Grave Mercy (33 page)

There is a moment of stunned silence, then Captain Dunois asks, “Are you certain?”
“How have you learned this?” Crunard asks, and I cannot help but wonder if he is behind this newest disaster.
“The ways of Mortain are both glorious and mysterious. I may not divulge how I know, but it has most definitely happened. If you do not believe me, send a scout to verify my claim.”
Crunard looks to Dunois, who gives a sharp nod. “Consider it done.”
“If it is so,” Crunard says, “this is well and truly a disaster.” He looks visibly shaken, so either he is a superb liar or this is not part of whatever game he is playing.
“Marshal Rieux?” the duchess says to me, her brown eyes filled with distress. “Are you certain?” she whispers.
Meeting her gaze, I nod solemnly. The man who was appointed by her father to guard her has just betrayed her instead.
She draws in a long, shaky breath, then asks, "What does this do to our position?”
Crunard and Dunois exchange a bleak look. “It is not good,” Captain Dunois says. “As marshal, he commands the troops. It will be hard to raise the barons to fight against him. If Marshal Rieux and d’Albret combine their troops, well, our only hope will be to hunker down and prepare for the coming siege.” The duchess glances in alarm from Dunois to Crunard. “Not our only hope, surely?”
“I am afraid so, Your Grace,” the chancellor tells her, and even though he but agrees with Dunois, I find I cannot trust his counsel. “It is as Captain Dunois says; the marshal commands our troops. It will be hard to raise them against him. Indeed, it will be hard to raise them at all without his help.”
"What about Baron de waroch?” It is only when everyone turns to stare at me that I realize I have spoken out loud. Flustered, I continue. “Did he not go through the countryside raising the peasants and farmers to revolt against the French in the Mad war? why could he not do that again?”
Chancellor Crunard sends me a dismissive look. “It will take more than peasants and farmers to repel the French, demoiselle.” 

“Ultimately, yes,” Captain Dunois says, his voice thoughtful.
“But perhaps they can hold off the French forces long enough for help to arrive.”
"What help?” Crunard asks sharply.
That is when I realize that Duval — dear, ever-suspicious Duval — has told no one of the preparations he has been laboring over. 
"Even as we speak,” the duchess says, “fifteen hundred troops are en route from Spain and another fifteen hundred from Navarre.”
Crunard is nonplussed, but hides it with a snort of derision. 
“That is too few.”
“But if combined with the peasantry,” Captain Dunois points out, “they may stand a chance.”
Hope shines in the duchess’s face. “Might this work?” 

“A long shot, Your Grace, but within the realm of possibility,” Dunois tells her.
Crunard shakes his head. “I think it is but a dream, Your Grace.”
With my new suspicions filling my head, it is all I can do to keep from shouting that whatever Crunard counsels, we must do the opposite. I am saved from such drastic measures when the duchess puts her hands to her head as if it aches. "Enough. I will think on this and we will meet again tomorrow morning.” As we all file out of the solar, the duchess catches my eye. I nod, letting her know I will discuss this with Duval before then.

I spend the evening pacing, turning every possible idea over in my mind, looking for any small opening or crack in the walls that hem our duchess in as surely as any dungeon. But there are none. None that I can find. And it was clear in today’s meeting that none of the duchess’s other councilors can think outside the well-plowed furrows of their own thoughts.

There is a scrape at the wall behind me and I turn around to see Duval lurch out of the passageway. His hair is mussed, his face is covered in dark stubble, his eyes are wild. “My lord!” I hurry toward him, afraid he will fall to the floor. "What has happened?”

“Nothing, dear Ismae.” He waves his hand in a wild, expansive gesture, then stumbles. My heart sinks as I help him into a chair. Alarm inches along my skin. His symptoms are worse, which means he must have come in further contact with the poison. If it is not removed from his body, he will surely die.

