She steps closer and throws her arms around me. “I am not mad at you.”
I hug her back and wonder how long it will be until I see her again. “Perhaps you will join me at court soon?” I suggest.
“I will pray for it nightly.”
I glance at the resealed parchment on the table before her. “No word from Sybella?”
“None.” Then her face brightens. “Perhaps you will learn of her at court.”
“If so, I will send word.” we hug one last time before I hurry from the rookery.
I clutch my small bundle of possessions and make my way toward the beach where Duval waits for me, his brown cloak whipping about his boots in the stiff breeze. He does not look any happier about this arrangement than I am, but from where I stand it is all his fault.
When he puts his hand on my elbow to help me into the boat, all the holy resolve I have wrapped myself in disappears and I jerk away, nearly tipping us both into the water.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he growls.
But I am in the boat and he is no longer touching me, so I consider myself the victor in our exchange.
I settle myself on one of the planks and stare out at the sun sparkling on the blue water. I amuse myself by wondering if Duval can swim and if I dare put it to the test.
“This is not my doing, demoiselle,” he says, “so you can save your prickly temper for the abbess.”
“It is most certainly your doing. If you had not seen fit to criticize the work of the convent, I would not be here now.” That is not the entire truth, for even before he burst into her office, the abbess was plotting to put me in Duval’s path again, but he does not need to know that.
He is silent for a while, the only sounds the lap of the water against the boat and the creak of the oars. As he rows, I cannot help but study him, this man in whose hands my fate now rests. His brooding eyes are the light gray of a winter sky. His chin is covered with whiskery stubble, which makes his firm, wellshaped mouth stand out all the more. Unbidden, the word mistress echoes through my mind, and I shiver. A sense of foreboding washes over me. He is not Guillo, I remind myself. Indeed, he is as different from the pig farmer as can be.
Duval is the first to break the silence, and I count it another small victory. “Did Martel say anything before he died? Make a confession, perhaps?”
“A confession?” I allow a touch of scorn to seep into my voice. "We are handmaidens to Death, milord, not confessors.”
He shrugs in equal parts irritation and embarrassment. “I do not claim to know what your mysteries involve. either way, did Martel have any last words as he looked into your face and saw his fate?”
Since Martel’s last words were of seduction, a red-hot poker will not drag them from me. “He said nothing of importance.”
“Are you certain? Perhaps it sounded like nothing to you but will have meaning for me. Tell me his exact words.”
Merde, but the man is persistent. Or is he concerned that the traitor named him? If so, I will not give him the satisfaction of saying yea or nay. “He talked only of meeting someone, that is all. How is it again that you came to be in that room at that exact time?” I ask sweetly.
His jaw twitches. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
I shrug my shoulders.
He stops rowing and leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. “I have served my country in more ways than you can imagine, and I serve it still. Do not ever doubt that.” His words are sharp and pointed and intended to slice my doubts to ribbons. And while they have the ring of truth to them, a traitor of his caliber would be very good at lying.
Still glaring at me, Duval begins to remove his cloak. For a moment, panic flutters in my breast and I wonder what he is doing. But he is only hot from his rowing, and he thrusts the garment at me. “Try not to let it get wet,” he says.
without thinking, I take the thick, rich wool in my hand. A flash of silver catches my eye, and I run my finger along the oak leaf pinned to the cloak. The old noble families of Brittany have always dedicated at least one of their sons to the patron saint of soldiers and battle. I cast my mind back to the enormous tapestries that line Sister Eonette’s chamber walls, tapestries upon which the sisters of Mortain have recorded the family trees of all the Breton nobles throughout the centuries in bright silk thread. I do not recall seeing the name Duval embroidered there. Is it a family name? Or the name of his holding? For the first time, I wonder who exactly he is other than a favorite of the duchess who has earned the abbess’s and chancellor’s suspicions.
As he rows, his chest strains against the fine velvet of his doublet. The muscles in his arms bunch, then stretch, with every pull on the oar, and I cannot help but think that even with all the training the convent has given me, he could easily best me in a hand-to-hand fight.
Not liking the direction of those thoughts, I cast my gaze out to sea, certain I have been consigned to a special version of hell.
Chapter Eleven