsy. Another fluttering of soul, then nothing. I frown at my lack of connection with their souls and wonder if that is another gift of grace with the misericorde, that the victims’ dying thoughts remain private.
The sound of steel scraping on stone pulls my attention back to Duval. Three of his assailants are down; the fourth is backed against the wall. As I approach, the remaining bandit glances my way. It is the merest slip, but Duval uses the distraction to force his way inside the man’s guard and strike him on the head with the butt of his sword. The man’s eyes roll up in his sockets and he slides to the ground.
“I will save
you
for questioning,” Duval says, then turns his attention to me. “Are you hurt?”
I glance down and see that one of the blades has sliced through the fabric of my gown. A faint line of red wells up on the meaty part of my arm. “Just a scratch. And you?” I ask, because it seems polite.
“Fine,” he says curtly. His gaze moves beyond me to the three men I’ve dispatched. “Sweet Jesu!” He hurries over to where they lie and kneels to feel for their pulses. “All of them dead,” he announces.
“I know.” I try to keep the pride from my voice. A sense of triumph races through me and I am nearly giddy with it. I have bested three men, and though the test was harder than any at the convent, I passed with flying colors. even better, I fought as well as Duval. I wonder how to compose my message informing the abbess of this without sounding as if I am bragging.
"What happened to your horse?”
My spirits crash back to earth at Duval’s question. I whirl around, shocked to see that Nocturne is lying on the ground, her sleek black side drenched in sweat and heaving like a bellows. “She was only scratched,” I tell him as I rush over to kneel beside her. The acrid tang of bitterroot fills my nose and there are flecks of bloody foam upon her lips.
“Poison.” even as I say the word, I can feel the fevered heat coming off of her. “No mere bandits, then. They wanted us dead.” I run my hand down Nocturne’s silky flank, trying to comfort her. “Do you have so very many enemies?” I ask Duval.
“It would appear that I do,” he says. “The better question is, Should I be flattered that they set seven upon me? Or does that mean someone knew I would be traveling with a skilled fighter?”
The full implication of what he has said hits me. “Are you suggesting the abbess sent them? Or Chancellor Crunard?” I am barely able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
He shrugs. “It seems whoever sent them knew that both of us could fight.”
I am tempted to ask if he also suspects Beast or de Lornay, but then I would have to reveal that I overheard their conversation, and I am not willing to do that. Not yet.
Is it possible that Duval had sent them on ahead to arrange such a thing? would he have staged an attack in order to rid himself of me?
"We must put her out of her misery,” Duval says gently.
His words remind me of what I must do, and while I long to ease Nocturne’s suffering, I am saddened beyond reason that I must bid her farewell.
"Would you like me to do it?” Duval’s voice is nothing but kind. There is no hint of condescension in it, but I act as if there is. Getting angry is the only way I can bear this. “I am trained in death,” I remind him. “I need no help.”
“None of us are trained to kill those who have served us well and faithfully,” he says. “It is a special agony all its own, and I would spare you if I could.” There is a note of sorrow in his voice and I know —
know
— that he has had to do this very thing. His sympathy makes the pain of losing Nocturne worse, as if my feelings for her are not some childish affection I should have put aside long ago. “I am not weak.” To prove my words, I reach down and grasp my knife handle.
“I never said that you were.” His voice is still gentle, as if he sees how much this is hurting.
which only makes me resolved to prove that it is not. “If you will cease your endless prattle, I will do it.” I feel rather than see him step back, and I am suddenly able to breathe now that he is no longer near. I turn my full attention to Nocturne, wanting to find some way to let her know how much I will miss her.
I place my cheek along her neck, breathe in her familiar horsy scent. “Thank you,” I murmur in her ear. “For carrying me so faithfully, and for being my friend.” I whisper this last part so softly that I am afraid she will not hear. But her ear twitches, and I know that my words have reached her. She gives a faint whinny, as if to let me know she understands. “I hear there are many carrots where you are going,” I tell her. Then, before I can falter, I grasp the misericorde and put it to her throat.
Nocturne’s spirit leaves her body in a red-hot gush. A faint breeze rustles by, bearing the scent of sweet green grass and the sense of galloping into the wind. I lay my head down on her neck and pray I will not weep.
Then Duval grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. If I didn’t know he had nerves of iron, I would have said there was a faint glimmer of panic in his face.
"What are you doing?” I wrench my arm out of his grip.
He stares intently at the cut on my arm. “If one blade was poisoned, why not all of them?” As I look at him blankly, he gives me a little shake. “
You
might have been poisoned too.”
Now that he has mentioned it, there is a faint burning sensation in my arm. I glance down at the cut. “I am fine,” I assure him.
“You cannot know that. Perhaps even now it is working its way to your vital organs.” He takes my arm again and keeps a firm hold on it as he leads me to his horse.
He does not know I am immune to poison, and I am reluctant to share this. If he himself was behind our attack, better not to hand such secrets to him. when we reach his horse, he stops long enough to feel my brow. “No fever yet,” he mutters.
“I am fine, I told you.”
He ignores my protestations and puts his hands around my waist. I barely have time to gasp before I am perched on the horse’s back, the imprint of his hands still burning against my skin. He springs up into the saddle, then takes the reins in hand. “Grab hold of me or else you’ll tumble off,” he instructs over his shoulder.
Gingerly, I place my hands along his sides.
“Hold on,” he repeats, then puts his heels to his horse. we fly forward, and I barely have time to grab the thick folds of his cloak to keep myself from spilling off.
He gallops back the way we’ve come. The overturned cart is gone now and there is no sign of anyone nearby. He takes a side street, then another, and soon we come to a wider street with finer houses.
Duval pulls up in front of one of them. His horse has barely come to a full stop before a groomsman rushes out to take the reins. Duval dismounts only long enough to introduce me to his steward, then remands me into the keeping of his housekeeper, Louyse, a round, pleasant-faced woman who welcomes me cheerfully, if curiously.
when he starts to give her orders to send for a doctor, I stop him. “Milord. If I had been poisoned, I would be dead by now.”
He scowls at me and begins to argue, but I cut him off. “Look how quickly it felled my horse. Surely someone my size would be dead already.”