The faint snick of the door pulls my thoughts away from the chancellor, and my pulse quickens as Duval slips into the room. “Ismae,” he says, then closes the door behind him. Instead of going to his customary chair, he makes his way toward me. Twin bolts of panic and anticipation shoot through me. Does he think to kiss me again? Pursue something more than a kiss? I hardly dare to breathe, waiting to see his intent.
when he reaches the bed, he looks down at me, his soft expression stealing the breath from my lungs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” The word comes out in a whisper. I clear my throat. “The stitches hardly pull.”
"Excellent.” He gives a crisp nod, and I wonder if he will ask again to see how the wound is healing, but he does not. Instead, he lowers himself onto the small, thick rug on the floor and leans back against the bed. My whole body stills, and my heart beats even faster. His head is so close that I could reach out and touch his hair. what would it feel like beneath my fingers? I clench my hands into fists. “How was the hunt?” I manage to ask.
He smiles then. “Fruitful. I sent the Holy Roman emperor’s envoy a message late last night, suggesting it would be worth his while to attend the hunt. He did, and we were able to snatch a few moments together and arrange for a more formal meeting. This way, we evaded Gisors’s spies and lackeys.”
"Were none of them on the hunt?”
“I am sure they were, but since I had a few moments of private conversation with any number of men today, my discussion with the emperor’s envoy will not appear overly significant.”
“That is good then.”
“The Privy Council has called another meeting tomorrow. Isabeau has requested you attend on her while Anne and Madame Dinan are in the meeting.”
I study him with narrowed eyes. “Did you put her up to this as a means of having me close by?”
“No. Apparently she’s become fond of you all on her own. It seems you grow on a person,” he says dryly, then changes the subject. “And you? what did you learn today?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid. Madame Dinan met with d’Albret and spent most of the meeting assuring him that Marshal Rieux would support him when the moment was ripe.”
He sighs. “I fear his duties as marshal are overshadowing his duties as Anne’s guardian. All he can see is d’Albret’s military might.”
“I also ran into the chancellor today. He was most aggrieved with me for wasting my time on d’Albret. He wanted me instead to focus on your mother and brother.”
“And me,” he says.
“And you,” I agree.
“Did you tell him we decided to work together in this?”
“No, I did not. It did not seem . . . wise, although I cannot say why I think so.”
“Your instinct is good. Better we keep our own counsel till we sort out this mess.” He begins to rub his forehead and I am filled with a desire to run my hands through his hair and soothe the pain from his brow. Instead, I tuck them safely beneath the coverlet, away from such temptations.
when he speaks again, there is a hint of amusement in his voice. “You cannot will it away, you know. Pretend it never happened.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, to indeed pretend it never happened. Instead, I surprise myself by saying, “But I do not know what else to do with it.” My voice sounds small and lost, and I am grateful for the darkness of the room.
“It is not convenient for me either.” His voice is dry and he addresses his words to the fireplace.
“I imagine not,” I concede.
“However, it appears we have both been pricked by St. Arduinna’s arrow.”
St. Arduinna, the patron saint of love. Is that what he thinks is between us? And is the fluttering in my belly panic or joy? I cannot help but think uneasily of the false offering I made to her a few short days ago at St. Lyphard.
"We are both bound by other duties, other saints,” I remind him. “Our hearts are not ours to give.”
He turns his head to look at me then. “Is that what they teach you at the convent? That the gods demand the hearts from our bodies?”
“I fear it is what my convent expects,” I tell him. “They may train us in the arts of love, but in their minds our hearts belong firmly to Mortain.”
“I disagree with your convent,” he says. "Why give us hearts at all then?”
Slowly, as if afraid I will bolt, he reaches for my hand, which has somehow escaped from the covers. when he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.
