Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

Ismae smiles. “We will, my lord.” And I have no doubt that she will be going to Nantes.

The meeting winds down quickly after that, in no small part because it is clear from the dark glances Duval keeps sending Ismae that he wishes to dissuade her from going. As for me, my thoughts are taken up with the abbess and what I will say to her once we are alone.

The duchess formally dismisses us with thanks for our counsel. As she stands, her eyes seek out mine and she smiles. “I look forward to having you as one of my ladies,” she says.

I drop a curtsy. “The honor is all mine, Your Grace.”

She smiles again and shifts her attention to her brother, releasing me from her presence. I turn to find the abbess has already quit the room so that I must hurry to catch up with her. There are enough other courtiers in the hallway that I do not wish to gallop after her, so instead I call out softly, “Reverend Mother! If it please you, I would have a word.” She halts her progress but does not turn to greet me.

When I reach her, I dip another curtsy. “I would speak with you of my trip to Guérande and what I learned there. I think you will find it as enlightening as I did.”

“I know everything I need to know about your trip.” The barely controlled fury in her voice fair blisters my skin. “You have failed in the duties Mortain set before you.”

I open my mouth to explain that Crunard was not marqued, but she does not let me so much as speak. “Clearly,” she continues, her voice low and heated, “I was correct in not sending you out on assignment earlier. Now leave me. I do not have time to discuss your mistakes in depth.” She glances over my shoulder, then gives me a sour smile. “Besides, I believe the duchess has need of you.”

Then she continues walking down the hall, her head held high, and I am left standing in her wake, all my questions and accusations rolling around like stones in a barrel with nowhere to go.

“Lady Annith?”

The duchess’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I whirl around and sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“I would request you attend upon me and Isabeau, as Ismae wishes to argue with my brother over whether or not she will be going to Nantes.”

“But of course, Your Grace. It would be my honor.” I hope for Ismae’s sake that her arguments will prove more fruitful than mine have.

As I walk with the duchess back to her solar, she gives me an apologetic glance. “I am sorry if you have other pressing duties you wish to attend to.” I detect a faint note of curiosity in her voice and realize she is intrigued by my role at the convent. If only she knew how little I’ve truly done.

“Not at all, Your Grace. The reverend mother and I were just making arrangements to meet later.”

“Good.” She smiles, showing a charming dimple. “Isabeau has been begging for stories, and I have none. Perhaps you will have one or two.”

“But of course, Your Grace. I know a number of stories. How is her health, by the way?” I feel a sharp pang of guilt for having done nothing to help the young princess.

The dimple disappears. “She is holding steady and has grown no worse. Neither does she grow any better, however.”

We have arrived at the solar, and I follow the duchess into the room. Isabeau is snuggled deep in her bed, her skin nearly as pale as the snowy linen sheets, her eyes too large in her small, pointed face. She may not be any worse, but one does not need to serve Mortain to know that this child will never get any better. Her days are truly numbered.

The duchess motions me toward Isabeau, then goes to speak with the girl’s attendants. I sit myself down on a nearby stool and pull it close to the bed. We have not spent much time together, Isabeau and I, but I am immediately drawn to her fragility coupled with her valiant spirit. “I hear you are wishing for more stories. What story is your favorite?”

“My favorite is the one about how Amourna went to the Underworld to become its queen.”

Ah, how very clever of Ismae to tell her that story. What story should I tell? The younger girls at the convent love the story of the time Salonius, the god of mistakes, tricked Death, but I do not wish to give Isabeau false hope. Instead, I tell her the story of how Saint Brigantia outsmarted Camulos, the god of war and battle.

When I am done, she asks, “Did you know my sister is dedicated to Saint Brigantia?”

“No, but I am not surprised, for she is very smart.”

“Maybe she can outfox France, just as Saint Brigantia did.”

“If anyone can find a way,” I assure her, “it will be she.” Then I think of the tale I have not told her yet, one I’m sure she would dearly love to hear. “Have you heard the story of Saint Arduinna? Of how she came to a young ruler’s aid?”

Isabeau grows absolutely still, her eyes huge. “No,” she whispers.

“Well, once upon a time, a young woman ruled over our fair land. She was wise and kind and much loved by her people, but she was beset by enemies on all sides. Enemies in the north, enemies in the south, and especially enemies just across her eastern border.

“The young ruler had many resources at her disposal—a valiant army, a skilled navy, and many, many wise counselors to advise her.

“She also had something that no other ruler had ever had before, and that was a young sister who loved her with a love that was stronger than all those armies put together.” She ducks her head, but not before I see a small, pleased smile.

“The poor ruler’s enemies were great, and her problems many, so one night her young sister decided to take matters into her own hands. She snuck out of bed when no one was looking and crept down flights of stairs and long dark hallways to the small chapel.”

“Was she frightened?”

“She was terrified, but she was determined to do this for her sister. It was the only way she could think of to help. Finally, she arrived at the chapel. Once there, she placed an offering on the niche of Saint Arduinna and said the sacred prayer to invoke her protection.

“Then she crept back to bed, exhausted and made ill because of her nighttime journey.”

Isabeau coughs just then and looks faintly guilty.

“The stories do not say what sort of protection the sister wished for the young ruler. What do you imagine she prayed for?” I ask.

“Well.” Isabeau makes a great show of thinking upon the question, her face scrunched up and one small finger placed under her chin. “She had armies and knights to help with the fighting, so that probably was not it.”

Good, I think. They have been able to protect this child from knowing how dire our situation is.

“My guess would be that the girl was worried about her sister’s heart.”

“Her heart?”

“Yes. For the young ruler had no one to love, save for the little sister, and the sister wished for the young ruler to have someone to love in case . . . in case anything ever happened to her.”

I stare into Isabeau’s eyes and see that she knows full well that she is not long for this world. That she worries about her sister at a time like this is a testament to her remarkable character.

“Well.” Unable to help myself, I reach out and smooth the silky strands of hair away from her face. “The ways of Arduinn

a are mysterious, but the goddess of love heard the young girl and accepted her offering. Shortly thereafter, she sent a handful of her best warriors to see what they could do to assist the young ruler.”

Isabeau settles back against the pillow, a small, satisfied smile upon her lips. “I know,” she says, surprising me, for I have made up the entire story on the spot as a way to tell her that the Arduinnites have come.

“How do you know?” I ask, in mock outrage. “How can you know the end to my story?”

She giggles, a truly delightful sound. “Because Father Effram told me.”

“He did?”

“Yes.” She looks around the room to see where her sister is. When she is certain we cannot be overheard, she leans forward slightly. “And he told me that you are who they sent.”

When the child has fallen asleep, I leave her side and cross the room to attend the duchess. At my approach, she looks up from her embroidery. “You are good with children, demoiselle.”

“I was raised in a convent full of motherless girls, many of them younger than me. I am used to their ways and their needs.”

“Did you know that is one of the options the French regent has offered me? To have me sealed away in a convent for the rest of my life?”

I raise my brows. “I had not heard that, Your Grace.”

“Oh, it is not their official position, of course. Officially, they have located several suitable husbands for me, nearly all of them over sixty and in possession of no more than half their original wits. It is either wed one of them or be sent to their convent, and I assure you, the convent the regent has in mind is not nearly as interesting as the one you serve.” She looks up at me suddenly. “Have you been satisfied with your life? Spending your days in prayer and devotion and service to your saint?”

Ah, and what do I tell her? That I thought I was until I learned that the abbess is corrupt and no longer trust anything she says? But, I remind myself, that is not the whole of it. “I have always wished to serve the Divine, Your Grace.”

“When did you first realize that was your life’s wish?”