“There is no but. Your feminine artistry is as much a part of your arsenal as your dagger or beloved poison. Duval must be watched. You yourself have found evidence of that. The closer you get to him, the more you will learn. Perhaps you will even be able to coax truths from him under the guise of pillow talk.”
I am certain I could no more coax secrets out of the dark, angry Duval than I could coax the abbess to dance a gavotte in the streets of Nantes, but I keep that to myself. I have already performed poorly tonight and I am afraid if I argue she will think I am no longer fit to serve the convent. Then a thought occurs to me. "Why not just eliminate him now and avoid the risk altogether?”
“Did you see the marque of Mortain on him?”
I hesitate, then answer truthfully. “No. But Martel’s was nearly hidden under his collar. Perhaps Duval’s hides as well.”
She smiles, and too late I see I have played right into her hands. “All the more reason to get close to him, no?”
I cannot begin to fathom why Mortain insists on concealing these marques of His so that I must play hide-and-seek.
“Ismae,” she says, serious once more. “Duval is one of the duchess’s most trusted advisors. It is critical we know where he stands.”
“He has her ear and trust in a way few others do,” explains Crunard.
“And if he is betraying us, he will feel Mortain’s punishment soon enough.” The abbess’s face is grim. “Perhaps even at your hand — ”
She is interrupted by scuffling at the door. The abbess only has time to frown before the door bursts open. My breath hitches sharply in my throat as Gavriel Duval himself strides in.
Annith is right on his heels. “I am sorry, Reverend Mother! I told him you’d left instructions not to be disturbed, but he wouldn’t listen.” She sends the intruder a scathing look.
“Yes, I can see that,” the abbess says. She sends a quick questioning glance my way. when I nod, indicating he is who I saw at Lombart’s, she turns back to the man glowering in her doorway. "Well, Duval, come in. Don’t hover at the door.”
Duval comes farther into the room and I nearly flinch at his heated gaze. In truth, the man is angry enough to breathe fire. “Abbess. Chancellor Crunard.” He gives a perfunctory nod to both. His anger eats up all the empty space in the room. "We have a few things we must discuss.”
The abbess raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes. The incompetence of your novices, for one.” He places undue emphasis on the word novice, I think.
“Twice now, she” — he jabs his finger in my direction — “has interfered with my work. The convent cannot keep sending out agents who destroy valuable sources of information.”
“Twice?” I challenge him, for I have seen him only once before.
“The tavern.” At my blank look, he hunches his shoulders and leers. “‘Hurry back down to Hervé when you are done, eh?’”
The oaf! He was the oaf at the tavern. My fists clench at the memory.
The reverend mother speaks, her cold voice drawing his attention back to her. “The convent has always acted alone in carrying out Mortain’s will. Are you suggesting we need your permission?” Her tone implies he should not be suggesting any such thing.
He folds his arms across his chest. “I propose only that some thought be applied to your actions. Twice now you have gotten to men before I did. And while you and your saint are interested in meting out retribution, I am interested in information that can guide our country out of this wretched hole we are in.”
“You wanted them for questioning.” The reverend mother’s flat tone does not reveal whether she feels remorse for having disrupted his plans.
Duval nods. “I am sure, given the right incentive, they could have led us to the puppet master pulling their strings.”
Crunard sits forward in his chair, suddenly alert. “Surely they come from the French regent?”
“Perhaps,” Duval says cautiously. “But she is working with someone at court and I would like to know who.”
Crunard spreads his hands in invitation. "Will you share your suspicions with us?”
“Not at this time.” Duval speaks quietly, but his refusal is shocking just the same.
Crunard recovers first. “Surely you’re not suggesting we are not trustworthy?”
“I suggest no such thing, but it would be unwise for me to voice any suspicions I have without sufficient evidence. Unfortunately” — he sends me another scathing glance — “someone keeps destroying my evidence.”
Mouth pursed in thought, the abbess folds her arms in her sleeves. “How do you propose we rectify this? Are we to consult with you every time the saint bids us act?”
Duval runs his hand through his hair and turns to the window. “Not necessarily. But we must find a better way to coordinate our efforts. Because of your novice’s actions, the duchess has lost valuable information.”
I feel as if I’ve been slapped. “Might have lost,” I correct under my breath.
He looks at me in surprise. "Excuse me?”