Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(76)
Of course, I put none of that in my letter. Instead, I explain all that has happened over the last few days: d’Albret’s announcement that he would force Anne to fulfill her betrothal promise and the Duke of Nemours’s stepping forward with a new offer. Sadly, I must also inform her of Nemours’s subsequent murder and of Mortain’s guiding me to the guard who betrayed him. By the time I am done with it, the letter is weighty and full of grim tidings.
After I finish that letter, and with no pressing duties to attend to, I take the time to write to Annith. The quill flies across the parchment, the questions and concerns pouring out of me. I ask her if she knows of the misericorde and the grace it bestows upon Mortain’s victims. I tell her of the small, green shoot of love that sprang up between the duchess and Nemours, and how cruelly it was struck down. Last, I ask her if she knows if any of the initiates had a special lover outside the convent.
when I am done writing, I am nearly limp with the effort. I fold and seal both letters, then return to my room to wait for Vanth to be brought along with the rest of my things.
The rest of the afternoon and evening drags by and I spend it torn between wanting and not wanting. I do not want Duval to come to my room tonight; I am drained and weary and more confused than I have ever been. And yet . . . and yet I fear that he will not. The truth is, I can no longer imagine my nights without him.
I need not have worried, however, for Duval is as steady and constant as the tides. He even comes early so he can see how I and my wound are faring.
“You’re not asleep,” he says, slipping in silently through the door.
“No.” I start to sit, then wince.
“Do not get up,” he says sharply, and hurries to the side of the bed.
The fire has been built up in my room to keep me warm, and I can see him clearly in the faint orange light from the flames. The stubble on his face is heavy, and I long to touch it, to see what it feels like. I quickly busy my fingers with the rich silk of my coverlet instead.
“Do you need anything? For the pain? To help you sleep?”
“No, milord.”
He is quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking down at me. “I should check your wound to be sure it isn’t festering.”
That shocks me enough to look up at his face. “No! I could tell if it were. I am sure it is fine.”
He smiles wryly. “I suspected you would say that.” He reaches toward me and I freeze. A lone finger touches my cheek, as soft as a snowflake falling. “I do not think it wise for me to linger.” His voice is full of longing and regret. “Not tonight,” he says, then he takes his leave.
Sleep is a long time coming.
Chapter Thirty-three
In the morning, Duval and most of the other nobles and courtiers are off on another hunt. even though it is Advent and fasting is required for three days each week, the castle supplies are quickly being depleted. The nobles are ill-tempered and tense, and it is hoped a hunt will release some of their pent-up humors as well as fill the larder.
I have been assigned to attend to the duchess in her solar. I am loath to spend the day under Madame Dinan’s critical eye, but I am not good for much else. I had thought to skulk about the palace, spying on those I could until Duval pointed out that nearly everyone would be on the hunt.
The duchess sits in the cold winter sunshine spilling in the solar’s windows. Her sister, Isabeau, lies on a couch that has been placed beside her. The rest of her ladies in waiting are perched about the room. The mood is somber, and the duchess is pale and drawn. Only Madame Dinan seems to be in cheerful spirits. I look at her anew. Could she have ordered Nemours’s death? Is she that committed to placing her half brother d’Albret on the Breton throne?
Young Isabeau sees me first. She waves shyly, and the duchess’s head turns to follow the movement. “Come in, Demoiselle Rienne!” the duchess calls out in her high, musical voice. I curtsy quickly, then enter the solar. The younger ladies stare at me in open curiosity, while Madame Dinan’s eyes glitter with challenge. "What brings you here, demoiselle?” Madame Dinan’s voice is distant and cool, meant to send me scurrying for cover.
I grip my sewing basket tightly and raise my chin. “I am here at my duchess’s command,” I tell her.
Madame turns her head to the duchess and raises one elegant eyebrow in question.
“I invited her to join us.” The duchess’s impatience makes me think all is not well between her and her governess.
“Your Grace.” Madame Dinan lowers her voice, pretending she does not want me to hear. “I know that she is a special friend of your brother’s, but it is inappropriate for someone in your position to include her in your pastimes. You have your rank to consider. Besides, have you not enough friends here to keep you company?” Her graceful hands gesture to include the other ladies, and I find myself wondering just how many of them are beholden to Madame Dinan in some way. Perhaps even loyal to her outright.
The duchess keeps stitching and ignores her governess, not deigning to address her protests. As the long silence draws out, one of the ladies in waiting clears her throat nervously. “Did they ever learn who the man was that fell to his death?” she asks the room at large. “They say he was quite handsome.”
what little color remains in the duchess’s face drains away, and she concentrates carefully on her stitching. Madame Dinan clucks her tongue. “No such morbid talk today, ladies. what do you wish for them to bring back from the hunt? Venison or boar?”