Mortal Heart (45 page)

I think back to the probing glances Sister Serafina often gave me and to the openly hostile manner of Sister Eonette. “I am not sure that is true.”

“How do you propose that we go about this?” She spreads her arms wide as if it is too big a thought to put her arms around. “How do we tell them?”

“I do not know; it is not my sin to confess.” I meet her gaze steadily.

She leans back in her chair, a smile playing about her lips, a smile that sends a whisper of unease down my spine. “You are every bit as culpable as I am, make no mistake.”

I frown in confusion. “What do you mean? I was a mere infant; I did not ask to be brought there.”

She picks up a quill from her desk and examines the tip. “Do you remember the great tragedy?”

The sinking feeling in my gut reminds me of why I have been so reluctant to confront her again. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Of course I do. We lost four beloved nuns.”

She picks up a knife and begins sharpening the point of the quill. I want to shake her and scream at her to stop. Instead, I clasp my hands tightly together and wait for whatever is coming. “Do you also remember how, a few days before that, you and I went out for a walk and carried a small luncheon with us?”

The sinking feeling now turns into a sick churning. “Of course I remember.” It was one of the rare special outings Sister Etienne and I were allowed.

She finally looks up from the quill, piercing me with her cold blue eyes. “Do you remember what else we did that day, besides walk the island and picnic?”

“We picked mushrooms,” I whisper.

She sets the knife and quill down and folds her hands in front of her. “Exactly.”

Dread begins to seep into my bones. “But you said they were the safe ones!”

She tilts her head to the side. “Did I?”

“Of course you did, or else I would never have touched them!”

“Odd. I don’t remember that conversation.” She leans forward, face triumphant with victory. “It was you, Annith, you who picked the mushrooms that killed the nuns that day.”

Awareness slams into me like a battering ram. “But, but if you knew, why didn’t you throw them away?”

“I had to do something to save you from that woman. She was going to kill you. And you—obedient, besotted sheep that you were—you were just going to let her.”

My mind reels. I had thought that learning I was not sired by Mortain was surely the worst shock of my life, but even it pales when compared to this. “And you let Sister Magdelena take the blame for it?”

“Sister Magdelena was old, well past her time, and she had begun to suspect, I think.”

A fresh wave of insight crashes over me. “It was you who made Sister Vereda ill as well, wasn’t it!”

For a moment, she simply stares at me, then inclines her head. “Yes.” Her voice softens. “But I had learned much and was more subtle. I made certain only to sicken her, not kill her. But she too had begun to question things that she Saw. Things that she did not understand. And I had orders, orders that could not come from her.”

“Crunard was blackmailing you.”

“Yes.” Her voice is as flat and hard as her eyes. “If I did not help him, he was going to expose me to the world. He did not know about you. I made certain to keep that from him.” She drops her head into her hands for a long moment. When she looks up again, her face is soft, pleading. “Don’t you see, sweeting? That is why I was going to have you be seeress. Together we could decide what would be best for the convent and the country and we could steer the others to fulfill those plans.”

“Were you ever going to tell me all this?” The force of this second betrayal nearly brings me to my knees, for I had come to understand why a desperate young mother might need to take shelter. But this . . . this committing murder—and now, years later, laying it at my feet—has turned my entire world upside down. “How were you going to force me to See what you wanted?”

“You were always biddable and obedient. At least, before Sybella arrived. You seemed to sense what others wanted or needed from you and were only too happy to provide it. I was simply going to let you continue on that course. That and help you interpret your visions and read the signs of augury.”

“That is why you sent Sybella away so soon!”

“She was ruining you. Corrupting your innocence and your cooperativeness. She was ruining Ismae as well,” she adds as an afterthought.

“She was my friend. And your
sacred
charge, and you betrayed her for your own ends.”

The abbess lifts her shoulders in a cold, unfeeling gesture. “She was not you, and you were all that I cared about. All that I still care about.”

I feel sick, tainted with the stain of her sins.

