“Twenty paces, then up a staircase. Small for a man, and wiry, like the fox he resembles. The dust of Amboise clings to his boots, and a red ruby given to him by the French regent winks in his ear. Martel is his name. That is who Mortain has marqued.” The flames sputter out, and Sister Vereda’s eyes return to their milky white.
Not knowing what else to do, I curtsy. “Yes, Sister. Mortain’s will be done.”
Next, she lifts a small box from the shelf under the brazier. Her eyes may be blind, but her fingers are nimble and quick, and she opens the small leather case and pulls from it a heavy bottle. It is of deepest black, its polished surface catching small sparks of light from the embers so that it looks as if she holds a piece of night sky filled with stars.
"Even though you are not a full initiate, the reverend mother says that you are to receive the Tears of Mortain. Kneel,” she orders as she pulls the stopper from the bottle.
Keeping my eyes on the sharp, tapered point of the stopper, I kneel at her feet.
“By the grace of Mortain, I grant you Sight so you may see His will and act on it. Do you promise to obey the saint and act only when He bids it?”
“I do.”
She dips the point of the stopper into the contents of the vial, then gropes gently for my face. “Open your eyes wide, child.”
Even though I am sore afraid of that sharp wand, I do as she commands. She moves it unerringly toward my eyes, one single heavy drop hanging from the tapered end, and I pray her hand is steady.
There is a touch of warmth, then my vision blurs and all the colors and light in the small room run together. My eyes grow warmer and warmer until I fear they will burst into flames. For a moment, I am afraid she has blinded me, but then the sensation passes and the heat and the blurring cease, and I can see again. It seems to me that everything is somewhat brighter now, all the edges sharper, as if the same milkiness that clouds Sister Vereda’s gaze has been ripped away from my own.
But it is not only my sight that is different. My skin, too, has changed, and I feel the air as an almost solid thing against my arms and face. I am aware of Sister Vereda in a way I was not before; I can feel her, feel the spark of life that shines so brightly within her.
“These Tears of Mortain are a gift to those of us who serve Him,” she explains as she returns the vial to its box. “They allow us to experience life and death as He does. Now go,” Sister Vereda says. “And may Mortain keep you in His dark embrace and guide your hand with His own.”
Chapter Eight
Chancellor Crunard has claimed this chateau is nothing but a hunting lodge, but to my eyes, accustomed as they are to a poorly thatched cottage and the austere world of the convent, it looks like a palace. The only thing the nobles appear to be hunting is one another, whether for spirited gossip or furtive liaisons behind the tapestries.
The chancellor pats my arm. “Relax, my dear,” he says. “Or else they will wonder why my new paramour is scowling so.” His wry smile causes me to blush. Prettily, I hope.
“Your pardon, milord.” It had seemed a most far-fetched notion when the abbess first explained it. Surely no one would believe that I was with Chancellor Crunard in that way. But the truth is, there are many such pairings throughout the hall, older lords and nobles sporting young maids on their arms just as they sport jaunty feathers in their caps or jeweled daggers at their hips.
Our host, Baron Lombart, approaches, and Crunard introduces us. Lombart is fat and old and reminds me of the boar who used to hide in the woods near my home. I murmur some polite nicety and wonder if my new garrote would be able to slice through the thickness of his neck.
I suspect Crunard has guessed the drift of my thoughts, for he nods in the direction of the crowd. "Entertain yourself for a bit, my dear. The baron and I have business to discuss.”
It is my cue, and joy at being released surges through me. I am only too happy to let the tides and currents of the mingling nobles carry me to the edge of the room so I can slip away to my assignment.
As I move toward the door, curious glances brush against my skin. I feel one particular gaze linger too long, so I stop and pretend to make conversation with two gentlemen nearby. One of them stops talking and turns his protruding eyes to me. I give him a withering glance and continue on my way.
When I reach the doorway, no one is watching, so I slip from the room. The hallway is dark compared to the brightness of the great hall, and cool. I am glad to be away from the smell of too many bodies and warring perfumes. I count off twenty paces and am not surprised to find a wide, sweeping stairway, just as Sister Vereda predicted.
