Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

With a sigh, Crunard settles on the ground where the hellequin has pointed. “I have no bedroll,” Crunard observes.

I give a short laugh of disbelief. “I am not some maid to do your bidding and see to your comfort. You are a prisoner being escorted to a trial, a trial where you will very likely be sentenced to death. I care not how comfortable you are.” I glance around us. “It is warm enough that you won’t freeze, and there are no rain clouds nearby. Besides, surely a seasoned soldier such as yourself is well accustomed to a little hardship.”

Crunard’s mouth draws into a tight, firm line. My words have displeased him, and I can see the wheels of his mind turning as he tries to determine how to make me pay for this slight.

I turn to Balthazaar. “Shall I take first watch, or shall you?”

He pauses in his tying. “Hark! What sound is that? Does the fair maid ask for my help?”

I fold my arms. “If I did not plan on using you, I would not have allowed you to accompany us. Now, shall I take first watch, or shall you?”

“I will, as my need for sleep is less than yours.”

“Do I have your promise that you will not somehow manage to kill the prisoner while I sleep?”

He glances at me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Do you trust me so little, then?”

“Let us just say that it is easy to recognize the tactics of one who is as eager to do Mortain’s work as I am. Your word.”

After a pause, he nods. “You have it.”

Crunard protests. “I cannot believe you will take his word but not mine.”

I shake out my bedroll with a loud snap. “He has had occasion to prove his worth to me—more than once. You have not. Now, hold your tongue, else I will have him gag you.”

After that, there is blessed silence. But even once I have made myself as comfortable as the forest floor will allow, I cannot settle my mind. It is as restless as a horse who has scented a pack of wolves, and I would do well to heed its warning.

Chapter Thirty-Five

TWO DAYS LATER, WE REACH Rennes in the early afternoon. I do not wish to announce to all and sundry that I have brought a traitor into the city—at least, not until I better understand the nature of the orders I have been given. I glance over at Crunard. “Pull your hood as far forward as you can.”

He shoots me a questioning look, as if challenging me. “Don’t tell me your courage has failed you, demoiselle?”

I lean over so he can hear me more clearly. “Lest the townsfolk recognize you, pull you from your horse, and decide to administer the duchess’s justice on their own.”

He does as instructed.

We are not stopped at the gate, although one of the sentries gives Balthazaar a long hard look, but then he sees me and recognizes that I serve Mortain.

Our journey through the streets of the city is similarly unimpeded and people almost seem to make way before us—whether because of the faint sense of darkness that clings to Balthazaar as firmly as his cloak, his pawing, prancing stallion, or the fact that Crunard’s hands are tied, I cannot tell. Whatever the reason, by the time we reach the palace courtyard, a small crowd has gathered and follows us at a distance.

I angle my horse to block the sight of Crunard somewhat, then dismount. A groom hurries forward to take the reins, looking nervously at Balthazaar’s horse. The hellequin ignores him and speaks directly to me. “I do not think you will be needing my help anymore.”

“No. I do not think that I will.” I long to ask when—if—I will see him again. On the ramparts—perhaps even later tonight? But I do not.

He bows in his saddle, then turns his mount and canters out of the courtyard, causing grooms and the overly curious bystanders to scatter like ashes before the wind.

When I look away from Balthazaar’s departing figure, I find Crunard watching me. Before I can tell him to keep his bedamned eyes to himself, there is a small flurry of movement at the entrance to the palace, and a slim, black silhouette emerges from the door. It is the abbess, her hands clutched tightly in front of her, her gaze searching the courtyard. Seeing me, she relaxes somewhat and a welcoming smile touches her lips. As if she believes I have done precisely what she asked and now everything will be as it once was between us.

I smile back, but there is no warmth in it. Then I step out of the way to show her who I brought with me. When she sees Monsieur Crunard, a mask of anger slams into place.

But not before I see the glimmer of fear. She is not simply angry that Crunard is here—she is terrified.

Ismae comes running out of the palace just then and spots me immediately. If she is relieved that I have returned, she does not show it as plainly as the abbess. Or mayhap she simply had more faith in my abilities.

