Authors: Robin Lafevers
Two days after Duval informed the Privy Council of Nemours’s offer, his brother François invites me to play chess. I accept, wondering if there is some ulterior motive to the invitation.
François is waiting at a table in the grand salon, his attention on setting up the chessboard, which gives me a moment to study him unobserved. That he would betray his own sister makes him dishonorable. That he is Duval’s brother makes him fascinating.
He glances up just then and I smile shyly, as if I have been caught admiring him. He rises to his feet and bows. “Good morning, demoiselle.”
“Good morning,” I reply as I take my seat.
“Duval let you out for the morning?”
“Duval is busy with the duchess and her councilors.” I grimace with distaste, and François clucks his tongue in sympathy.
"What will you choose, my lady, white or black?” I look down at the ornately carved pieces in front of me.
“Black, I think.”
His brows raise in surprise. “You give up the first move then?” “Is not the defensive position the stronger?” I ask sweetly. He laughs. “You have been spending too much time with my
brother and his strategies. Very well, I shall go first.” He reaches for his king’s pawn and moves it forward two paces. I respond by moving a knight’s pawn forward one pace.
François gives me a sly look. “No hesitation; I like that in a lady.” It would be hard to miss the double meaning in his words.
“I hesitate when it is called for, my lord, and your game has not called for it yet.”
He laughs, and I am pleased at how artfully I fall into this flirtation. “A challenge,” he says, his eyes glittering at the prospect.
I let my face grow sober. “Speaking of challenges, what did you think of the estates meeting? were you as shocked as everyone else with Count d’Albret’s threat of war?”
François’s cheerful face turns grave. “I was. He is not known for idle threats.”
I cannot tell if he is concerned for the duchess or his own aspirations. “Your poor sister already has her hands full with France, she does not need d’Albret’s rebellion on top of everything else.”
“Indeed, she does not.” He smiles tightly. “But I am certain Duval will take care of it. He always does.” He sneaks his bishop out from behind the pawn and takes my knight. when he looks up, our eyes meet. “Your move,” he says softly.
I keep my expression light and turn the conversation to other matters. “Your brother serves Saint Camulos,” I say as I consider the board. "What saint do you serve, if any? Saint Amourna, perhaps? Or Saint Salonius?” The moment the name crosses my lips, I wish to take it back. As François is a bastard, there is a very real chance he was dedicated to Saint Salonius, patron saint of mistakes.
Overlooking my blunder, he claps his hand to his heart. “You wound me, demoiselle! Arduinna?”
I shrug. “You are most charming, so it seems fitting to me.”
François’s brown eyes grow serious. “There is more to me than that, demoiselle.”
“Is there now?” I ask, putting just a touch of doubt in my voice so that he will be compelled to prove it to me.
In spite of the seriousness that has fallen over him, he smiles. “I was dedicated to Saint Mer,” he says, "With the hopes that I would have a naval career.” He gives a self-deprecating grimace. “Until we discovered that I become deathly seasick and am of absolutely no use to anyone on a boat.”
I laugh, as he intends me to, but I am more than a little surprised to find that I grieve for him as well. It is no small thing to be dedicated to a saint you cannot serve. “And your sister the duchess?” I ask.
“Ah, Saint Brigantia,” he says, then falls silent.
Of course. The patron saint of wisdom.
“You are not close to your sister, are you?”
He looks up at me again, and this time his normally open gaze is unreadable. “I was not given a chance. From the time of her birth, Duval was her champion; I could never get close.”
I study him. It is not the faint bitterness in his voice that surprises me but the faint echo of abandonment. “You miss him,” I say in surprise.
François picks up his rook and studies it. “Aye, I miss him. we spent our youth doing everything together. He was my older brother, the one who taught me how to hold a sword and how to draw a bow and where to fish for the fattest pike. when Anne was born, that all fell away, and he became consumed by duty.” He moves his rook down eight spaces. “Check,” he says quietly.
I study the board a moment, trying to force my mind back to the game. At last I move a pawn. It is a feeble move, and François looks at me with mild amusement. “Does speaking of my brother distract you so very much?” he asks.
“No,” I say, managing a dismissive laugh. “It is just that I am so very bad at chess, as I warned you.”
