Mortal Heart (35 page)

“To what purpose?” the bishop asks.

Duval shrugs, then glances pointedly at Marshal Rieux. “To weaken them, as our wedges have weakened us. And perhaps to buy us enough time for an opportunity to present itself.”

“Buy us a miracle, you mean.”

Duval nods. “That is precisely what I mean. Opportunity, miracle—I welcome them all.”

“How do you propose to determine who is in charge?” Captain Dunois asks.

Beast’s voice rumbles through the room. “Do not even think of sending the Lady Sybella.”

Duval glances over at his friend. “It never crossed my mind,” he assures him.

Chancellor Montauban speaks for the first time. “But the information could prove most beneficial, as you have stated.”

“I will go.” Ismae’s quiet words cause the room to fall silent.

Duval looks at her as if she is mad. “No, you will not. We have others we can send. Besides, what of your duties to the duchess?”

Ismae nods at me. “Annith is here now, and she is more than capable of serving the duchess in my stead. Indeed, she is far better suited for it than I.”

The two of them stare at each other a long moment before Ismae speaks. “This is what I am trained for,” she reminds him softly. “You cannot turn a wolf into a lap dog.”

Duval opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “We will speak of this later,” he finally says.

Ismae smiles. “We will, my lord.” And I have no doubt that she will be going to Nantes.

The meeting winds down quickly after that, in no small part because it is clear from the dark glances Duval keeps sending Ismae that he wishes to dissuade her from going. As for me, my thoughts are taken up with the abbess and what I will say to her once we are alone.

The duchess formally dismisses us with thanks for our counsel. As she stands, her eyes seek out mine and she smiles. “I look forward to having you as one of my ladies,” she says.

I drop a curtsy. “The honor is all mine, Your Grace.”

She smiles again and shifts her attention to her brother, releasing me from her presence. I turn to find the abbess has already quit the room so that I must hurry to catch up with her. There are enough other courtiers in the hallway that I do not wish to gallop after her, so instead I call out softly, “Reverend Mother! If it please you, I would have a word.” She halts her progress but does not turn to greet me.

When I reach her, I dip another curtsy. “I would speak with you of my trip to Guérande and what I learned there. I think you will find it as enlightening as I did.”

“I know everything I need to know about your trip.” The barely controlled fury in her voice fair blisters my skin. “You have failed in the duties Mortain set before you.”

I open my mouth to explain that Crunard was not marqued, but she does not let me so much as speak. “Clearly,” she continues, her voice low and heated, “I was correct in not sending you out on assignment earlier. Now leave me. I do not have time to discuss your mistakes in depth.” She glances over my shoulder, then gives me a sour smile. “Besides, I believe the duchess has need of you.”

Then she continues walking down the hall, her head held high, and I am left standing in her wake, all my questions and accusations rolling around like stones in a barrel with nowhere to go.

“Lady Annith?”

The duchess’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I whirl around and sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“I would request you attend upon me and Isabeau, as Ismae wishes to argue with my brother over whether or not she will be going to Nantes.”

“But of course, Your Grace. It would be my honor.” I hope for Ismae’s sake that her arguments will prove more fruitful than mine have.

As I walk with the duchess back to her solar, she gives me an apologetic glance. “I am sorry if you have other pressing duties you wish to attend to.” I detect a faint note of curiosity in her voice and realize she is intrigued by my role at the convent. If only she knew how little I’ve truly done.

“Not at all, Your Grace. The reverend mother and I were just making arrangements to meet later.”

“Good.” She smiles, showing a charming dimple. “Isabeau has been begging for stories, and I have none. Perhaps you will have one or two.”

“But of course, Your Grace. I know a number of stories. How is her health, by the way?” I feel a sharp pang of guilt for having done nothing to help the young princess.

The dimple disappears. “She is holding steady and has grown no worse. Neither does she grow any better, however.”

We have arrived at the solar, and I follow the duchess into the room. Isabeau is snuggled deep in her bed, her skin nearly as pale as the snowy linen sheets, her eyes too large in her small, pointed face. She may not be any worse, but one does not need to serve Mortain to know that this child will never get any better. Her days are truly numbered.

