Mortal Heart

Chapter Twenty-Six

 

 

THE NEXT DAY, DRESSED IN another one of Ismae’s gowns, I am taken to the solar to meet the duchess. I have not seen the abbess since my arrival, and have done nothing but explore the palace and talk with Ismae. A part of me itches with impatience, while another part of me has always known any challenge to the abbess would be as long and slow and drawn-out as a protracted game of chess.

 

But this morning, my stomach is in knots over my meeting with the duchess, for in truth, I deserve no such honor. I half fear the abbess will have already informed her of all my transgressions and laid a pall of disgrace over me.

 

The young page who has led me to the duchess’s quarters tells the sentry at the door who I am, then tears off down the hall to whatever duty awaits him next.

 

When I enter the solar, it is every bit as grand as I have been led to believe, and I am pleased that I do not stare and point like a small child. Carved oak paneling with thick velvet drapes and elaborate tapestries decorate the wall. Clear, mullioned windows sparkle in the morning sun, filling the room with cheerful light. But it is the ladies in waiting who draw my full attention, for they are not sitting at their embroidery but instead are clustered together, their heads bowed in concern. At my approach, they all look up. One of them gives me a halfhearted smile. “The duchess is not available right now,” she tells me.

 

I frown in puzzlement. “My apologies. I thought the page said that she’d sent for me.”

 

One of them looks me over with open curiosity. “Are you called Annith?” A woman gives her a quelling look. “What? She did say that if the Lady Annith arrived, we were to show her into the young princess’s chambers.”

 

By the poisonous looks the others are giving her, I am guessing that this sign of favor makes them uneasy. “Thank you,” I say pointedly. “I look forward to serving both the duchess and the princess in any way I can.”

 

“This way,” the helpful one says, then leads me toward a door that opens off the main room. “Ignore the others,” she whispers. “They are merely out of sorts because they have nothing they can offer to help.”

 

“To help with what?” I ask.

 

The girl’s face settles into sadness. “The princess Isabeau. She has taken a turn for the worse, I’m afraid, and even Ismae’s famous tinctures are not helping.” When we reach the door, she raps once, then calls out, “Lady Annith is here, Your Grace.” She smiles at me, then returns to the group of waiting women.

 

The door opens and I find myself staring down at a small young woman, younger even than Matelaine was. She has intelligent brown eyes, rich sable-colored hair, and a high wide brow that is at the moment creased in worry. With a start, I realize that I am staring at the duchess herself. I sink into a low curtsy. “Your Grace,” I murmur.

 

“Lady Annith.” She offers her hand for me to kiss, which I do, then she bids me rise. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, especially after all that Ismae has told me, although I am sorry to have to do it in this way.”

 

I glance over to where Ismae sits by the bed, then back at the duchess. “And what way is that, Your Grace?”

 

“I’m afraid I have invited you here for the most selfish of reasons. My young sister is gravely ill, and Ismae thought you might have some new ideas on cures to try. She said you successfully nursed one of the elder nuns at your convent.” The desperate hope shining in her face nearly breaks my heart, for such desperation exists only when the outcome appears truly bleak.

 

“But of course, Your Grace. I am happy to offer any aid or comfort I can, although I think you will find Ismae is as much a master of tinctures and simples as anyone.”

 

“Maybe so,” she says. “But she also said you have sleeves full of tricks and charms to keep young children entertained, and those talents would be most welcome as well.”

 

A part of me wants to laugh. Here I am, at the right hand of the ruler of all Brittany, free of the convent’s walls at last, and it is my ability to charm young children that she is most interested in.

 

As she leads me to the bed where her sister and Ismae are, I try to reconcile this poised woman in front of me with the picture of the thirteen-year-old duchess I have carried in my head for so long. This girl is no child. She is unlike any thirteen-year-old I have ever known, although in truth, the thirteen-year-olds I have known are nothing like normal girls, either peasants or nobles. They—we—cannot be. We are not trained for normal—we are trained to be assassins and spies and rulers of kingdoms. To serve our god and serve our country with every shred of skill and intelligence we possess. There is little time for childhood in lives such as ours. With a sharp pang in my heart, I recognize that this is wrong somehow—that too much is asked of those we demand such sacrifices from.