When I reach the first door at the top of the stairs, I draw into myself, as I have been taught, letting everything around me grow still, and then I cast my senses into the room beyond. The Tears of Mortain have done their job well, for I am certain there is no spark of life burning behind that door.
The next chamber is as cold and empty as the first, but when I stand in front of the third, I feel the faint trickle of life, warm and pulsing.
Anticipation bubbles through me, and it is all I can do to keep from charging in, daggers drawn. Instead, I put a hand to my heart to calm it and quickly run through Sister Beatriz’s instructions. This will be the hard part, acting the coquette.
With one last deep breath, I force a smile of breathless anticipation onto my face and open the heavy wooden door. “JeanPaul?” I whisper into the room, then stumble slightly, as if I’ve had too much wine. “Is that you?”
Standing at the window, Martel whirls around to face me. He is just as Sister Vereda said he would be, not much taller than I, his hair the reddish brown of a fox. I stumble toward him, and barely have time to register his scowl of alarm before he steps away from the window and grabs my shoulders. "What are you doing here?” He gives me a rough shake and I let my body go slack, as if I can barely manage to stand on my own.
“I am looking for Jean-Paul. And you, sir” — I tap him lightly on the chest — “are not him.” I squish my lips into a pout and pray I do not look like a hooked fish. I am close enough to see the ruby he wears in left ear.
Looking down at my bodice, the fool relaxes. Are men truly such idiots that they cannot resist two orbs of flesh? Martel glances at the door behind us and licks his lips. “Perhaps, after I conduct my business, I can come to demoiselle’s aid,” he suggests. His eyes stray again to my bodice, and the dagger at my ankle calls to my clenched hands. Not yet, I tell myself. Not yet.
“That is a very kind offer.” I let my eyes wander up and down his body, as if assessing his charms. In truth, I am searching for the marque. His forehead is clear, as are his lips. Uncertainty raises its head. I sigh as if smitten. “But Jean-Paul,” I say, then sigh again. I tilt my head, considering. "Well, as you say, he is not here. Mayhap monsieur will do.” As if I am a mare in heat, I think in disgust, and any stallion will suffice.
Martel steps closer. I swallow the distaste that rises up in my throat and wind my arms around his neck. There! Just where his shirt meets his jaw line, a dark shadow marks his skin. He sees the spark of interest flare in my eyes, and his own heat with desire. I allow my body to press even closer against his. He licks his lips again. “As soon as I am done . . . Perhaps you can wait in the next chamber?”
“My pleasure, milord,” I say. He nuzzles my ear to seal our agreement. while pretending to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, I slip the bracelet from my wrist. Just as his nuzzling starts to move dangerously low, I yank the hidden wire from the bracelet. Before he can guess what is happening, I loop it around his neck, spin out of his embrace, step around to his back, and pull tight, a move I have practiced with Annith a hundred times.
His hands scrabble at his neck, tearing at the silver wire. The sounds he makes are ugly and desperate and fill me with uncertainty. Then I remember that this man is betraying my country, my duchess, and I pull tighter, praying to Mortain for strength.
He grants it. After a short but spirited struggle, Martel sags against me. Before he is completely gone, I lean in and put my lips to his ear. "We punish those who betray our country.” My words are as soft and tender as a lover’s caress, and Martel shudders as death claims him.
Just as I relax my grip, a thick warmth rises up from his body and rubs against me, like a cat rubbing its owner’s leg. Images fill my mind: a fleet of ships, a sealed letter, a heavy gold signet ring, my own br**sts. The warmth swirls briefly within me, then dissipates with a sudden whoosh, leaving me chilled and shaken.
What in Mortain’s name was that?
His soul.
The words come unbidden. Almost as if someone else — the god, perhaps? — has spoken them.
Why has no one at the convent warned me of this? Is this one of the glories of Mortain that Sister Vereda spoke of? Or something else? For I cannot decide if I have just been violated in some way or granted a sacred trust.
But I have no time for reflections. I shove my questions aside and brace myself against the man’s body, trying to balance his weight as I unwrap the garrote from his neck. I wipe it clean on his doublet, then retract the wire into the bracelet. with both hands free, I prop the body up against the window and peer down to the courtyard, praying that the cart Chancellor Crunard promised is there.
