Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(24)

He snorts. “I am many things, but besotted with you is not one of them.”

Before I can make a further thorn of myself, the old sailor appears leading both our horses, and we busy ourselves making ready for our journey.

Under Duval’s critically observant eye, I become all thumbs, and it takes me longer than it should to secure my satchel behind the saddle. when at last I am done, I lead Nocturne to the mounting block and, with the help of the old sailor, hoist myself into the saddle. Duval is already seated on his horse and waiting.

“Ready?” He does not bother to mask his impatience.

“Yes.” Before the word is halfway out of my mouth, Duval slaps his reins and his mount leaps forward.

Glowering at his back, I reach into the small pouch at my waist, take a pinch of salt, and toss it onto the ground, an offering to Saint Cissonius, the patron saint of crossroads and travelers. Only then do I urge Nocturne to follow.

Duval slows his horse long enough for me to draw alongside him. “Have you ever been to court before?” he asks. “Is there any chance you will be recognized by anyone?”

“No.”

“No? You do not even ask who is in residence at court. How can you be so certain no one there will know you? If you are recognized, it will throw our plans into disarray.”

Stung that he thinks me so witless, I toss my low birth across his path like a challenge. “No one will recognize me, milord, because I am naught but a turnip farmer’s daughter. You may rest assured that none of those in residence in Nantes will have ever seen me before.”

“Guérande,” he corrects. “Anne’s court moved to Guérande in order to escape the plague in Nantes.”

"Even so, I will not be recognized.”

He shoots me a glance out of the corner of his eye. “I thought you were supposed to be the daughter of Death?”

“I am,” I say through clenched teeth. “But I was raised the daughter of a farmer. There was dirt under my fingernails for the first fourteen years of my life. It has most likely seeped into my blood.”

He gives another snort — of derision or disbelief, I cannot tell.

“It seems to me,” he says, “that being sired by one of the old saints puts your lineage into a class all its own, a class as untouchable by the nobility as the nobility is by turnip farmers. Now come, we must reach Quimper by nightfall.” ensuring he has the last word, he puts his heels to his horse and breaks into a

gallop.

It takes me a while to catch up.

We ride all day. In the newly cleared fields, sheaves of wheat hang from a cross, begging for Dea Matrona’s blessing on the harvest. Cattle graze nearby, feasting on the remaining stubble in the ground, one last fattening before slaughter. Indeed, the slaughter of animals for the winter has already begun and I can smell the copper tang of blood in the air.

A few stone cottages are scattered throughout the countryside, squat and stubborn against the encroaching wilderness. Most doors have a polished silver coin nailed to them, an attempt to discourage Mortain from casting His gaze on their households, since it is believed He will go to great lengths to avoid His own reflection. Those that are too poor to afford that small protection hang hazel twigs, in the hope that He will mistake them for the real bones He has come to collect.

The road is empty except for a handful of travelers heading to market in some nearby village. They carry bundles on their backs or push small carts. All of them step aside when they hear our horses coming.

There is little enough to distract my thoughts from circling back to Duval.

I am painfully aware of him riding in front of me, solid, commanding, angry. No matter where I steer my mind or my gaze, they always come back to him.

Mistress. The word whispers through me, taunting, beckoning, laughing. That I will have to pose as such is almost more than I can bear. And that I shall do so in front of half the Breton nobility is laughable. I pray that a messenger from the convent will come galloping up behind us to tell me it is a cruel jest and that Annith will go in my stead. But all I hear is the drip of the heavy mist as it falls upon the leaf mold on the forest floor, the creak of our saddles, and the faint jingle of harness.

Near midafternoon we reach a small wood. The thickness of the trees forces us to slow our horses to a walk so they may carefully pick their way through the branches and brambles. Under the canopy of leaves, it grows cool. I pull my cloak closer, but it does nothing to warm me.

It is not that kind of chill.

Death is nearby. I feel it in my bones, the way an old sailor’s aching joints warn him of a brewing storm.

"What?” Duval’s voice breaks through the shroud of quiet. He has noticed my distraction. His hand moves to his sword hilt. “Do you hear something?”

“No, but there is something dead nearby.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he reins in his horse. “Dead? A man? A woman?”

I shrug. This has never happened to me before and my own ignorance frustrates me. “It could be a deer, for all I know.”

"Where?”

“That way.” I point off to the side of the road, through a faint opening in the trees.

Duval nods, then steers his horse over and motions for me to take the lead. Surprised that he gives a hunch of mine so much weight, I move ahead and let my sense of death lead me.

The trees are closer here, their soft, delicate branches waving overhead like rich green feathers. Just past an ancient standing stone, its surface mottled with lichen and moss and corroded by time, the sense of Death grows stronger. The freshly dug grave is well hidden by dead branches and a scattering of leaves, but I could find my way to it blindfolded. “Martel,” I announce, certain of who is buried there.