Grave Mercy (9 page)

“Yes.” Before the word is halfway out of my mouth, Duval slaps his reins and his mount leaps forward.
Glowering at his back, I reach into the small pouch at my waist, take a pinch of salt, and toss it onto the ground, an offering to Saint Cissonius, the patron saint of crossroads and travelers. Only then do I urge Nocturne to follow.
Duval slows his horse long enough for me to draw alongside him. “Have you ever been to court before?” he asks. “Is there any chance you will be recognized by anyone?”
“No.”
“No? You do not even ask who is in residence at court. How can you be so certain no one there will know you? If you are recognized, it will throw our plans into disarray.”
Stung that he thinks me so witless, I toss my low birth across his path like a challenge. “No one will recognize me, milord, because I am naught but a turnip farmer’s daughter. You may rest assured that none of those in residence in Nantes will have ever seen me before.”
“Guérande,” he corrects. “Anne’s court moved to Guérande in order to escape the plague in Nantes.”
"Even so, I will not be recognized.”
He shoots me a glance out of the corner of his eye. “I thought you were supposed to be the daughter of Death?”
“I am,” I say through clenched teeth. “But I was raised the daughter of a farmer. There was dirt under my fingernails for the first fourteen years of my life. It has most likely seeped into my blood.”
He gives another snort — of derision or disbelief, I cannot tell. 

“It seems to me,” he says, “that 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. Now come, we must reach Quimper by nightfall.” ensuring he has the last word, he puts his heels to his horse and breaks into a
gallop.
It takes me a while to catch up.

We ride all day. In the newly cleared fields, sheaves of wheat hang from a cross, begging for Dea Matrona’s blessing on the harvest. Cattle graze nearby, feasting on the remaining stubble in the ground, one last fattening before slaughter. Indeed, the slaughter of animals for the winter has already begun and I can smell the copper tang of blood in the air.

A few stone cottages are scattered throughout the countryside, squat and stubborn against the encroaching wilderness. Most doors have a polished silver coin nailed to them, an attempt to discourage Mortain from casting His gaze on their households, since it is believed He will go to great lengths to avoid His own reflection. Those that are too poor to afford that small protection hang hazel twigs, in the hope that He will mistake them for the real bones He has come to collect.

The road is empty except for a handful of travelers heading to market in some nearby village. They carry bundles on their backs or push small carts. All of them step aside when they hear our horses coming.