Once in the chair, he leans forward and puts his face in his hands. “My head feels as if it is spinning on a wheel.”
“’Tis one of the effects of the poison, my lord.”
He glances up at me with a heartbreakingly confused look. “Poison?”
Not his memory. Sweet Mortain, not that. I kneel at his feet and put my face close to his. “Remember? we talked of this last night? You are being poisoned.”
He grabs my hands in his as if they are a lifeline that will lead him back to sanity. In a moment his face clears as the memory comes to him, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Do you remember what else we talked of?”
His grip tightens. “Yes. Of course.”
I pull the tray of food close to him. “Are you hungry? You should eat.”
He pushes it away. “I have no appetite.”
I shove the tray back. “You must eat. Your body and your mind need food, my lord. You must stay strong in order to fight the effects of the poison.” Indeed, he has grown thin from his days in the tunnels. To appease me, he takes the cup of tepid broth I hand him and fiddles with a wedge of cheese. I do not tell him of the latest news until he is done eating, not wanting to risk destroying his already diminished appetite.
Once he has finished, however, I can put it off no longer. “I have much news, and none of it good.” Duval leans back slightly in his chair, as if bracing himself for a physical blow. “Nantes has been taken by Marshal Rieux and Lord d’Albret.”
“Taken?”
I nod, then tell him of the message I received. Fury and frustration spur him out of his chair, but he stumbles. He looks down and scowls at his feet. "What did the Privy Council recommend?” he asks.
“Dunois and Crunard think we should close the city gates and ready ourselves for a siege.”
“They are mistaken,” he says. “Guérande will not withstand a siege for long.”
“Dunois hopes the troops from Spain and Navarre will arrive in time.”
He is silent a long moment. “Ismae, I’m sorry . . .”
“No, my lord. You were right to keep your own counsel. I do not fault you for it. Besides, there is more bad news you must hear. I believe it is Crunard who has been working secretly against the duchess all this time. I do not think he can be trusted.”
Duval looks at me as if I am the one who flirts with madness. “The chancellor? But why, and to what purpose? The man is a hero who has fought in three wars and lost all four of his sons to the cause. He and the late duke were the closest of friends. why would he do something that would render all of their sacrifice for naught?”
“I do not yet understand the why of it, but look at the evidence. He was one of the very few who knew to send enough footpads to attack us when we first came to Guérande. It was also just after he arrived that the sole remaining assailant disappeared.” I fold my arms in front of me to keep from wringing my hands. “Furthermore, it is my own poison being used on you, and Crunard is the only one who has had access to it.”
Duval blinks, as if my arguments are finally reaching him. Then he shakes his head, trying to clear it, and rubs his hands over his face. “But look how he has supported Anne all this time! Backed her refusal of d’Albret, voted for the alliance with Nemours. I cannot see what purpose lies behind his actions.”
Frustration bubbles through me and I cannot tell if my own logic is flawed or if Duval’s mind is too far gone. “My lord, he told the convent that you were involved in your mother’s plot of treason — that you were a traitor.”
His head snaps up and a bewildered look crosses his face. “He did?”
“Aye.”
“Then why did they not order my execution?”
I say nothing, but his addled wits are not
that
far gone. “Oh.” He looks down. “Is that why my feet are numb?”
“No, my lord. I swear it. I have ignored their order. Here, you need rest.” I jump up to catch him as he stands and sways. He sags against me and I propel him to my bed. Louyse has already turned back the covers, so I lay him down in my place. Propping his legs on the bed, I yank off his boots and, after checking them one more time for traces of poison, let them drop to the floor. Then I swing his legs under the rich, thick quilts. He tries to push up on his elbows to argue with me, but I place my hand gently on his chest and push him back down. It takes frighteningly little effort. His eyes flutter shut, and my heart leaps into my mouth. I lean in close to check his breathing.
“Are you trying to steal my breath?” Duval asks.
“No, milord. Only trying to — ”
“Kiss me?” The yearning in his voice shakes me to the core.
“Yes, my lord. That is it.” And I lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss, as if I would drink the poison from his body. His eyes close again, and his breathing grows steadier. The lines of tension ease somewhat, but not altogether. The shadows under his eyes are darker; his cheeks are more gaunt. He is in need of a shave, and the color is high in his cheeks. My heart is so full — full of love and full of sorrow — that I fear it will burst.
His hand twitches and spasms, so I reach out and cover it with my own. He grows still then, and turns his hand up so that our palms are touching, our fingers linked. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” I tell him.
Nor you either,
I long to say, to make him promise not to die. But I cannot insist he make a promise he cannot keep. Instead, I lower myself to the floor and keep watch over him through the night.

