Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(82)
Chapter Thirty-five
I am scheduled to attend the duchess this morning, but when I arrive at the solar, Madame Dinan will not let me in. She informs me that Isabeau took a turn for the worse during the night, and Anne is with her. Her refusal to allow me access is sharp and pointed and intended to make clear to me that I am not welcome. ever.
The old familiar shame nearly chokes me as I return to my chamber. Duval is off meeting with the envoy, so I cannot vent my anger and frustration to him. Instead, I spend the morning tending to my weapons: oiling and sharpening the blades, replacing the poisoned pearls on my golden hairnet, generally making ready for whatever comes. My healing shoulder itches fiercely. Perhaps that is the cause of this sense of restlessness that plagues me. I feel as if we are on a vessel moving inexorably toward some unseen destination. There is no one steering or tending the sails; only the dark tides and currents carry us to their preordained destination. It is not a pleasant feeling and there is little I can do to prepare myself.
Just as I am putting away the last of my knives, there is a knock at the door. My heart lifts. Is Isabeau feeling better then? when I open the door, a page thrusts a sealed parchment in my hand, flops a short bow, then scampers away. Puzzled, I close the door and turn the message over.
The wax seal is black, and the handwriting Sybella’s. I rip it open and read the loose, looping scrawl.
Meet me where we last spoke, at noon. S
Immediately I remember her drawn, pale face, her brittle manner. Is she in trouble? As it is nearly noon now, I grab my cloak and head for the east tower.
The church bell strikes noon just as I enter the main hall in the palace, and I quicken my steps, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of Sybella as I hurry toward the east wing.
At the top of a wide staircase, I nearly bump into Madame Dinan. “Madame,” I say, dipping a curtsy and cursing my ill luck. She is in a hurry herself, however, and barely pauses to acknowledge me. “Demoiselle Rienne. The duchess asked that I fetch her embroidery,” she says in passing.
I frown. She has never explained herself to me before, and I cannot fathom why she would do so now. “Very well,” I say, then continue down the stairs.
She stops. “Are you on some errand for Duval?” she asks.
I decide it is as good an excuse as any. “Yes, madame,” I say, and start to leave, but she speaks again.
"Where is Duval? I have not seen him all day,” says this woman who has ignored me most of my time at court. That is when I realize she is trying to detain me.
without bothering to answer, I turn and race down the stairs, a sense of dread growing within me. I am nearly there, only one more corridor. As I turn into the last hallway, I hear a man’s voice — a deep, cajoling rumble that slithers across my skin. D’Albret! every instinct I possess comes alert. I hear another voice then, a young girl’s voice. Not Sybella.
Anne.
Pulling my knives from my sleeves, I rush forward, panic pounding in my breast. when I round the final corner, I see the duchess backed against the wall and d’Albret looming over her. One of his hands is braced on the wall, trapping her. The other grabs at her skirts as she furiously tries to bat him away.
At the sight of his filthy hands on her, fury explodes in my heart, and a red mist rises up before me. I must make a sound, because d’Albret jerks his head up and swears. He snatches his hands away from Anne as if he’s been burned. The duchess sags in relief against the wall, her face pale as death.
D’Albret’s eyes widen at the sight of my daggers, and he holds his arms out wide, far away from his sword. “Do all Duval’s mistresses walk about armed to the teeth?”
My eyes never leave his face. “Surely it does not surprise you that Duval does not cavort with simpering maids.”
His tone turns cajoling. “Now, demoiselle, my betrothed and I were merely having a private moment. It is not so very unusual as all that. There is no need to overreact.”
“I am not your betrothed,” Anne tells him coldly. Her face is pale, but her voice is strong and steady, and I have never been more proud of her. “I have no memory of signing that agreement, and I have written to both the pope and the ecclesiastical council asking that it be nullified.”
D’Albret whips his head back to Anne. Something frightening glitters in his eyes. “Be careful, little duchess, for I will not give you many more chances to spurn me.”
“I will never marry you.” Her voice is low and furious.
I take a step closer. “You heard Her Grace. She has given you her answer. Now move away.”
with one last furious glance at Anne, d’Albret turns his attention back to me. “You are making a grave mistake.”
“Am I?” I draw even closer, my eyes searching desperately for the marque of Mortain. Surely assaulting the ruler of our duchy counts as treason. But there is no marque on his forehead, nor on his neck above his fur-lined collar. Perhaps that is not where his deathblow will be. Perhaps Mortain intends for him to be gutted like a fish.
Before I have fully thought it through, I reach out and slash at him. His scarlet doublet parts like a wound, exposing his fat white gut. It is pallid and covered in coarse black hair, but there is no marque. A thin red line wells up where the tip of my knife has scored his flesh.
Disbelief and rage clouds his face, and his eyes burn with something that looks like madness. He reaches for his sword, but I bring my dagger down on his hand. “I do not think so.”