The duchess motions me toward Isabeau, then goes to speak with the girl’s attendants. I sit myself down on a nearby stool and pull it close to the bed. We have not spent much time together, Isabeau and I, but I am immediately drawn to her fragility coupled with her valiant spirit. “I hear you are wishing for more stories. What story is your favorite?”

“My favorite is the one about how Amourna went to the Underworld to become its queen.”

Ah, how very clever of Ismae to tell her that story. What story should I tell? The younger girls at the convent love the story of the time Salonius, the god of mistakes, tricked Death, but I do not wish to give Isabeau false hope. Instead, I tell her the story of how Saint Brigantia outsmarted Camulos, the god of war and battle.

When I am done, she asks, “Did you know my sister is dedicated to Saint Brigantia?”

“No, but I am not surprised, for she is very smart.”

“Maybe she can outfox France, just as Saint Brigantia did.”

“If anyone can find a way,” I assure her, “it will be she.” Then I think of the tale I have not told her yet, one I’m sure she would dearly love to hear. “Have you heard the story of Saint Arduinna? Of how she came to a young ruler’s aid?”

Isabeau grows absolutely still, her eyes huge. “No,” she whispers.

“Well, once upon a time, a young woman ruled over our fair land. She was wise and kind and much loved by her people, but she was beset by enemies on all sides. Enemies in the north, enemies in the south, and especially enemies just across her eastern border.

“The young ruler had many resources at her disposal—a valiant army, a skilled navy, and many, many wise counselors to advise her.

“She also had something that no other ruler had ever had before, and that was a young sister who loved her with a love that was stronger than all those armies put together.” She ducks her head, but not before I see a small, pleased smile.

“The poor ruler’s enemies were great, and her problems many, so one night her young sister decided to take matters into her own hands. She snuck out of bed when no one was looking and crept down flights of stairs and long dark hallways to the small chapel.”

“Was she frightened?”

“She was terrified, but she was determined to do this for her sister. It was the only way she could think of to help. Finally, she arrived at the chapel. Once there, she placed an offering on the niche of Saint Arduinna and said the sacred prayer to invoke her protection.

“Then she crept back to bed, exhausted and made ill because of her nighttime journey.”

Isabeau coughs just then and looks faintly guilty.

“The stories do not say what sort of protection the sister wished for the young ruler. What do you imagine she prayed for?” I ask.

“Well.” Isabeau makes a great show of thinking upon the question, her face scrunched up and one small finger placed under her chin. “She had armies and knights to help with the fighting, so that probably was not it.”

Good,
I think. They have been able to protect this child from knowing how dire our situation is.

“My guess would be that the girl was worried about her sister’s heart.”

“Her heart?”

“Yes. For the young ruler had no one to love, save for the little sister, and the sister wished for the young ruler to have someone to love in case . . . in case anything ever happened to her.”

I stare into Isabeau’s eyes and see that she knows full well that she is not long for this world. That she worries about her sister at a time like this is a testament to her remarkable character.

“Well.” Unable to help myself, I reach out and smooth the silky strands of hair away from her face. “The ways of Arduinna are mysterious, but the goddess of love heard the young girl and accepted her offering. Shortly thereafter, she sent a handful of her best warriors to see what they could do to assist the young ruler.”

Isabeau settles back against the pillow, a small, satisfied smile upon her lips. “I know,” she says, surprising me, for I have made up the entire story on the spot as a way to tell her that the Arduinnites have come.

“How do you know?” I ask, in mock outrage. “How can you know the end to my story?”

She giggles, a truly delightful sound. “Because Father Effram told me.”

“He did?”

“Yes.” She looks around the room to see where her sister is. When she is certain we cannot be overheard, she leans forward slightly. “And he told me that you are who they sent.”

When the child has fallen asleep, I leave her side and cross the room to attend the duchess. At my approach, she looks up from her embroidery. “You are good with children, demoiselle.”

“I was raised in a convent full of motherless girls, many of them younger than me. I am used to their ways and their needs.”

