Those words are like a shower of winter hail down my back. I sit up and turn to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean”—she chooses her words as if picking her way across a stream—“that I believe the convent misunderstands both Mortain and His wishes for us. Whether through ignorance or intent, I do not know.”
The magnitude of this makes my heart clutch in my chest. “Explain,” I say, shoving my hair out of my eyes so I may use every sense I possess to try to understand this huge revelation she has just shared.
“First, He does not insist we act with vengeance or judgment in our hearts. To Him, bringing Death is an act of great mercy and grace, for without it all people would be forced to struggle on in frail and broken bodies, riddled with pain, weakened. That is why He has given us the misericorde.”
“The what?”
Ismae looks at me, puzzled. “You do not have one?”
“I have never even heard of such a thing.”
Ismae reaches into the folds of her skirt and withdraws an ancient-looking knife, its handle of bone with chased silver. “It is an instrument of mercy,” she says softly. “Just one nick causes the soul to leave the body, quick and sure and painless. But I do not understand why the abbess did not give you one.”
“It could be she knew no one in d’Albret’s household was deserving of mercy.” Of a certainty, she knew I would not be interested in dispensing it.
She puts that aside for now. “But Sybella, what I learned is that He does not love us because of the acts we perform in His name—He loves us because we are His. What we choose to do or not do, how we choose to serve Him or not serve Him, will never alter that love.”
“He told you this?”
“Not in words such as you and I speak, but I felt it. I felt this grace and love of His surround and engulf me like a river, and it stripped the ignorance from my eyes.”
“Much like the Tears of Mortain allow us to see His will better.”
“Precisely like that. Only a hundredfold more.”
I reach out and grab her arm. “So have we been wrong all this time? Committing murder by striking when we see His marque?”
“Not wrong, exactly,” she says slowly. “But I would say instead it is not required of us. Those who are to meet Death bear a marque, whether they are to die by our hands or by some other means.”
“How do you know this?” Have I been killing men all this time, thinking I was doing His will when I was actually following some dark impulse of my own?
“After we were attacked at Nantes, I returned to the field to search for survivors among the fallen.”
“There were none,” I say tightly. “D’Albret does not leave survivors.”
“No, but each of the dying soldiers bore some form of the marque. And the men I saw marqued when I was a child—none was killed by another’s hand. I believe the marque appears when a man’s death is in sight, and that includes a death at our hands. The mistake I think the convent has made is about the nature of those marques. They are merely reflections of what will happen, not commands to act.”
“Does the abbess know this?”
“I do not know,” Ismae says slowly. “I cannot tell. Although she was most angry when I suggested such an idea to her. Now sleep. Morning will come soon enough.” She comes over to the bed, leans down, and presses a kiss on my brow. “Everything I have told you about Mortain is true. Do not doubt it.” And then she is gone, and I am left with my entire world turned upside down.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
EVEN WITH THE DRAFT ISMAE prepared, my sleep is fitful and restless. I am too consumed with reciting all that she has just told me, my mind scrambling to recast the world—and my role in it.
I am not certain I believe her, for Ismae was always wont to see Mortain and the convent in the best possible light. Even so, it has given my mind much to gnaw on.
When I wake, my head is so thick and woolly that it takes a moment for me to realize that someone is knocking. I fight my way out of the tangle of covers, get to my feet, and stumble to the door. I open it an inch and peek out. A liveried page awaits. To his credit, his eyes drift to my disheveled appearance only once before returning to my face and staying there. “The duchess cordially invites you to join her at your earliest convenience in her solar, demoiselle.”
“Very well. Tell her I will be there shortly.”
The lad gives a sprightly bow. Before he can scamper off, I ask him to send a maidservant to attend me.
The summons has chased the last cobwebs of sleep from my mind as I worry what the duchess wishes of me. Will she ban me from her court, now that she knows of my heritage? Or will she try to draw more of my secrets from me?
And if so, what will I tell her? For she, more than anyone, has a full right to know both the doings of her most traitorous subject and the nature of this man some would have her marry.
