“Keep eating.” when he puts another spoonful of broth into his mouth, I continue. “Captain Dunois thinks we have a chance of using this to reconcile with Marshal Rieux.”
“She must not reconcile with Rieux,” Duval says, his voice fierce. “She must demand that he come to her to beg forgiveness; she must not go to him.”
I cannot help but wonder if this is the poison talking, for surely the duchess is in no position to demand anything. “As much as I detest Marshal Rieux and what he has done, if there is a chance to reclaim an ally, mustn’t she at least consider it?”
“How do they propose to effect this reconciliation?” he asks.
“They will ride to Nantes and attempt to persuade him to return to Anne’s side so he can lead her armies against the French.”
"What does Crunard say?” Duval asks around a bite of bread.
“He wants to keep her safe in Guérande, but Dunois and the duchess overruled him.”
"When do they leave?”
“At daybreak tomorrow,” I tell him. “They want to get under way before word of their plan leaks to Nantes or the French regent.”
Duval swears a black oath. “Do they not realize they are most likely riding directly into a trap?”
“Not to mention that the French are inside our border, and there is no way of knowing how many scouts or sorties they have sent out,” Beast adds. “How large a company will they be taking?”
“A small one. Not more than twenty.”
"Easily overpowered by a large scouting party then,” Beast says.
Duval drops his head back against the wall in frustration. The loud thud makes me wince but he barely even registers the blow. “By the Five wounds of Christ, this is a wretched time to be poisoned.”
“Poison!” De Lornay’s fist clenches around the dice he has been fidgeting with and he takes a step toward me. But it is Beast’s reaction that cuts me to the quick. He lifts his great head and looks at me with wounded eyes, as if I have betrayed him as well as Duval.
“It is not by my hand,” I snap. when they say nothing, I grow agitated. “Think! would I have fetched the two of you if I wanted him to die?”
That seems to convince them somewhat, although de Lornay keeps casting dark, sullen glances toward me as I carry the empty tray back to the table by the fire. Behind me, Duval starts to put together a plan. “Beast, de Lornay, when you leave here tonight, go to Dunois. Tell him you want to be in that party that leaves for Nantes. Do not let him refuse you. Ismae!” he calls out.
I stop what I am doing and turn to face the bed.
“I want you to go as well. Attach yourself to the duchess as if you were her shield, for in truth, you may be. Do not leave her side.”
My hands grip my skirt and I hurry back to him. “My lord, that is not what my convent has ordered.” I do not let myself think on what my convent actually wants me to do. The herbwitch’s words rise up in mind and I cannot tell if they are meant to taunt or comfort: It is a dark god you serve, daughter, but remember, He is not without mercy. Is this His mercy, then? That I will not have to slay Duval with my own hand because he is already dying from poison? A dark god indeed.
“Perhaps not,” he says, “but surely it is what they would want you to do if they knew of her plans.” when I do not speak, he turns to Beast. “Make her go with you. No matter how sick I am or what Crunard or Dunois say, make sure she rides out with you. Carry her if you have to. Swear it.”
“I swear it.” Beast’s deep voice rumbles through the room.
Duval turns to me, his voice more gentle now. “This is what I have worked for my entire life, Ismae, the duchess’s safety. I cannot finish this task, so I ask that you do it for me.”
And of course I cannot say no. Not to his dying wish. “Very well,” I whisper.
A faint tremor shudders through Duval’s body, as if it is only his determination to make these last arrangements for his sister that has kept him going. Our eyes meet. “Thank you.”
when Beast and de Lornay take their leave, Duval leans back against the pillows, his face taking on a grayish pallor. I have spent the day longing to share my news of Crunard’s signet ring with him, but he is so ill, I do not have the heart to add to his cares. “You really must sleep, my lord. You can give us more instructions when you wake up.”
He says something I cannot make out. "What?” I ask, coming closer to the bed.
“If,” he says. “If I wake up.”
I reach down to caress his cheek, his week-old whiskers rough and scratchy against my palm. He is burning as if with fever.
“Do not cry,” he says.
I scrub at my face with my free hand. “I am not crying, my lord.”