“How can you ignore everything we’ve fought for for the last twenty years? How can you dishonor your own sons’ memories this way?”
“You may not speak to me of my sons,” Crunard says, his voice tight with fury. “Not when you have lived and they have died.” He grows quiet, and when he speaks again, he is calmer. “I do not expect you to understand how hard it is to watch your own sons die, struck down in battle for a cause that pales when it is set next to what you have lost. even more, I do not expect you to understand what it is like to learn that one of those sons still lives — ”
“Anton?” There is joy in Duval’s voice, and I remember that the chancellor’s youngest son and Duval were of an age. They were likely friends.
“Anton,” Crunard says. “I saw him struck down on the battlefield of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier. So you cannot begin to imagine my joy when I received word that he still lived. All I had to do was deliver Anne into the hands of the French regent — something that was clearly inevitable — and my son would be returned to me.”
Suddenly everything is clear. every move Crunard has made, every person he has betrayed — all of it was done in the hope of ransoming his son.
“So you thought to trade my sister’s life for your son’s?”
“It seemed a fair exchange, since if it weren’t for the blood of my sons spilled on the battlefield, none of this would be hers. Besides, I wasn’t trading her life, merely her duchy. They are quite different things.
“At first it was easy. I worked quietly behind the scenes, gently bending the tides of war to France’s favor without harming a soul, and then you stepped in. You and your damned strategies and tactics and pigheaded stubbornness. If you had been content to let things happen, none of this would have come to pass. But you were not. You were determined to single-handedly deliver an independent duchy to your sister along with the means to keep it. You can be certain I did not value your life above my son’s, so you gave me no choice but to remove you. Now, sit down so we may finish this game.”
“Do you always play chess with a loaded crossbow in your lap?” Duval asks, and at last I understand why he shoved me back into the tunnel.
“Only with particularly challenging opponents,” Crunard replies.
But that is easily enough fixed. I take my own crossbow from the chain at my waist. It may be smaller than Crunard’s, but it is just as deadly. I fit a bolt to it, and move silently toward the door.
“You shall move first, I think,” Crunard tells Duval.
“No!” I shout, stepping into the room and aiming the crossbow at Crunard’s forehead. “That is how he was poisoning you, by coating the chess pieces with Arduinna’s snare.”
“Demoiselle Rienne, I hardly recognized you in your new gown. whatever can the convent have been thinking, sending you out in such garb? Or have you thrown away your future with them for Duval here?” even though his voice is dry and mocking, his face pales and his eyes grow wary.
As I stare at him, my anger at all this man has stolen from me rises up, nearly choking me. His treachery has tainted the purity of the convent and dragged us into his worldly struggles. He has used me — and the abbess as well — as pawns in these games he plays. He has nearly killed Duval and has come close to preventing Anne from claiming her throne. And while I have sympathy for his son, that sympathy does not come at the cost of everything I hold dear.
But even as I stare at him with death in my heart, I falter. Now that I have come face to face with His mercy, I see it in everything. For while Crunard has wronged many, the seeds of his treachery lie in his love for his son.
Killing him now would bring one sort of justice, but it would also spring from the anger in my heart. And when I moved through the battlefield, I swore to myself that I would have nothing more to do with vengeance.
Filled with equal parts wonder and disgust, I realize I cannot kill this wily old fox, no matter how much he might deserve it.
I huff out a sigh of frustration, drop the arm holding the crossbow, then swing out and clout him alongside the head with it. His eyes have just enough time to register surprise before they roll up in his head and he slumps in his chair.
Duval turns to look at me, his eyes unreadable. “Did your god guide your hand in that?”
“No,” I say, looking down at Crunard’s inert body. “That was my own idea. Did you have a better one?”
“Other than wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing the life out of him, no.”
There is a long moment during which I feel him watching me, so I am careful not to meet his eyes. “That option crossed my mind as well, but we need him alive so that we may clear your name with the rest of the council,” I say, but I do not think he is fooled by my excuses.
I would curse at him for seeing too much, except I am too pleased he is alive to see at all.
It is two days’ ride to Rennes, but due to Duval’s weakened state, it takes us three.
I do not begrudge the slower pace. In truth, it is the first time we have been alone with only ourselves and our own pleasure to consider. Once we are away from Guérande, the mists lift, and the days are cold yet bright. Mortain’s summer, we call it, and I feel certain it is a gift from the god Himself.
The cold fresh air chases the last vestiges of the poison from Duval’s lungs, and his health improves quickly. we talk and laugh as we ride. Indeed, I have never laughed as much as this. Duval points out his father’s holdings to me, and I stop and give thanks at every standing stone we pass.
The nights are our own. we sit in front of the fire Duval has built, our bodies touching from hip to shoulder, and share wine from a skin and roasted meat from a spit. we talk of small things, private things. It is a sweet, glorious time and I know it will be over far too soon.
On our last night on the road, Duval is more quiet than usual. He has pulled a ribbon from my hair and sits playing with it in his hand. "What is wrong?” I finally ask.
He looks at me, his dark eyes reflecting the flames of the fire. "We have decisions to make when we arrive in Rennes.”
I look away, unhappy that the real world will intrude on this last night. “I know.” I pick up a nearby stick and poke at the fire.
“Ismae, I would offer you marriage if you would have it.”
My whole body stills, shocked at the honor he would do me, an honor I never dared to imagine.
He smiles. “I think that Saint Camulos and Saint Mortain could easily come to terms. They work hand in hand often enough in the mortal world.”