Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(44)
Only too pleased at the chance to open myself to Mortain’s will, I let Duval steer me to the far corner of the hall where the French envoy sits like a fat brown spider, patient and cunning, tending his carefully woven web. He is a hatchet-faced man surrounded by smirking, fawning courtiers. He makes no move to acknowledge us as Duval and I approach, but I feel him study us all the same.
when we reach the envoy, Duval looks contemptuously at those gathered round him. “Still here, Gisors?” That Duval does not even feign politeness surprises me. I thought honeyed words a requirement here at court.
The French noble spreads his hands. “But of course. I am here to oversee the wardship of young Anne.”
“Anne is no one’s ward,” Duval counters. “You are here to guard France’s interests and care nothing for our duchess.” while Duval’s words are sharp, he delivers them almost cheerfully, as if he enjoys tearing down the carefully constructed web Gisors has built.
“Tsk-tsk. So little trust, Duval.”
Duval narrows his eyes. “Says the wolf as he sniffs at the door.”
As Duval keeps Gisors distracted with conversation, I study the French envoy intently, looking for any hint of a marque, but I see nothing, not the faintest smudge or shadow anywhere.
when Gisors finally turns his hooded gaze on me, I am struck by how very green his eyes are. Those eyes travel languidly down my body and back up again, but he says nothing to acknowledge my presence. Under my hand, the muscles in Duval’s arm stiffen, and he glances at me. when I give a little shake of my head, his mouth flattens in disappointment.
Completely unaware of our silent exchange, Gisors says, “I hear Anne has received correspondence from the Holy Roman emperor. what did he have to say?”
“I believe that is between the Holy Roman emperor and the duchess.” Duval’s mild voice is at odds with the tension in his arm.
“Since he is petitioning for a betrothal that the French Crown forbids, it is most certainly our business as well.”
“Brittany is a sovereign nation, and our duchess free to choose whom she pleases.”
I peer up at Duval from under my lashes. This is not quite true and I wonder if Gisors will call the bluff. He does.
“And I would remind you of the Treaty of Verger,” the envoy says. “Furthermore, young Anne has not yet been crowned duchess.”
“A mere formality,” Duval replies, “since that treaty you’re so fond of quoting agrees that she keeps the duchy and will rule over it as duchess.”
“Only if she marries whom the French Crown says she should marry.”
"We have yet to see a serious offer put forth by you or your regent,” Duval points out.
"We have given you two.”
“A foppish minor baron and a doddering sycophant older than her father.” Duval flaps his hand at the far wall, where for the first time I notice an old, gray-bearded courtier dozing in a chair. “Neither is remotely suitable.”
Gisors gives an indifferent shrug. “Then we are at an impasse.”
“Again,” Duval says, then gives a curt bow and escorts me away. As we pass beyond Gisors’s hearing, I glance once more at the dozing figure against the wall. It takes me a moment to realize that his spirit is growing dim, like a candle flame shrinking and sputtering before going out. “It is just as well the duchess is not inclined to accept France’s candidate for a husband. That one over there will be dead within a fortnight,” I tell Duval.
He stops to stare at the aging courtier. “He is marqued by Mortain?”
“No, he is merely dying of old age or some slow disease.”
“You can tell this from looking at him?”
I nod, pleased that he is impressed with my gifts. Before Duval can say anything further, a large hand clamps down on his shoulder.
“That is quite a subtle touch you have there, Duval, to have angered two men in so short a time. First Marshal Rieux and now the French envoy.”
we turn to find a brute of a man just behind us. He is tall and fat, and a bristly black beard covers his face. Amid all that blackness, his lips stand out like wet pink slugs. His hooded eyes study me with the hungry intensity of a hawk. Something cold and chilling slithers in their depths, and then it is gone, so swift and fleeting I do not know if it was truly there or was simply my own dark fears awakening.
Duval’s greeting is less than warm. “Count d’Albret,” he says. "What brings you to Guérande?”
This is the man the late duke promised his twelve-year-old daughter to? I can scarce wrap my mind around it.
D’Albret casts Duval a sly look. “Always the wit, aren’t you, Duval.”
“One hopes so,” Duval mutters, his voice dry as bone. “Allow me to present my cousin Ismae Rienne.”
I look demurely down at the floor and sink into a curtsy.
“Ah, yes. I, too, have a cousin,” he says. “I am quite fond of her.” D’Albret reaches out, takes my hand, and brings it to his slack, fleshy mouth. Revulsion, sharp and hot, spikes through me and it is all I can do not to reach for my knife. As his wet lips press against my hand, I shudder. Duval places a bracing hand at my back, and I am grateful for something to focus on besides d’Albret’s touch. “Enchanté, demoiselle,” the count murmurs.
“The honor is all mine, my lord,” I reply. As soon as his grip on my hand has loosened, I snatch it back and bury it in the folds of my gown where, unable to help myself, I wipe it on my skirt.