Grave Mercy

GRAVE MERCY

ROBIN LAFEVERS

Escaping from the brutality of an arranged marriage, seventeen year-old ismae finds sanctuary at the convent of st. mortain. here she learns that the god of death himself has blessed her with dangerous gifts—and a violent destiny. if she chooses to stay at the convent, she will be trained as an assassin and serve as a handmaiden to death. to claim her new life, she must be willing to take the lives of others.

Ismae’s most important assignment takes her straight into the high court of brittany where she finds herself woefully underprepared—for how can she deliver death’s vengeance upon a target who, against her will, has stolen her heart?

Robin La Fevers was raised on fairy tales, bulfinch’s mythology, and nineteenth-century poetry. it is not surprising that she grew up to be a hopeless romantic. she was lucky enough to find her one true love, and is living happily ever after with him in california. 

“Lafevers has written a dark, sophisticated novel true to the fairy tale conventions of castles, high courts, and good vs. evil, yet it’s spiced with poison potions, violent (and sometimes merciful) assassinations, subtle seductions, and gentle, perfect love.” 

—
Booklist
, starred review

“A delectable simmer of intrigue and ferocity, passion and compassion.
Grave Mercy
sates and fascinates, even as it leaves you craving more.” —cynthia leitich smith,
New York Times
best-selling author of the tantalize series
“atmospheric, romantic, and gripping.”

—Laura Whitcomb, author of
A Certain Slant of Light

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A thousand thank-yous to Barbara Samuel, who helped me see that this was the story I simply had to write and helped me find the voice to tell it. Heartfelt thank-yous to all the amazing fairy godmothers (and godfather!) at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt who got behind this project and showered it with their support: Betsy Groban, Maire Gorman, Mary wilcox, Margaret Raymo, Linda Magram, Lisa DiSarro, Karen Walsh, Rachel Wasdyke, Scott Magoon, and Sheila Smallwood.

And special thanks to Erin Murphy and Kate O’Sullivan, for being true midwives to this project, gently encouraging, coaxing, and cheerleading as needed. An author could not ask for a better team!

For Mark, who first showed me what true love looked like.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Ismae Rienne

Her father

Guillo the pig farmer 

The herbwitch

At the Convent

The abbess

Sister Thomine, martial arts instructor

Annith, a fellow novitiate

Sister Serafina, poisons mistress and convent healer 

Sybella, a fellow novitiate

Sister Widona, stable mistress

Sister Beatriz, instructor in womanly arts 

Sister Eonette, convent historian and archivist 

Sister Arnette, arms mistress

Sister Claude, sister in charge of the rookery 

Sister Vereda, the ancient seeress

Runnion, traitor to Brittany and Ismae’s first kill 

Martel, French spy and Ismae’s second kill

The Privy Council

Viscount Maurice Crunard, chancellor of Brittany 

Madame Françoise Dinan, the duchess’s governess 

Marshal Jean Rieux, marshal of Brittany and the duchess’s tutor 

Captain Dunois, captain of the Breton army

The Breton Court and Nobility

Anne, Duchess of Brittany, Countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont
Duke Francis II (deceased)
Baron Lombart, a Breton noble
Gavriel Duval, a Breton noble
Benebic de waroch, the Beast of waroch and knight of the realm
Raoul de Lornay, a knight of the realm
Baron Geffoy, a Breton noble
Lady Katerine Geffoy, his ladywife
Madame Antoinette Hivern, mistress of the late Duke Francis II
François Avaugour, a knight of the realm
Alain d’Albret, a Breton noble with extensive holdings in France, and one of Anne’s suitors
Charles VIII, king of France
Anne de Beaujeu, regent of France
Norbert Gisors, ambassador for the French regent
Fedric, Duke of Nemours, one of Anne’s suitors
Maximilian of Austria, the Holy Roman emperor, one of Anne’s suitors

Chapter One

Brittany 1485

I bear a deep red stain that runs from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a trail left by the herbwitch’s poison that my mother used to try to expel me from her womb. That I survived, according to the herbwitch, is no miracle but a sign I have been sired by the god of death himself.

I am told my father flew into a rage and raised his hand to my mother even as she lay weak and bleeding on the birthing bed. Until the herbwitch pointed out to him that if my mother had lain with the god of death, surely He would not stand idly by while my father beat her.

I risk a glance up at my husband-to-be, Guillo, and wonder if my father has told him of my lineage. I am guessing not, for who would pay three silver coins for what I am? Besides, Guillo looks far too placid to know of my true nature. If my father has tricked him, it will not bode well for our union. That we are being married in Guillo’s cottage rather than a church further adds to my unease.
I feel my father’s heavy gaze upon me and look up. The triumph in his eyes frightens me, for if he has triumphed, then I have surely lost in some way I do not yet understand. even so, I smile, wanting to convince him I am happy — for there is nothing that upsets him more than my happiness.

