Chapter Thirty-nine
When I draw aside the curtains the next morning, the icy fingers of winter come through the glass and pinch me awake. The true season of Mortain is upon us, everything cold and barren and gray.
Behind me, the door opens and Louyse bustles in. “My lady! Come away from there before you catch your death!”
Her words bring a smile to my lips. Does she think Death is some small bird with my name written on it, beating at the window in the hope that I will catch it? “Something subdued,” I tell Louyse as she moves toward the garderobe. “I am feeling somber today.”
“Aye, you and the whole palace,” she mutters darkly.
I turn from the window and rub some warmth back into my arms.
when she has set out the gown, I send her off to fetch a breakfast tray and hurry to dress, a plan forming as I do. My first task is to write to the abbess informing her of the attempt on the duchess’s life.
I pause partway through the letter as I realize that not once did the Privy Council discuss who might be behind the assassination attempt. At least, not in my hearing.
It cannot be d’Albret, for if Anne dies, there is no way he can become duke. France, then? Do they assume Isabeau is too weak to hold the crown?
The only one who gains by Anne’s death is France, at least as far as I can reckon. And no matter how I turn that over in my mind, I cannot reconcile it with Chancellor Crunard’s lukewarm support of Duval. Hoping the abbess will be able to shed some light on the possibilities, I finish the letter and send Vanth on his way.
with that task done, I turn my attention to the rest of the day and try to think what to do with myself. I have already oiled all my weapons, and Madame Dinan will not admit me to the solar. Besides, the Privy Council is meeting there this morning —
And then I have my plan.
With everyone in the Privy Council meeting, it is easy enough to slip into Madame Dinan’s and Marshal Rieux’s chambers unobserved. All it takes is a well-chosen moment and the twist of a needle-like blade, then I am inside. Dinan’s apartments are much like the woman herself, coldly beautiful but containing no warmth or heart. Marshal Rieux’s rooms are grand and sumptuous, which is no surprise. He seems the sort to demand luxury, not so much for his own pleasure but because it is befitting for someone of his stature. even so, his chamber holds no proof or evidence of any treacherous dealings.
That leaves only Crunard.
Fear scuttles across my shoulders at the thought of searching his rooms. He is the convent’s liaison, after all, and appears to be a great confidant of the abbess. Somehow, I doubt very much she will thank me if I expose him as a traitor.
But she is hundreds of miles away, and the young duchess is running out of options. Her needs seem more urgent than the tender sensibilities of the abbess.
I make my way back through the halls to the chancellor’s office. It is early afternoon and I fear their council may well be over. Not to mention they have no doubt discovered Duval’s absence by now. even so, I must try.
As I reach the chancellor’s door, I cast my senses out and realize he is in there. And he is not alone. Since there is no one else in the hallway, I put my ear to the door. The two male voices are close. with a start, I realize they are at the door itself. Less than a second later, it opens. I try to look surprised, my hand raised as if to knock. “Chancellor Crunard,” I say.
He scowls. “Demoiselle Rienne. what are you doing here?”
I try very hard not to look at the man Crunard is escorting out of his office. “I have come to see if you know where my lord Duval is.” It is a bold move, but I can think of no other reason to explain my presence at his door.
“No, I do not know where he has gone,” Chancellor Crunard says. “I was going to send for you to ask the same question.”
Unable to help myself any longer, I glance at Crunard’s visitor. It is the French envoy, Gisors. His brilliant green eyes study me intently.
Crunard follows my gaze and gives Gisors a brusque nod. “I think I have said all there is to say.” The heat of his anger comes through clearly in his voice. Gisors’s nostrils flare, then he gives a precise bow and strides off. when he is out of sight, Crunard turns back to me. “Have you really not seen Duval today?”
“No, my lord.” Since it is no lie, I am confident he can hear the ring of truth in my words. “I have not seen him since last night after we left the duchess’s solar. Did you not find him in his chamber?”