There is little enough to distract my thoughts from circling back to Duval.
I am painfully aware of him riding in front of me, solid, commanding, angry. No matter where I steer my mind or my gaze, they always come back to him.
Mistress.
The word whispers through me, taunting, beckoning, laughing. That I will have to pose as such is almost more than I can bear. And that I shall do so in front of half the Breton nobility is laughable. I pray that a messenger from the convent will come galloping up behind us to tell me it is a cruel jest and that Annith will go in my stead. But all I hear is the drip of the heavy mist as it falls upon the leaf mold on the forest floor, the creak of our saddles, and the faint jingle of harness.
Near midafternoon we reach a small wood. The thickness of the trees forces us to slow our horses to a walk so they may carefully pick their way through the branches and brambles. Under the canopy of leaves, it grows cool. I pull my cloak closer, but it does nothing to warm me.
It is not that kind of chill.
Death is nearby. I feel it in my bones, the way an old sailor’s aching joints warn him of a brewing storm.
"What?” Duval’s voice breaks through the shroud of quiet. He has noticed my distraction. His hand moves to his sword hilt. “Do you hear something?”
“No, but there is something dead nearby.”
His eyebrows shoot up and he reins in his horse. “Dead? A man? A woman?”
I shrug. This has never happened to me before and my own ignorance frustrates me. “It could be a deer, for all I know.”
"Where?”
“That way.” I point off to the side of the road, through a faint opening in the trees.
Duval nods, then steers his horse over and motions for me to take the lead. Surprised that he gives a hunch of mine so much weight, I move ahead and let my sense of death lead me.
The trees are closer here, their soft, delicate branches waving overhead like rich green feathers. Just past an ancient standing stone, its surface mottled with lichen and moss and corroded by time, the sense of Death grows stronger. The freshly dug grave is well hidden by dead branches and a scattering of leaves, but I could find my way to it blindfolded. “Martel,” I announce, certain of who is buried there.
I begin to dismount and immediately Duval is at my side, helping me. He reaches up and puts his hands on my waist. I bite back a gasp of surprise as the warmth from his hands seeps through his gloves and my gown to my skin, driving away some small portion of the chill Death has brought. He lifts me from the saddle and as soon as my feet touch the ground, I pull away from him. I am all business, as if he has not just touched me more intimately than I have ever been touched in my life, and I head toward the grave. “This must be where Crunard’s men buried Martel.”
Duval follows me and stares down at the freshly turned earth as if he would will Martel’s secrets to ooze up from the ground. “On the battlefield,” he tells me, “they say a man’s soul lingers for three days. Is that true?”
“Yes.” A plan is already taking shape in my mind, an idea that might remedy one of the mistakes of which I am accused.
"Would that you could speak with men’s souls,” he murmurs.
I glance up at him sharply. Has he pulled the very thought from my head?
He looks at me in surprise. “You
can
speak with souls?” he asks, as if the words are writ plain on my face.
while I do not like that he can read me in such a manner, I am eager to try this new skill and show him I am not as green or useless as he seems to think. “I can.”
“Can you communicate with Martel’s?”
And although I have been planning to do that very thing, his asking it of me makes me balk. “Are men subject to your probing even after death?”
He has the grace to look sheepish. “I mean no disrespect to the dead, nor would I ask you to break any of your vows. But if I am to find our duchess a way out of this mess, I must use every tool at my disposal.”
even souls. even me.
“I will try, but he has been dead for more than a day, and I am accustomed to dealing with souls when they are fresh.”
“Thank you.” The look of gratitude changes his face, softening the harsh planes and making him appear younger than I had thought. He moves a respectful distance away, and I kneel and bow my head.
