Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(61)

Chancellor Crunard calls the meeting to order, and the room grows quiet. Before the chancellor has finished the formal opening remarks, Count d’Albret puts away his knife and rises to his feet. There is the swish of skirts and creak of boot leather as the courtiers lean forward to hear better. The duchess eyes him shrewdly but gives him her full consideration, much as one gives a venomous serpent.

“My lords.” He runs his gaze along the dais, then turns to the crowded room. “I am here to collect what was promised to me by your late Duke Francis. Namely, marriage to his daughter — my rightful payment for lending aid against the French last fall.”

“A war we lost,” Chancellor Crunard is quick to point out, and I cannot help but think of his two sons who died in that war.

A rumble reverberates around the room, but whether it is one of outrage or approval, I cannot tell.

The duchess’s clear young voice carries over the crowd and they grow quiet once more. “My lord d’Albret. while your offer is worthy of our consideration, I am afraid I am too consumed by my family’s recent loss to turn my thoughts to marriage, and I beg your understanding a little while longer in this matter.”

“You do not have the luxury of time, my lady. Your very country is at stake.”

“You do not need to remind me of that, sir,” the duchess snaps.

“But perhaps I need to remind you of your duty. Dukes and duchesses do not have the luxury of long mourning periods. The needs of their kingdoms come first, even before their grief.”

Of course, he is right, and the duchess knows it as well. “I have always put my country first.” There is true anger in the duchess’s voice now.

D’Albret’s tone softens in an attempt to coax. "With this marriage I offer, you will be able to turn your attention to more womanly concerns and let me shoulder your burdens. Then you may mourn all you want.” He glances briefly at the dais, but I cannot see who he is looking at. Madame Dinan? Marshal Rieux?

There is a long quiet moment during which it looks as if the duchess is considering the idea. “I see you have thought of all my needs, Lord d’Albret. even so, I must beg more time.”

The count’s face grows red as he tries to keep his anger in check. He turns to address the barons directly. “This is a dangerous time for our kingdom. war beckons, and enemies circle. It is no time for young girls or old men to whisper behind closed doors and plot and plan. It is time for action. Time to face our enemies on the field of battle.”

But at what cost to the duchess, I wonder, as I watch all the color drain from her young face. Duval’s mention of the man’s six former wives rustles through my head, as does Nemours’s disturbing whispers of his cousin’s marriage to a d’Albret.

There is a disturbance in the middle of the room as the French emissary Gisors steps forward. The crowd opens up around him, much as it would if a wolf were emerging from its lair. “It seems to me,” he says into all that silence, “that this would be a good time to remind you of the Treaty of Verger, which clearly states that Anne may not marry without France’s approval. I’m afraid her marriage to Count d’Albret is out of the question. She is a ward of the French Crown and thus everything must be negotiated through us.”

And praise the saints for that small mercy, I think.

“How did he get in?” Duval asks no one in particular. To Beast and de Lornay, he says, “Get him out of here.” with grim, satisfied smiles they begin making their way through the throng of nobles. Before they can reach Gisors, however, he turns and heads to the back door. Before him, the crowd moves aside quickly, eager to get out of his path before de Lornay or Beast catch up to him.

It is as elegant and unhurried a retreat as one can imagine, but it is a retreat nonetheless.

“And see that he is confined to his chambers!” Duval calls out after them. By the way the councilors on the dais snap their heads around to stare at Duval, I am guessing this is a great overstep of his duties or a disregard of protocol.

D’Albret moves smoothly into the breach created by Gisors’s departure. Ignoring Anne, he speaks once more to the nobles. “If you wish to keep your independence, you must support my marriage with the duchess. I will keep you safe from the French.” He smiles, but there is no warmth or humor it in. “Me and my five thousand troops.”

He turns to face the duchess and council, his voice growing hard. “But if you do not support this marriage, I will have no choice but to hold the house of Montfort in breach of contract and will use all of my considerable resources to get by force what I could not gain by reason.”

The room explodes in an uproar. I lean forward slightly, hoping that the count will now bear a marque. But there is nothing. I turn my attention to the dais, hoping that a marque will at least appear on whoever called this meeting and set this trap for the duchess, but again, nothing.

Chancellor Crunard rises to his feet, his cheeks flushed with anger. “You are but one of many who was promised the duchess’s hand in marriage; there is no way we can honor all such agreements. Indeed, if we were to take them in the order they were made, yours would be the fifth in line.”

D’Albret’s face is expressionless, but his eyes burn with an intensity that is most disturbing. “But do all those others have an army of five thousand just outside your borders?”