Crunard shakes his head. “He has not been there all day. His steward said he was gone this morning when he went in to wake him. If you see him, tell him I am looking for him, will you? Remind him that running away only makes him look more guilty.” His eyes are cold and hard upon me and put me in mind of a bird of prey’s.
I tip my head to the side and crease my brow in puzzlement. “Guilty, my lord? Running away? I am not sure I understand you.”
His face relaxes and he looks somewhat less fierce. “It is nothing, demoiselle. Only leftover arguments from the council meeting. That is all.”
“Very well.” I sink into a curtsy and then turn and head down the hall, careful to keep my steps slow and measured, as if I have nothing to hide.
when I reach my room, I quickly shut the door, then lean against it. That was a near thing.
A scratching at the window makes me jump. when I see that it is a crow, my pulse quickens in anticipation. Once I open the window, the crow waits patiently for me to remove the message.
Dearest Daughter,
I have received much information from Chancellor Crunard but very little from you, although perhaps your message is even now on its way to me.
The chancellor has informed me of the French whore’s plot to put her youngest son on the Breton throne. There is no question that this is open treason and the French whore must die.
See to it immediately.
It has been so long since I have used the name that it takes me a moment to realize the note means Madame Hivern.
The convent is ordering me to kill Duval’s mother.
Chapter Forty
No matter how long I stare at the note, the order simply makes no sense. The threat Hivern and François present is small compared to all the others the duchess faces. Nor have they made any open moves.
Has Sister Vereda recovered then and seen this? Or is the decision based solely on Chancellor Crunard’s report? My head is so full of questions it feels ready to burst.
When Louyse brings a dinner tray, I do not so much as glance at it. Instead, I sit staring into the fire, tying myself in knots over this problem that should not be a problem at all. The convent has given me an assignment, one made all the easier because I do not care for Madame Hivern in the least. I find her annoying and pretentious, and yet . . . to kill Duval’s mother? He may be violently at odds with her plans, but he cares deeply for his family.
And why Hivern? why has Mortain decided I am to act against her when He has let d’Albret remain unmarqued? Is it because she is fully French? But if that was the reason, why did he not marque Gisors?
And how can I tell Duval?
In the end, I cannot. I am the worst sort of coward and pretend to be asleep when he comes. As the heavy wooden door by the fireplace creaks open, I lie as still as death, forcing my breathing to be slow and even, willing the blood to move more slowly in my veins.
I feel Duval draw close to the bed, feel him looking down at me for one, two, three breaths, then he moves away. He pours a cup of wine, swallows it in one gulp, then pours himself another. He is restless and I am filled with remorse. He has been cooped up inside the stone walls of the palace all day and is no doubt eager for news, but I do not know how to speak to him without telling him of the convent’s orders. I fear I have forgotten how to lie to him, which disturbs me almost as much as my new assignment.
when he finally stops pacing long enough to eat the dinner I left by the fire, I begin to relax. My cowardice has been rewarded and I will not have to tell Duval that I must kill his mother. At least not tonight.
The next morning I tell Louyse I am not feeling well and am not to be disturbed. The first thing I do is write the abbess explaining that I was waiting for confirming evidence before sending her the reports on Hivern’s plot. I assure her I will take this lesson to heart and will inform her of events in a more timely manner from now on. Next I write Annith and ask how angry the abbess is with me. Best to know just how much trouble I am in.
I spend the rest of the day planning how I will kill Madame Hivern.
Normally, we do not worry overmuch about hiding our kills. The main purpose of the deception of posing as Duval’s mistress was to allow me easier access to the court. If the barons and nobles had learned I was from the convent, they would have been cautious and wary around me. Usually the convent feels it is wise to announce Mortain’s justice as a warning and a deterrent. even so, in this case I decide it is better to be discreet.
Poison, then. I am certain that would be Hivern’s choice if she were given one.
I take the thin gold chain from around my neck and use the key to unlock the trunklet. There is a faint tinkle of glass as I open the lid. The pearls would be easiest, but they leave signs of poison behind. Martyr’s embrace and scourge are far too painful. Amourna’s woe, so named for the pair of star-crossed lovers who were forbidden to wed, might work. So might Arduinna’s snare.