In truth, I have never done this, have no idea how to do it. I know only that I am compelled to try. I am eager to understand what it was I felt with Martel’s soul yesterday. was it merely the richness of the experience, as the abbess claimed? Or did his soul truly share his last thoughts and feelings with me? I want to fully comprehend all the gifts Mortain has bestowed upon me. Besides, if Duval is a traitor, as the abbess and Chancellor Crunard suspect, perhaps Martel’s soul will reveal that to me.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I think of the thin veil that separates the living and the dead, of how tenuous it is, how very fragile. Once I have it pictured firmly in my mind, I search for an opening, a seam, any gap that might allow me to push aside that veil. There. A small corner turns up. I reach for it with my mind and gently peel back the barrier that exists between life and death.
Martel’s unhappy soul is just on the other side. A towering wave of cold crashes over me. Hungry for life, the soul rushes to me. It rolls against my warmth, much as a pig trying to coat itself in mud. It is happy to see me, pleased even. And then suddenly, it is not.
It has recognized me. Knows that it was my hand that sundered it from its earthly body. It grows agitated, writhing against me, trying to escape my will. But I do not give way. This is not some innocent dead who deserves grace and mercy, but a traitor who surely earned whatever punishment Mortain saw fit to administer.
The thoughts and images the soul contains have begun to disintegrate. There is nothing but fragments and snatches, nothing I can grasp as a true memory. I bear down with my mind, willing the soul to gather itself, its memories.
For whom did you work?
There is an angry swirl, an eddy of ice. I see the purple and yellow of the French crown, a fleur-de-lis plain on a servant’s breast. Pleased with my success, I try again.
Who were you to contact?
There is a brief flash of ships, and then the image is gone, broken into a thousand pieces as Martel’s soul shifts. Now it tries to force its will on me, but the power it holds over life is nothing compared to the power I hold over death. I shove the icy coldness of Martel’s lingering soul from me and bring down the barrier, so that it is once again solid between us.
when I open my eyes, I am shivering. I am so cold I cannot even feel the rays of sun, and then Duval is next to me, his hands on my elbows, pulling me to my feet. “Are you all right?” Concern is etched on his face, but I cannot stop my teeth from chattering long enough to assure him I am fine.
He lifts the woolen cloak from his own shoulders and places it around me. The heat from his body still clings to the rich fabric, and I close my eyes and let my body drink it in.
“Your face is so pale that, truly, you look as if you are dead too.” He pulls the cloak tighter around me, grabs me by the hand — how warm his fingers are! — and drags me to a larger patch of sunlight. And still I shiver. Duval places his hands on my arms and rubs them up and down, trying to work some warmth back into them.
I am too stunned to even breathe, and my arms tingle as if they have long been asleep and are only now awakening. Appalled, I pull away. “I am warm now,” I say, my voice stiff. I avoid his eyes, afraid he will see the confusion in mine. That he is good at playing the gallant is only to be expected. His kindness to me means nothing. He is kind to his horse as well. In truth, his chivalry could be a plan to lure me into a false sense of trust and security.
“I would never have asked that of you if I had known — ”
I cut him off. “I am fine.”
His eyes search my face to see if I am telling the truth. I try to shift his attention away from me. “He could tell me nothing,” I say.
"What?” Duval is clearly perplexed.
I nearly laugh at how thoroughly my discomfort has swept his purpose from his mind. “Martel told me very little.”
“A little is better than none,” Duval says, remembering. “Go on.”
I am still slow-witted from my encounter with the soul and try to decide just how much to tell him. I busy myself with removing his cloak from my shoulders. “Images. Fragments. Nothing that made much sense.” I pause; I want to clutch each bit of information to myself, gain any advantage I can over this man, but the reverend mother’s instructions still echo in my ears. “There was a fleet of ships — ”
“Ships! Describe them to me.”
When I do, he swears and begins to pace in the small clearing. “The French fleet.”
It is exactly as the abbess and Crunard have feared. Martel was trying to find port for the French so they could launch their attacks.
“Are you well enough to ride yet?” he asks. “This news adds some urgency to our journey.”
In answer, I turn and head for my horse.

