“No, milord. Only trying to — ”
“Kiss me?” The yearning in his voice shakes me to the core.
“Yes, my lord. That is it.” And I lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss, as if I would drink the poison from his body. His eyes close again, and his breathing grows steadier. The lines of tension ease somewhat, but not altogether. The shadows under his eyes are darker; his cheeks are more gaunt. He is in need of a shave, and the color is high in his cheeks. My heart is so full — full of love and full of sorrow — that I fear it will burst.
His hand twitches and spasms, so I reach out and cover it with my own. He grows still then, and turns his hand up so that our palms are touching, our fingers linked. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” I tell him. Nor you either, I long to say, to make him promise not to die. But I cannot insist he make a promise he cannot keep. Instead, I lower myself to the floor and keep watch over him through the night.
I awake to a faint kiss on the back of my hand. I open my eyes to find Duval’s head propped on his hand as he watches me. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I mumble, embarrassed. I try to disengage our tangled fingers, but he holds on long enough to give one last squeeze, then lets go.
I rise to my feet and try to ignore the various aches and pains from sleeping in such a cramped position. As I smooth my skirts and try to regain my composure, Duval gets up from the bed and crosses to the ewer and basin, where he splashes cold water on his face. His legs are steadier than they were yesterday, and I can only hope this is a sign that a decent night’s rest has done him some good. when he turns around, beads of water still dripping from his face, I see that his eyes have cleared somewhat.
I hand him a linen towel. As he dries himself, I move to the tray of food. “You really should try to eat some more before you go.”
“I will.” He puts the towel down and comes to grab a wedge of cheese from the tray. He looks to the window to check how close to dawn it is.
Very close.
As he stuffs his pockets with the rest of the food, I frown in puzzlement. He appears much better this morning. Surely that is a hopeful sign.
when his pockets are full, he comes and puts his hands on my shoulders, his eyes alight with urgency. “They must get Anne to Rennes. Guérande is not strong enough to withstand a long siege, but the citizens of Rennes will rally around her, and the town has the means to defend itself. It is the best place for her until help arrives. Convince them, Ismae.”
“I will try, my lord.”
“And beware of denouncing Crunard in front of the others. They have known him far longer than you and will be more likely to side with him should it come to that. You will need solid proof to convince them of your accusations.”
There is a sound outside my door. Louyse. He brushes a quick kiss on the top of my head, then disappears into the passage in the wall. A moment later, Louyse bustles into the room, full of her usual morning cheer. She pauses briefly and looks confused when she sees I am wearing my cloak over my night shift. I rub my arms and give a little shiver. “It is cold this morning.”
“That it is, demoiselle!” As she sets out my clothes, a plan forms in my mind. The remaining members of the Privy Council will be meeting first thing this morning. It will be the perfect time for me to search Crunard’s chamber. Surely I can find something that will convince the others of his guilt.
Chapter Forty-six
When I arrive at Crunard’s chambers, the door is closed and there is no guard posted. I knock and call out, “Chancellor Crunard?” There is no answer. I glance down the hall in both directions. It is clear. Indeed, the palace is very quiet today, and I wonder how many courtiers have heard what has happened in Nantes. Assured that there is no one to see, I try the door. It is locked, but that does not stop me.
I slip one of the needle-thin daggers from my wrist and slip the tip inside the lock, as Sister Eonette showed us. I gently press against the metal insides, nudging the iron to do what I want. when I hear a satisfying click, I straighten, check for witnesses, then slip silently into Chancellor Crunard’s office.
I do not know how much time I have, nor do I know what I am looking for. Something — anything — that will confirm my suspicions.
The papers on his desk are what I expect: correspondence with the barons, maps of Brittany and France, everything that a chancellor needs to perform his duties. I open the cupboard that sits behind his desk and quickly rifle through the pages of the books stored there, but none of them hold hidden letters or carved-out compartments. Nor is there any damning correspondence rolled in along with the rest of the maps. It would help if I knew what I was looking for.
Frustrated, I turn back to his desk, my eyes landing on his writing box. when I try to open it, I find it locked. why would he lock away his writing supplies?
My pulse quickens as I take out my dagger once more and work the lock. This one is smaller — and trickier — than the door’s, but in the end it gives way. I lift the wooden lid and peer inside. Quills, ink pots, a small paring knife, red sealing wax, a heavy gold signet ring —
I pick up the ring and examine it carefully. Crunard wears so very many rings, why would he lock this one away? Something about it niggles at the back of my mind. It takes a moment for me to recognize it.
It is the very ring I glimpsed when Martel’s soul passed through me. which means . . . what?
That the French spy Martel had seen Crunard’s ring, whether it was on the chancellor’s finger when they met face to face or it was sent to him with some lesser courier. If it was sent as a sign, then Martel knew to trust Crunard.
It is not Duval who has been working with the French regent but Crunard.
I close my hand around the heavy gold ring, savoring the solid feel of actual evidence in my hand. But the only one who would give weight to this proof is the abbess, and even that is doubtful. None of the remaining Privy Council will understand how I know this; they will not favor my word over Crunard’s.
even so, I slip the ring in my pocket. Surely flimsy evidence is better than no evidence at all.
Because I am late for the Privy Council meeting, I must suffer a scowl of disapproval from Crunard, but I smile coolly at him. Now that I know he is a traitor, I do not care what he thinks of me.
Neither Dunois nor Crunard has changed his mind during the night. As they run through their reasoning for the duchess, I study Crunard carefully, looking for any sign of a marque, but his bedamned fur collar comes up to his ears and hides any marque he might bear.