Author: Robin LaFevers

Captain Dunois watches him a long moment before turning back to Duval. "Were you intending to have that effect on him?”

Duval gives an irritated shake of his head. “No, he is just more prickly than a damned hedgehog. was it Rieux that called the meeting, do you think? Is that why he grew so angry?”

“No, I think he grew angry because he did not call the meeting and does not like being reminded that someone disregarded not only Anne’s authority but also his own.”

“Since Chancellor Crunard has been away from court nearly as long as I have, that leaves Madame Dinan. But to what purpose? Does she mean to put her half brother’s marriage proposal before the barons? Surely she knows Anne will refuse him. what does she gain by forcing the issue in such a manner?”

Captain Dunois shrugs. “Perhaps it is intended as a show of support and strength to deter our French guests?”

“French plague is more like it,” Duval mutters. “Perhaps now is as good a time as any for us to greet the French parasite.”

Dunois bows. “You will forgive me if I do not linger to watch the resulting tempest,” he says, then takes his leave.

with a sigh, Duval begins leading me across the room. “If the French ambassador bears a marque, do feel free to kill him at once. It would save us all a great deal of trouble.”

Only too pleased at the chance to open myself to Mortain’s will, I let Duval steer me to the far corner of the hall where the French envoy sits like a fat brown spider, patient and cunning, tending his carefully woven web. He is a hatchet-faced man surrounded by smirking, fawning courtiers. He makes no move to acknowledge us as Duval and I approach, but I feel him study us all the same.

when we reach the envoy, Duval looks contemptuously at those gathered round him. “Still here, Gisors?” That Duval does not even feign politeness surprises me. I thought honeyed words a requirement here at court.

The French noble spreads his hands. “But of course. I am here to oversee the wardship of young Anne.”

“Anne is no one’s ward,” Duval counters. “You are here to guard France’s interests and care nothing for our duchess.” while Duval’s words are sharp, he delivers them almost cheerfully, as if he enjoys tearing down the carefully constructed web Gisors has built.

“Tsk-tsk. So little trust, Duval.”

Duval narrows his eyes. “Says the wolf as he sniffs at the door.”

As Duval keeps Gisors distracted with conversation, I study the French envoy intently, looking for any hint of a marque, but I see nothing, not the faintest smudge or shadow anywhere.

when Gisors finally turns his hooded gaze on me, I am struck by how very green his eyes are. Those eyes travel languidly down my body and back up again, but he says nothing to acknowledge my presence. Under my hand, the muscles in Duval’s arm stiffen, and he glances at me. when I give a little shake of my head, his mouth flattens in disappointment.

Completely unaware of our silent exchange, Gisors says, “I hear Anne has received correspondence from the Holy Roman emperor. what did he have to say?”

“I believe that is between the Holy Roman emperor and the duchess.” Duval’s mild voice is at odds with the tension in his arm.

“Since he is petitioning for a betrothal that the French Crown forbids, it is most certainly our business as well.”

“Brittany is a sovereign nation, and our duchess free to choose whom she pleases.”

I peer up at Duval from under my lashes. This is not quite true and I wonder if Gisors will call the bluff. He does.

“And I would remind you of the Treaty of Verger,” the envoy says. “Furthermore, young Anne has not yet been crowned duchess.”

“A mere formality,” Duval replies, “since that treaty you’re so fond of quoting agrees that she keeps the duchy and will rule over it as duchess.”

“Only if she marries whom the French Crown says she should marry.”

"We have yet to see a serious offer put forth by you or your regent,” Duval points out.

"We have given you two.”

“A foppish minor baron and a doddering sycophant older than her father.” Duval flaps his hand at the far wall, where for the first time I notice an old, gray-bearded courtier dozing in a chair. “Neither is remotely suitable.”

Gisors gives an indifferent shrug. “Then we are at an impasse.”

