Author: Robin LaFevers

“I mean that you are a traitor to the crown of Brittany, and for that you must die. Saint Mortain has willed it.”

She puts her hand to her forehead. “Is that why it grows warm in here?”

I am impressed that she does not faint or scream or cry out for help. “Yes, my lady. That is the poison beginning to work.”

“Poison?” Her face relaxes somewhat. “Thank you for that. I am not overfond of sharp things. Or pain.”

Her composure surprises me, as I have always thought her high-strung and overwrought. "Who besides François is involved in your plots and conspiracies?”

At her son’s name, she grows rigid with fear. “No! Not François! Do not lift your hand against him!” She rises up from the bed, crosses the distance between us, and grabs my shoulders. I wince as her slender fingers bite into my still tender wound. “It was me, all me. François wanted nothing to do with it. You must not kill him. Promise me!”

“I cannot make such a promise. If my saint bids me act, I must, but if François is innocent, Mortain will not raise a hand against him.”

She pushes away from me, her cheeks flushed. “Do not sit in judgment of us, stupid girl. You do not know what it is like, having your life run by men. Men who care not one whit for you beyond the pleasure you can bring them in bed or the pretty way you decorate their arms.” She clenches her fists. “You have no idea what it is like to have no choices, not one thing to call your own, not even your children.”

“But I do, madame,” I say softly. “I assure you, no woman has the choices you speak of. She cannot choose whom she marries or which family she is born into or even what her role in this world will be. I do not differ from you in that regard, only in what I did with what I was given.”

"What could I do when I was but fourteen and the aging French king decided he must have me in his bed at any cost? what choice did I have when he died? So I chose the duke. He was young and handsome and kind and, most of all, smitten with me. That power — the power to attract men — was the only weapon I had.”

To my horror, I find myself sympathetic to her.

“And once I’d borne children — do you know how hard it can be for a bastard? How dispensable they are? I tried to do all in my power to assure them some measure of respect and safety in their lives.”

Her words make me think of my mother for the first time in years. would that she had tried to protect me as well as Madame Hivern protected her children.

Madame Hivern shoves her golden hair out of her eyes and gives me a scornful look. “This love you feel for Duval is nothing to the love you would bear your child. Believe me in that, if nothing else.”

A child. Something I have never even allowed myself to think about. Knowledge wells up from deep inside me. If I did have a child, I would protect it and serve it with every breath I drew.

It hits me with the unwelcome force of a crossbow bolt: we are alike, Hivern and I. Both women, both powerless over our own fates. who is to say I would not have done exactly as she if I had been born into her circumstances? The life I would have led with Guillo spreads out before me, his offspring hanging from my skirts. would I have grown to love them? Protect them? Could I have done any differently than Hivern had?

She sways on her feet, then stumbles over to the bed, all the will and fight seeping out of her at once. “How much longer will this take?” she asks, and I find I am nearly drowning in my reluctance to kill her. Not fully understanding my own intentions, and with a quick movement I am not sure is my own, my fingers reach up and snuff out the flame. I go to the window and throw it open, letting the cold, cleansing air rush in and chase away the cloying, sweet scent.

Hivern’s teeth begin to chatter. "W-what are you d-doing? It’s c-cold.”

I want to shout at her that I do not know what I am doing, that mayhap I have gone mad. Instead, I cross to the bed. “Stand up.” I grab her by the arm and haul her to her feet. "Walk.”

She looks at me as if I am addle-brained, and perhaps I am. “I don’t want to walk. I want to sleep. Isn’t that what you want?”

"Walk!” I command. “I have an idea, a plan to protect you and François.” That gets her feet moving.

Her gaze fuzzily tries to focus on mine, urgent. "What is it?”

“You say you lack choices in your life, and I would give you a choice. But we must walk while I do it in order to chase the poison from your body, or else you will have no choices left to you at all.”