His hand is warm, the skin firm. we sit together in silence. I do not know what is going through his head, but my own mind is unable to form a single thought. At least, not a coherent one. After a long while, he squeezes my hand, then leans down to kiss the back of it. His lips are warm and soft and I am filled with the memory of them on my mouth, my throat. Slowly, as if with great reluctance, he pulls away, and I shiver. “Perhaps,” he says. "When this is all over.”
“Perhaps, my lord.”
He gives my hand another squeeze, then rises gracefully to his feet. “Until tomorrow,” he says, then leaves. I am alone in the darkness.
Knowing I have done exactly what the convent would want brings me little comfort.
Chapter Thirty-four
When I arrive at the duchess’s solar the next morning, one of the older ladies in waiting ushers me into Isabeau’s smaller chamber. The young princess is in bed, sitting up against the pillows, clutching a doll in one hand. A cup of warm, honeyed milk sits nearby. Her cheeks have two bright spots of pink, and her dark eyes are glassy with fever. “Hello, demoiselle,” she says shyly.
“Hello, my lady.” I curtsy, then draw close to her. “My lord Duval said I should sit with you while the others are in their meeting.” The assignment is a good one for me, for although my shoulder is healing, it is not yet fully recovered.
“Yes, please, demoiselle.”
I sit on the stool by her bed and try to think of something to say. “Are you looking forward to Christmas?” I ask, then want to bite my tongue. It will be her first Christmas without her father.
“My sister says we are to have a feast and a mummers’ parade.” Her face glows with excitement.
“Truly?”
She nods. "Will you be there?”
“If the duchess wishes it, yes.”
“I am sure she will. She likes you quite a lot.” She is overcome
by a fit of coughing just then, and her small, thin shoulders heave with the effort. when she is done, there is a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. “Do not call the physicians,” she pleads.
“No, no. I will not,” I say, smoothing her hair back. There is little the court physicians can do for her. Little anyone can do for her, her life spark flickers so weakly. “In fact, I have brought you medicine of my own, from the convent where I was raised. It is very good at settling coughs, although it might make you sleepy.”
“I will gladly suffer sleepiness if it means no physicians, demoiselle.”
“Very well.” I pull the small vial of Mortain’s caress from my pocket. It is a poison, true, but Sister Serafina used it on the younger girls when they were sick. It is good for coughs and lung fever, for it allows the patient to rest and get much needed sleep, but only if it is given in small doses. I carefully measure two drops — no more — into her milk, then swirl the cup to stir it all around. “Here.” I hand her the cup. “Drink it all down now.”
She takes the cup from me and does as she is told, draining the last drop from it. She hands it back to me. “It does not taste bad. Just a little sweeter.”
“That is because I do not believe in foul-tasting medicine,” I say. She smiles, which pleases me more than it should. The muffled voices coming from the other side of the thick wall call to me. I would dearly love to hear what they are discussing, judge the inflections and timbres of their voices. But as I look into Isabeau’s shadowed eyes, I find I cannot leave her to struggle for breath on her own.
“Do you know any stories?” she asks as I settle myself on the stool once more.
I hate to disappoint her, but I have no stories. No one told them at my house when I was growing up, and the stories told at the convent are not meant for such young, innocent ears. Just as I start to shake my head, I remember one tale. One of Annith’s favorites. Perhaps Isabeau will find some comfort in it. “Have you heard the story of how Saint Amourna captured Saint Mortain’s heart?”
Isabeau’s eyes widen. “The patron saint of death?” she whispers.
“It is not a frightening story, I promise you, but one of true love.”
“Oh.” Her face relaxes. “Very well, then. I would like to hear it, please.”
“One fine moonlit night, Mortain and his wild Hunt were riding through the countryside when they spied two maids more beautiful than any they had ever seen before. They were picking evening primrose, which only blooms in the moonlight.
“The two maids turned out to be Amourna and Arduinna, twin daughters of Dea Matrona. when Mortain saw the fair Amourna, he fell instantly in love, for she was not only beautiful but light of heart as well, and surely the god of death needs lightness in his world.
