Of course he is right, but even so, it is a dangerous bargain we strike. I cannot help but think the abbess would never approve. I do not know how dearly she holds her belief in Duval’s guilt or whether she and Crunard will thank me if I prove them wrong. But I have searched high and low for any signs of treachery to give weight to their suspicions, and the only evidence I found has just been neatly explained. It also has the convincing ring of truth to it, especially as I have witnessed the open animosity between him and his mother.
It is a narrow line Duval asks me to walk, seeing to both the duchess’s needs and my convent’s. For although their goals are the same, I fear their methods are very different. If I am wrong, I risk losing the convent’s trust, which is surely the thing I value most in this world. even so, there is no other choice. Not with the duchess in such dire straits, for if she fails to maintain her country’s independence, the convent will surely suffer. “Very well, milord.”
He smiles then, and even though it is well past midnight, it as if the sun has just come out. "Excellent,” he says. “This is what I need you to do.”
Early the next morning Duval and I ride out into the country.
Louyse asks him to repeat himself twice when he requests a hamper to take with us. Clearly, this is out of character for him, and she slides her wise old eyes to me, a look of pleased speculation in them.
De Lornay and Beast are waiting for us outside, their horses fresh and pawing at the morning. Duval is lending me a dappled gray mare of his for the day, and I slip her a bit of apple I snuck from the table.
Our horses’ hooves ring out on the cold cobbles as we ride toward the north gate. The town is even more crowded than it was the day we arrived; every Breton noble — and many French ones — are tucked up inside its walls, waiting to see what drama will play out at the estates meeting. The tension in the city is thick enough to slice with a knife and feed to the peasants.
As we ride through the streets, de Lornay tosses his head back and laughs, as if Duval has said something clever. Duval himself grins, and Beast turns his ugly face to me and smiles. I smile back. we are, for all the world, a happy little party out to enjoy the fine autumn day.
But of course, we are not.
Duval is well aware we may be riding into a trap, but the duchess’s situation is desperate enough that we will take our chances. De Lornay and Beast are the muscle of the operation. I have been brought along as a decoy, for surely the serious, stalwart Duval would not leave town at a time such as this unless he was utterly besotted with his new mistress.
Once clear of the city, we head north through the woods that surround Guérande, and our gaiety falls from us somewhat. It is a crisp, chill morning and I am grateful for the fur-lined cloak Sister Beatriz has sent. My thoughts hop and flutter, just like the nearby birds searching out the last of the season’s offerings before winter arrives. I tell myself that if the abbess learns of this outing, I will simply explain I am being her eyes and ears, just as I was instructed. She has no need to know I have agreed to work with Duval. Indeed, I do not know myself if I truly meant it or just agreed in order to placate him and be included in his plans. either way, until it requires that I do something in direct conflict with the convent’s orders, it seems harmless enough.
we ride for nearly an hour before Duval sends de Lornay to double back and check if we are being followed.
"Who do you think would follow us?” I ask.
Duval shrugs. “Anyone who saw us leave. The French envoy would dearly love to know what we’re about, as would my mother. D’Albret. Anyone on the Privy Council who is jealous of the trust Anne places in me.”
“So very many,” I murmur.
He cocks an eyebrow but says nothing as the sound of galloping hooves reach us. De Lornay rides into view, nods his head, and holds up five fingers, then one. Six pursuers. Duval mutters an oath. “How far back?”
“Not far at all,” de Lornay says.
“Could you tell who they are?”
De Lornay shakes his head. “They are men-at-arms, wearing no identifying tabards or colors.”
Duval nods grimly, then waves us off the road and into the surrounding forest. His eyes search the area until he spies a small glade with a log and dappled sunlight. He steers his horse toward that, and the rest of us follow.
By the time I reach the glade, he has dismounted and is waiting to assist me. He lifts me from my saddle, then grabs the bag slung across his horse’s neck. He points Beast and de Lornay to a flat boulder that sits closer to the road, then takes my hand and leads me to the log.
He lowers himself onto the grass and then leans back against the log and tries to pull me down beside him. “My lord!” I squeak as I nearly tumble into his lap.
He looks at me. "Would you rather I put my head in your lap?”
“Can we not just sit side by side?”
His eyes glitter as brightly as highly polished steel. "We are besotted lovers, remember? I, who never leave the duchess’s side except on her business, am out lolling around with my mistress. Or so we must make them believe.”
I glance away, ashamed. It is the plan we concocted last night, but it is harder than I expected to play this masquerade. I clear my throat. “If I must choose, I would rather sit and have your head in my lap.” I will feel less helpless that way.
He rolls his eyes but quickly switches positions. I have hardly settled my rump to the ground before he is stretching his long body out beside me, and then his head is in my lap.
It is heavy and solid and warm, and for a moment, it consumes all of my attention. embarrassed, I glance over at de Lornay and Beast, but they are busy doing their part, sprawling and dicing, looking for all the world like bored attendants waiting on their lingering lord.
when Duval’s hand closes around mine, I jump like a startled rabbit, and his eyes crinkle in amusement. “How long must we stay this way?” I whisper.
“Until they are satisfied that we are naught but the besotted lovers we claim to be.”
It is my turn to roll my eyes.
“Do not scowl so.” His voice is amused, tender. “Pretend I am de Lornay, if it is easier.”
I snort in disgust.
“My brother, then, if you fancy him. I do not care, but God’s Teeth! Paste a smitten look on your face or our ruse will not work.”
I soften my eyes and force my mouth into a smile. “I do not care for your brother either,” I murmur, as if it is a declaration of love.
Something in Duval’s face shifts. “Good,” he whispers, and I must remind myself he is but playing the game. It should not surprise me that he is so very, very skilled at it.