Grave Mercy (36 page)

The next day, Anne sends an officer to Nantes to request that she be allowed to enter her own city so that she may talk with Marshal Rieux. She chooses de Lornay to carry her message into the city. He is well liked for his beauty and smooth manner, and she hopes he will turn the people of Nantes to her cause.

We ride out with de Lornay as far as a small ridge that overlooks Nantes. From this vantage point we watch him ride down to the city gates. “You don’t think they will slay him unheard, do you?” I ask Beast.

His brows fly up in mock surprise. “Do not tell me you’ve developed a soft spot for our Lord Dandy.”
“Not at all,” I say coolly. “I merely want to be certain the duchess’s message has a chance of being heard.”
“Ah,” Beast says, but he is not fooled. “Since Rieux and d’Albret hope to use Nantes as leverage to force the duchess to accept their terms, I think they will be more than willing to speak with de Lornay.”
Just as Beast predicted, one of the city gates opens and a small party rides out to meet de Lornay and the two archers that have accompanied him. It is a distressingly short meeting.
when de Lornay returns there is thunder in his eyes, and my heart sinks. “Marshal Rieux will not discuss terms with me. He insists on meeting the duchess face to face and will speak only with her. He suggests noon tomorrow. we are to meet him on the field below. we may escort her as far as the field, but only the duchess and ten archers will be allowed into the city. Neither Captain Dunois nor the Baron de waroch nor myself are to accompany her. Neither is the assassin.”
It takes a moment to realize he means me.
“I do not like it,” Captain Dunois says at once. “It stinks too much of a trap.”
“Then we will just have to make sure he does not catch us unawares,” the duchess says. “Tell Marshal Rieux I will meet with him then.”

The next morning dawns crisp and clear. Captain Dunois was afraid that the mists would move in and obscure our view of the city, thus hiding any treachery Rieux or d’Albret have planned, for he is sure that they are planning something. But the gods have smiled on us in their choice of weather for today. The duchess has her heart set on speaking to Marshal Rieux.

She has even decided to apologize to him for appearing to dismiss his counsel. It is a big step for her, but she wants him to see that she is willing to bend on some things.

Our entire party rides with her into the valley. we stop a short way from the city walls and wait. At noon exactly, the city gates open, and Marshal Rieux rides out with an escort of four men-at-arms. we all draw around the duchess, waiting to be certain it is not a trap. when no more riders appear at the gate, we give way so that Anne and the marshal may talk.

Marshal Rieux reins his horse in a few feet from the duchess. “Your Grace.”
“Marshal Rieux.”
“If you will leave all but ten unarmed archers behind, I will

be happy to escort you into the city.”

Dunois has made her promise she will not enter the city without her full guard in attendance. “But it is my city, Marshal, my men, my home. I will be received in the manner befitting a duchess, not snuck in like some thief in the night.”

“Then we are at an impasse, Your Grace.” He starts to turn away, but her clear young voice stops him.
“Did you know the French have crossed our borders?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Hopefully, that will spur you to come to your senses and reconcile with Count d’Albret.”
Captain Dunois gives a snort of disgust, but the duchess holds out a hand to silence him. “Did you know they have taken Ancenis?”
Marshal Rieux slowly wheels his horse around. “Ancenis?”
The duchess nods. “At this very minute, they occupy your own holding.”
Her announcement has the desired effect. Shock registers on Marshal Rieux’s face, then disbelief. “You lie.”
“Marshal Rieux! Remember who you are speaking to,” Captain Dunois reminds him.
"Why should I believe this claim?” the marshal asks.
"Why would we lie?” the duchess says. “It is easy enough for you to confirm. Send a rider, if you like.”
Rieux hesitates a moment, then nods at two of his men. They peel away from the party and turn their horses toward the road for Ancenis. “It will still gain you nothing,” he says, but his voice rings less certain.
Captain Dunois spurs his horse forward. “Jean!” he says. “Surely you do not mean to let the French benefit from this rift between you and the duchess.”
The marshal says something I cannot hear, for the two men have drawn closer now and speak in low, urgent voices. I cannot say what compels me to look away from these fierce negotiations, but something does, some small flicker of premonition, or perhaps it is Saint Mortain Himself whispering in my ear, saying,
There. Look
there. However it happens, my gaze is drawn to the ramparts of the keep and I see a slender shadow detach itself from the stone wall. The slim figure walks to the very edge of the ramparts, so close that I fear she will throw herself off the crenelation to her death.
But no. She stays just inside the edge of the stone and looks out across the river and the fields and the fighting men. At me.
even from so far, I feel when our gazes meet, and in that moment I know that it is Sybella. The furtiveness of her movements tells me she has put herself in serious danger by being there. when she is sure she has my attention, she draws her arm across her body, then flings it out, as if she were throwing something. Scattering seed to the wind, perhaps? Or casting crumbs on the water of the moat? I glance down at the moat to see if there is some clue there. That is when I see the postern gate open and two columns of troops pour out. Troops clad in blue and yellow tabards. D’Albret’s colors.
I look back up at Sybella and she makes the gesture again.
She is not throwing something. She is telling us to flee.

