Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(117)
But even as I stare at him with death in my heart, I falter. Now that I have come face to face with His mercy, I see it in everything. For while Crunard has wronged many, the seeds of his treachery lie in his love for his son.
Killing him now would bring one sort of justice, but it would also spring from the anger in my heart. And when I moved through the battlefield, I swore to myself that I would have nothing more to do with vengeance.
Filled with equal parts wonder and disgust, I realize I cannot kill this wily old fox, no matter how much he might deserve it.
I huff out a sigh of frustration, drop the arm holding the crossbow, then swing out and clout him alongside the head with it. His eyes have just enough time to register surprise before they roll up in his head and he slumps in his chair.
Duval turns to look at me, his eyes unreadable. “Did your god guide your hand in that?”
“No,” I say, looking down at Crunard’s inert body. “That was my own idea. Did you have a better one?”
“Other than wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing the life out of him, no.”
There is a long moment during which I feel him watching me, so I am careful not to meet his eyes. “That option crossed my mind as well, but we need him alive so that we may clear your name with the rest of the council,” I say, but I do not think he is fooled by my excuses.
I would curse at him for seeing too much, except I am too pleased he is alive to see at all.
It is two days’ ride to Rennes, but due to Duval’s weakened state, it takes us three.
I do not begrudge the slower pace. In truth, it is the first time we have been alone with only ourselves and our own pleasure to consider. Once we are away from Guérande, the mists lift, and the days are cold yet bright. Mortain’s summer, we call it, and I feel certain it is a gift from the god Himself.
The cold fresh air chases the last vestiges of the poison from Duval’s lungs, and his health improves quickly. we talk and laugh as we ride. Indeed, I have never laughed as much as this. Duval points out his father’s holdings to me, and I stop and give thanks at every standing stone we pass.
The nights are our own. we sit in front of the fire Duval has built, our bodies touching from hip to shoulder, and share wine from a skin and roasted meat from a spit. we talk of small things, private things. It is a sweet, glorious time and I know it will be over far too soon.
On our last night on the road, Duval is more quiet than usual. He has pulled a ribbon from my hair and sits playing with it in his hand. "What is wrong?” I finally ask.
He looks at me, his dark eyes reflecting the flames of the fire. "We have decisions to make when we arrive in Rennes.”
I look away, unhappy that the real world will intrude on this last night. “I know.” I pick up a nearby stick and poke at the fire.
“Ismae, I would offer you marriage if you would have it.”
My whole body stills, shocked at the honor he would do me, an honor I never dared to imagine.
He smiles. “I think that Saint Camulos and Saint Mortain could easily come to terms. They work hand in hand often enough in the mortal world.”
I cannot help but smile, for it is such a practical Duval-like thing to say. “Perhaps, my lord. war and Death are known to be closely aligned. But I must speak with my abbess first.” There are still so many unanswered questions about the convent and my service to it.
“Do you plan to remain with the convent then?”
“I do not know yet. All I know is that if I do, it will be different, especially now that I know can no longer trust the integrity of their orders.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
We catch up to the duchess and the others just outside the walls of Rennes at the old abbey of Saint Brigantia. Isabeau is already there, spirited out by Madame Hivern and the faithful Louyse. when Anne and Isabeau see their brother, they give cries of joy and launch themselves at him. For one brief moment, they are not princess and duchess and bastard but a family reunited.
I am surprised to find myself enfolded in Louyse’s sturdy arms as she hugs me to her bosom, relieved to see me unharmed. Not knowing quite what to do with such affection, I pat her awkwardly on the back.
The sisters of Brigantia give us a few moments to enjoy our reunion, then escort us to the rooms that they have prepared for us. They assume, rightly, that we need to rest and refresh ourselves after our journey. In truth, I am travel weary and already mourning the loss of the private time Duval and I shared on the road. A novice opens the door for me, then quietly withdraws. Alone at last, I close my eyes and sag against the thick wooden door.
A faint rustle of fabric startles my eyes open. The abbess of St. Mortain sits in a chair by the fireplace, dressed in her black ceremonial habit. Her pale face gives away nothing of her thoughts.
Fear and regret and remorse shoot through me, ugly, shameful feelings that have me falling to my knees. “Reverend Mother!” I say, my wits leaving me as my forehead touches the cold, hard floor.
“Daughter.” Her voice is icy, and my mind grows blank with panic. I had thought there would be time to think upon all I must say to her. And that I would do it in a letter, which she would read while tucked behind the convent’s sturdy walls, not sitting before me like retribution incarnate.
There is a rustle of parchment. I peer up beneath my lashes to see her spreading a message out on her lap. My message to her. “It seems we have much to talk about.”