“That’s what I am trying to discern.”
The white queen sits with but a handful of white pieces around her as she faces a board full of black. “Someone on the council bribed Nemours’s guard or told someone else who did.” Duval’s fingers rest lightly atop the queen. I shiver, remembering the feel of those fingers on my cheek, the weight of his hand on my neck. They are strong, capable fingers, and yet he held my face so gently. Irritated, I shake off this pall that has fallen over me. “Madame Dinan could easily have confided in d’Albret,” I point out.
“True enough, but they are our known enemies. It is the ones we do not know who concern me more. Has France bought someone on the Privy Council, and if so, who?”
"Why would anyone on the council want the French to know?”
“That is the question, is it not? That and what their next move will be.”
"What is our next move?” I ask. "What is the duchess’s second best option, now that Nemours has been removed?”
Duval answers without hesitation. “The Holy Roman emperor.”
“Then perhaps a visit with his envoy is in order,” I suggest.
“Clearly.” Duval thinks for a moment longer. when he lifts his eyes from the board, I see how tired he is. “Beast needs help with the cleanup. I took the liberty of ordering a supper tray to be brought to your room so you wouldn’t have to dine in the great hall with the others tonight.”
“That is most welcome, my lord.”
He gives a brisk nod. “Do you need anything before I go?”
I want you to return my wits, I long to say. Instead, I merely ask if I may use his desk and quills to write the abbess of the most recent events.
“But of course,” he says, then takes his leave.
Once he is gone from the room I can breathe again. In an effort to prove he has no hold over me, I make a cursory search of his chambers, but I find nothing of interest. No secret correspondence, no hidden weapon, nothing to indicate he is anything other than what he claims to be: Anne’s devoted half brother.
when that is done, with a heavy heart, I turn to the letter I must write. There is much I need to tell the abbess, but there is much more I long to ask. Does she have any counsel to give as to who would have assassinated Nemours? Has Duval’s name been cleared of suspicion yet? May I work with him on our duchess’s behalf? And what of love? Is loving someone a sin against our god? Surely not, for according to de Lornay, there was love of a sort between him and someone from the convent.
Or perhaps that was merely lust. I suspect the convent does not mind if we take lovers, for the nuns have spent much time training us in that art and no doubt wish us to practice. But to fall in love? That, I fear, is a grave offense. One heart cannot serve two masters.
Of course, I put none of that in my letter. Instead, I explain all that has happened over the last few days: d’Albret’s announcement that he would force Anne to fulfill her betrothal promise and the Duke of Nemours’s stepping forward with a new offer. Sadly, I must also inform her of Nemours’s subsequent murder and of Mortain’s guiding me to the guard who betrayed him. By the time I am done with it, the letter is weighty and full of grim tidings.
After I finish that letter, and with no pressing duties to attend to, I take the time to write to Annith. The quill flies across the parchment, the questions and concerns pouring out of me. I ask her if she knows of the misericorde and the grace it bestows upon Mortain’s victims. I tell her of the small, green shoot of love that sprang up between the duchess and Nemours, and how cruelly it was struck down. Last, I ask her if she knows if any of the initiates had a special lover outside the convent.
when I am done writing, I am nearly limp with the effort. I fold and seal both letters, then return to my room to wait for Vanth to be brought along with the rest of my things.
The rest of the afternoon and evening drags by and I spend it torn between wanting and not wanting. I do not want Duval to come to my room tonight; I am drained and weary and more confused than I have ever been. And yet . . . and yet I fear that he will not. The truth is, I can no longer imagine my nights without him.
I need not have worried, however, for Duval is as steady and constant as the tides. He even comes early so he can see how I and my wound are faring.
“You’re not asleep,” he says, slipping in silently through the door.
“No.” I start to sit, then wince.
“Do not get up,” he says sharply, and hurries to the side of the bed.
The fire has been built up in my room to keep me warm, and I can see him clearly in the faint orange light from the flames. The stubble on his face is heavy, and I long to touch it, to see what it feels like. I quickly busy my fingers with the rich silk of my coverlet instead.
“Do you need anything? For the pain? To help you sleep?”