I can feel d’Albret’s eyes on me, as cold and hard as winter hail. “Now it is just us, demoiselle.”
I carefully set the flagon down, and my mind scrambles for the best way to get him out of his shirt and doublet as quickly as possible. However, before I can say anything, d’Albret rises to his feet and reaches for me. As his thick, coarse hand clamps down on my arm, I am nearly overcome with fear and loathing.
“Jumpy, demoiselle?” His voice is mocking.
As I start to answer, the door behind me bursts open. D’Albret’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow. Before I can turn around, there is an iron grip on my other arm.
It is Duval, tight-lipped and glaring at me, and I am ashamed at how glad I am to see him, how relieved I am to be kept from completing this task I have set for myself.
The count’s expression shifts when he sees who it is. "Eh, Duval? Have you lost something?” I do not know why d’Albret’s good humor returns. Does he take that much pleasure in taunting Duval? “Perhaps we can make a little trade, you and I,” d’Albret says, letting go of my arm. “I will return your mistress to you if you will give me your sister.”
“They are not horses to be traded at the fair,” Duval growls. “No? Is that not a woman’s role, to act as broodmare to a sire?”
The pulse in Duval’s jaw beats fiercely. "We must agree to disagree on that point.” He gives a curt, shallow nod, then drags me from the room. I feel d’Albret’s chilling gaze at our backs until we are well clear of him.
Out in the hallway, Duval releases me with a little shove. “Sweet Jesu, do not poison him so openly! Has the convent not taught you any better than that? why not just create a trail of blood leading to my door?”
I glare back. “I was not poisoning him.”
All the color drains from Duval’s face. "What were you planning then?”
when I do not reply, he reaches out and shakes me. “Have you heard nothing I’ve told you about Count d’Albret?” His voice is low and urgent and tinged with fear. Fear for me.
Suddenly it is all too much. His concern, my relief at being found. Frustration and impotence boil up inside me. I reach out and push Duval — hard — so that he stumbles back.
“This is my job, my calling. It is why I am here. My duty is to my god, not to you and your political maneuverings. I am here to do His will, not yours.” I turn away from him. My frustration is so great, I am afraid hot angry tears will spill from my eyes, and I will not let Duval see that.
when he speaks, his voice is filled with certainty, and I so envy him that certainty that I want to hit him all over again. "Whatever it is your saint demands of you, I am certain it is not what would have happened in that room.”
I glance back at him. "What do you know of gods and saints?” I ask, filling my voice with scorn.
His fingers drift to the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos on his cloak. “I know that what our saints want is not always made clear to us. Sometimes, it is their wish for us to flail and struggle and come to our own choices, not accept ones that have been made for us.”
easily enough said by one who forsook his own vows.
"Everything I know of the saints and old gods,” he continues, “is that they and Brittany are one. Anything that serves our kingdom, and by extension our quest to remain independent of France, serves them.”
I am sorely tempted to throw his forsaking of his saint in his face, but something stops me. Instead, I spin on my heel and begin making my way toward the main door of the castle.
Outside, the night is cool, but the moon is full, casting a bright, silvery light on the streets of Guérande. we walk in angry silence, using back ways and alleys, both of us clinging to the shadows, our dark cloaks rendering us nearly invisible. Small tendrils of mist have begun to creep in from the sea, bringing with them the moist tang of the nearby salt marshes.
when we have nearly reached his residence, Duval speaks. “The duchess is well pleased with Nemours’s offer.” His voice is wooden, formal. "We will put the proposal before the Privy Council in a few days to gain their approval.”
And though I have vowed never to speak to him again, I am surprised into looking up. “Is that wise? I thought secrecy was of utmost importance.”
He grimaces in frustration. "We do not have much choice. She has not yet been crowned duchess, so she does not yet have the ability to act on her own behalf. we must have the Privy Council’s signatures on any agreement we enter into. After that, we will move quickly to maintain the element of surprise.”
when we reach his residence he takes us through the front door, merely nodding at the surprised man-at-arms. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs and motions for me to go on ahead. “I think we have shared each other’s company enough for one night. Besides, I have much to prepare for tomorrow’s council meeting.”
I am all too happy to bid him good night. when I reach my room, I do not undress but instead go to the window and kneel in the puddle of moonlight spilling onto the floor.
I pray to Mortain for the insight and clarity to see my way through the thicket of loyalties and alliances that surround me. I pray for the wisdom to discern His will in this matter. And most of all, I pray that I am not falling in love with Duval.
I do not know why I am drawn to him. He is not as pretty as de Lornay or as easy to be with as Beast. His brother has more charming manners, and yet . . .
It is Duval who sets my heart to racing, who addles my wits, who makes me short of breath. For even when he is angry, he is kind, and not the mere surface kindness of good manners, but a true caring. Or at least, the appearance of true caring, for I am well aware it could all be an act. An act designed to earn my trust. And just like some poor, dumb rabbit, I have stumbled into his snare.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It does not take but three days for the duchess and Nemours to fall in love, and who could blame them? Nemours is young and handsome and kind, but there is a depth to him as well, for he has known sorrow, just as our duchess has. It does not hurt that he has come to rescue her, nor that she is a true damsel in distress, surrounded as she is by fire-breathing barons. It is as romantic as any troubadour’s tale.
But she does not let this go to her head. During these three days, she and Duval hammer out the most favorable betrothal terms possible. If they can present a strong, solid contract for marriage to the Privy Council, it will be all the harder for her councilors to refuse.