Chapter Twelve

We make Quimper just after nightfall, the bonfires in the fields lighting the last of the way as the local plowmen celebrate Martinmas. Once we are inside the city, Duval leads us to a small inn where the innkeeper clucks and fusses over us as if Duval is an honored guest. At last, dishes of braised rabbit and mugs of spiced wine are placed in front of us, and then the innkeeper retires to the kitchens. we fall on our meal in silence. Indeed, Duval has not said much since my encounter with Martel’s soul, but I can almost hear the wheels of his mind turning, much like a millstone, grinding down bits of information, until they can fit in some pattern only he can discern.

All this silence is fine with me, as I am as tired as I have ever been, and my backside is bruised from the day’s grueling ride.
when we finish our meal, the innkeeper returns and leads us up the narrow stairs to our rooms. My chamber is next to Duval’s, but after a quick search I find no connecting door, so I relax somewhat. even so, it takes longer than it should for me to fall asleep. I can feel Duval on the other side of the thick wall, the flame of his soul bright and steady and so very different from the sisters with whom I’ve shared my nights with for the last three years.

We are on the road the next morning before daybreak. Once we clear the town, we ride hard and do not stop until noon. In truth, I think Duval would gladly ride straight through, but the horses need the rest.

As do I. However, I will let him think it is the horses he is coddling, not me.
while he tends to them, I stretch my legs and try to work out the stiff muscles in my back. Once our mounts are watered and settled, Duval rifles through his saddlebag and pulls out a small bundle. He tucks it under his arm and comes to stand next to me in the small patch of sunlight I have found.
It galls me that I am painfully aware of every movement he makes, from shrugging his cloak over his shoulder to pulling off his worn leather gloves. His hands fascinate me, and I remember the feel of them against my waist, along my arms. I force my gaze away.
Unaware of the turmoil inside me, Duval unwraps the bundle, which turns out to be a wedge of hard cheese. He breaks it in half, then holds a piece out to me. "Eat.”
with a murmur of thanks, I take the cheese, hating that I must now rely upon him for food, just as I once relied upon my father and had thought to rely on Guillo. I am overcome by a childish desire to throw the cheese back at him and refuse to eat it. But I am no longer a child, and I have a responsibility to my convent, my saint, and my duchess. I take a bite of cheese and vow to arrange for my own provisions at the next inn.
The clearing is quiet except for the faint burbling of the brook the horses have drunk from. The silence feels thick and awkward to me, but any attempt to make small talk seems equally so. wondering if he feels it too, I sneak a glance in his direction and am appalled to find him watching me. we both wrench our eyes away, and even though I am no longer looking at him, every part of me is aware of his proximity, of the faint heat coming off his body in the damp autumn air, of the scent of leather and whatever soap he washed with that morning. I hate that I am conscious of him in this way and I dredge through my heart, trying to find where I’ve hidden all the resentment and suspicion I hold him in. "What did you want with Runnion back at the tavern?” The question springs from my lips, artless and unsubtle.
His forehead wrinkles in thought, as if he is weighing some thorny dilemma. when at last he speaks, it is only to ask a question of his own. "What do you know of the man you killed there?”
I blink in surprise. “It is not my place to know anything of those I kill. I merely carry out Mortain’s orders.”
“And that sits well with you? Not knowing who or why?”
It does, but his question makes me feel lack-witted for not knowing more, for not
wanting
to know more. “I do not expect you to understand the duty and obedience required of those who serve Mortain,” I say, my voice prim and pinched.
“How does the convent decide whom to kill?” he presses.
I study his face closely, but I cannot tell if he is questioning the convent or just me. “Surely that is the convent’s business, milord, not yours.”
“If I will be sponsoring you at court, I will not be kept in the dark, only to find myself cleaning up bodies and making explanations.”
I raise my chin in annoyance, for in my mind that is exactly the role I have assigned to him. “The abbess will communicate with me through letters, and sometimes — sometimes the saint makes His wishes clear to me directly.”
“How?” His question is sharp, urgent. He is hungry to understand this puzzle.
I shrug and try to regain control of this conversation. "What does this have to do with Runnion?”
He is silent for a long minute, so long I think he will not answer. when he does, I wish that he had not. “Doesn’t it worry you, that you understand nothing of how they make their decisions? what if they make a mistake?”
“A mistake?” My cheeks grow hot at the suggestion. “I do not see how they can, milord, since their hand is guided by the saint Himself. Indeed, to suggest such a thing reeks of blasphemy to me.”
“It is not the saint I doubt, demoiselle, only the humans who interpret His wishes. In my experience, humans are all too fallible.” He is silent again briefly, but his next words cause the cheese I have eaten to curdle in my stomach. “Runnion was working for the duchess.”
“No! He was a traitor! I saw the marque on him myself.”
Duval jerks his head around to stare at me, eyes sharp with interest. “The mark of a traitor, demoiselle? what does that look like?”
even as I reel from this revelation, I realize how neatly he has tricked me into divulging more than I intended. “That is not something I can share with you.”
“I seem to recall your abbess speaking to us both of cooperation.”
“In worldly matters, yes, but she said nothing of betraying the sanctity of our rituals.” I look pointedly at the silver leaf on his cloak. "Would you share with me the rites of Saint Camulos?”
He ignores that question, for he knows I am right. “Your abbess’s definition of
cooperation
differs greatly from mine,” he mutters. “Consider this. Runnion had betrayed the duke three years ago, during the Mad war, but he had come to regret that action. In truth, he wished to make amends for his betrayal. That was how he came to work for us, as a means of earning his way back into his country’s good graces.”
I feel as if I have been turned to stone by one of Saint Arduinna’s arrows. “You lie.”
“No, I do not.” He looks me square in the eye and what I see there looks disturbingly like truth. “Perhaps, demoiselle, your saint is more complex than your convent would have you believe. Now come, I think the horses have rested enough.”