I awake to a faint kiss on the back of my hand. I open my eyes to find Duval’s head propped on his hand as he watches me. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I mumble, embarrassed. I try to disengage our tangled fingers, but he holds on long enough to give one last squeeze, then lets go.

I rise to my feet and try to ignore the various aches and pains from sleeping in such a cramped position. As I smooth my skirts and try to regain my composure, Duval gets up from the bed and crosses to the ewer and basin, where he splashes cold water on his face. His legs are steadier than they were yesterday, and I can only hope this is a sign that a decent night’s rest has done him some good. when he turns around, beads of water still dripping from his face, I see that his eyes have cleared somewhat.

I hand him a linen towel. As he dries himself, I move to the tray of food. “You really should try to eat some more before you go.”

“I will.” He puts the towel down and comes to grab a wedge of cheese from the tray. He looks to the window to check how close to dawn it is.

Very close.
As he stuffs his pockets with the rest of the food, I frown in puzzlement. He appears much better this morning. Surely that is a hopeful sign.
when his pockets are full, he comes and puts his hands on my shoulders, his eyes alight with urgency. “They must get Anne to Rennes. Guérande is not strong enough to withstand a long siege, but the citizens of Rennes will rally around her, and the town has the means to defend itself. It is the best place for her until help arrives. Convince them, Ismae.”
“I will try, my lord.”
“And beware of denouncing Crunard in front of the others. They have known him far longer than you and will be more likely to side with him should it come to that. You will need solid proof to convince them of your accusations.”
There is a sound outside my door. Louyse. He brushes a quick kiss on the top of my head, then disappears into the passage in the wall. A moment later, Louyse bustles into the room, full of her usual morning cheer. She pauses briefly and looks confused when she sees I am wearing my cloak over my night shift. I rub my arms and give a little shiver. “It is cold this morning.”
“That it is, demoiselle!” As she sets out my clothes, a plan forms in my mind. The remaining members of the Privy Council will be meeting first thing this morning. It will be the perfect time for me to search Crunard’s chamber. Surely I can find something that will convince the others of his guilt.

Chapter Forty-six

When I arrive at Crunard’s chambers, the door is closed and there is no guard posted. I knock and call out, “Chancellor Crunard?” There is no answer. I glance down the hall in both directions. It is clear. Indeed, the palace is very quiet today, and I wonder how many courtiers have heard what has happened in Nantes. Assured that there is no one to see, I try the door. It is locked, but that does not stop me.

I slip one of the needle-thin daggers from my wrist and slip the tip inside the lock, as Sister Eonette showed us. I gently press against the metal insides, nudging the iron to do what I want. when I hear a satisfying click, I straighten, check for witnesses, then slip silently into Chancellor Crunard’s office.

I do not know how much time I have, nor do I know what I am looking for. Something — anything — that will confirm my suspicions.

The papers on his desk are what I expect: correspondence with the barons, maps of Brittany and France, everything that a chancellor needs to perform his duties. I open the cupboard that sits behind his desk and quickly rifle through the pages of the books stored there, but none of them hold hidden letters or carved-out compartments. Nor is there any damning correspondence rolled in along with the rest of the maps. It would help if I knew what I was looking for.

Frustrated, I turn back to his desk, my eyes landing on his writing box. when I try to open it, I find it locked. why would he lock away his writing supplies?

My pulse quickens as I take out my dagger once more and work the lock. This one is smaller — and trickier — than the door’s, but in the end it gives way. I lift the wooden lid and peer inside. Quills, ink pots, a small paring knife, red sealing wax, a heavy gold signet ring —

I pick up the ring and examine it carefully. Crunard wears so very many rings, why would he lock this one away? Something about it niggles at the back of my mind. It takes a moment for me to recognize it.

It is the very ring I glimpsed when Martel’s soul passed through me. which means . . . what?
That the French spy Martel had seen Crunard’s ring, whether it was on the chancellor’s finger when they met face to face or it was sent to him with some lesser courier. If it was sent as a sign, then Martel knew to trust Crunard.
It is not Duval who has been working with the French regent but Crunard.
I close my hand around the heavy gold ring, savoring the solid feel of actual evidence in my hand. But the only one who would give weight to this proof is the abbess, and even that is doubtful. None of the remaining Privy Council will understand how I know this; they will not favor my word over Crunard’s.
even so, I slip the ring in my pocket. Surely flimsy evidence is better than no evidence at all.