She looks at me, her lovely blue eyes confused and hopeful. I give her a shake. “Move. I need your head clear when you make your choice.” But that is only partially true. I also need time to marshal my thoughts.

I cannot believe I am refusing to carry out an order from the convent. I glance at the marque upon Hivern’s face. It is one thing to agree to work with Duval on behalf of the duchess, one thing not to tell Crunard of Duval’s whereabouts, but this . . . this is to move in direct opposition of the convent’s orders — and Mortain’s.

But my mind has affixed itself on my first kill, Runnion, who also bore a marque. Duval maintained that Runnion was working for the duchess in order to cleanse his soul. That knowledge has haunted me ever since, the idea that I robbed him of forgiveness.

what if I can give Madame Hivern the choice I took from Runnion?

what if I can convince Hivern to renounce her sins and thus gain forgiveness? Surely that is not going against the convent, or the saint, but simply finding another way to do His will?

If He does not remove the marque from her, it will be easy enough to set up a second kill. And then I will also know that my actions against Runnion did not cost him forgiveness.

After three turns about the room Hivern is still shivering, but it is only from the cold now, not the effects of night whispers. Only then do I lay my offer of salvation before her. “My lady, if you and François will appear in front of the full court and swear an oath of fealty to the duchess, then perhaps I can spare your lives. But only if the oath comes from your hearts and you mean to keep such a vow, for while I might not know if you are lying, Mortain surely will, and He guides my hand in all things.”

“If you will spare my son, I will promise you anything,” she swears.

“If François is innocent, then he should have no hesitation swearing fealty to his sister.”

She grabs my arm and falls to her knees in supplication. “He will have no problem with such a thing,” she says. “Indeed, he will be glad to do it. As will I.”

I watch her closely, but the marque does not fade. Hoping I am not making the biggest mistake of my life, I take her arm and pull her to her feet. “Very well then. Here’s what we will do.”

Chapter Forty-two

That night, the duchess once again takes dinner in her chambers, so the rest of the court does the same. I am not hungry, which is just as well since Duval will need all the food Louyse has brought me.

I dismiss the older woman early under the guise of having a headache and take the precaution of locking my door. Then I take a seat by the fire and wait. I go over my actions of the afternoon for the hundredth time hoping — praying — I have made the right choice.

When Duval arrives, his doublet is unlaced and his shirt sleeves rolled up. His hair stands on end, as if he has spent the day running his hands through it. when he sees me fully dressed and sitting by the fire, his hand goes for his sword hilt and his eyes dart around the room.

“Much has happened since we last spoke,” I say quickly to reassure him. “I did not want to risk falling asleep or missing you.”

Satisfied there is no trap waiting, he comes fully into the room and takes a seat in the chair next to mine. He shoots me a cunning glance, then pulls the white queen from the leather pouch at his belt and sets it on the arm of the chair. “It is done,” he says.

"What is done?”

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he fills a cup with wine. “The betrothal terms between the Holy Roman emperor and the duchess have been agreed upon.” He lifts the goblet to his lips in a jaunty manner and drains it.

“But that is good news!”

A wry smile flickers briefly across his face. “You were expecting bad?”

“In truth, I was. Things seem to turn against the duchess at every opportunity.”

His head snaps around. “Has some new disaster befallen her?”

“No, milord. Indeed, I have good news as well.”

He lifts the flagon of wine and refills his cup. “Then tell it so I may hear.”

“Your mother and brother have agreed to swear their fealty to Anne before the Privy Council and all the barons at court.”

He sets the flagon down with a thump. “They have?”

“They have.”

watching me closely, he asks, “And how, pray tell, did this miracle come about?”

I look away from his piercing gaze and stare at the flames dancing in the fireplace. while I have every intention of telling him the truth, I fear he will see far more than I want him to. “I received orders from the convent.”

There is no sound but the faint crackle and hiss of the fire. “I see,” he says at last. “Or rather, I do not, for if you received orders from the convent, surely they would both be dead?”