Whatever she wishes, it will most likely be just she and her ladies in waiting in the solar, so I will not have to face Beast just yet. While Ismae was most forgiving, my family has not harmed her or those she loved in any way. Beast’s betrayal at my hand goes much deeper than a secret not shared between childhood friends.
By the time the maid arrives, I have already washed with the water remaining in the ewer, the coldness of it helping to restore my wits. I slip into the second of the gowns Ismae has lent me, a stark, simple black silk with severe lines. I settle my heavy garnet and gold crucifix on the thick chain around my waist and consider myself ready. At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.
The maid herself leads me to the duchess’s solar, which is two floors up from my own chamber. She murmurs my name to the sentry on duty, who nods and opens the door, announcing me.
“Come in!” the duchess’s young voice calls out. Cautiously, I step into the room, blinking at all the golden sunlight spilling in through the mullioned windows.
The duchess is sitting near a couch, surrounded by three ladies in waiting. As they eye me furtively, I cannot help but wonder if news of my parentage has traveled to their delicate ears. Or is the council treating it as a secret to be guarded?
A young girl, no more than ten years of age, reclines on the couch, looking fragile and wan.
“Lady Sybella!” The duchess waves her hand at me. I step farther into the room, pleased that she has not used my last name. As I sink into a deep curtsy, I comfort myself that she has most likely not brought me here to censure me in front of her younger sister.
“Come. Sit with us.” She pats the empty chair between herself and the couch, and I realize that this summons is an invitation. An open declaration of acceptance, and I am humbled by this great kindness she is showing me.
“But of course, Your Grace.”
I ignore the glances of her ladies and cross to the chair the duchess indicates. As I sit down, the duchess gives me another smile. “I had thought to invite you to stitch with us, then realized you probably did not think to pack your embroidery silks when you left Nantes.”
I smile at her gentle joke. “No, Your Grace. I did not.”
One of the ladies leans forward, her brow creased. “How did you find Nantes, my lady?”
The duchess looks at her attendant and shakes her head with a glance in the young girl’s direction. The woman nods in understanding.
“It is as magnificent as ever, a true testament to the house of Montfort,” I say, and the duchess relaxes slightly.
“Demoiselle, I do not think you have met my sister before. Isabeau, dear, this is the Lady Sybella, a great ally of ours.”
Her words cause a blush to rise to my cheeks—I, who never blush—and I turn to properly greet her sister. The child’s skin looks nearly translucent, and her large eyes peer out of her pale, drawn face. And her heart—ah, her heart is beating slowly, weakly, as if it may give up at any moment. She reminds me wholly of my younger sister Louise, who also battles fragile health. Once again I am grateful that both my sisters are tucked away in one of our father’s most remote holdings, far from his political scheming and influence.
Not welcoming all the painful memories that the young princess stirs, I harden my heart against her, but in the end, she is so small and weak and charming, I cannot keep myself from liking her. Her embroidery sits forgotten in her lap, and she plucks at her bodice, as if she finds it difficult to breathe. To distract her, I beg a length of scarlet embroidery silk from the duchess, then busy my fingers.
My action immediately catches Isabeau’s attention. “What are you doing, my lady?” She pokes her nose forward to see better.
“I am making a cat’s cradle, a puzzle of thread.” A few more twists of my fingers and the red thread is shaped like a trestle bridge. The princess’s face brightens and her mouth forms a small O of delight.
“Take your hands and pinch where the threads cross on each side,” I tell her.
She glances at the duchess, who nods her head in permission, then reaches out with two slim fingers and hesitatingly pinches the crossed threads. “Ready now?” I ask.
She glances up at me, then back down at the threads. She nods. “Pinch hard,” I say, “pull your hands out to the side, then bring them slowly back in and under my own.”
Biting her lip in concentration, Isabeau does as I instruct. It is clumsy and awkward, but when she is finished, she has transferred the cat’s cradle to her own small hands, and her face flushes with triumph and delight.