 

The duchess reaches the bed, and Ismae stands up to make room for her. “Isabeau? Are you awake? There is someone here I think you would like to meet.”

 

The pale girl lying on the bed is a child, but it is easy to see that her illness has robbed her of much of her childhood. Her face lights up at the duchess’s words and her eyes move in my direction, the excitement in them dimming somewhat when she sees me.

 

I curtsy deeply and give her my warmest smile, the one I use to coax Loisse out of the sulks. “Hello, Princess.”

 

Before the duchess can continue the introduction, the princess asks, “Did Arduinna send you?”

 

I blink in surprise. “No.” As her hopeful expression disappears altogether, I wonder if I may have found the person responsible for the offering in the chapel. Although how she could have gotten it down there in her state is a mystery. “I serve at the convent of Saint Mortain, like Ismae,” I tell her, but that does not revive her interest.

 

She turns to her sister. “I am tired,” she whispers.

 

The duchess leans over and smoothes a stray hair from the child’s brow. “I know, dear heart. Sleep now, and we will play more later.”

 

She gives a faint nod, and her eyes flutter closed. The three of us slip quietly from the room, and the duchess herself closes the door, careful to leave it open just a crack.

 

“What is the nature of her illness?” I ask.

 

“She has been beset with lung fever since she was young. It comes and goes in bouts, sometimes severe. It has been getting worse these past few months, and there is little that brings her relief.” When the duchess looks away to compose herself, I glance over at Ismae. She gives a brief shake of her head. The young princess is dying, albeit slowly.

 

“I will think back on all that we did for Sister Vereda,” I assure both of them. “And see if there is anything Ismae has not yet tried. If nothing else, I should have some stories and games I can entertain her with.”

 

“Any of that would be most appreciated, demoiselle.”

 

Isabeau’s question if I was sent by Arduinna reminds me of the message I bear. “Your Grace, I traveled to Rennes among a group of the followers of Arduinna. They asked that I bring you a message from them.”

 

She blinks in surprise, then looks at Ismae, who shrugs in ignorance. “I would be pleased to hear it.”

 

“They wanted you to know that they have responded to your summons and are here in the city, ready to offer you whatever support they can.”

 

The duchess frowns. “But I have not summoned them. In truth, I did not know that I could summon them.”

 

“I do not think they came as subjects to a ruler, or even as a religious order, but because a sacred offering was made asking Arduinna’s help.”

 

The duchess looks at Ismae. “Did you make such an offering?”

 

Ismae shakes her head. “No.”

 

“Nor have I,” says the duchess.

 

I look back toward the sleeping Isabeau. Now I am nearly certain it is the young princess who has requested Arduinna’s aid, although I do not wish to expose her secret just yet. At least, not until I better understand what is going on here. “Either way, they have much to offer. While their numbers are not great, one hundred or so at the outside, they are strong and fierce warriors with a special fondness for the innocent. Perhaps there is some service they can perform for you.”

 

“I am sure there is, or will be soon enough. I am not in a position to turn down even the smallest offer of help at this point.”

 

In the quiet that follows, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps thuds in the hallway beyond, just before a sharp knock on the solar door. Ismae and I exchange a glance. “Is it the abbess?” I murmur.

 

She shrugs. “Mayhap. If so, let me be the one to talk.”

 

For a brief moment I am dizzy with how completely our positions have changed. In the past, Ismae always insisted that I be the one to run interference with the abbess, and now she is doing so for me.

 

One of the ladies in waiting goes to open the door, and relief flutters in my belly. Not the abbess, but a nobleman. He is tall and broad of shoulder with gray eyes that glow with intelligence and . . . glee? The glee has so transformed his face that it takes me a moment to recognize him as the man Ismae left with all those months ago.

 

“Duval?” Ismae takes a step toward him. “Is everything all right?”

 

He gives a vague nod of greeting—or perhaps it is an apology for interrupting. “Beast and Sybella have returned. They have just arrived in the courtyard.”

