There is little enough to distract my thoughts from circling back to Duval.
I am painfully aware of him riding in front of me, solid, commanding, angry. No matter where I steer my mind or my gaze, they always come back to him.
Mistress. The word whispers through me, taunting, beckoning, laughing. That I will have to pose as such is almost more than I can bear. And that I shall do so in front of half the Breton nobility is laughable. I pray that a messenger from the convent will come galloping up behind us to tell me it is a cruel jest and that Annith will go in my stead. But all I hear is the drip of the heavy mist as it falls upon the leaf mold on the forest floor, the creak of our saddles, and the faint jingle of harness.
Near midafternoon we reach a small wood. The thickness of the trees forces us to slow our horses to a walk so they may carefully pick their way through the branches and brambles. Under the canopy of leaves, it grows cool. I pull my cloak closer, but it does nothing to warm me.
It is not that kind of chill.
Death is nearby. I feel it in my bones, the way an old sailor’s aching joints warn him of a brewing storm.
"What?” Duval’s voice breaks through the shroud of quiet. He has noticed my distraction. His hand moves to his sword hilt. “Do you hear something?”
“No, but there is something dead nearby.”
His eyebrows shoot up and he reins in his horse. “Dead? A man? A woman?”
I shrug. This has never happened to me before and my own ignorance frustrates me. “It could be a deer, for all I know.”
"Where?”
“That way.” I point off to the side of the road, through a faint opening in the trees.
Duval nods, then steers his horse over and motions for me to take the lead. Surprised that he gives a hunch of mine so much weight, I move ahead and let my sense of death lead me.
The trees are closer here, their soft, delicate branches waving overhead like rich green feathers. Just past an ancient standing stone, its surface mottled with lichen and moss and corroded by time, the sense of Death grows stronger. The freshly dug grave is well hidden by dead branches and a scattering of leaves, but I could find my way to it blindfolded. “Martel,” I announce, certain of who is buried there.
I begin to dismount and immediately Duval is at my side, helping me. He reaches up and puts his hands on my waist. I bite back a gasp of surprise as the warmth from his hands seeps through his gloves and my gown to my skin, driving away some small portion of the chill Death has brought. He lifts me from the saddle and as soon as my feet touch the ground, I pull away from him. I am all business, as if he has not just touched me more intimately than I have ever been touched in my life, and I head toward the grave. “This must be where Crunard’s men buried Martel.”
Duval follows me and stares down at the freshly turned earth as if he would will Martel’s secrets to ooze up from the ground. “On the battlefield,” he tells me, “they say a man’s soul lingers for three days. Is that true?”
“Yes.” A plan is already taking shape in my mind, an idea that might remedy one of the mistakes of which I am accused.
"Would that you could speak with men’s souls,” he murmurs.
I glance up at him sharply. Has he pulled the very thought from my head?
He looks at me in surprise. “You can speak with souls?” he asks, as if the words are writ plain on my face.
while I do not like that he can read me in such a manner, I am eager to try this new skill and show him I am not as green or useless as he seems to think. “I can.”
“Can you communicate with Martel’s?”
And although I have been planning to do that very thing, his asking it of me makes me balk. “Are men subject to your probing even after death?”
He has the grace to look sheepish. “I mean no disrespect to the dead, nor would I ask you to break any of your vows. But if I am to find our duchess a way out of this mess, I must use every tool at my disposal.”
even souls. even me.
“I will try, but he has been dead for more than a day, and I am accustomed to dealing with souls when they are fresh.”
“Thank you.” The look of gratitude changes his face, softening the harsh planes and making him appear younger than I had thought. He moves a respectful distance away, and I kneel and bow my head.