The abbess stands up and comes around to my side of the desk. She reaches out to take my hand, but I jerk it away from her. Pain flares in her eyes. “You were to be my sacrifice to Mortain,” she says. “My penance. My atonement. By dedicating you to His service, I was certain He would grant us forgiveness.”

“But it was not
your
life to sacrifice to him.”

“If not for me, you would not have had life in the first place. If not for me, that wretched Dragonette would have killed or maimed you.”

I clench my fists in frustration. She is right. In some ways, I owe her much. But not my life. My gratitude, perhaps. And my loyalty?

It feels as if she lost her right to that when she murdered people and tried to blame it on me. Slowly, I look up and meet her gaze. “I owe you nothing.” My voice is quiet but sure. “Any loyalty or respect I might have felt for you was lost the day you killed others and risked young girls’ safety to try and shelter me.”

She reels back, as if my words have the force of a blow. After a moment, she puts her hands into her sleeves and returns to the other side of the desk. “Very well.” When she looks at me again, she is all business, any signs of the pleading mother gone. “Then I will give you what you have always wanted. If you say nothing of this to anyone, you can be an assassin. I will not make you seeress. I had hoped to protect you, not only your physical self, but your immortal soul as well. But if you do not care, so be it. You have only to hold your tongue.”

I nearly laugh at how little she offers me and how far too late it comes. “No. I will never serve under you, nor carry out your wishes. I will not even maintain this charade of yours much longer.”

Then I turn and leave the room, every belief I have ever held, about myself, the abbess, even the world, crushed beneath her crimes.

It is time to have Father Effram call a convocation of the Nine.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, I am in the solar with the duchess and her ladies in waiting. They are stitching, but I find I cannot sit still. I feel as if every bone in my body has been taken out and put back in in the wrong place, and I must relearn how to move, to think, to act. I try to be subtle about it, but the duchess keeps glancing in my direction, looking as if she is about to say something then changing her mind. I am supposed to offer her protection and comfort, not disturb her with my restlessness. I have just decided that, propriety be damned, I will tie myself to one of the chairs in order to keep still when there is a commotion just outside the door. The duchess and I exchange glances, then I move in that direction, my hands reaching for my weapons. Just as my blades clear their sheaths, Duval comes through the door. His eyes are bright and tension runs through his body like a bow that has just been drawn. He glances at my knives, nods in approval, then turns to the duchess. “Ismae has returned,” he says, and it is impossible not to love him a little for the relief that colors his voice. “She wishes to speak with you immediately.”

The duchess has already risen to her feet and is handing her embroidery to one of her attendants. “Shall we call the other councilors?”

“Yes.”

Duval sends a swarm of pages off to collect the others, then together, the three of us make our way to the council chambers. When we arrive, we find Ismae already there. She has not taken the time to change from her traveling gown. “Your Grace.” She sinks into a low curtsy.

The duchess puts out her hand and helps her rise. “I am glad you are safely returned to us,” she says.

“As am I. I only wish I had better news to bring you.” Before she can elaborate further, the rest of the councilors begin filing into the chamber. The bishop and the abbess arrive together, a most disconcerting sight, and I cannot help but wonder if she has decided to try to curry his favor in preparation for the accusations I will soon be making.

When Sybella arrives and sees that Ismae is safe, her lips curve in pleasure, but she says nothing as she comes to stand beside me at our post behind the duchess’s chair. She nudges my elbow with her own, whether in joy at Ismae’s return or simply to annoy the abbess, I do not know. One never knows with Sybella.

When everyone is seated, Duval motions to Ismae. “Tell us what you have learned.” His face is tense and grim and I wonder if she has already told him what transpired in private.

“The French hold the city of Nantes easily enough—there is no resistance.” She glances apologetically at the duchess as she says this. “I was not able to get into the palace proper. They have double guards posted at every entrance, and everyone who comes through the doors must be vouched for by at least two others. They are taking no chances. They closed the gates to the city shortly after I got there and are not letting anyone out. There were also reports that they were going to post checkpoints along the northern roads.”

