Ismae,
I have decided that we will be moving into the palace to be nearer the duchess. If last night’s activities are a sign of things to come, I would be close at hand when she needs me.
Also, after much discussion, the council has decided to go on with the planned hunt — indeed, all court activities — as if nothing has happened. There is no reason the death of an unannounced stranger would alter our behavior, and thus are we bound and trapped by our own deception. It is better that as few as possible know the extent of this disaster.
Be well,
Gavriel
He is right. No one but the Privy Council and he knew Nemours’s identity, so it would not make sense to accord Nemours any particular honors. But in denying him those, surely we are adding to our grievous insult against the man.
I move toward the bed and fetch the sacred bone dagger from under my mattress. The reverend mother has given it to me for some purpose. Perhaps easing Nemours’s death is precisely what the misericorde is to be used for. I do not know if it is some whim of my own or some higher purpose of the god, but I am filled with an urgency to grant Nemours a small act of mercy.
Even as I secure the misericorde at its customary place at my waist, a plan begins to form in my mind. I go to my small trunk, unlock it, and withdraw a long, thin dagger. I place it in a supple leather sheath and then strap it to my left ankle. I slip the plainest garrote bracelet on my wrist, and last, I remove the small crossbow and attach three of the quarrels. The bow is designed to be carried by a thin chain at my waist, under my overskirt. If someone were to press close against me, they would feel it, but other than that, it is undetectable.
I do not expect to be questioned at the palace, but I have an excuse prepared just in case. I carry a small offering to leave on Saint Arduinna’s altar in the chapel in the hope that she will smile on today’s hunt.
The castle is nearly empty since all the nobles are off chasing stag or boar or whatever it is that has caught their fancy today. The servants and attendants are busy at their tasks, relieved, no doubt, to be spared from dancing attendance on so many nobles and courtiers.
I pause for a moment, wondering where Nemours’s body might be. Remembering the strange, unerring way I found Martel’s grave, I cast out my senses, searching for Death.
It is harder here, with so many sparks of life flickering about their duties, but even so, I am drawn to Death like a moth to a flame. As I follow the trail, I quickly realize the path leads to the small chapel where Anne and Nemours first met.
The chapel is empty and I make my way to the bier, the soul’s despair guiding my steps more surely than the small, sputtering candles in the nave. when I reach the body, the soul seems to recognize me and rushes toward the familiarity and life that I offer.
I open myself to it, let it warm itself against me, surprised when it curls up and settles into me like a despondent hound with nowhere else to go.
We sit together for a while, this soul and I. when I am certain no stray mourners or triumphant gloaters will appear to pray over this mystery corpse, I allow myself to turn my mind fully inward to Nemours’s soul.
I have brought with me the means to unite you with your god at once, if you wish it.
when the soul stirs hopefully at my words, I rise to my feet and step closer to the bower. The poor twisted body has been straightened, but the grimace of shock is still on his face. I slip my hand through the slit of my gown, and my fingers close on the handle of my misericorde. My hope, my small plea to Mortain, is that by my setting this dagger on Nemours’s flesh, his soul will be able to depart immediately.
Before I can draw the dagger from its hiding place, a scrape on the stone behind me stays my hand. "What an interesting surprise.” Count d’Albret’s deep, grating voice destroys the sanctity of the chapel. “I had not thought to find Duval’s cousin grieving next to a lowly wool merchant from Castile.”
Stiffly, I turn and face the count. I have not seen him since my attempt to examine him for a marque and I brace myself, unsure whether to expect mockery or anger. I find neither. Instead, his dark eyes glitter with unholy mischief. I cannot help but wonder if it was his hand that pushed Nemours. “Surely not a surprise.” I keep my head bent low, as if reluctant to cease my prayers. “I was convent raised and have been taught to honor the dead and pray for their mercy.” I blink innocently. “Have you come to pray too?” I know full well he has not. whatever he has come for, it is not prayer.