The door opens and I find myself staring down at a small young woman, younger even than Matelaine was. She has intelligent brown eyes, rich sable-colored hair, and a high wide brow that is at the moment creased in worry. With a start, I realize that I am staring at the duchess herself. I sink into a low curtsy. “Your Grace,” I murmur.
“Lady Annith.” She offers her hand for me to kiss, which I do, then she bids me rise. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, especially after all that Ismae has told me, although I am sorry to have to do it in this way.”
I glance over to where Ismae sits by the bed, then back at the duchess. “And what way is that, Your Grace?”
“I’m afraid I have invited you here for the most selfish of reasons. My young sister is gravely ill, and Ismae thought you might have some new ideas on cures to try. She said you successfully nursed one of the elder nuns at your convent.” The desperate hope shining in her face nearly breaks my heart, for such desperation exists only when the outcome appears truly bleak.
“But of course, Your Grace. I am happy to offer any aid or comfort I can, although I think you will find Ismae is as much a master of tinctures and simples as anyone.”
“Maybe so,” she says. “But she also said you have sleeves full of tricks and charms to keep young children entertained, and those talents would be most welcome as well.”
A part of me wants to laugh. Here I am, at the right hand of the ruler of all Brittany, free of the convent’s walls at last, and it is my ability to charm young children that she is most interested in.
As she leads me to the bed where her sister and Ismae are, I try to reconcile this poised woman in front of me with the picture of the thirteen-year-old duchess I have carried in my head for so long. This girl is no child. She is unlike any thirteen-year-old I have ever known, although in truth, the thirteen-year-olds I have known are nothing like normal girls, either peasants or nobles. They—we—cannot be. We are not trained for normal—we are trained to be assassins and spies and rulers of kingdoms. To serve our god and serve our country with every shred of skill and intelligence we possess. There is little time for childhood in lives such as ours. With a sharp pang in my heart, I recognize that this is wrong somehow—that too much is asked of those we demand such sacrifices from.
The duchess reaches the bed, and Ismae stands up to make room for her. “Isabeau? Are you awake? There is someone here I think you would like to meet.”
The pale girl lying on the bed is a child, but it is easy to see that her illness has robbed her of much of her childhood. Her face lights up at the duchess’s words and her eyes move in my direction, the excitement in them dimming somewhat when she sees me.
I curtsy deeply and give her my warmest smile, the one I use to coax Loisse out of the sulks. “Hello, Princess.”
Before the duchess can continue the introduction, the princess asks, “Did Arduinna send you?”
I blink in surprise. “No.” As her hopeful expression disappears altogether, I wonder if I may have found the person responsible for the offering in the chapel. Although how she could have gotten it down there in her state is a mystery. “I serve at the convent of Saint Mortain, like Ismae,” I tell her, but that does not revive her interest.
She turns to her sister. “I am tired,” she whispers.
The duchess leans over and smoothes a stray hair from the child’s brow. “I know, dear heart. Sleep now, and we will play more later.”
She gives a faint nod, and her eyes flutter closed. The three of us slip quietly from the room, and the duchess herself closes the door, careful to leave it open just a crack.
“What is the nature of her illness?” I ask.
“She has been beset with lung fever since she was young. It comes and goes in bouts, sometimes severe. It has been getting worse these past few months, and there is little that brings her relief.” When the duchess looks away to compose herself, I glance over at Ismae. She gives a brief shake of her head. The young princess is dying, albeit slowly.
“I will think back on all that we did for Sister Vereda,” I assure both of them. “And see if there is anything Ismae has not yet tried. If nothing else, I should have some stories and games I can entertain her with.”
“Any of that would be most appreciated, demoiselle.”
Isabeau’s question if I was sent by Arduinna reminds me of the message I bear. “Your Grace, I traveled to Rennes among a group of the followers of Arduinna. They asked that I bring you a message from them.”
She blinks in surprise, then looks at Ismae, who shrugs in ignorance. “I would be pleased to hear it.”
“They wanted you to know that they have responded to your summons and are here in the city, ready to offer you whatever support they can.”
The duchess frowns. “But I have not summoned them. In truth, I did not know that I could summon them.”
“I do not think they came as subjects to a ruler, or even as a religious order, but because a sacred offering was made asking Arduinna’s help.”
The duchess looks at Ismae. “Did you make such an offering?”
Ismae shakes her head. “No.”
“Nor have I,” says the duchess.
I look back toward the sleeping Isabeau. Now I am nearly certain it is the young princess who has requested Arduinna’s aid, although I do not wish to expose her secret just yet. At least, not until I better understand what is going on here. “Either way, they have much to offer. While their numbers are not great, one hundred or so at the outside, they are strong and fierce warriors with a special fondness for the innocent. Perhaps there is some service they can perform for you.”
“I am sure there is, or will be soon enough. I am not in a position to turn down even the smallest offer of help at this point.”
In the quiet that follows, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps thuds in the hallway beyond, just before a sharp knock on the solar door. Ismae and I exchange a glance. “Is it the abbess?” I murmur.
She shrugs. “Mayhap. If so, let me be the one to talk.”
For a brief moment I am dizzy with how completely our positions have changed. In the past, Ismae always insisted that I be the one to run interference with the abbess, and now she is doing so for me.
One of the ladies in waiting goes to open the door, and relief flutters in my belly. Not the abbess, but a nobleman. He is tall and broad of shoulder with gray eyes that glow with intelligence and . . . glee? The glee has so transformed his face that it takes me a moment to recognize him as the man Ismae left with all those months ago.