“They did,” Duval says. “They were able to intercept our scouts so that the army’s arrival caught us by surprise.”

“Just as I arrived in Rennes this morning, the French troops showed up in front of the city gate. I was one of the last they let through, and the gates were shut and bolted behind me.”

“And so it is official, then,” Duval mutters. “We are besieged.”

“With no help is on the way,” Chalon adds. Duval looks as if he wishes to kick him.

Slowly, the duchess turns to me. Her dark eyes are haunted and in them I can see that she has turned over and over my suggestion. Winning the heart of the king of France is the only way to wrest some victory from defeat and save her people. “I think I would like you all to hear what Lady Annith has to say.”

There is a moment of stunned silence and the councilors exchange surprised glances, as if they are trying to remember who Lady Annith is.

The duchess continues. “We have one last option, one that Annith brought to my attention only a short while ago. It is . . . far-fetched, to put it mildly, and I do not know if it can be done, but I would have her tell you, so we may at least discuss it. Lady Annith?”

I take a deep breath and tell the Privy Council of the last of Arduinna’s arrows that I possess and what I believe we may use it for. I direct most of my tale to Ismae and Duval, for they will be the easiest to convince.

As I had presumed, the rest of the council is skeptical of the plan. The bishop in particular looks both scornful and indignant. “But she has already married the Holy Roman emperor,” he protests.

“By proxy,” Duval points out.

Father Effram places a hand on the bishop’s arm, reining in his protests. “And it is not uncommon for the pope to grant annulments when the need for political expediency is great.”

“That is true,” the bishop reluctantly concedes.

Montauban and Captain Dunois are more polite in expressing their doubts over the plan. It is only Duval who seems truly heartened. He has learned of the old gods through Ismae, so he understands their power more than the most. Only then, when I know I have his support, do I allow myself to look at the abbess. Her gaze is fixed on me, her rage etched in grim lines on either side of her mouth. If it were not for the presence of the council, I am certain she would fly across the table and strike me.

In the end, all on the council agree that it is worth trying, although the only reason the abbess does so is so that her lone objection will not be noted.

The rest of the council meeting turns into a planning session, for it is no small thing to work one’s way into the heart of fifteen thousand French troops, locate their king, then shoot him with an arrow. Not to mention get back out again.

“She cannot go on foot.” Duval gives a firm shake of his head. “It could take her days to walk through the encampment, allowing them far too much time to detect her. But more importantly, she would have no means of escape, for once the king has been hit, his guard will swarm her like flies.”

“It is not impossible,” Ismae points out with a glance in Sybella’s direction. “She could easily post as a laundress or camp follower and go unnoticed.”

“Not and make her way through thousands of French soldiers.”

“Sybella did it.”

“Briefly, and only to collect information. And while the army was just arriving and in disarray.”

“We are trained to stealth and cunning.” Ismae’s voice holds a note of gentle reproach. “You do Annith a disservice by not trusting in her abilities.”

Duval turns to me. “My apologies, Lady Annith, for it is not you I do not trust, but the fifteen thousand French soldiers. With that many men, there is just too great a chance you would be noticed, and your disguise will afford you little protection if you draw enough soldiers’ interest.”

“Sybella and I could go with her.”

Duval snorts. “So you can gut every soldier who propositions you and leave a trail of dead bodies in your wake? I do not think that will help her go unnoticed.”

Beast clears his throat—somewhat delicately, given his size. “Must it be her that shoots the arrow?”

Duval glances at me in question. My hand slowly drifts up to the back of my neck, my fingers seeking out the small mark that I have never seen. “Yes,” I say. “It must.”

“Why not one of the Arduinnites?” The abbess’s voice is pitched high, shrill even.

I turn and look at her coldly. “To what purpose? I can ride as well as they can, shoot as accurately as any of them. What do we gain by asking them?”

“Your life,” Duval says gently.