I stare down at the small clay pot of thick honey-colored paste nestled in the corner of the trunk. Arduinna’s snare is subtle and easily absorbed through the skin, but it is too imprecise for my taste. One can never be sure who will touch the poisoned object or if enough will be absorbed to kill one’s victim.
Nocturne’s malaise is painless. Hivern would simply fall asleep and never wake up, waste away into nothingness, but Madame Hivern would hate for her carefully tended appearance to wither so.
I scowl. what do I care how she feels about her death? This is what happens to traitors.
I reach for the bottle of nocturne’s malaise, but my hand grows still when I see the slender white candles beneath. Night whispers. Painless death by an intoxicating perfume, the perfect death for Madame Hivern.
If for no other reason than so I will not be filled with remorse when I tell Duval how his mother died.
Chapter Forty-one
It is well past dark when I set out for Madame Hivern’s quarters. Luck is with me, and she is not there, so I let myself in. I fortify myself with the thought that she is likely out plotting treason. I choose a hiding place behind a thick tapestry that hangs on her wall and settle in to wait.
It does not take long. She and her maid come into the room, chatting about the charming necklace an admirer has given her and guessing its worth. I wait as the maid undresses her and brushes her hair. I block out the sound of their low murmuring voices as they talk of the recent Christmas festivities and what Madame Hivern will be giving François. Instead, I focus on Hivern’s spitefulness toward me since we first met and how cruel she is to Duval.
At last the maid leaves and I hear the rustle of covers as Hivern settles into her bed. Now, I think, just as surely as if Mortain had placed His hand on my back and pushed. I step out from behind the tapestry, take the candle laden with night whispers from the folds of my skirts, and approach the bed.
As my shadow falls across her, Madame Hivern starts, then sits up. "What are you doing in here?” Her voice is sharp with surprise, perhaps even fear. Ignoring her question, I hold the deadly candle against the small flame from the oil lamp on her nightstand until it catches. Slowly, I turn to face her. There is just enough light in the room that I can see the marque of Mortain upon her; a faint trickle of darkness begins just under her chin and trails down her throat. The marque spreads, like a bruise just beginning to form, across her neck and the swell of her chest that is exposed by her low-cut chemise. This comforts me greatly, for if Mortain has marqued her, then the convent’s order cannot be due to some trickery of Crunard’s.
“You are a spy, aren’t you?” Madame’s voice still holds a note of alarm. She looks younger, more vulnerable, without all her fine jewels and fancy headdresses.
“Some might call me that, but it is not what I am.”
She barks out a laugh. “I should have known Duval would not be taken with a mere maid.”
“My lord Duval is not taken with me at all,” I say tartly. "We merely work together. Our love and duty to the duchess give us much in common.” I realize I should move closer so the fumes from the candle can work more quickly, but my feet are leaden and reluctant to move.
"Whoever you may be, you are quite wrong if you think Duval is not taken with you. If there is one thing I know, it is men. And I certainly know my own son. He is smitten.”
“That is not so!” It is demeaning, this arguing with a victim while waiting for Death to claim her, and my voice is sharper than I intend.
She cocks her head to the side and studies me, as if we are simply having a tête-à-tête over spiced wine. “Ah,” she says, her voice full of wisdom nearly as old as Mortain’s. “You love him back.”
I grit my teeth but say nothing.
“I do not blame you for being distraught, Ismae. It is no comfortable thing, having your heart in thrall to a man, especially one such as Duval.”
I am unable to help myself. “How do you mean, one such as Duval?”
“One who will put duty and honor before everything, no matter the cost to him. Or you.”
Her words please me, for if even she says such things about him, it confirms what I myself have come to believe: that he is loyal and true to the duchess. “Too bad you do not hold your own honor so highly, madame.”
A delicate frown creases her brow. "What do you mean?”
