Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

“And she believed you?”

“She did, for as she explained, Mortain brought many daughters into this world, and I must be especially favored if I was allowed to live to raise mine.

“But while that meant the convent would take you in, it would not gain me entrance, except mayhap as a wet nurse for the first few months of your life. So I plotted some more, and by the end of the week, I had a plan firmly in place. It was not without its costs, and they were high, but it was the best I could salvage from the wreckage of my life, and so I committed to it with every fiber of my being and vowed to make it work.

“I told the herbwife I would accompany her to the hedge priest who would see that you were delivered to the convent, which I did. That was the hardest part, being separated from you for the first few months, but it was so we could be together for the rest of our lives.

“As I stood in the shadow of the church and watched the night rower row you out to the convent, I cried so much I thought I would die from it. The pain of that was far worse than any of the birthing pains.”

“Then what did you do?”

“And then I went to Brest, found work in a respectable tavern for three months, and came up with a convincing story that I could present at the convent when I arrived, a story that I had been sired by Mortain and come late to His service.” She spreads her hands wide in supplication, desperation shining clearly on her face. “Surely now you understand why you cannot speak of this to anyone. While my sins might be the greater, you will suffer as well.”

I cannot think. I cannot even feel. I am empty as a barrel. “What is the punishment for such deceit?” I ask.

The abbess shrugs. “I do not know. I have never heard of anyone who has done it, but perhaps that simply means it was dealt with in silence.”

“And my father? Who is he really?”

“He was charming, and well-titled. His family’s holding bordered ours, so I had known him since I was a young child. I loved him. Or thought I loved him, and I was sure that he loved me too. He came to visit often, either to hunt with my father and his men or to pay court to the ladies of our house.

“I knew that at first he came for my older sister, Marie, but it soon grew obvious—at least to me—that in her fickleness, her attentions turned to another. But he did not see it, or would not accept it. Even now I do not know which it was. But my fair sister had higher ambitions than the neighbor baron. And even still, he thought he had a chance—thought that she was being forced by our parents into a different match.

“He and I talked frequently, either in person or by note. I thought this meant he had turned his attention—and his affection—to me, but he was merely gathering information on the one he truly desired.”

“So he played you false.” I harden my heart against her and what must have seemed a shocking betrayal to her. “What is his name? My family’s name?”

She turns away from me then. “Is it not enough to know that he is not Mortain? What lies between us is old history that I do not wish to resurrect.”

“Tell me.”

She sighs, the sound coming from some great well of despair deep within her. “Crunard,” she says at last. “Your real father is Crunard.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

AS I LEAVE THE ABBESS’S chambers, I feel as if I have been shrouded in a thick mist that prevents my thoughts from taking shape. It is as if someone has reached inside my chest and yanked my very self from my body. Or as if, with her words, the abbess created one loose thread, which she then used to unravel my entire soul.

I was not fathered by Mortain.

I bear not a single drop of His blood.

I was not born to serve Him, have received none of His gifts. Have, in fact, been an impostor on such a massive scale it is hard, even now, to grasp the fullness of it.

My mother never lay with Death, never welcomed Him into her life, except when she needed a refuge, a safe place to hide from the world. And she has pulled me, unwitting and unwilling, into the duplicity with her.

Even worse, she tried to have me commit patricide. For of all the crimes she has committed, surely that one is the most vile. I could have killed my own father and never even known it.

Of course, that was the abbess’s intent. It is easy enough to see that now, with the benefit of hindsight. One quick strike, and the only person from her past who could expose her secrets would be silenced forever.

Without thinking about it, I find my feet leading me toward the back of the palace, then outside and down two long, winding flights of stairs until I find myself at the door behind which my true father sits, awaiting his judgment.

The lone guard considers asking me what my business is, but when he takes one look at my face, his mouth snaps shut. He, at least, does not yet know I was not sired by Mortain.

There is a single torch outside Crunard’s cell, the light cast by its oily flames feeble against the thick darkness of the dungeon. I move as silently as a shadow to him, then lean back against the wall to watch him unobserved. Although I make no sound, he lifts his head and sees me. Slowly, he straightens, his eyes meeting mine.

“You knew, didn’t you?” I ask.

He tilts his head. “I suspected, which is very different from knowing.”

“Did you suspect from the very beginning, when I first showed up in Guérande?”

“No. Then I knew only that you had been sent to silence me. It wasn’t until we were on the road the next day and I saw you in broad daylight that I noticed the similarities between you and the abbess.”

I hold his gaze, unflinching. “And did you also know then that you were my sire?” I cannot call this stranger father.

His entire body stills. Indeed, it does not look as if he is even breathing. And then something in his face shifts and he smiles, surprising me. “You are my daughter. Well, I had wondered. Your abbess was a virgin when she and I knew each other, and your age seemed about right.”

He stares at me with such a painful mixture of warmth and hope that I cross my arms, as if by that gesture I can ward off his affection. “You will forgive me if I do not greet the news quite as warmly. All my life I have been laboring under the assumption that I was sired by a god. To learn instead that I was sired by one of the kingdom’s greatest traitors brings me little joy.”

He shrugs. “And you will forgive me if I seem overzealous, but I have sat in the dungeons of Guérande for over three months now under the assumption that the very last of my children had been killed. To find that I have another is an unexpected mercy I never dared dream of. Even if she did try to kill me.”

And then it hits me. Not only do I now have a human father—but I once had an entire family. The thought brings a surprising twist of pain with it—that I learned this only after they were all dead is yet one more thing the abbess has stolen from me. “Why did she want you dead?”

The sly look is back on his face before I have finished my question. Clearly, any affection he may feel for his daughter will not be at the expense of his own hide. “To cover up her crimes, of course.”

“And what crimes would those be?”

“The crimes of not being a daughter of Mortain. Of having deceived not only the convent, but the crown. It is fraud. Surely you realize that. One can only imagine the punishment for such crimes.”

And though his words do nothing more than echo my own thoughts, I know in my heart there is more to it than that. I do not ask the question that hovers on my lips: How come you abandoned her and your unborn child to fend for themselves? Instead, I ask, “How did you come to reconnect with her after all that time had passed?”

His faint chuckle surprised me. “That was purely by accident. As much a shock to me as to her, I assure you. In my position as chancellor to the late duke, I was also his unofficial spymaster and liaison with the convent. Imagine my surprise when I paid them a visit and found my ex-lover posing as abbess.”

His mockery of her—when he had so callously abandon

ed her—rankles. “She was not posing as abbess. She came by that position through her own efforts and skill.”

“Ah, I admire loyalty in my children. That speaks well of you, Annith.”

I do not care for the sound of my name coming from his lips, nor do I care for the tenderness with which he infuses it. “It is too bad that you were not as loyal to those whose lives you so carelessly used and then discarded,” I say quietly. “Any loyalty I have learned has not come from you.”

My heart heavier than it has ever been, I turn and leave the dungeon.