“I am afraid I have come out of morbid curiosity, demoiselle,” d’Albret admits without a hint of shame. “I confess to being fascinated by this poor merchant who met his death in our fair city. Besides,” d’Albret continues, “I have little belief in accidents.” He looks pointedly at me. “Or coincidence.”
“Ah,” I say. “Then you and my lord Duval have something in common.”
There is a movement back by the door of the chapel, and the duchess and her governess enter. I drop into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see d’Albret sketch a perfunctory bow. “My dear duchess,” he says. “Have you come to pray for a lowly wool merchant as well? Surely he is blessed beyond his station.”
The duchess meets d’Albret’s insolent gaze. “I would pray for any poor soul who met his death under my roof.” Her voice is sharp with disapproval. “And you, sire?”
D’Albret shrugs and throws his arms out to his sides. “I have been found out! My motives are nowhere near as fine as you ladies’.”
The duchess smoothly changes the subject. “I am curious as to why you chose not to join the others in the hunt today.”
D’Albret’s hooded eyes capture Anne’s and I feel my pulse quicken at the affront in them. “They do not hunt for prey that interests me.”
The duchess pales; her fingers gripping her prayer book turn white. My hand hidden on the dagger in the folds of my gown tightens as well, and I imagine what it would feel like to stick d’Albret like a pig.
Perhaps he senses my thoughts, for he makes another short bow. “I will leave you to your prayers.”
Still pale, the duchess nods, and d’Albret departs. Anne turns to Madame Dinan. “You may leave us as well. I know you have no love for this task I have set myself. I shall pray with Demoiselle Rienne.”
And while it is clear her governess does not want to be here, she wants the duchess left to my influence even less. “But Your Grace — ”
“Leave us.” The duchess’s voice brooks no argument. After a moment’s hesitation, during which a multitude of resentments crosses Madame Dinan’s lovely face, she curtsies and leaves. when she is gone, the duchess turns to me. “She does not like you, you know.”
“She no doubt thinks you should not be in the company of Duval’s dubious cousin, Your Grace.”
A smile of satisfaction crosses her lips and I am suddenly aware of just how much she enjoys thwarting her overbearing governess’s wishes. Then her smile disappears. “So, why are you here?”
“You do not believe I came to pray for the man’s soul?”
“Oh, I believe you pray, but I cannot but wonder if it is something else that brings you.”
The Breton court — indeed, all the kingdoms of europe — would do well not to underestimate this duchess. “There is something else that brings me, Your Grace.” I look down at Nemours’s still form. “Did you know that he cared deeply for you? Not just your duchy or your power, but you. He was filled with a desire to rescue you from an unpleasant fate.”
The duchess blinks, then looks down at the man who would have been her husband. “I had begun to hope so.” Her pale cheeks blush. “It seemed as if he cared. I sensed within him an enormous capacity for kindness and felt I would be able to grow to love him. That is a great blessing for someone such as myself, who feared love would have no place in a marriage between two kingdoms.”
I say nothing. Since the age of four, she has been dangled before half the kingdoms and duchies of europe, like bait at the end of a stick. The best she had hoped for was a marriage of mutual respect and no cruelty. But to have the potential for love snatched away by a false hand . . .
She looks up at me and says again, “So, why are you here?” Her firmness of manner will not tolerate any falsehood or evasion.
“I had thought to release his soul from the misery of his death.” I am careful to keep my voice pitched low so that any lurking outside the chapel will not hear it. “Souls must linger near their bodies for three days after their deaths before moving on. But Lord Nemours’s soul is so tormented by what he sees as his failure to protect you that I thought to hasten him to his forgiveness.”
The duchess’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”
I think so. “Yes.”
She nods. “Do it then. And may his soul rest in peace.”
“As you command.” I am pleased with this authority she has given me. Neither Duval nor the abbess can find fault with me for acting under her order.
"What are you waiting for?” the duchess whispers.
I meet her clear brown gaze. “Solitude, Your Grace. The rites of Mortain are most private.”
Arguments and orders flit across her face, her desire to watch and know these mysteries at odds with her desire to honor the sanctity of death. “Very well,” she says at last. “I will leave you.” She reaches across the body and clasps my wrist. “Thank you,” she whispers. with one last look at her betrothed, she turns and quits the chapel. “Madame Dinan?” she calls as she reaches the doorway.