 

Only the decorum of the duchess’s chamber keeps Ismae from emitting a joyous whoop. The duchess clasps her hands together and closes her eyes, as if in brief prayer. “Praise God and His Nine saints,” she whispers.

 

“If you will excuse us, Your Grace?” Duval asks.

 

She quickly waves us away. “Of course. And hurry back, for I want a full report!”

 

“Come!” Ismae reaches out to grab my arm as she follows Duval out of the chamber.

 

As we rush through the hallway, I cannot imagine three less dignified--looking individuals. It is clear Duval wishes to break into a run, and Ismae and I have both hiked up our skirts so that we may keep up with him. He checks himself slightly so that when we reach the exit, at least we do not gallop out the door.

 

Once outside in the courtyard, I see no sign of Sybella. The yard is a-bustle with ostlers and grooms and footmen making ready to unload a cart holding a passel of charcoal-burners and their children. A groom is talking to one of the charcoal-burners on horseback. Considering the horseman’s size and bulk, I am surprised the sentries have allowed him to pass through the gate. He is at least a head taller than most of the guards and half again as broad in the shoulder. His face is battered and scarred. Indeed, he looks like one of the ancient, weathered standing stones come to life.

 

I hang back, but Ismae keeps running forward, and one of the mounted charbonnerie—a woman—leaps off her horse. She is dressed in a drab gown somewhere between brown and gray, and her hair is caught up in a linen coif. Even with the charcoal smudged on her face, she is beautiful—it is Sybella!

 

The fear that has been gnawing at my heart since the moment I heard of her whereabouts leaves my body with such a sickening rush that I must pause and take a deep breath to steady myself.

 

Ismae throws her arms around Sybella, and I am surprised at the ferocity with which Sybella returns the hug. I have never known her to be free with affectionate gestures. Of a sudden, I feel shy around her, around both of them, for they have changed so much, and I feel as if I have been left behind to calcify and harden like a barnacle on the hull of one of the convent’s boats.

 

When Ismae turns and motions me forward, Sybella’s eyes widen in recognition, her entire manner shifting like quicksilver. Her face grows white, making her dark eyes stark in her lovely face. She strides toward me, grasps my shoulders, and gives me a little shake. “Why are you here?”

 

A thick knot rises up in my throat, choking back my joyous greeting. “It is a long story,” I finally manage to get out. “One I would rather not share in the courtyard in front of a score of people.”

 

She studies me closely, the fierce look still on her face. “Did the abbess order you here?”

 

“Saints, no! I have traveled here on my own, and she is much angered by it.”

 

Sybella’s entire body relaxes, and then she smiles and throws her arms around me in a hug that near cracks my ribs. “Good. Although it does not matter—even if she had called you here, the reason for the assignment no longer exists.”

 

“It is done?” Ismae asks.

 

A dark, triumphant smile twists Sybella’s shapely mouth, accompanied by a shadow of pain. “It is done.”

 

I look from one to the other, and suddenly it is as if no time at all has passed and they are sharing some worldly knowledge or joke that I cannot fathom. Sybella turns to me. “Count d’Albret, traitor to the duchy, is dead. Or as good as.” No hint of the hand she may have played in his death or the full implications of that shows on her face. “Now we must make arrangements for my sisters, for the journey was not an easy one and Louise in particular is in poor health.”

 

Ismae studies the two younger girls in the wagon, her lips pursed in thought. “The palace is growing more crowded every day as more and more Breton barons rally to the duchess’s side. We may end up needing to share a room at some point, so I think your sisters would be safest at the Brigantian convent. In truth, young Isabeau should have been moved there as well, but the duchess cannot bear to be parted from her side.”

 

“That will be fine. They would probably be most at ease there, anyway. And Tephanie will stay with them.”

 

Ismae blinks and I am selfishly pleased that one of Sybella’s revelations has managed to surprise her, as I am tired of being the only one reeling in shock. “Tephanie?”

 

“A dear and loyal friend who has attached herself to my sisters.”

 

I find the idea that Sybella has found a dear and loyal friend almost as hard to believe as the idea that she has sisters, but Ismae is not -daunted. “Good.” Ismae motions one of the numerous pages over and sends him with a message to the Brigantian convent.