“The order came only for your mother, and when I went to . . . visit her, another option presented itself.”

“Go on.”

“You do not sound especially surprised, my lord.”

“I am not surprised, no. I knew this was a possibility from the moment I brought you here. Remember, I have known of her plans all along.”

Perhaps that is why he fought so hard against my coming. “It occurred to me that if she was consigned to death for her plots against the duchess, then perhaps by renouncing those plots, she could earn herself a reprieve and the saint would unmarque her.”

“And did he?”

I clear my throat. “Not yet. But I do not think He will reverse His judgment until the oath passes from her lips.” I risk a quick glance at him. His face is flushed, but whether from my words, the heat of the fire, or the wine he has downed so quickly, I do not know. “Just as Runnion’s marque had not left him before he performed his act of contrition — it is the act of atonement that removes the marque, not simply the wanting to atone. Or so I believe.”

“Does the convent know you have taken matters into your own hands in such a way?”

“No.” I smile wryly. “Not yet.”

“And Crunard?”

I shake my head. "What actions the convent does or does not take are no concern of his. Or shouldn’t be. But I suspect he will figure it out soon enough, since it was he who reported your mother’s plot to the convent.”

Duval eyes me curiously. “Not you?”

embarrassed suddenly, I rise to fetch his dinner tray. “I had not had a chance to write to the abbess yet, no.” Still feeling his eyes upon me, I fiddle with the tray, rearranging the food and dishes. Only when he looks away do I feel comfortable enough to turn around. even so, I am careful not to meet his eyes as I set the tray before him.

when I do manage to glance up, he is holding the white queen and studying her, his dark brows drawn together.

“I must find a way to tell the duchess of Madame Hivern’s and François’s need to swear fealty to her. I was hoping you might have some insight on how I may do that without letting her know the full extent of their betrayal.”

He tilts his head, reminding me for a moment of Vanth. “You wish to keep that from her?”

“I wish to protect her young heart from any more bruises. Truly, how many more people can betray her?”

“How many more barons are there?” is his unsettling reply.

And so it is that on Christmas Day, Madame Hivern and François kneel before the duchess and swear everlasting fealty to her. And mean it.

Madame Hivern has come within an angel’s breath of her own death and is aware of the mercy that has been granted to her and her son.

As I watch her swear the oath, the purple, bruised marque slowly fades from her throat. My breath leaves me in a rush, and my knees grow weak with relief. Mortain has indeed granted her mercy. which means I did not fail Him or subvert His will. Joy fills my heart as I realize I have not stepped outside His grace.

When the ceremony is over, I slip away and return to my room, eager to give the news to Duval. The servants are enjoying their own feast, and my chamber is dark except for the reddish glow from the fireplace. It is nearly full dark outside, and little light comes in through the windows. Just as I turn to light some tapers, there is a scritch of sound at the window and a faint caw. Vanth.

I hurry to the shutter. when I open it, the crow tumbles in, a scramble of black feathers and rushing wings. At least he no longer tries to snap my fingers off.

Vanth lands near his cage and cocks his head. He caws and ruffles his feathers before going in. I take my time teasing the note from him, not sure I want to read the scolding I am certain the reverend mother has sent me. At last I snag the message from Vanth’s leg, break the seal, and unfold the parchment.

Daughter,

Once again I have received no word from you on the most recent developments at court and must rely on Chancellor Crunard to guide me. What he has told me is so shocking that I can scarce credit it. Not only does the French whore still live, but you have neglected to inform me of Duval’s true allegiance. The chancellor has laid out the case against Duval and there can be no doubt that he is guilty. He has driven away all of the duchess’s allies, one by one, and when that failed, he arranged an assassination attempt on the duchess. Have you known all along that he was spying for the French regent? Or have you been blinded to his real purpose? Indeed, the only reason I do not judge you an accomplice in this matter is that the chancellor informed me that it was you who saved her life.