Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(27)
I study his face closely, but I cannot tell if he is questioning the convent or just me. “Surely that is the convent’s business, milord, not yours.”
“If I will be sponsoring you at court, I will not be kept in the dark, only to find myself cleaning up bodies and making explanations.”
I raise my chin in annoyance, for in my mind that is exactly the role I have assigned to him. “The abbess will communicate with me through letters, and sometimes — sometimes the saint makes His wishes clear to me directly.”
“How?” His question is sharp, urgent. He is hungry to understand this puzzle.
I shrug and try to regain control of this conversation. "What does this have to do with Runnion?”
He is silent for a long minute, so long I think he will not answer. when he does, I wish that he had not. “Doesn’t it worry you, that you understand nothing of how they make their decisions? what if they make a mistake?”
“A mistake?” My cheeks grow hot at the suggestion. “I do not see how they can, milord, since their hand is guided by the saint Himself. Indeed, to suggest such a thing reeks of blasphemy to me.”
“It is not the saint I doubt, demoiselle, only the humans who interpret His wishes. In my experience, humans are all too fallible.” He is silent again briefly, but his next words cause the cheese I have eaten to curdle in my stomach. “Runnion was working for the duchess.”
“No! He was a traitor! I saw the marque on him myself.”
Duval jerks his head around to stare at me, eyes sharp with interest. “The mark of a traitor, demoiselle? what does that look like?”
even as I reel from this revelation, I realize how neatly he has tricked me into divulging more than I intended. “That is not something I can share with you.”
“I seem to recall your abbess speaking to us both of cooperation.”
“In worldly matters, yes, but she said nothing of betraying the sanctity of our rituals.” I look pointedly at the silver leaf on his cloak. "Would you share with me the rites of Saint Camulos?”
He ignores that question, for he knows I am right. “Your abbess’s definition of cooperation differs greatly from mine,” he mutters. “Consider this. Runnion had betrayed the duke three years ago, during the Mad war, but he had come to regret that action. In truth, he wished to make amends for his betrayal. That was how he came to work for us, as a means of earning his way back into his country’s good graces.”
I feel as if I have been turned to stone by one of Saint Arduinna’s arrows. “You lie.”
“No, I do not.” He looks me square in the eye and what I see there looks disturbingly like truth. “Perhaps, demoiselle, your saint is more complex than your convent would have you believe. Now come, I think the horses have rested enough.”
Chapter Thirteen
Duval’s revelation about Runnion plagues me for the rest of the afternoon. If Runnion was truly innocent, why did the convent send me to kill him? Had they not known of his work for the duchess? Or do they know something Duval does not?
And if Runnion was working for the duchess, why had he borne the marque? why had Mortain not removed that stain from the man’s soul?
I fear the answer lies in my actions. By striking him down, did I rob him of his chance to earn forgiveness?
I shove that disturbing thought from my mind. Mortain is all-knowing. Surely He would have seen the man’s intention and spared him if He thought Runnion worthy.
I am still wrestling with the Runnion matter when Duval steers us across a thick stone bridge. The town is small and crowded, but Duval seems to know where he is going and leads us through the cobbled streets until we reach an inn.
we dismount, and the ostler arrives to take our horses. Duval gives him instructions for their care, then offers me his arm. As I take it, I wonder what folly decreed that women cannot walk unassisted. Inside, the innkeeper rushes forward to greet us, and Duval tells him of our needs for the night. The innkeeper directs someone to take our things to our rooms, then leads us to the inn’s main hall, where dinner is being served.
The hall is a large room, larger even than the refectory back at the convent. In spite of the room’s size, a low ceiling and dark timber beams make it feel small and close. A fire burns in the hearth, and the place smells of smoke, new wine, and roasting meat.
we choose a corner table, as far away from the other diners as we can get. I hurry forward so I can take the seat that affords me the clearest view of the door. Duval’s lips quirk in amusement.
A serving maid sets a flagon of wine and two cups on the table, then withdraws. I do not even let him quench his thirst before I launch my questions at him. “If Runnion was working for the duchess, what was he doing at the tavern?” I know the convent cannot make such a mistake. There is some other element in play here, and I am determined to ferret it out.
Duval lifts his goblet and takes a long drink before answering. “He was bringing me word on whether england would commit troops to aid our fight against the French.”
I feel as if Annith has just landed a kick to my gut. I want to accuse him of lying again, but his eyes are steady, and there are none of the signs of deception that I have been taught to look for. Besides, his answer makes sense. The duchess had been betrothed to england’s crown prince before he disappeared from the tower. “If that is the case, then I cannot believe the abbess knew that he was helping you.”