Grave Mercy (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

Once inside the palace, Duval snags the first page he sees. “Here.” He gives the boy a coin. “Go find the Baron de waroch, the one they call Beast. Do you know who he is?”

The boy’s eyes shine as he nods his head.

Duval ruffles his hair. “Tell him to come immediately to my chambers in the north tower.”
The page sketches a quick bow, then takes off at a run, neatly dodging around mingling courtiers and servants, who barely notice his passing.
Duval is quiet as he escorts me through the palace to his rooms in the north tower. when we reach them, he leads me through a jumble of trunks and furnishings in the outer rooms to his bedchamber, where a valet is unpacking his clothes. Duval brusquely waves the man away, and I blush when I realize what the servant will think.
Duval sits me on the bed and angles me so that my back is to him.
“I am not a doll, my lord. If you but tell me what you wish to do, I can do it myself.”
His only response is a grunt, then the mattress dips as he sits down behind me. His body is so close I can feel the heat rising off it. Chilled by the wet blood on my gown, it is all I can do to keep myself from leaning into that warmth.
He removes the borrowed cloak from my shoulders, and I hiss as the cold air sets the cut stinging.
He is silent for so long I nearly squirm, except I worry the movement will bring me more discomfort. when I feel his fingers on my neck, I pull away before I can stop myself. "What are you doing?” My voice sounds unnaturally high to my ears.
“Removing the ruined bodice so I can tend your cut.”
“No, milord!” I jump up from the bed and spin around, putting my back safely out of his reach. Panic flutters in my breast.
He cannot see it. He
mustn’t
see it.
Duval looks at me as if I am mad. "Would you rather I send for a physician?”
“No!” I say, beginning to feel trapped. I have no love for the court physicians, and they will ask questions I do not wish to answer. But I cannot bear for Duval to see my ruined back. “If you will leave me, I can tend it myself.”
He snorts in disbelief. “Is that yet another miracle of Mortain? That His acolytes are able to contort themselves enough to tend their own backs?” His voice turns gently chiding. “If you are worried about the gown, I am sure the reverend mother will understand.”
But of course, it is not the gown that worries me. The sense of panic in my chest grows until I can hardly breathe. every taunt thrown at me by the village boys, every slur cast my way, every insult echoes in my head. And those were all from villagers and peasants, people much accustomed to ugliness and deformity. Duval is of noble blood, was raised amid the beauty and finery of court. I cannot bear that I will be the ugliest thing he has ever seen. “No.” I take a step backwards, determined to stay out of his reach. “I do not need your help.”
He frowns at my unreasonableness. “If we do not tend your injury, you could well lose the use of your shoulder and arm, and how would that serve your god or your duchess?”
I hiss in frustration. Trust Duval to find the one argument that will remind me of my true purpose here. My
only
purpose here. My service to Mortain comes before all else. There is no place for modesty or shame. Perhaps the god is testing me even now to see if my vanity is stronger than my duty to Him. Feeling raw and exposed, I cannot help but grumble. "What would a man know of stitching anyway?”
Duval laughs outright at that, and a small hidden dimple winks briefly at the corner of his mouth. “If a man expects to survive in battle or help his fellow men-at-arms afterward, he will indeed learn to stitch, and to stitch well, if not prettily. Now quit putting this off.”
Slowly, I return to the bed, sit down, and turn my back to him. I feel hollow inside and remind myself that what Duval thinks of me or my scar is of no importance. Indeed, perhaps his disgust and revulsion will help rebuild the barrier that once stood between us. The words he spoke when we left the convent echo through me.
Being sired by one of the old saints puts your lineage into a class all its own, a class as untouchable by the nobility as the nobility is by turnip farmers.
He may claim such lofty ideals, but it is another thing altogether to see with one’s own eyes what marks such parentage leaves behind.
I hold myself rigid as he unlaces my bodice. It starts to fall forward and I catch it with my hands, hugging it to me like a shield.
There is a rustle of movement as he takes a dagger from his belt. The tearing sound as he cuts away my ruined chemise is loud in the quiet room, and the rush of air against my damp back makes me shiver. I clutch the front of my gown tightly and steel myself against what must surely happen next.
The silence grows impossibly long and I am painfully reminded of the hideous silence when Guillo saw my back. Of his fear and anger and revulsion. I force myself to breathe.