“Again,” Duval says, then gives a curt bow and escorts me away. As we pass beyond Gisors’s hearing, I glance once more at the dozing figure against the wall. It takes me a moment to realize that his spirit is growing dim, like a candle flame shrinking and sputtering before going out. “It is just as well the duchess is not inclined to accept France’s candidate for a husband. That one over there will be dead within a fortnight,” I tell Duval.

He stops to stare at the aging courtier. “He is marqued by Mortain?”

“No, he is merely dying of old age or some slow disease.”

“You can tell this from looking at him?”

I nod, pleased that he is impressed with my gifts. Before Duval can say anything further, a large hand clamps down on his shoulder.

“That is quite a subtle touch you have there, Duval, to have angered two men in so short a time. First Marshal Rieux and now the French envoy.”

we turn to find a brute of a man just behind us. He is tall and fat, and a bristly black beard covers his face. Amid all that blackness, his lips stand out like wet pink slugs. His hooded eyes study me with the hungry intensity of a hawk. Something cold and chilling slithers in their depths, and then it is gone, so swift and fleeting I do not know if it was truly there or was simply my own dark fears awakening.

Duval’s greeting is less than warm. “Count d’Albret,” he says. "What brings you to Guérande?”

This is the man the late duke promised his twelve-year-old daughter to? I can scarce wrap my mind around it.

D’Albret casts Duval a sly look. “Always the wit, aren’t you, Duval.”

“One hopes so,” Duval mutters, his voice dry as bone. “Allow me to present my cousin Ismae Rienne.”

I look demurely down at the floor and sink into a curtsy.

“Ah, yes. I, too, have a cousin,” he says. “I am quite fond of her.” D’Albret reaches out, takes my hand, and brings it to his slack, fleshy mouth. Revulsion, sharp and hot, spikes through me and it is all I can do not to reach for my knife. As his wet lips press against my hand, I shudder. Duval places a bracing hand at my back, and I am grateful for something to focus on besides d’Albret’s touch. “Enchanté, demoiselle,” the count murmurs.

“The honor is all mine, my lord,” I reply. As soon as his grip on my hand has loosened, I snatch it back and bury it in the folds of my gown where, unable to help myself, I wipe it on my skirt.

Count d’Albret smiles at me as if we are the closest of friends, as if we share some secret that Duval is not privy to. “Do not let Duval bore you with all his talk of politics and intrigue, demoiselle,” he says. “There are much finer pleasures to be had at court.” The leer on his face leaves little doubt as to which pleasures he is thinking of.

“My cousin is young and from the country, d’Albret. Surely you can do your hunting in more verdant pastures.”

“Nonsense, Duval. I just wanted to make her feel welcome at court. After all, it can be overwhelming, and she will quickly learn how serious and dull you are.” D’Albret turns to me. "When he leaves you in a corner somewhere so that he may discuss politics like an old man, I will find you, my dear.” And even though this promise will surely give me nightmares, he smiles as if he has just offered me the moon.

Duval stares steadily at the older man, his dislike rolling off him like fog from the sea. It is a wonder the count does not see it.

D’Albret winks at me. “Come find me when you grow bored.” And with that, he saunters off.

Once he is well out of hearing, I give voice to my outrage. “I cannot believe your father promised that man your sister’s hand in marriage. He is so old,” I say. “And vile!”

The look Duval sends me fair trumpets the words I told you so.

“Does he care anything for the duchess herself or is it merely the duchy he is after?”

Duval’s mouth quirks in disgust. “The duchy is his first and foremost goal, but I am sure being married to a young maid of Anne’s beauty and charm will be no hardship for him.” Something dark and dangerous shadows Duval’s face, but before I can question him further, he speaks again. “Now, come with me. I have one more person I would have you meet.”

Chapter Nineteen

The heat of Duval’s hand passes through the silk of my sleeve all the way down to my marrow. I am sorely tempted to throw it off, but I need his solid warmth to chase away the clammy chill d’Albret has left behind.

Duval leads me up a wide stone staircase, then down one corridor, then another. For the first time I get a feel for just how big the duchess’s residence in Guérande is. After leading me through many twists and turns, he stops in front of a thick oaken door and knocks. when there is no answer, he lets himself in.