Chapter Fifty-one

A dozen men, two dozen men. I stop counting as I near fifty. “Captain Dunois!” I cry out.

At my warning, Marshal Rieux looks up. His eyes register the reinforcements, and then he and the rest of his party wheel around and gallop back for the city. Their job is done; they have distracted us long enough for d’Albret to spring his trap. Dunois’s normally ruddy complexion pales when he sees the troops pouring from the gate. “Your Grace, we must get you to safety.” He begins barking orders. "Waroch! De Lornay! You take the men to meet the approaching line. You three” — he points to the two largest of his guardsmen and myself — “come with me. we will guard the duchess’s retreat.”

As we turn our horses around, the south postern gate opens and a second column of mounted soldiers streams out. They mean to box us in.

And then Beast’s horse is next to mine. A wild gleam lurks in his eyes and I wonder if he is already drunk on the prospect of battle.

“A kiss for luck, demoiselle?”

I look into his dear, ugly face. He is not coming back. Neither is de Lornay. They will buy the duchess some time, and that is all they can do against the two hundred soldiers riding toward us. If he wants a kiss from me before he goes, I will give it willingly. I nod, and he slips his great tree trunk of an arm around me, pulls me close, and plants his lips on mine. The force of the kiss bends me back over the saddle, his thick arm nearly pulling me from my horse.

It is a magnificent, lusty kiss and I feel nothing but deep regret that it may be his last.
Just before he pulls away, he whispers in my ear. “Duval said to give you that should I get the chance. It is from him.”
He puts his spurs to his horse and rides to the small group of men he must lead to their deaths. De Lornay draws near then. He says nothing but unties one of the two crossbows that hang from his saddle and hands it to me. “This will strike from greater distance than the peashooter you carry.” He winks, then turns and gallops to Beast’s side.
Captain Dunois is already riding away, leaning low in the saddle and protecting the duchess’s body with his own. The two rear guards have taken up position behind him. even as I fall in with them, I cast one last look over my shoulder.
Battle fever burns bright within Beast now. He shouts an order that divides his men into two parties so they can delay both vanguards of the oncoming forces. “On my signal,” he says, but before he can give it, a long blast from a trumpet stops him. My head turns toward the sound.
Soldiers on horseback are riding hell-bent toward us. De Lornay is the first to recognize their colors. “The garrison from Rennes!”
He and Beast exchange an elated grin, then Beast gives the order to charge. Beast looks back and sees me hesitating. “Go!” he roars.
And of course, I must. I cannot waste this chance he has given us. I spur my horse and gallop after the others.
when I gain the copse of trees, I allow myself one backwards glance, just in time to see Beast rise up in his stirrups, battle-ax in one hand, sword in the other. Then d’Albret’s forces are upon him. The sound when they meet is deafening, the clash of weapons, the scream of metal, the terrified whinny of the horses.
I urge my mount forward and continue on, the sounds of their terrible fighting echoing in my ears.