“Ah,” Duval says. “So this is what you didn’t want me to see. Poor Ismae.” His voice is as soft and tender as a caress. I square my shoulders and stare straight ahead. “How did you come by it?” he asks.
“’Tis where the herbwitch’s poison burned me when my mother tried to cast me from her womb.”
when he touches my shoulder again, I bite back a yelp of surprise, and my skin twitches beneath his fingers. Slowly, he traces my scar. It is exquisitely sensitive, and pleasure unfurls across my skin, so intense and unexpected that it feels as if I have been brushed by an angel’s wing.
It is all I can do to keep from leaping from the bed and bolting.
Perhaps sensing this, Duval speaks, his voice low. “There is no shame in scars, Ismae.”
I long to laugh at his gentle words, to throw them back in his face and claim I do not care what he thinks. But I do care. Far more than I have any right to, and his acceptance undermines every last defense I possess.
"We’ll need to wash this,” he murmurs, and even though I welcome this practical task, when he rises from the bed I am torn between relief and disappointment.
He pours water from a ewer into a shallow basin, then carries it back to the bed. After settling the basin in his lap, he dips a piece of linen into the water and uses gentle, efficient strokes to wash the blood from my wound. It is a practical, matter-of-fact touch, much like Sister Serafina would use were she tending to me. even so, my entire back is alive with awareness. every inch of my skin, every knob of my spine, and even my scar seem to gain pleasure from his touch. Indeed, the whole world narrows so it is all I can think of.
I close my eyes and try to break this spell he is weaving. “Do you have scars, milord?”
“Oh yes.” He removes the cloth from my back and wrings it out in the basin. “One received in service to my lord father, and another received in service to my sister.” He touches the re-wetted linen to my back and I shiver. I want to lean into that touch, lean into
him,
feel his warmth wrap around me. Instead, I force myself to pull away. “I’m sure it is clean by now.”
His hand clamps down on my good shoulder. An unwelcome thrill flutters somewhere deep in my belly. “Aye, it is clean, but deep enough that it will need to be stitched. It did not tear the muscle, though, so it should not take long to heal. You are not afraid of a few stitches, are you?”
“Of course not.” His taunt works and I hold myself still.
I welcome the bite of the needle as it jabs my flesh. Pain, at least, is familiar to me. each little prick and burn helps clear away the heady intoxication of Duval’s more gentle touches.
“This is the last one,” he says. I feel an extra tug as he knots the end. He leans in close, his breath warm upon my skin, then bites the thread with his teeth. “There. Done. Raise your arm, but slowly. I want to see if it pulls.”
Still clutching the front of my dress, I lift my arm. The stitches bite and burn, but not unbearably. Just enough to remind me to use caution until it heals.
“It will do,” he says gruffly. “Although I shall refrain from moving on to fancy stitchery anytime soon.”
“And here I imagined you embroidering altar cloths with the duchess and her ladies in the afternoon.”
Duval snorts. “Hardly. But it would be wise for you to do that for a few days while this heals.”
“Methinks not. In case you hadn’t noticed, the schemes and plots around here are beginning to thicken.”
“It has come to my attention, yes,” Duval says dryly.
“May I stand up now?”
“If you wish.”
I rise to my feet, careful to keep the loose bodice clasped firmly in place, then spin around, anxious to remove my naked back from his view.
But facing him is worse, I realize, for his expression is soft, unguarded, and there is a tenderness there that I have only seen when he is with the duchess. Our eyes meet, and in that moment everything alters. It is as if he has only just now realized that we are alone in his bedchamber with me barely clothed. The tenderness in his face turns to something else, something that makes me aware of the cold air on my bare back and of my tattered bodice. He takes a step closer, then another, and suddenly we are almost touching. His eyes never leave mine, but his hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from my collarbone. without even realizing what I am doing, I lean toward him.
His hand moves up to cup my face. Slowly he draws me closer, lowering his head to meet mine. His touch is careful, as if I am fragile and precious. And then his lips are on mine, firm and warm and impossibly soft.
A fierce heat rises up inside me, as sharp and bright as a blade. I move my lips against his, wanting more, but more of what, I cannot say. He steps closer, until our bodies touch, then his other hand comes up, the warm fingers grasping my waist, pulling me even closer still. I am lost in his kiss, and all my defenses give way before this hot, hungry mystery that lies between us.
