Chapter Forty-three
Slowly, as if every bone in my body has turned to melted wax, I sink to the floor. How can this be? Did the abbess not get my most recent letter? And what of Crunard? Does he believe his own argument, or is there some darker purpose here? For everything he accuses Duval of could also be laid at his own feet.
My mind begins turning over every conversation I have had with the chancellor, looking for rips or tears in the cloak of loyalty he wears with such sincerity. was it he who first suggested Duval might be guilty? Or the abbess? He was most insistent I turn my attentions away from d’Albret and back to Duval. And it was Crunard who informed the convent of both Runnion and Martel. Could he have purposefully brought about those kills in order to work against the duchess? But why?
And most important, is Sister Vereda well enough to have Seen this? Surely not, for Mortain would not send a false vision, and I know that these accusations are false. even hearing it from the abbess does not persuade me otherwise.
When my brain has exhausted itself with questions for which I have no answers, I turn to prayer. I open my heart to Mortain and pray as I have never prayed before. But as I listen for His voice, all I can hear are those of Chancellor Crunard and the abbess.
After a while — a long while — I stand up and straighten my skirts. I am so hollow inside that it feels as if I have left some vital piece of myself on the floor. I know — know— that the convent is mistaken. They have been fed false information or have drawn the wrong conclusions. Or both. My own arrogance shocks me, and yet I know they are wrong. That the convent can make such a mistake unnerves me. The nuns are not supposed to make mistakes.
There is a scraping sound by the fireplace as the heavy door begins to swing open. Duval! without thinking, I crumple the note into a ball and toss it into the fire. I watch the convent’s orders turn to ash as Duval strides into the chamber. Much to my surprise, he heads straight for me and wraps his arms around my waist, then whirls me around the chamber as if we are dancing. “The tide is turning!” he says, his eyes bright. “D’Albret is gone, the agreement with the Holy Roman emperor is finalized, the english king grows closer to meeting our terms, and my family’s plotting has ended!”
I am breathless with his whirling and try to smile back, to act as if nothing has changed, but my face feels frozen. I push at his hands, but they do not budge from my waist.
“Truly,” he says, slowing down, “your saint can work miracles.” As he looks into my eyes, his smile fades and his eyes grow dark with emotion. Slowly, he leans toward me.
His lips are soft and warm as they touch mine. His mouth moves urgently, as if he is trying to experience every nuance and curve of my lips. The utter rightness of this fills me, for it feels I have waited all my life for just this moment.
His mouth opens slightly, and he shifts the angle of his kiss, nudging my mouth to do the same, and I am lost in a whole new world of sensation. His mouth is soft compared to the strong, callused hands that grip my waist. He tastes faintly of wine and victory and something bitter and astringent.
Even as the realization dawns, my lips begin to tingle, then grow numb. “My lord!” I gasp and pull away.
He looks at me, his eyes full of desire, his pupils grown so large they have swallowed up nearly all the gray in his eyes. It cannot be! I lean in close again, press my lips to his, then run my tongue lightly over his lips and inside his mouth. even as he responds by pulling me closer, the acrid tang fills my senses.
I pull away and take his hands from my waist. “My lord,” I repeat, hoping he will hear the urgency in my voice. “Stop. Think. what have you had to eat today?”
He stares at me intently, trying to make sense of my words, as if I have spoken in some strange language from a far-off land. “Nothing but what you gave me last night. why?”
I lean in and press one last soft kiss against his lips — to be certain, I tell myself. “You are poisoned. I can taste it.”
His pulse beats frantically in the hollow of his throat. “Poisoned?” he repeats, as if the word is new to him.
I hold my fingers to my lips, tasting them again. “Yes,” I whisper.
His eyes fill with unspeakable sadness. “You — ”
“No!” I grasp his face with my hands, his whiskery stubble rough beneath my palms. “It is not I who have poisoned you. I swear it!” I hope he does not push me further and ask if the convent is behind it, for I do not know the answer. Did the reverend mother not trust me to do as she ordered? Or has someone else taken matters into his own hands?