Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

For some reason I feel awkward and tongue-tied in his presence, although I cannot name why and it seems a most ridiculous reaction. It is not as if he could discern my thoughts and prayers. “It matters not, Father—”

“Effram. I am Father Effram.” He takes a step toward me. “Have you a heavy heart, child?”

I sense curiosity rather than concern in his question. “No, Father. I pray so that I may better understand my own thoughts.”

His face breaks into a smile, as if my answer has pleased him greatly. I wonder if that means he will try to tell me what he thinks my thoughts should be, and I think better of him when he does not. He continues to smile, letting the silence grow, and I cannot tell if it is meant to be a comfortable silence or an awkward one he thinks I will try to fill. If it’s the latter, he will lose at that game, for I have had far too much practice at it.

In the end, he is the first to speak. “I’ve never seen one of Arduinna’s followers dressed so . . . elegantly,” he says.

I stare blankly at him for a moment before understanding dawns. “Oh, but I’m not one of Arduinna’s followers!”

His white eyebrows draw together in puzzlement. “You aren’t? My mistake, then.”

But my curiosity it piqued. “Why did you think that I was?”

His eyes flicker to the small offering in the niche.

“I did not leave that,” I hasten to assure him.

“I know. I thought perhaps you’d come in answer to it. You have the look of one of Arduinna’s. A certain ferocity of expression.”

Well, I am feeling fierce enough, I suppose. “I do not serve Arduinna. I serve Mortain.”

He grows very still, his head tilted to the side, studying me even more intently, if that is possible. “Do you, now?” he mutters. “Well, that is truly interesting.” He smiles once more, puts his hands together, bows again, then takes his leave.

Once he has left, I sneak a furtive sniff at my arm, just to be certain the scents of wood smoke and poorly tanned leather do not cling to me still.

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 kin

gdoms. 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.