But while I can easily lie to my father, it is harder to lie to myself. I am afraid, sorely afraid of this man to whom I will now belong. I look down at his big, wide hands. Just like my father, he has dirt caked under his fingernails and stains in the creases of his skin. will the semblance end there? Or will he, too, wield those hands like a cudgel?

It is a new beginning,
I remind myself, and in spite of all my trepidations, I cannot extinguish a tiny spark of hope. Guillo wants me enough to pay three silver coins. Surely where there is want, there is room for kindness? It is the one thing that keeps my knees from knocking and my hands from trembling. That and the priest who has come to officiate, for while he is naught but a hedge priest, the furtive glance he sends me over his prayer book causes me to believe he knows who and what I am.

As he mutters the ceremony’s final words, I stare at the rough hempen prayer cord with the nine wooden beads that proclaim him a follower of the old ways. even when he ties the cord around our hands and lays the blessings of God and the nine old saints upon our union, I keep my gaze downcast, afraid to see the smugness in my father’s eyes or what my husband’s face might reveal.

When the priest is done, he pads away on dirty feet, his rough leather sandals flapping noisily. He does not even pause long enough to raise a tankard to our union. Nor does my father. Before the dust from my father’s departing cart has settled, my new husband swats my rump and grunts toward the upstairs loft.

I clench my fists to hide their trembling and cross to the rickety stairs. while Guillo fortifies himself with one last tankard of ale, I climb up to the loft and the bed I will now share with him. I sorely miss my mother, for even though she was afraid of me, surely she would have given me a woman’s counsel on my wedding night. But both she and my sister fled long ago, one back into the arms of death, and the other into the arms of a passing tinker.

I know, of course, what goes on between a man and a woman. Our cottage is small and my father loud. There was many a night when urgent movement accompanied by groans filled our dark cottage. The next day my father always looked slightly less bad tempered, and my mother more so. I try to convince myself that no matter how distasteful the marriage bed is, surely it cannot be any worse than my father’s raw temper and meaty fists.

The loft is a close, musty place that smells as if the rough shutters on the far wall have never been opened. A timber and rope bed frame holds a mattress of straw. Other than that, there are only a few pegs to hang clothes on and a plain chest at the foot of the bed.

I sit on the edge of the chest and wait. It does not take long. A heavy creak from the stairs warns me that Guillo is on his way. My mouth turns dry and my stomach sour. Not wanting to give him the advantage of height, I stand.

When he reaches the room, I finally force myself to look at his face. His piggish eyes gorge themselves on my body, going from the top of my head down to my ankles, then back up to my breasts. My father’s insistence on lacing my gown so tight has worked, as Guillo can look at little else. He gestures with his tankard toward my bodice, slopping ale over the sides so that it dribbles to the floor. “Remove it.” Desire thickens his voice.

I stare at the wall behind him, my fingers trembling as I raise them to my laces. But not fast enough. Never fast enough. He takes three giant strides toward me and strikes me hard across the cheek. “Now!” he roars as my head snaps back.

Bile rises in my throat and I fear I will be sick. So this is how it will be between us. This is why he was willing to pay three silver coins.

My laces are finally undone, and I remove my bodice so that I stand before him in my skirt and shift. The stale air, which only moments before was too warm, is now cold as it presses against my skin.

“Your skirt,” he barks, breathing heavily.

I untie the strings and step out of my skirt. As I turn to lay it on the nearby bench, Guillo reaches for me. He is surprisingly quick for one so large and stupid, but I am quicker. I have had long years of practice escaping my father’s rages.

I jerk away, spinning out of his reach, infuriating him. In truth, I give no thought to where I will run, wishing only to hold off the inevitable a little longer.

There is a loud crash as his half-empty tankard hits the wall behind me, sending a shower of ale into the room. He snarls and lunges, but something inside me will not — cannot — make this easy for him. I leap out of his reach.

But not far enough. I feel a tug, then hear a rip of cloth as he tears my thin, worn chemise.
Silence fills the loft — a silence so thick with shock that even his coarse breathing has stopped. I feel his eyes rake down my back, take in the ugly red welts and scars the poison left behind. I look over my shoulder to see his face has gone white as new cheese, his eyes wide. when our glances meet, he knows —
knows
— that he has been duped. He bellows then, a long, deep note of rage that holds equal parts fury and fear.