* * * 

Not half a league later we reach the main bulk of the forces from Rennes. Dunois barely has time to rein in his horse to avoid plowing into them. Reinforcements flow around us like a river of safety, encircling the fleeing duchess and her meager guard. even if d’Albret’s soldiers were to reach her, they could never fight through the superior number of troops from Rennes. I rub my eyes for a moment, surprised to find that my cheeks are wet. As I quickly dry them on my sleeve, I am shocked to see a familiar figure riding toward us.

“François!” The duchess’s voice is full of joy at the sight of her brother. My own heart lifts too. François has done far more than simply swear fealty to her; he has provided for her in what is surely one of her greatest hours of need.

“It was you who brought these men to our rescue?” she says.

He bows from the saddle. “Only in part. It was Gavriel’s idea to send for them. I was simply the one he dispatched.”
I am not sure I have heard him correctly. “Duval?” I repeat stupidly as the duchess looks at me hopefully.
He bows again. “Duval, my lady.”
“But he was so ill when I . . . when we left. He could not even move from the bed!”
François shrugs. “He was indeed ill-looking, but I can vouch that he was able to move. The night that your party left, he came to my room and gave me urgent instructions to ride for Rennes as if my sister’s life depended on it, for surely it did.”
I can still scarcely credit what he is saying, but the commander from Rennes is already regrouping so that they may ride back to the city and get her behind its walls. everyone agrees that the first priority is to get the duchess to safety.
Before they ride away, the duchess directs Dunois to steer their horses to me. “Go,” she tells me in a fierce, urgent whisper. “Find de Lornay and waroch. If they are wounded, have them brought back as soon as can be arranged.”
I know full well they are all dead by now, bleeding from a hundred different cuts, but I say, “I will do as you command, Your Grace, with all my heart.”

I lean in low over the saddle and urge my horse to go faster. every moment that those I love must suffer, languishing above their wounded, broken bodies, is a sacrilege to me. For I have realized that I love not only Duval, but also Beast and de Lornay, each of them in a different way. I do not think on how I will reach them or how I will dodge any enemy that still lingers on the field. I know only that I will do so with my last breath if necessary.

When I break free of the trees beyond the ridge, I am surprised by the silence. There is no sound of battle, no clashing swords, no screaming horses. It is completely, eerily quiet. I pull back on the reins so the horse will not take the ridge in one bone-jarring leap, and he stumbles to a halt.

D’Albret’s fighting force has already withdrawn back behind the city gates. Once they saw their trap was ruined, they retreated. Only bodies remain on the field. I climb off my horse and tie him to a tree. My hand moves to the misericorde at my waist as I go the rest of the way on foot, gripping Mortain’s own dagger firmly.

I wade among a sea of shattered limbs and bleeding wounds. I try not to let my gaze linger too long, for it hurts. even though half of them have betrayed their country, in death they are naught but dying men, their lives leaching out of them to water the grass. I am surprised to learn that I have not left all of my heart back in Guérande, and I am not strong enough to steel the small remaining piece of it to their plight.

Or their cries. Soft, pitiable cries float over the sea of the fallen. I wrap my cloak around myself, wishing for wax to stop up my ears so I won’t have to hear the quiet, broken noises they make. I scan their faces, bruised and bloodied, grimacing with the rictus of death. As I draw closer to the walls of Nantes, there are a few men that I recognize as our own, and none of those still alive. Until there, finally, a familiar face.

I lift my skirts and run to de Lornay. He lies on the ground, his body scored with cuts. Two arrows stick out from his ribs. I fear he is already dead, until I draw close enough to hear his labored breathing.

I fall to my knees in the blood-soaked mud. “De Lornay?”