“Oh, well done,” murmurs the duchess.
I smile at Isabeau, who smiles back. She is no longer plucking at her bodice, and her heart is beating a little more steadily. Thus it was with Louise as well. Her own illness made her anxious, which in turn made her feel worse. It comes over me with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer that I may very well never see Louise or Charlotte again. Not after betraying d’Albret.
“Demoiselle?” the duchess asks, leaning forward with her brows pinched in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just trying to remember another trick with the string.” I force all thoughts of my sisters back into the small, cramped box deep in my heart, bind it once again with chains, and lock it tight.
I spend the next hour teaching Isabeau how to do the trick while the duchess talks softly with her ladies. Unobserved, I try to note each of them and take her measure. How long has the duchess known them? How loyal to her are they? I do not recognize any of them from Guérande, which suggests they have been culled from Rennes’s noble families. Let us hope they are more loyal than her other attendants and retainers have been.
They in turn watch me, their glances like small, biting insects. I cannot tell if it is mere curiosity or if there is knowledge and censure in their gaze.
When it is time for dinner, the ladies put away their embroidery. Isabeau is being allowed to attend tonight, for the duchess has agreed to a performance by minstrels that she thinks her young sister will enjoy.
We leave the solar, and the duchess has one of the other ladies escort Isabeau while she herself walks next to me. Her steps slow somewhat, and I must alter my pace so I do not run ahead and leave her trailing behind. When no one is close enough to hear, she leans toward me slightly. “Demoiselle, I want you to know that I thank you for your sacrifice, for to go against your family, no matter how justified, is no easy thing. I also want you to know that I do not doubt a single word you have told us. Indeed, it aligns precisely with what my lord brother and I have long felt. I am only sorry that you have had to learn this knowledge firsthand.” With that, she squeezes my arm gently, then turns the talk to the minstrels and what she has heard of their talents. I hear nothing she says; I am too busy holding tight this small nugget of trust she has granted me.
While the great hall in Rennes is smaller than that of Nantes, it is every bit as opulent. The rich carved paneling is decorated heavily with thick, brilliant tapestries, and the room is alight with the glow of scores of candles. The mingled scent of rose, civet, cloves, and ambergris hangs heavy in the air, and I feel the beating of a dozen hearts. It is, in every sense of the word, an assault upon my senses. Even worse, everyone in the room is infected with high spirits, and the guests’ jubilant manner makes me uneasy. It is unwise for them to be so very happy, for the gods will feel the need to humble us.
The first thing I do is look for Beast, but the ugly oaf is not here. My entire body sags in relief, for I did not look forward to an entire evening spent trying to ignore his wrath. Not to mention I’m fairly certain his continuing fury would blister my skin.
The rest of the council is here, however. The abbess and the bishop have their heads together, whispering. As if feeling my gaze, the abbess glances up and gives me a cool nod. I dip a curtsy but do not go to her.
The earnest Captain Dunois is deep in conversation with the chancellor, his heavy, furrowed brow making him look even more like a bear. Wanting to test his reaction to me now that he knows who I am, I drift closer.
When he sees me, he nods a distracted greeting. Or perhaps it is a cool greeting, like the abbess’s, a way to discourage my approach. I do not know him well enough to say. While I do not know Chancellor Montauban any better, there is no mistaking the distaste in his gaze. He makes no effort to hide it.
As I turn away from them, I see a small, hunched figure hovering just outside the doorway. It is Yannic, whom Beast has no doubt sent to spy on my movements.
Furious, I turn and search the hall, looking for someone I can attach myself to and prove that I am not moping over him. Nor am I the pariah he no doubts wishes me to be.
The duchess’s cousin Jean de Chalon is but a few paces from me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, which surprises me somewhat, as the last time we were together he appeared most distant and guarded. But he is handsome and titled and will make a good story for Yannic to carry back to his master. I smile at Chalon, a smile filled with more mystery than sparkle, for he is not a man to be lured with simple wiles.