“Did you know that is one of the options the French regent has offered me? To have me sealed away in a convent for the rest of my life?”

I raise my brows. “I had not heard that, Your Grace.”

“Oh, it is not their official position, of course. Officially, they have located several suitable husbands for me, nearly all of them over sixty and in possession of no more than half their original wits. It is either wed one of them or be sent to their convent, and I assure you, the convent the regent has in mind is not nearly as interesting as the one you serve.” She looks up at me suddenly. “Have you been satisfied with your life? Spending your days in prayer and devotion and service to your saint?”

Ah, and what do I tell her? That I thought I was until I learned that the abbess is corrupt and no longer trust anything she says? But, I remind myself, that is not the whole of it. “I have always wished to serve the Divine, Your Grace.”

“When did you first realize that was your life’s wish?”

That is harder to answer. Especially now when I must work to separate my own desires from those the convent has planted in me. But—no. Actually, it is not hard, for I remember the moment so clearly: it was when Mortain came to me, sat beside me, His gentle presence an inspiration, a comfort, and a source of strength, and I realized that I wanted to be worthy of that presence, to be in that presence as much as possible. “Ever since I was old enough to have desires, that is what I wished to do. Serve Him with all my heart.” And now the abbess has torn everything asunder with her conniving, calculating plots and lies.

“I too have only ever wanted one thing since I was young—to serve my people as their leader. I too have loved my Church, and surely it is my faith that has seen me through these hard years. But more than my love of the Church, my love of Brittany has shaped my life, molded me. I have loved my people, been buoyed by their cheering, found strength in their faith in me, and been comforted by their warm regard. It is what I have been trained for, raised for, to be their leader and to see to their interests. But now—now I fear that their trust has been misplaced. I fear that I will not be worthy of the honor they have done me. Here I sit with war at our doorstep and the conviction that no matter what I do, I will have failed them.”

The despair in her voice pierces my heart, and I kneel beside her. “Your Grace, you have been left with very few choices, and none of them good. I am sure your people understand you are doing the best you can.”

“But will it be good enough?” she whispers.

And as I stare at her, this young girl whose father left her with an unstable kingdom, an empty treasury, and a surfeit of suitors, none of whom cared one fig for her beyond the riches she could bring to their coffers, I become angry. Just as I am angry on Matelaine’s behalf, I am suddenly furious for this girl—for that is all she is, a thirteen-year-old girl—whose guardians have abandoned her in pursuit of their own ambitions. “Your Grace, it is not you who have failed, but your father.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them, for surely I am taking an egregious liberty.

But then she looks up at me with a faint glimmer of . . . hope? Relief? I do not know her well enough to understand what she is feeling. She stops stitching and closes her eyes for a moment. At first, I think she is struggling not to cry. But when she opens them again, I see that she is angry, furious, in fact, and struggling to rein it in. When she speaks, her voice is so soft I must lean in close to catch the words. “There are times when I am alone in my bed at night and cannot sleep for the fear and worry trying to claw their way out of my belly. On those nights I am so angry with my father.” She whispers, as if even now that he is dead, he might somehow hear her.

And suddenly, she is no longer my duchess or sovereign, but a young wounded thing, like those who arrive at the convent every year, and it is that girl that I try to speak to. “As you should be, Your Grace. We are given no choices in life—we must rely on our fathers or guardians to make them for us. And when they choose poorly or make weak decisions, they risk destroying our entire lives with their folly. How can we not be angry?” By the time I finish talking, I am no longer certain whom I am talking about: the duchess or myself.

O
NCE
I
HAVE BEEN DISMISSED
, I return to my chambers. My conversation with the duchess has stirred up all my simmering anger and frustration, like muck at the bottom of a pond. Alone in the room, my breath comes fast, my fists clenching at my sides. Between Crunard’s insinuations and my own confrontations with the abbess, I am drawing close—so close—to finally understanding what is at the heart of the abbess’s plots and intrigues. Crunard knows more than he is telling. I do not know if this is some strange game being played between him and the abbess or if he knows even more about the convent than she does.