It is.
I grasp the traitor by his collar and begin the difficult task of shoving his body through the window.
For a small man, he is surprisingly heavy. I struggle with his dead weight, trying to maneuver it onto the casement. After a final heave that leaves me breathing hard, the lifeless body tumbles from the window. There is a moment of silence, then a thud as the body hits the waiting cart. I peer out in time to see the
driver lift the reins and urge the horses forward.
I do not know where he will take the body or what he will do to keep it concealed, but that is not my task.
Flushed and shaky after my brush with Martel’s soul, I long to sit down in one of the chairs and compose myself. Or fall to my knees and pray for understanding. But I must get back to Crunard so we may take our leave.
I push away from the wall and move toward the door, then hear a footstep in the corridor outside. Too late! Someone is coming. Baron Lombart, perhaps? Hoping to meet with Martel? I try to think. Should I seduce him or kill him? Of course I would prefer to kill him, but I cannot — not unless he tries to kill me or I see the marque.
The latch on the door lifts and I step back a few paces, gripping my arms and hunching my shoulders, already slipping into the role I must play. Once again, anticipation burbles through me. Or perhaps it is panic.
When the door opens I cry out, “Jean-Paul? what took you so long? I’d almost given up on — oh. You are not Jean-Paul,” I say accusingly.
“No,” he says, then closes the door softly behind him. “I am not, but perhaps I can help you,” he offers.
And indeed, he is not Jean-Paul, nor Baron Lombart. This man is much taller than the baron, and where Lombart had gone to fat, this man is all lithe muscle. His rich brown cloak is clasped in place with the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos, the patron saint of battle and soldiers. Under that he wears an unadorned black doublet that is elegant in its simplicity. He steps farther into the room, and I begin to feel trapped. Afraid of what his sharp gray eyes will see in my face, I fold my arms so that my br**sts rise up enticingly.
“As you are not Jean-Paul, I do not think you can help me.” Even as I speak, my eyes search his face, his neck, praying for the marque that will allow me to dispatch him. But there is none. Or none that I can see.
“But I am here and he is not.” The man’s eyes, as dark and shifting as storm clouds, roam over my body, but there is no heat there. His keen gaze dismisses me and moves to the window. I take a step closer to distract him.
“Ah, but I do not wish to play Jean-Paul false, my lord, even though your charms are many.” In truth, he is not charming so much as dangerous, and I would have said anything to turn his attention from that window.
Almost as if reading my thoughts, he crosses to it and peers outside. I hold my breath. Sweet Mortain, please let the cart be gone from the courtyard!
The man’s regard flicks back to me, cutting straight to the bone. “You wound me, demoiselle. I am sure I could make you forget all about Jean-Paul.”
Still playing the coquette, I tilt my head to the side, but something is wrong. He is saying the right words, but his eyes do not match his flirtatious tone. A deep note of warning sounds inside me.
“B-but I do not want to forget about him,” I say as if insulted.
He takes three giant strides toward me, his entire demeanor changing as he grabs my shoulders. "Enough with the games. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
I let my body go slack, as if I’m weak and frightened. “I might ask the same of you. who are you and what are you doing here?” “Gavriel Duval. And if you are looking for a tryst, I can accommodate you.”
He pulls me closer, so that I feel the heat rising off his body, warm and smelling faintly of some spice. “But I do not think that is what you are looking for.”
He knows! I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Somehow he knows what I am and why I am here. I panic and begin to babble.
“I am sorry, milord, but I am waiting for Jean-Paul. I will leave you to your moment of quiet and be on my way.” with a nimble twist of my body, I slip from his iron grip. It is artlessly done, but I am free and fleeing for the door.
Once in the hall, I run all the way to the stairs. I take them two at a time, then pause a moment to compose myself. I look over my shoulder, but there is no sign of Gavriel Duval.
I straighten my skirts and square my shoulders, then enter the great hall. Upon seeing me, Crunard extricates himself from his conversation and makes his way through the crowd to my side.