He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. Something behind me draws his attention. “Gavriel, you finally decided to come up for air?”
I look over my shoulder, surprised to see Duval glowering in the doorway. “No,” he says shortly. “I came because I must speak with Demoiselle Rienne. If you’ll excuse us?” His voice is filled with ice and I cannot fathom why.
“But of course.” François stands.
As soon as I reach Duval’s side, he takes my elbow in an iron grip. I wince as he begins walking me to the door. His face is unreadable and I have to quicken my pace lest I end up being dragged. even so, something compels me to glance back at François. His eyes are fastened hungrily on Duval and filled with yearning.
Once Duval and I are in the hall, I pull away from him. “Have I done something wrong?”
He stops, twirls me around to face him, then backs me up against the wall. His eyes spark in fury as he leans in close. “Did you receive orders from the convent that you did not share with me?”
Before I can utter so much as a word, he gives me a little shake. “Did you?”
“No!”
“Do you swear to it? Swear on your service to Mortain, if that is what you hold most dear.”
I frown at him. “Yes, I swear it. Tell me what’s happened.”
He stares at me a long moment. “Better,” he finally says, “I will show you.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Duval tucks my arm through his — none too gently — then leads me deep into the castle. His face is set in harsh lines and there is a grimness I have not seen for a number of days. “How long have you been in the grand salon?” he asks.
“An hour. Maybe more.”
“Has François been with you that whole time?”
“Yes, my lord, but — ”
"What of my mother? Did you see any sign of her while you
Were there?”
“No. what is amiss?”
He does not answer as we hasten through the hallways, past closed doors and empty chambers. "Why are we in such a hurry?” I ask, breathless.
“Because there isn’t much time before news begins to spread through the castle faster than the plague.”
we finally reach a closed wooden door. Duval nods at the guard posted there, who steps aside to let us enter. Duval leads me into to a well-furnished room with an outside balcony. winding steps lead from the balcony to a private courtyard. Duval points to a still, twisted body on the flagstones below. “Fedric, Duke of Nemours.”
“No!” I whisper, then lift my skirts and hurry down the staircase. I curse my sense of death, wishing to hold out hope one moment longer, but there is no mistaking that Nemours is dead.
when I reach the body, I kneel at his side. "When did this happen?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
I glance sharply back at Duval. One eyebrow is raised in a sardonic question that does nothing to mask the fury and disappointment he feels.
“You cannot think that I did this!”
“I cannot?”
“No, milord. I have received no instructions from the convent, nor has my god revealed His will to me. Are you so very certain he did not fall?”
Duval grunts. “I am not.”
Nemours’s body still holds traces of warmth. He cannot have lain here long. "Who found him?”
“I did.”
when I raise my eyebrows in inquiry, he shoves his hand through his hair. “Do not look at me so. we were to meet to review the final betrothal arrangements, but when I arrived his chamber was empty.”
“Did you question his men?”
“Yes. They confirmed he spent the morning alone and had no visitors.” He glances up at the window, two floors above us. "When I found his chamber empty, I looked out here to see if he was waiting in the courtyard and saw his crumpled form.”
Our eyes meet. “But he told no one of his true identity; he introduced himself as a wool merchant from Castile. Only the Privy Council knew who he was . . .”
“Precisely.” His lips twist in a smile that has nothing to do with humor. “After yesterday’s meeting, they all knew about Nemours, and any one of them would have had time to act.”
“So one of the duchess’s closest advisors must have been involved with this.”
Duval nods in agreement. “Although, it is not impossible that Gisors learned of Nemours’s identity through one of his many spies. Or perhaps he paid off one of the council members. Nor is it beyond the bounds of reason that d’Albret arranged this in retaliation, for I can very easily believe Madame Dinan told him of Nemours.”
“No matter which of those is correct, you still come back to the fact that someone from your Privy Council said something. To someone. with ill intent.”
Duval’s jaw clenches. “Does his soul still . . . linger?” He waves his hand awkwardly. “Can you speak with it?”
“I will try.”
I turn my face from Duval and bow my head. Do the people of Nemours worship the same gods and saints as we do in Brittany? I have no idea, but it is worth trying.
