Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(87)
Most likely someone is.
I am shown to a seat at one of the lower tables with the lesser ladies and knights, but I do not mind. In truth, I need to pinch myself, for I fear this is all a dream. I can scarce believe that one such as I has been allowed into so fine a celebration.
Once we take our seats, servants bring us basins of warm water scented with verbena so we may wash our hands before eating. while we dry them on soft linen towels, the food is carried in on platters. Meat carvers set to work slicing venison and roasted boar, peacock and pheasant. There is also braised rabbit and roast goose, porkpie, pastries, and frumenty.
I am pleased to find myself seated next to Beast and wonder if Duval had something to do with this. “I have not seen much of you of late,” I say.
His face creases into a grotesque smile. “Duval has kept me busy overseeing scouting parties. we scour daily, looking for signs of d’Albret making good on his threat or of the arrival of the French.”
"Which is the greater danger?”
Beast shrugs his huge shoulders. “I do not know. If d’Albret has retired to his holdings in central Brittany, all he must do is prevent loyal barons and their armies from answering the duchess’s call for troops. That will play havoc enough with our defense.”
I take a pinch of salt from the saltcellar and sprinkle it on my venison. “And the French? where do you anticipate they will come from?”
“From the north and east. They still hold Saint-Malo and Fougères per the terms of the Treaty of Verger. They will use those as strongholds and strike out from there. But enough of this depressing talk, demoiselle. Surely you have spent your days more pleasantly than I?”
I grimace. “Actually, no. I am not overfond of either embroidery or the chattering of ladies in waiting.”
"What would you rather be doing?” Beast’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Something helpful,” I mutter, then I take a sip of wine to wash the sense of helplessness from my tongue. It is not a feeling I relish.
His face grows somber. “Is it not helpful staying by our duchess’s side, offering her peace of mind?”
“But of course, if my presence brings her peace of mind, it is most worthwhile. In truth, she seems most vulnerable since her governess’s betrayal.”
"What of young Isabeau?” Beast’s eyes turn to the high table. “She looks frail to me.”
“Her health is not good. Her lungs are weak, and, I suspect, her heart.”
Beast sends me a strange look. “Does your assassin’s training tell you this?”
His bold question makes me sputter on the wine I have just sipped. I look around to be certain no one has overheard. “No, my lord. But I worked closely with our herbalist at the convent, and it was she who tended to our illnesses.”
“I had hoped she would recover by now. That she has not is unwelcome news,” he says, then tosses back the contents of his goblet. The lord on his right asks him a question, and Beast begins talking with him. Remembering the social pretenses I must uphold, I turn to the knight on my left, but he is leaning so close to the lady next to him that I fear he will fall in her soup. Only too happy to ignore him, I look out among the feasting nobles, their chins greasy with meat, eyes slurry with wine. This celebration has the doomed feel of trying to raise a Maypole in a thunderstorm. I can only hope an order from the convent comes through. This entire room stinks of desperation and betrayal.
Madame Hivern sits between two of the coastal barons and I wonder just how close she is to making her move. Her hand was brilliantly played; she waited for d’Albret to quit the field, and now her opposition has been reduced by half.
My gaze then turns to Fran?ois, who is always at the heart of whatever festivities are taking place. Twice he has tried to pull me into his merrymaking, but both times I have politely refused. I do not have the heart for his flirtations.
The blare of a sackbut heralds the arrival of the evening’s entertainment, and a parade of masked performers troop into the great hall. The leader wears a donkey-headed mask and is followed by an ape, a lion, and a bear. The bear is real and reminds me uncannily of Captain Dunois.
An old bent-over man pushes a cart holding two fools. Another fool gambols in, a pig bladder hanging from the stick over his shoulder. It is mayhem as they cavort and frolic, looking both humorous and grotesque. The fools draw up to the tables and begin dicing with the diners.
The duchess has eyes only for Isabeau, who laughs and claps her hands, delighted. Another mummer comes in rolling a great barrel. There is a rapid beating of drums, a dark, primitive sound. A stag-headed man bursts out of the barrel and leaps into the fray; he represents the patron saint of horned creatures, Dea Matrona’s consort. He is killed every year at the end of harvest so he may rise again when Dea Matrona gives birth to the new year.
The music changes yet again, and a man dressed as a young maid and holding a bouquet of flowers frolics between the tables. The music deepens, grows more terrifying. Out from the shadows steps the black-robed, skeletal figure of Death Himself. everyone gasps.
The maid tries to run, but four masked men leap out of the shadows riding four stick horses. Their red and black masks obscure their faces, and I shudder. They are hellequin, the wild Hunt who came for Dea Matrona’s daughter and carried her away to Death’s underworld, leaving Dea Matrona to make our world stark and barren in her sorrow.