Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(58)
No longer teasing, he looks at me in concern. "Will you be recognized, do you think?”
“No, it was many years ago, and I have changed much. Besides, they would never think to look for the turnip farmer’s daughter in such finery or among such exalted company. People see what they want to see.” Perhaps if I repeat it enough, it will be true.
His eyes hold mine a moment longer. They are filled with understanding and I want to slap such kindness from his face. Does he not realize it erodes my defenses just as surely as salt erodes his armor? I look away abruptly. “If you do not wish to be seen, I know a shortcut to the church,” I say, eager to be out from under his shrewd gaze. when at last he nods, I put my heels to my mare’s flanks and fly.
Chapter Twenty-four
As we draw near the church, I catch a glint of sunlight on steel behind a wall of shrubbery. I slow my horse so that I fall back alongside Duval. Dipping my chin, I look up at him as if flirting. “There are armed men in the trees,” I tell him in a low voice.
A quail calls just then, and Duval flashes a quick grin. “They are mine,” he says. “I had them ride out at first light to watch the place in case any trap was laid.”
I say nothing, but I admit to myself that I am impressed. The church in St. Lyphard is an old one, made of solid Breton stone and thick wooden timbers. Small alcoves are set into the walls, each housing one of the old saints. My eyes are drawn immediately to the carving of Mortain. This statue is old, older than any I have seen, and shows Mortain at His most skeletal, clutching an arrow with which to warn us all that life is fleeting and He could strike at any moment.
while Beast and de Lornay take up positions on opposite ends of the churchyard, Duval dismounts, then comes to assist me from my horse.
"Why this place?” I ask in an attempt to distract myself from the sensation of his hands at my waist.
He sets me on my feet. “Because the priest here still makes prayers and offerings to the old saints and I can be certain he is loyal to his country. Besides, men are less likely to plot treachery in a church.”
The arch over the front door is covered with more carvings, this time of cockleshells and sacred anchors of Saint Mer. Some pious soul has hung a sheaf of wheat for Dea Matrona. Duval pulls open the door, puts his hand on my back, and nudges me through.
The inside of the church is dark and damp and filled with the rich, smoky scent of incense. The shimmering, golden halos cast by the burning candles do nothing to lift the chill of the place. I can feel the weight of all the souls that have passed through here, feel the pull of the thousands upon thousands of prayers that have been said inside these walls. The pulpit is carved with scenes of the early lives of the saints, the copper gone green with age and dampness. Behind that, above the altar, is an exquisite, if newer, sculpture of the Resurrection.
I make my way to the niche of Saint Amourna and take the small loaf of freshly baked bread from my pocket. It is the traditional offering all young maids make when asking for true love, the disguise Duval and I have devised for our trip to the church. In order for the offering to work, it must be fashioned by the maid’s own hands. This one is not, but even so, the old saints are thick in this place and I do not like putting a false offering before a saint for a blessing I do not wish. To ease my conscience, I pray instead that the duchess will find happiness in whatever match she is forced to make.
when I am done, Duval motions me to a back doorway, one only the priest uses. I am to stand here and be certain no one approaches him from behind.
we wait in silence for what seems an eternity before I hear the scrape of a boot heel upon the stone step. Harsh light slices through the darkness as the door opens.
A lone figure enters the church. His hair is blond with a reddish cast to it, and his clean-shaven jaw is strong. while he is clearly of noble blood, he is neatly dressed in a breastplate and vambraces. Not just some court dandy then, but a man with soldierly experience. The two men greet each other cautiously, then the stranger gets right to the point — yet another thing to admire about him. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
Duval nods. “Your caution was well founded. we evaded a party of soldiers following us.”
The stranger smiles. “Ah, yes. My own men intercepted them just before we split off the road for the church. They are even now leading them on a merry chase toward Redon.”
Duval tilts his head, studying the man. “I know you,” he says at last.
The young man smiles. “You have a good memory. I am Fedric, Duke of Nemours.” He bows deeply.
Duke of Nemours! My mind scrambles back to Sister Eonette’s lessons. Nemours is a small but rich holding that, like Brittany, pays only nominal homage to the French Crown. The old Duke of Nemours had fought alongside Duke Francis in the Mad war, and died there. The young lord before us was one of the many men betrothed to the duchess.
“I come to offer to reopen negotiations for the hand of your sister,” Nemours says.
“But I thought you were already married.”
Nemours’s face grows somber. “I was. My wife and young son died of the plague that passed through Nemours at the end of the summer.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Duval says.
Nemours’s grin is somewhat forced. "Which is why I come to you seeking a new bride. when word of your sister’s circumstances reached me, I thought to approach you.”