I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. “Vengeance,” I say softly.
His eyes widen slightly at my words, then he grows alarmed as I draw the crossbow from its hiding place. within the space of a single heartbeat, I c**k the bow, fit the quarrel to the string, and level it at his head, aiming directly for the marque. For a moment I am torn, balancing the duchess’s and Duval’s need for information against my desire to prove myself to my god and my convent. I decide it cannot hurt to ask. "Who paid you to push your lord to his death?”
The man’s face pales. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? I think you do. I think you are the man who betrayed the Duke of Nemours. If you tell me what I need to know, I will kill you as quickly and painlessly as possible. If you do not, it will be slow and lingering. Your choice. either way, you will die.” My blood is singing in my veins, so happy am I to be doing my god’s work.
Keeping his eyes on mine, the man comes out from behind the desk. "Who says I killed my lord Nemours? Do I get no chance to defend myself? Be tried and judged?”
“You have been,” I say. “By Saint Mortain Himself. And found guilty. Now, I will ask you one last time: On whose orders did you push?”
I see in his eyes the moment he decides to rush me. Grunting in annoyance, I release the bolt. It flies straight and true and strikes him in the forehead, precisely where Mortain has marqued him. As he falls, his eyes shift from my face to the door behind me. Swearing, I drop the crossbow and go for the knife at my ankle.
The action saves my life.
There is a breath of air at my back followed by a searing pain, then I am turning toward my assailant, thrusting upward with my knife before I have even laid eyes on him.
My aim is good, and the knife plunges into his gut. His brown eyes widen in surprise, then in pain, as I shove the blade upward, hastening his death. In spite of my threat to the other man, I do not deal in long and lingering deaths.
Before I can do more, however, the soul of the first man flees his dead body. It rushes at me, swirling with cold hostility. I force myself to concentrate on the myriad images it sends flickering through my mind, desperate to find some small tidbit of information that will tell us to who is behind this disaster. while I am distracted by this task, the second man’s soul also rushes at me. I gasp as if I have been plunged into a frozen river and stagger back against the wall, shivering so hard I can barely stand. As the second soul floods me, I am filled with anger and pain and regret. An aching sense of loss. A sense of fear so thick it coats the back of my tongue with its bitter taste.
Then, as quickly as they came, they leave, and I sag against the wall. The faint, faraway blare of the hunting horns sound outside. The hunting party has returned.
I kneel on the floor next to the second body long enough to retrieve my knife and wipe it clean on his tabard. when I rise to my feet, I am surprised at the small wave of dizziness that passes through me. I turn for the door, then blink at the smear of red where I leaned up against the wall. I am injured.
Desperate to be away from here, I grab a rough woolen cloak from the bed and use a corner of it to wipe the wall clean as best I can. Then I throw it around my shoulders and hide the crossbow beneath my skirts once more. I can hear the faint clatter of horses’ hooves on cobbles and the excited barking of the hounds. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I step from the chamber out into the hall and begin the long walk down the corridor and away from the evidence of my actions.
As I wind my way through the palace corridors, I debate whether to return to Duval’s residence or meet him outside. In the end, I decide he must know what has transpired sooner rather than later, and better from my own lips than a stranger’s. Besides, someone must clean up the mess.
The wetness at my back spreads as the injury burns and pulls. I glance behind to be certain I am not dripping a trail of blood behind me.
Outside in the courtyard is a confusion of prancing, blowing horses; dismounting men; barking, wagging hounds; and shouts of greeting. Two large stags hang from poles and I find myself smiling. Today was clearly a good day for hunting, inside the palace and out. I hang back, searching for Duval.
Almost as if I have called his name, his head comes up and his gaze latches on to mine. I do not care for this connection between us.
Duval dismounts and makes his way to me. "What are you doing here?”
I say nothing, but simply stare at him.
“God’s Teeth!” he says. I would be heartily impressed by his ability to read my thoughts if it were not so exasperating.
