“And that is how you will know how to strike here in Guérande, away from your seeress?”
I shake my head. “It is our plan for the abbess to communicate the visions to me by crow. But should I happen to see such a marque without an order from her, I am allowed to strike.”
“Mon Dieu!” The duchess sits back in her chair and looks at Duval. “Do all the Privy Council know of this convent?”
Duval shakes his head. “I believe only Crunard works with the abbess. Marshal Rieux has some vague knowledge of it, and Dunois has probably heard rumors among his men, but as he is French, he was not made privy to Breton secrets by our late father. Madame Dinan has no knowledge — or should not — which is why I requested she be kept from this meeting.”
The duchess tilts her head and studies me. "Who else knows Ismae’s true identity?”
“Only Chancellor Crunard.”
“Then I agree we should keep it that way.” I stand as she rises to her feet. She holds her hand out to me. “I am glad you are here, Ismae. It is a comfort to know that you and the patron saint of death are helping Duval guard my flanks.”
I kiss her ducal ring, awed that the daughter of a turnip farmer is being raised to her feet by her sovereign. “It is my greatest honor to serve, Your Grace.”
She smiles again, transforming her young face. “I welcome you to my court. Your skills will come in most handily with my fractious barons,” she says in jest.
At least, I believe it is in jest.
Chapter Twenty
I lie in bed, my head still buzzing from the babbling voices that filled the court this evening. In truth, I have learned much and nothing at all. Duval is still an enigma, and if he is a traitor, as the chancellor and abbess suspect, I have no idea whom he might work for.
His hatred of both d’Albret and the French envoy is palpable, but of course he could easily fake that. But what of the fierce protectiveness he feels for his sister? I remember the grim set to his mouth, the fury in his eyes, and the anger that fair sparked off him, and I must admit that even he could not feign that. which turns all my other arguments to dust.
Perhaps Duval is exactly who he says he is, a devoted brother intent on seeing his sister crowned duchess and safely wed to a man who can stand with her against the French. Of a certainty that is what the duchess believes.
Hoping a night’s rest will bring clarity, I close my eyes and urge my thoughts toward sleep. Instead, Count d’Albret’s thick, fleshy lips rise up in my mind, and my eyes snap open. Guillo. That is who d’Albret reminds me of, why he disturbs me so.
I fear the dreams will come tonight. whether they will be the old ones of Guillo or some new nightmare built around d’Albret, I cannot guess.
There is a whisper of sound near the door, and my heart stutters in my chest even as my mind whispers, Duval. But my hand creeps toward my stiletto, just in case.
“I thought we had gotten past that.” Duval’s deep voice stirs the darkness of the room.
I lift my head from the pillow to see where he is. “Perhaps you have, but I have not.”
“Do not be tiresome.”
I follow the sound of his voice. There. In the faint glow cast by the dying embers, I can see him make his way to the chair in front of the window. I relax somewhat. As unwelcome as he is — and he is unwelcome, I assure myself — he will chase away the even more unwelcome dreams. "What are you doing here?”
“Performing my nightly duties to my young mistress.”
His words cause something to flutter inside me. I have no idea what it is, but it frightens me almost as much as my dreams. “I am too tired to spar tonight, my lord.”
“As am I. Go to sleep. I will sit here but an hour or two, then leave.”
I yawn. “So very long as that?”
when he answers, there is a wry note in his voice. “I do have my reputation to protect.”
I have no idea what he is talking about. I yawn again, then pinch myself, not wanting to fall asleep. "Why did your father promise your sister to Count d’Albret? with her kingdom as dowry, surely she could have made a better match than that? To someone who wasn’t so repulsive.”
There is a long moment of silence before Duval answers. “It was a desperate bid to save that very kingdom. Our lord father was short on troops with which to fight the French. D’Albret agreed to supply those troops, but at a price.”
“The duchess’s hand in marriage.”
“Yes. My sister’s hand in marriage.”
The utter betrayal of this leaves me speechless, for while the price paid was considerably higher, the arrangement was not so very different from my father’s bargain with Guillo.
“Perhaps my father thought he would live long enough to assure the marriage never came to pass,” Duval says. “I would like to believe that.” There is a faint note of anguish in his voice, and I know that he feels the betrayal as sharply as I do.
“I’m sure you are right, my lord,” I say, surprised that I feel the need to comfort him.
“I have sworn that no matter how much d’Albret bellows or what he threatens, he will have to step over my dead body to marry her.”
I cannot help but admire Duval greatly in that moment and find myself wishing that his father had cared half so much about Anne. even so, I am not altogether comfortable with this small bit of harmony. Luckily, it does not last long.
“Now, enough questions, Ismae, or else I will have to think of some way to silence you.”
At his threat, my mind immediately goes to his disconcerting game of the previous night. From the faint note of humor in his voice, I suspect he is thinking of it also. Not wishing to test that theory, I settle down under my covers and close my eyes. I am certain I will not sleep with him in the room, but the sooner I fool him into believing I am asleep, the sooner he will leave.
I am locked in Guillo’s root cellar; my face presses against the floor, and the sharp smell of dirt is in my nose. Something heavy pushes down on me, forcing me farther into the dirt. Straining my neck, I look up. Guillo is before me, fumbling at the front of his braies, leering. The weight on top of me grows heavier, and my arms are wrenched up behind my back, nearly to the point of breaking. I twist around, trying to peer through my hair, and find the flat black eyes of Count d’Albret. His long, careless fingers fumble at my skirts while Guillo beckons to me from the shadows. I struggle and buck against him, trying to throw him from my back, but he grips my arms tighter and forces me back down. “No!” I shout. My hand scrabbles in the dirt until it closes around the handle of a dagger hidden there. I grip it tightly, then roll out of d’Albret’s grasp and thrust the knife in his throat.