And then he pulls away, slowly, as if loath to do so. That is when I hear the rap at the door. I blink, reality crashing in around me. I take three giant steps back until I reach the cold stone wall, my lips still tingling from Duval’s kiss.
“Coming,” Duval calls out, his voice somewhat hoarse. Like a drawbridge being pulled up and slammed into place, he composes himself, and the sure, practical Duval is back. He takes his eyes from me and goes to answer the door. I lean against the wall and try to pretend my entire world has not just tilted in the heavens.
He stands there talking with whoever it is, blocking the view into the room with his body. After a moment he closes the door and returns to where I stand. I cannot meet his gaze.
“That was Beast,” he says. “He found the bodies and removed them. As best as he can tell, they were simply two of Nemours’s guards, one of whom was responsible for the treachery.”
I nod but do not trust my voice just yet, so I say nothing. He is silent for a long moment. I risk glancing at him. He stares sightlessly at the bloodied chemise on his bed, his hand raking through his hair as he thinks.
I clear my throat. “My lord, what would you have me do?”
He pulls himself from his distant thoughts and returns them to our predicament.
“Can we patch my clothing together enough so that I can return to your residence? Perhaps with a cloak thrown over it?”
He glances ruefully at the ruined linen. “I do not think so. But maybe they have begun to move your trunks into the palace. I’ll check. Sit, before you fall down,” he orders.
I lock my knees and press my back against the wall, welcoming the bracing cold of it. “But the servants . . .” I protest.
"Even though I am a bastard born, I am also the son of a duke. It is not my servants’ place to question me or what I ask of them.”
Stung by this rebuke, I simply nod and wave him away. Once he has left the room, I do indeed sit down, although not on the bed. I perch on one of the unopened trunks.
I should do something. Search through his things, or try to escape to my own room, or . . . in truth, my wits have left me, for I cannot think what I ought to do. My back is burning and my heart still races. In the end, I decide to remain seated and try to compose myself. Surely recovering my wits is the highest priority.
Duval returns a short while later, a look of triumph on his face. He carries a wad of clothing in one arm — my clothing, I realize. “One of your trunks has been delivered,” he says. “Let’s get you dressed, then I must go follow up on Nemours’s guards and inform the duchess of this latest development.”
“Surely you do not intend to help me dress, my lord?”
He shrugs. “Neither Agnez nor Louyse is here just now. what do you suggest? who would we risk giving explanations to?”
“I can do it myself.” even as I mutter the words, I know I cannot.
In the end, I have no choice but to let him assist me. The most awkward task is getting into a clean chemise without fully exposing myself to him. I finally order him to lay it on the bed and then turn and face the far corner of the room. even though he cannot see me, I move quickly, not caring if I rip the stitches he has so carefully made. I let go of my bodice, which falls to the floor, step around it, slip my good arm into my chemise, then slither in the rest of the way, grimacing as I wriggle my bad shoulder to get my arm through the sleeve. “Very well,” I say when it is securely in place.
“Here.” His voice and manner are matter-of-fact as he holds out my bodice much as a squire holds out a chest plate. I thrust my arms in, then turn around so he can lace up the back. Next I untie my skirt, let it fall to the ground, and step out of it. He takes the new skirt he has brought, shakes it out, then holds it open for me to step into.
with the bulk of my clothing in place, we become less awkward, and our movements cease fighting each other. The rest of the task goes smoothly until he pulls my last sleeve up my arm and his knuckles brush against my breast. I wrench away at the unexpected touch, tearing the sleeve from his fingers. He sets his teeth, takes up the sleeve again, and ties it in place.
when he is done, he gives a short, formal bow. “I will leave you to compose yourself.” while I am pained by his formality, I also welcome it. “Meet me in my study when you are ready.”
I nod — for I still do not trust my voice — and he departs. I am blessedly alone. even though I am fully dressed, my skin feels raw and exposed. Tender, like the new skin under a blister that has ruptured. even as a giggle threatens to climb up my throat, tears form in my eyes. what madness is this? Something has changed — something dark and alarming now sits between us.
when I am finally calm enough, I leave Duval’s private chamber and go in search of his study. It is not difficult to find as he has been given only a handful of rooms here at the palace. I pause in the doorway. He sits brooding in front of his chess set. “Milord?” I say softly.