He leans in closer, dipping his head as if he will kiss me, and I must remind myself that it is simply so no one will overhear. "Who?”
“Nemours’s guards.”
One dark eyebrow shoots up. “More than one?”
“One because he was guilty of treachery; the other was in self-defense.”
“Did the convent send you orders?”
“No. I went to pray for Nemours’s soul. Then I was drawn to Nemours’s chambers. There I saw a guard who bore a marque, and so I acted.”
I cannot read the expression on Duval’s face. “I did try to question him first, my lord, but he gave nothing away. At least, not then.”
Duval pounces on that like a wolf on a fallen bone. “Did you read his soul?”
I nod, then swallow before continuing. “He was paid a bag of ducats, and those who paid him held his wife and child. His last thought was of them, a quick prayer that they would be allowed to live now that he had done what he had been asked.”
“He spared no last thought for those who had ordered him?”
I shake my head, then wince, as it pulls the cut on my back. “He did not know. The man he dealt with wore a deep hood, and they always met in the shadows.”
Duval sighs. "Where are the bodies? I assume you need me to clean up after you.”
“They are in Nemours’s chambers. If you will see to them, I will be on my way.”
For the first time Duval notices the unfamiliar cloak I wear. "Whose cloak is that?”
I start to shrug, then wince again. “One of the men I — ”
with a sound of impatience, Duval lifts the cloak from my shoulders, then sucks in a breath. I look around to see the gown beneath is soaked through with blood. "We must get you attended to,” he says, letting the cloak fall back in place.
“Shouldn’t you see to the bodies first, before someone discovers them?”
He thinks for a moment, then gently cups my elbow with his hand. "We will do both,” he says, then leads me toward the palace.
"Where are we going?”
“To my rooms here. we will tend to your wound and I can oversee the cleanup. Although I will now owe Beast a favor.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Once inside the palace, Duval snags the first page he sees. “Here.” He gives the boy a coin. “Go find the Baron de waroch, the one they call Beast. Do you know who he is?”
The boy’s eyes shine as he nods his head.
Duval ruffles his hair. “Tell him to come immediately to my chambers in the north tower.”
The page sketches a quick bow, then takes off at a run, neatly dodging around mingling courtiers and servants, who barely notice his passing.
Duval is quiet as he escorts me through the palace to his rooms in the north tower. when we reach them, he leads me through a jumble of trunks and furnishings in the outer rooms to his bedchamber, where a valet is unpacking his clothes. Duval brusquely waves the man away, and I blush when I realize what the servant will think.
Duval sits me on the bed and angles me so that my back is to him.
“I am not a doll, my lord. If you but tell me what you wish to do, I can do it myself.”
His only response is a grunt, then the mattress dips as he sits down behind me. His body is so close I can feel the heat rising off it. Chilled by the wet blood on my gown, it is all I can do to keep myself from leaning into that warmth.
He removes the borrowed cloak from my shoulders, and I hiss as the cold air sets the cut stinging.
He is silent for so long I nearly squirm, except I worry the movement will bring me more discomfort. when I feel his fingers on my neck, I pull away before I can stop myself. "What are you doing?” My voice sounds unnaturally high to my ears.
“Removing the ruined bodice so I can tend your cut.”
“No, milord!” I jump up from the bed and spin around, putting my back safely out of his reach. Panic flutters in my breast. He cannot see it. He mustn’t see it.
Duval looks at me as if I am mad. "Would you rather I send for a physician?”
“No!” I say, beginning to feel trapped. I have no love for the court physicians, and they will ask questions I do not wish to answer. But I cannot bear for Duval to see my ruined back. “If you will leave me, I can tend it myself.”
He snorts in disbelief. “Is that yet another miracle of Mortain? That His acolytes are able to contort themselves enough to tend their own backs?” His voice turns gently chiding. “If you are worried about the gown, I am sure the reverend mother will understand.”