At the sound of my voice, his eyes flutter open. A look of awe fills them when he sees it is me. “Ismae?” he croaks.
I grab his hand. “I am here.”
“Did she get away?”
“Yes, my lord. She is safe with Captain Dunois and two hundred men from Rennes.”
He closes his eyes and I can feel the shudder of relief that goes through him.
“Have you seen Beast?” I ask.
He starts to shake his head, but stops as a fit of coughing overtakes him. Blood oozes up between his lips. “He was taken. Set a dozen men on him.” He stops to catch his breath. when he speaks again, it is fainter. “Cut him down and dragged him back to the city.”
Bile rises in my throat to think of the Beast of waroch dragged through the dirt to be strung up on the city walls like a common traitor.
“I am sorry,” he whispers. “I am sorry I treated you so ill. I thought only to protect Duval.”
“It was not I who was poisoning him,” I say.
“No, but you had stolen his heart and I was afraid you would rip it from his chest when you left.”
every ill feeling I have ever felt for this man flees, and I am filled with sorrow. Sorrow that I am only now learning his true nature. Sorrow that we did not bridge this gap earlier. Sorrow that we did not let ourselves become friends.
“I would ask your forgiveness, Ismae, so I will have one less sin to linger over.”
“You have it, my lord.” And he does. I hope his heart is lighter for it.
“Good.” His mouth twitches in an attempt to smile. “Then I would also ask a favor of you.”
“Ask and it is yours.”
“Kill me.”
The stark request drives the air from my lungs. “Please,” he begs. “I would rather not linger here for a day while the crows pick at my guts.”
I look down and see that his other hand — the one I am not holding — is clutching his stomach together.
“It does not need to be a coup de grâce. Any killing blow will do.”
“No, my lord,” I say.
Hope leaves his face. “It was too much to ask.”
I lift my finger to his lips and hold them still. “That is not what I meant. A hero such as yourself deserves the misericorde, and all our thanks besides. I know the duchess would wish it as well.”
He smiles weakly and squeezes my hand, but it is a feeble grip.
Unwilling to watch him suffer any longer, I take the misericorde from my waist. I bend over and press my lips to his bruised and bloodied cheek, a kiss as gentle as a mother gives her child, then put the tip of the misericorde to his neck.
His soul bursts from his body, a joyous exultation as it rushes past me and I feel as if I am awash in holy light. The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think.
Yes.
This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
I stand and survey all the fallen around me. I know what I must do.
I move to the closest fallen soldier next to de Lornay’s now empty body. I bend over and put the tip of the misericorde to his shoulder. In a rush of grace and gratitude, his spirit leaves his body. Once again I feel the touch of that holy light. “Peace,” I whisper as his soul departs.
I go on to the next, and then the next. As I move through the fallen, I notice something: they each bear a marque. And Death has found them even without my aid.
It is not until I have released the last soul from the battlefield that I see a tall, dark figure standing under the nearby trees. I try to get a better look, but the light is failing now and I cannot be sure if I truly see something or if it is just one of the lengthening shadows. But no. Something — some
one
— is there, and he has been watching me move from one body to the next.
He is tall and cloaked all in black. And still. He holds so very, very still. My hand does not move to my knife, for I now recognize His presence, a light, lingering chill and the faint scent of freshly turned earth. with my heart thudding painfully in my chest, I rise to my feet, my gaze never wavering as I walk toward Death.
“Daughter.” His voice is like the rustle of autumn leaves as they fall from dying trees.
“Father?” I whisper, then fall on my knees and bow my head, every particle of my being trembling. I am afraid to look upon His face, fearing His wrath, His retribution for all the wrongs I have committed, from loving Duval to disobeying the convent to releasing these fallen men’s souls.
And yet, in this copse of trees, with the shadow of Death so close, I feel neither wrath nor retribution. I feel grace. warm and flowing like a river, it pours over me. I am awash in grace and cannot help but raise my face to it as I would to the sun. I want to laugh as it rains down on me, ripples through my limbs, cleanses them of fatigue and self-loathing. I am reborn in this grace, and suddenly, I can do anything.
I feel Him kiss my brow, a chill weight on my forehead. In this kiss is absolution, yes, but understanding as well. Understanding that it is He that I serve, not the convent. His divine spark lives within me, a presence that will never leave. And I am but one of many tools He has at His disposal. If I cannot act — if I refuse to act — that is a choice I am allowed to make. He has given me life, and all I must do to serve Him is
live.
Fully and with my whole heart. with this knowledge comes a true understanding of all the gifts He has given me.
And then I know. I know why Duval was able to rise from his deathbed long enough to send François to Rennes, and I know how to save him from the poison.
If it is not too late.