The room is a sumptuous receiving chamber with several ornately carved chairs, thick velvet tapestries covering the stone walls, and a fire burning in the fireplace. "Why have you brought me here?” Duval lets go of my arm and prowls around the room. He looks behind the tapestries at the window, then strides to the small door in the far corner and confirms that it is locked. “Because I would have you meet our duchess face to face and see who precisely it is that you are serving.”

The main door opens just then and the duchess herself comes into the room. She is very young, but she holds herself with pride and not a little arrogance. Her forehead is high and noble; her cheeks still bear the slight fullness of her youth. Her brown eyes are keen with intelligence. It would be a mistake to underestimate her, yet because of her youth, I am certain many do.

She is followed by an older noblewoman whom I can only assume is her governess, Madame Dinan. She was strikingly beautiful once, and her bones still hold the truth of that beauty even with her hair gone white. It is hard to believe she shares any blood with Count d’Albret.

Duval bows low and I sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace; Madame Dinan,” he says.

“You may rise.” The young duchess’s voice is as clear and true as a bell. She turns to the other woman. “And you may leave us.”

Madame Dinan glances at Duval. “Your Grace, I think I should stay. It is not fitting that you are alone, with no chaperone.”

“You would keep me from speaking with my own brother?” the duchess asks sharply.

“I would keep you from nothing, Your Grace, only suggest you should have a chaperone, as is fitting.”

The duchess glances at Duval, who gives the tiniest shake of his head. "We have a chaperone,” she says, indicating me. “You may leave.”

The command in her tone is unmistakable, and Madame Dinan rears her head back slightly, nostrils flaring. “Very well, Your Grace. I will wait outside.” Her unhappiness with this arrangement is palpable, but whether it is because she resents being left out or because she is truly worried to leave the duchess with her own brother, I cannot tell.

The room is quiet until she leaves, then the duchess crosses over to the fireplace and holds her hands out to the flames. "Was that necessary, Gavriel?” she says. “It is hard for her to take orders from me.”

“I understand, Your Grace.” even though he is her brother, Duval remains formal with her, and I wonder if it is for my benefit. “But I wanted you to meet Demoiselle Rienne and learn from her own mouth who and what she is. It is knowledge best kept to ourselves for a while.”

The duchess tilts her head, curiosity shining in her eyes. “You do not trust Madame Dinan?”

“Someone called this estate meeting, Your Grace, and d’Albret is her half brother.”

The duchess wrinkles her nose. “Do not remind me! She presses his suit at every turn until I fear I shall scream.”

"We will find you a better marriage, I promise,” Duval says.

She dimples prettily at this, making her look impossibly young, and her affection for Duval is plain on her face. In that moment, I am fiercely glad she has a brother to protect her from this marriage they have planned for her. It is unthinkable that she has been promised to d’Albret. Surely it cannot be Mortain’s desire to see the duchess wed to such a foul man.

Duval grabs my hand and pulls me forward. “Ismae Rienne is sent from the abbess at the convent of St. Mortain.”

The duchess’s eyebrows shoot up. “Mortain? The patron saint of death?”

“The very one, Your Grace. It is but another thing your advisors would keep from you.” Duval quickly explains the convent and its purpose.

when he is done with his explanation, she turns to me. “You are truly trained in death?”

It feels too bold to meet her gaze, so I look down at the floor. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Sit, sit.” She waves her hand and chooses a chair for herself. After an uncertain glance at Duval, who nods, I sit also.

“How do you kill a man, demoiselle?”

I am certain her advisors would be shocked if they could see the hungry curiosity in her eyes. "With a knife. Or poison. Or by strangling. There are many ways. Hundreds of them. It depends on the circumstances and Mortain’s wishes.”

She leans forward slightly in her chair, her brow furrowed. “How do you decide who to kill?”

“Yes,” Duval drawls from where he stands by the fireplace. “How do you decide who to kill?”