Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(59)

"What have you heard?” Duval asks warily.

Nemours barks out a humorless laugh. “That the French regent has bribed half your barons to join France’s cause and that the Holy Roman emperor is too mired in his own wars to come to her aid. And the duchess’s own barons are too busy fighting for her crown to fight on her behalf.”

“You have heard the right of it, I’m afraid.”

“So I offer a way out. I propose the same terms as the original betrothal agreement, so you will see that I am not trying to take advantage of your situation.”

Duval is suddenly cautious. "Why? what is in it for you that you are so chivalrous?”

“Is chivalry not its own reward?”

“Not in my experience, no.”

Nemours shrugs, then smiles. It very nearly reminds me of Beast’s maniacal grin. “In addition to the great fondness I bear your lady sister, is not beating the French at their own game enough? My father died at their hand.”

“How many troops can you lend to enforce the betrothal? For the French regent will move quickly once she learns of it.”

“Three thousand,” he says, "Which I know is less than d’Albret’s considerable numbers, but at least I can guarantee they will be loyal to the duchess.”

“And that is worth much, I think.”

“There is more,” Nemours adds. “My cousin, the queen of Navarre, will send fifteen hundred pikemen to aid our cause.”

Duval’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Not that we would not welcome them, but why would she bestir herself on our account?”

A grim note creeps into Nemours’s voice. “Do not forget that she also is married to a d’Albret. She knows only too well what marrying into that family entails.”

A dark look of understanding passes between the two men. “Very well then,” Duval says. “I will put your proposal before the duchess.” And although he tries to hide it, the relief in his voice in plain.

It takes me a moment before I recognize the feeling burbling through me. It is not trepidation, or even apprehension, but joy. I am nearly giddy with relief that we may have found our duchess a solution to her tangle. And while it is not the task I was trained for, I savor it all the same. I tell myself that my happiness has nothing to do with coming that much closer to removing the suspicion that clouds Duval’s name.

On our return trip to Guérande, Duval does not use the shortcut I showed him but instead leads us through St. Lyphard itself. If this is a test, it is easy enough to pass. I know in my bones that no one will recognize me.

The town has not changed at all since I left nearly four years ago. we pass the blacksmith’s forge and the small square where we held our meager celebrations, the weaver’s home, the herbwitch’s cottage and that of the tanner. In no time at all, we have reached the town’s outskirts. A lone cottage sits there with smoke rising sluggishly from the chimney and a few threadbare linens hanging on the line.

In the fields beyond the house, a man works, his back bent as he struggles with the hard ground. even though he is a turnip farmer, in the winter he sows a crop of rye. I am surprised at how old he looks, how grizzled his hair, how stooped his shoulders. It is as if only his hatred of me had kept him going. Now the monster of my childhood nightmares is nothing but a broken old man struggling to eke out a living, while I have been chosen by a god to do His bidding.

As if sensing my eyes upon him, the man looks up, surprised to see four nobles prancing through his fields. when he bows his head and tugs at his forelock, I know that my disguise is complete. even my own father has not recognized me.

Duval brings his horse closer to mine. “Someone you know?” he murmurs.

“He is no one,” I say, and for the first time I realize it is true.





Chapter Twenty-five


Before the walls of the city come into sight, we are met by an outrider looking for Duval. Captain Dunois has sent him to tell us that the footpad has not only awakened, but escaped. I glance sharply at Duval, briefly wondering if that could have been his purpose, to lure me from the city long enough for our assailant to escape. But since he is doing a fine job of looking poleaxed by the news, I dismiss that idea.

We ride to Guérande with all due haste and hurry to the dungeons beneath the palace.

“How?” Duval asks as he steps inside the small prison chamber that is now empty. It is made of four solid walls with no window and only the one door. “How did he escape?”

The captain of the palace guard shrugs uncomfortably. “He was not bound or manacled, and the key hangs on the hook outside. Anyone could have opened the door.”

“But why, is the question.”

with reluctance, one of the guards steps aside so that I too may enter the chamber. The minute I am in the room, I know. Death has visited; the man did not walk out alive.

“My lord,” I murmur to Duval. “I would speak with you alone.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Now?”

“Now.”

Understanding dawns and he pulls me away from the others.

“He did not escape,” I murmur. “He was killed first, then taken from here afterward.”

His dark eyebrows shoot up. “You can tell this merely from being in the room?”

I nod.