“But the two sisters could not be more different. Amourna was happy and giving, but her sister, Arduinna, was fierce, jealous, and suspicious, for such is the dual nature of love. Arduinna had a ferocious and protective nature and did not care for the way Mortain was looking at her beloved sister. To warn him, she drew her bow and let fly with one of her silver arrows. She never misses, and she didn’t miss then. The arrow pierced Mortain’s heart, but no one, not even a goddess, can kill the god of death.
“Mortain plucked the arrow from his chest and bowed to Arduinna. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For reminding me that love never comes without cost.’
“Such gallantry surprised Arduinna, and in the end, she let her sister ride with the god of death to his home, but only after Amourna promised she would come back and visit her twin at least once a year.”
"Wasn’t she scared?” Isabeau asked, her voice naught but a whisper. “To go with death?”
“No.” I reach over and tuck her hair behind her ear. “For death is not scary or evil or even unmerciful; it is simply death. Besides, His realm has much beauty of its own. There is no hunger, or cold, or pain. Or nasty leeches.” This last makes Isabeau smile.
“Is she happy there, do you think?”
“She is.” I do not tell Isabeau the rest of the story, of how Arduinna grew so jealous that she vowed that from then on, love would always bring pain. Or of how in the sorrow of missing her daughter, Dea Matrona brought bitter winter to our land.
By the story’s end, the medicine has begun to work, and the young girl’s eyes drift closed. Her chest rises and falls easily, and her breath is no longer labored. Perhaps I fool myself, but she looks more at peace. If I trusted Madame Dinan at all, I would leave some of the medicine with her, but I do not. If only I had coltsfoot or hyssop. even comfrey or balm would help, but all I have is poison, and I am loath to give it to the girl’s governess.
In the quiet of the room, I hear the muffled sound of raised voices in the next chamber cease suddenly, and then the sound of a door being thrown open. I rise quietly and go to the solar, shutting the door to Isabeau’s room behind me.
Anne strides into her antechamber, face white. Duval storms in behind her. “How dare she?” he explodes.
At his display of temper, I hurry forward, putting my finger to my lips. “Isabeau has finally fallen asleep,” I say. "We do not want to wake her.”
That checks Duval’s outburst somewhat, but I can still see his pulse beating, furious and erratic, in the hollow of his throat.
“I cannot believe she has done this.” The note of heartbreak in Anne’s voice is harder to bear than Duval’s anger. “She is supposed to serve my interests, not her own.”
A look of pain crosses Duval’s face, as if he is saddened that she has had to learn this unpleasant lesson so young. “Your Grace has enough experience with the Breton court to know just how little truth there is in that notion.”
“But she was my governess,” Anne says. “I was her charge. Not the treasury or the armies or the royal household.”
“For the love of Mortain, will someone please tell me what has happened?” I ask.
Duval whips his head around and spears me with his intent gaze. “Have you received no orders from the convent?” he asks.
“No! why?”
“Perhaps your crow is not working properly,” he mutters.
I dismiss his jab at the convent and turn to the duchess. "What has happened?”
“My governess, Madame Dinan, has plucked from her sleeve a betrothal agreement between my father and Count d’Albret. One that, apparently, I signed.”
This is well and truly disastrous. I glance quickly at Duval and he gives a nod of confirmation. So far all the betrothal agreements have been verbal, giving them all equal weight in the eyes of the law. But if there is a signed agreement with d’Albret, that may very well be more legally binding. The duchess might have no choice but to marry the brute. “Did you get a chance to speak to them of your plans with the Holy Roman emperor?”
Duval and the duchess exchange a look, one I do not care for at all. “They would not hear of it,” he says. He lifts his finger and wags it at me. “‘Not so fast,’ they said. ‘You were wrong about the english sending aid and you gave us false hope with Nemours. we shall make the decisions now and you shall merely carry them out.’”