I close my eyes and allow this world to fall away until I no longer feel the hard stone beneath my knees or see the fading light of the sun against my eyelids. The faint chill of Death caresses my cheek, like a loving mother who has greatly missed her child.
when I peel away the thin veil between life and death, Nemours is there waiting. His distress at being outmaneuvered is thick and solid, a veritable wall of grief. But it is the despair he feels at leaving the duchess without a protector that touches my heart, for his last thought proves what an honorable man he was. I, too, am filled with despair. why must the honorable die when so many dishonorable live?
Sensing the presence of life, Nemours’s soul moves toward me. I gently reach past the cloud of grief and misery that surrounds him, searching for more of his last thoughts in this world, looking for something that will help us. There: The solid feel of a hand against his back, a sharp push, the sense of falling. The force of his landing sends me reeling. I do not realize that I have almost fallen myself until I feel Duval’s hand on my shoulder pulling me back into life and breaking the connection with Nemours. A gasp escapes me and I open my eyes.
Duval stands over me, his warm, solid hand grounding me in this world, his face full of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, my lord. I am fine,” I say.
Duval’s free hand touches my cheek. It feels far warmer than Death’s caress but is just as gentle. “Then why are you so pale?” he asks softly.
“I am not.” I shove his hand away and cast my eyes down to avoid meeting his. “Nemours was pushed. From behind. He does not know whose hand it was, for he never saw it.” we are both silent as we digest the full implications of this news.
Someone on Anne’s Privy Council is a murderer.
Chapter Thirty
Duval stays late at the palace so he can inform the duchess of the events and see to the necessary letters and arrangements required by Nemours’s death. I sleep not a whit. I am furious that this chance at happiness has been snatched from the duchess, that such an honorable man has died by such a dishonorable hand. I want to fix it, to put things right, but it is beyond even the skills of Mortain.
But perhaps I can grant the Duke of Nemours a small mercy. At daybreak, Louyse bustles in with a full pitcher of water and a cheery “good morning,” shutting the door behind her with her ample hip. “After I lay out your clothes, I will bring a tray to your room to break your fast. Also, my lord Duval left you a note.”
“A note? Is he not here?”
“No, demoiselle. He and the other lords have gone off on a hunt to stock the castle larders.”
She hands me the note and turns to my garderobe. I am torn between opening it at once and using the moment to slip into my fresh chemise. Shame wins over curiosity, and my scar is securely hidden by fine linen by the time she returns. Once she has helped me into a gown, she excuses herself to fetch my tray. I tear open the note, cracking the seal and spilling small bits of red wax to the floor.
Ismae,
I have decided that we will be moving into the palace to be nearer the duchess. If last night’s activities are a sign of things to come, I would be close at hand when she needs me.
Also, after much discussion, the council has decided to go on with the planned hunt — indeed, all court activities — as if nothing has happened. There is no reason the death of an unannounced stranger would alter our behavior, and thus are we bound and trapped by our own deception. It is better that as few as possible know the extent of this disaster.
Be well,
Gavriel
He is right. No one but the Privy Council and he knew Nemours’s identity, so it would not make sense to accord Nemours any particular honors. But in denying him those, surely we are adding to our grievous insult against the man.
I move toward the bed and fetch the sacred bone dagger from under my mattress. The reverend mother has given it to me for some purpose. Perhaps easing Nemours’s death is precisely what the misericorde is to be used for. I do not know if it is some whim of my own or some higher purpose of the god, but I am filled with an urgency to grant Nemours a small act of mercy.
Even as I secure the misericorde at its customary place at my waist, a plan begins to form in my mind. I go to my small trunk, unlock it, and withdraw a long, thin dagger. I place it in a supple leather sheath and then strap it to my left ankle. I slip the plainest garrote bracelet on my wrist, and last, I remove the small crossbow and attach three of the quarrels. The bow is designed to be carried by a thin chain at my waist, under my overskirt. If someone were to press close against me, they would feel it, but other than that, it is undetectable.
I do not expect to be questioned at the palace, but I have an excuse prepared just in case. I carry a small offering to leave on Saint Arduinna’s altar in the chapel in the hope that she will smile on today’s hunt.