At the sight of Monsieur Crunard, her eyes widen in surprise. She lifts her skirts and hurries down the steps to join me in the courtyard. As she draws closer, her gaze goes again to Crunard, narrowing this time, and the heat of her glare reminds me of all that this man has done to betray his country and our convent. Unable to help myself, I search out the abbess once more, only to find she is no longer waiting upon the steps, but has returned inside.

I take Ismae’s arm and pull her a short way from Crunard so he cannot hear us. “Is he marqued?”

She glances at him again, her eyes raking over him in open disdain. “No. And why that is the case, I do not know. What will you do with him now that he is here?”

“Ismae, he knows things about the convent and the abbess. Things that may help us determine what game she is playing. He seems to think I was sent to kill him because the abbess wished to be rid of him rather than because of his actual crimes. And while it is not surprising that he would claim such a thing, if you see no marque on him, then that bears him out somewhat.”

She nods reluctantly. “It at least warrants careful consideration.”

“Can we put him in the dungeons here? It should not make any difference as to where he is imprisoned, should it?”

She pats my arm reassuringly. “If it does, we will find a way to turn it to our advantage. Let me escort you and help get him settled.”

I look at her in surprise, and she laughs. “Oh, I do not mean to see to his comfort, only to be certain the guards know he is a prisoner and that he is to be well guarded.”

I gratefully accept Ismae’s offer, for I do not know where the dungeons are, nor do I know if the men would take an order from me. But mostly, I do not wish to appear a bumbling green fool under Crunard’s sharp gaze that misses nothing. Every time I hesitate or fumble, I fear I have unwittingly given him some new weapon to use against me.

Once Crunard is safely locked behind a wood and iron door, Ismae and I make our way back to the palace proper, my mind churning like a water wheel.

“What are you thinking on so furiously?” Ismae asks.

“How to get the abbess to tell me the truth.”

Ismae laughs. “You may as well ask how to keep an ass from braying or a bird from flying. I am beginning to think she has lost the ability to tell a plain truth.”

“I fear you have the right of it. Perhaps I will simply claim that Crunard has told me everything and demand to know if it is true. As if I am giving her a chance to clear her name before I condemn her in my own mind.”

Ismae smiles. “You are frighteningly good at playing these games with her.”

“Only because I have done so my entire life,” I mutter. Just then, a page comes racing t

oward us, breathless as he skids to a stop.

“My lady,” he huffs out to Ismae. “You are to report to the duchess’s chambers immediately.”

Ismae grabs the boy’s shoulders. “Is it Princess Isabeau?” she asks, her fear for the young girl plain in her voice.

The page replies, “Oh no, my lady! It is Marshal Rieux. He is here and requesting an audience with the duchess.”

“Go,” I tell her. “I can find my own way to the abbess’s chambers.”

In answer, Ismae reaches out and grabs my hand. “No, come with me. Best you hear what is said as well. Besides, the abbess will no doubt already have been summoned.”

The duchess’s privy chamber is nearly full by the time we arrive. All of her councilors—Duval, Captain Dunois, Chancellor Montauban, Jean de Chalon, the bishop, and even Father Effram—are there. Ismae and I slip in unnoticed by most except for Duval, who appears to be attuned to Ismae’s presence like a bee to a flower, and the abbess, who notes my arrival with a look of dour disapproval.

Once the duchess is seated, the rest of her councilors take their seats. Ismae, Sybella, and I remain standing. Duval has us positioned just behind the duchess’s chair and motions us to expose our weapons. As I step into place beside Sybella, she reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze of greeting.

Then Marshal Rieux is announced and brought into the chamber. He is a tall man with an imposing manner and is dressed in an elegant doublet and cloak. “Your Grace,” he says with a deep bow. For all that he has come to worm his way back into the duchess’s good graces, it looks as if it pains him to bend his knee to her.

“Marshal Rieux.” The duchess tilts her head in greeting, her voice cool and distant.

“I am pleased to see you are well, Your Grace.” His words are awkwardly delivered but seem sincere nonetheless.

“With no thanks to you.” Duval throws the words down like a gauntlet.