 

Once he has scampered away, Sybella asks, “How is Isabeau?”

 

Ismae closes her eyes briefly and shakes her head. “Not good. Between my own small knowledge and the sisters of Brigantia, everything is being done, but it is not anywhere near enough. Even so, I’m sure she will be glad of some younger girls for company, so your sisters may visit whenever you wish them to.”

 

I feel as if I have stepped onto the shores of some mysterious foreign land where everything is unfamiliar. As if fate wishes to make this even more apparent, the nobleman Duval approaches with the lumbering standing stone of a charbonnerie beside him. He must easily be the ugliest man I have ever seen. He is as tall as a tree, and twice as wide, with muscles that look like boulders. His nose looks like a mashed turnip, and his eyes gleam in a disturbingly feral manner. Much to my surprise, Ismae—who has only ever viewed men as targets for her assassin skills—turns and throws her arms around him. Merde. I have never seen such hugging from these two.

 

“Thank you,” she says fiercely. When she pulls back, Sybella is staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Did you put him up to that . . . stunt?” But there is little heat in her words.

 

Ismae steps away from the man and shrugs. “I told him what you had been assigned to do and that you were leaving—that is all.”

 

Sybella opens her mouth to say something, but Ismae ignores her and decides to pull out her manners like a long-forgotten handkerchief. “Annith, allow me to present to you Sir Benebic de Waroch, otherwise known as Beast. You may have heard of his exploits.”

 

“I believe I have,” I say as I drop a curtsy. “It is an honor, Sir Waroch.”

 

“Beast.” His deep voice rumbles across the space between us. Then he surprises me by taking my hand and bowing as prettily as any courtier. “The honor is all mine, my lady.”

 

Ismae puts her hand on my shoulder and turns me slightly toward the other nobleman. “And this is Lord Gavriel Duval, half brother to the duchess and one of her closest advisors.”

 

“And Ismae’s lover.” Sybella’s whisper in my ear just as I sink into a curtsy causes my head to snap up. So that is why she wrote to me asking whether or not the convent allowed initiates to have lovers.

 

“This is Annith,” Ismae continues. “One of Sybella’s and my sisters from the convent.”

 

“Good,” Duval says with a firm nod. “We can always use another assassin as this hornets’ nest thickens.”

 

I am warmed by his quick easy acceptance of me as well as by his obvious pleasure at having another assassin at court. I will need to gather as much support as possible to avoid being summarily sent packing by the abbess.

 

A small tempest erupts behind me. It is not movement or even noise—it is more as if a windstorm of violent displeasure has arrived. I am not at all surprised when I turn around and see the abbess. Her face is bone-white and her brows drawn down into two furious slashes. “Sybella.”

 

Sybella’s face goes eerily still, then she slowly turns to the other woman. “Reverend Mother.” Her voice is as flat as a blade of trampled grass.

 

The abbess waits for a moment, expecting Sybella to come to her. When Sybella does not, the abbess’s jaw twitches, but she lifts her skirts and descends the stairs so that whatever she is about to say will not be heard by the entire courtyard full of people. It does not work, however, for all of them can sense the storm brewing in their midst, and they all stop to watch.

 

Her eyes are as frigid as ice. “You disobeyed me?” Her voice is terrible in its softness, as if she has slipped velvet over a hammer just before she intends to use it.

 

Keeping her gaze fixed on the abbess’s, Sybella grips either side of her shabby gown and dips into a perfect, reverent curtsy. When she rises, she lifts her chin, ever so slightly. “Count d’Albret is dead. My duty to the convent is fulfilled, and I will no longer serve you.”

 

I gasp; I cannot help it. Beside me, Ismae stiffens, but the abbess does not so much as blink. Indeed, I think I discern a small glint of triumph in her gaze. “You no longer wish to serve as Death’s handmaiden, then? You no longer wish to be a daughter of Mortain?”

 

“Oh, I am His daughter, and I plan to serve Him all the rest of my days. I simply do not need you or the convent in order to do so.” And with that, she loops one of her arms through Ismae’s and the other one through my own and pulls us away from the abbess. I can feel the roar of victory thrumming through her as she leads us toward the palace door.