when she sees where I am looking, her expression grows unyielding. “I trust my lord brother with my life,” she says. “I have no secrets from him and want him to know of these rites as well. Now tell us.”
I fair grind my teeth in frustration. Is that why he arranged this meeting, knowing she would demand answers and that I would have to give them? "We are mere instruments of Mortain, Your Grace. His handmaidens, if you will. we do not decide who to kill or why or when. It is all determined by the god.”
“You mean saint, do you not?” she asks.
I have forgotten the conventions of the Church that must be followed outside the convent. “But of course, Your Grace. Forgive me. The saint.”
She nods graciously. “How, then, does the saint inform you of His wishes?”
“One of our nuns, Sister Vereda, has a vision. The saint communicates through her, then she and the abbess direct our hands.”
“How does Chancellor Crunard fit in?” Duval asks.
“He acts as liaison to the outside world and keeps the abbess up to date on the politics at court.”
“And you have only the sisters’ word that there has been a vision?”
I turn on Duval. “Their word is above reproach. They serve Mortain.”
“He raises an interesting question,” the duchess points out. “How can you be so certain their visions are correct? How do you know they serve Saint Mortain and not their own interests? And what if they make a mistake?”
“They don’t.” I direct my answer to the duchess and do my best to pretend Duval is not in the room. “If they did not speak truly, then we would not see the marque of death on our victims and we would stay our hands.”
The duchess is intrigued by this idea. “Marque? what does that look like?”
“It looks as if the saint has dipped His finger into the darkness of a man’s soul and anointed him with it. Sometimes the marque will show how a man is to die.”
“And that is how you will know how to strike here in Guérande, away from your seeress?”
I shake my head. “It is our plan for the abbess to communicate the visions to me by crow. But should I happen to see such a marque without an order from her, I am allowed to strike.”
“Mon Dieu!” The duchess sits back in her chair and looks at Duval. “Do all the Privy Council know of this convent?”
Duval shakes his head. “I believe only Crunard works with the abbess. Marshal Rieux has some vague knowledge of it, and Dunois has probably heard rumors among his men, but as he is French, he was not made privy to Breton secrets by our late father. Madame Dinan has no knowledge — or should not — which is why I requested she be kept from this meeting.”
The duchess tilts her head and studies me. "Who else knows Ismae’s true identity?”
“Only Chancellor Crunard.”
“Then I agree we should keep it that way.” I stand as she rises to her feet. She holds her hand out to me. “I am glad you are here, Ismae. It is a comfort to know that you and the patron saint of death are helping Duval guard my flanks.”
I kiss her ducal ring, awed that the daughter of a turnip farmer is being raised to her feet by her sovereign. “It is my greatest honor to serve, Your Grace.”
She smiles again, transforming her young face. “I welcome you to my court. Your skills will come in most handily with my fractious barons,” she says in jest.
At least, I believe it is in jest.
Chapter Twenty
I lie in bed, my head still buzzing from the babbling voices that filled the court this evening. In truth, I have learned much and nothing at all. Duval is still an enigma, and if he is a traitor, as the chancellor and abbess suspect, I have no idea whom he might work for.
His hatred of both d’Albret and the French envoy is palpable, but of course he could easily fake that. But what of the fierce protectiveness he feels for his sister? I remember the grim set to his mouth, the fury in his eyes, and the anger that fair sparked off him, and I must admit that even he could not feign that. which turns all my other arguments to dust.
Perhaps Duval is exactly who he says he is, a devoted brother intent on seeing his sister crowned duchess and safely wed to a man who can stand with her against the French. Of a certainty that is what the duchess believes.
Hoping a night’s rest will bring clarity, I close my eyes and urge my thoughts toward sleep. Instead, Count d’Albret’s thick, fleshy lips rise up in my mind, and my eyes snap open. Guillo. That is who d’Albret reminds me of, why he disturbs me so.
I fear the dreams will come tonight. whether they will be the old ones of Guillo or some new nightmare built around d’Albret, I cannot guess.
There is a whisper of sound near the door, and my heart stutters in my chest even as my mind whispers, Duval. But my hand creeps toward my stiletto, just in case.
“I thought we had gotten past that.” Duval’s deep voice stirs the darkness of the room.
I lift my head from the pillow to see where he is. “Perhaps you have, but I have not.”