But of course, it is not the gown that worries me. The sense of panic in my chest grows until I can hardly breathe. every taunt thrown at me by the village boys, every slur cast my way, every insult echoes in my head. And those were all from villagers and peasants, people much accustomed to ugliness and deformity. Duval is of noble blood, was raised amid the beauty and finery of court. I cannot bear that I will be the ugliest thing he has ever seen. “No.” I take a step backwards, determined to stay out of his reach. “I do not need your help.”
He frowns at my unreasonableness. “If we do not tend your injury, you could well lose the use of your shoulder and arm, and how would that serve your god or your duchess?”
I hiss in frustration. Trust Duval to find the one argument that will remind me of my true purpose here. My only purpose here. My service to Mortain comes before all else. There is no place for modesty or shame. Perhaps the god is testing me even now to see if my vanity is stronger than my duty to Him. Feeling raw and exposed, I cannot help but grumble. "What would a man know of stitching anyway?”
Duval laughs outright at that, and a small hidden dimple winks briefly at the corner of his mouth. “If a man expects to survive in battle or help his fellow men-at-arms afterward, he will indeed learn to stitch, and to stitch well, if not prettily. Now quit putting this off.”
Slowly, I return to the bed, sit down, and turn my back to him. I feel hollow inside and remind myself that what Duval thinks of me or my scar is of no importance. Indeed, perhaps his disgust and revulsion will help rebuild the barrier that once stood between us. The words he spoke when we left the convent echo through me. Being sired by one of the old saints puts your lineage into a class all its own, a class as untouchable by the nobility as the nobility is by turnip farmers. He may claim such lofty ideals, but it is another thing altogether to see with one’s own eyes what marks such parentage leaves behind.
I hold myself rigid as he unlaces my bodice. It starts to fall forward and I catch it with my hands, hugging it to me like a shield.
There is a rustle of movement as he takes a dagger from his belt. The tearing sound as he cuts away my ruined chemise is loud in the quiet room, and the rush of air against my damp back makes me shiver. I clutch the front of my gown tightly and steel myself against what must surely happen next.
The silence grows impossibly long and I am painfully reminded of the hideous silence when Guillo saw my back. Of his fear and anger and revulsion. I force myself to breathe.
“Ah,” Duval says. “So this is what you didn’t want me to see. Poor Ismae.” His voice is as soft and tender as a caress. I square my shoulders and stare straight ahead. “How did you come by it?” he asks.
“’Tis where the herbwitch’s poison burned me when my mother tried to cast me from her womb.”
when he touches my shoulder again, I bite back a yelp of surprise, and my skin twitches beneath his fingers. Slowly, he traces my scar. It is exquisitely sensitive, and pleasure unfurls across my skin, so intense and unexpected that it feels as if I have been brushed by an angel’s wing.
It is all I can do to keep from leaping from the bed and bolting.
Perhaps sensing this, Duval speaks, his voice low. “There is no shame in scars, Ismae.”
I long to laugh at his gentle words, to throw them back in his face and claim I do not care what he thinks. But I do care. Far more than I have any right to, and his acceptance undermines every last defense I possess.
"We’ll need to wash this,” he murmurs, and even though I welcome this practical task, when he rises from the bed I am torn between relief and disappointment.
He pours water from a ewer into a shallow basin, then carries it back to the bed. After settling the basin in his lap, he dips a piece of linen into the water and uses gentle, efficient strokes to wash the blood from my wound. It is a practical, matter-of-fact touch, much like Sister Serafina would use were she tending to me. even so, my entire back is alive with awareness. every inch of my skin, every knob of my spine, and even my scar seem to gain pleasure from his touch. Indeed, the whole world narrows so it is all I can think of.
I close my eyes and try to break this spell he is weaving. “Do you have scars, milord?”
“Oh yes.” He removes the cloth from my back and wrings it out in the basin. “One received in service to my lord father, and another received in service to my sister.” He touches the re-wetted linen to my back and I shiver. I want to lean into that touch, lean into him, feel his warmth wrap around me. Instead, I force myself to pull away. “I’m sure it is clean by now.”
