Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(102)

"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.”