I press my palm more firmly against his chest, using no more pressure than I would to caress my sister’s cheek. Rest now.
With a faint sigh of relief, his heart stops. In the silence that follows, William’s soul rises from his body, like some wary cat unfurling from a hiding place, then rubs against me. In thanks, I realize.
I allow myself to savor the peace the soul feels. The peace that it in turn brings me.
The soul does not linger or try to force itself upon me as most do, but simply floats up to the ceiling, where, like all souls, it will wait three days before finally departing.
When I look away, I find Crunard watching me. I blink twice, trying to reorient myself.
“He is dead,” I say.
“Is he, now?” Crunard’s eyes are sharp and bright.
“Which means in addition to your crime of treason, you are a murderer.” I utter the words harshly, hoping they will hide my sorrow. “This was no casualty of war or battle, but your own selfishness and greed.”
His face contains multitudes—?anger, disappointment, frustration—?but no regret, no sorrow, no remorse. Indeed, it feels as if there is almost a belligerent ferocity lying just beneath the surface. “I do not think it was I who killed that man,” he says softly.
The wily fox, they used to call him. And no wonder. “You are mistaken. I simply placed my hand on his heart and prayed that his death be easy.”
“And Mortain chose to honor your wishes?” His scorn is palpable.
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep the wonder from my voice.
Chapter 4
he sound of others approaching from the far end of the hallway is a welcome distraction.
“Have you sent for Beast?” Ismae’s voice is as familiar as my own. It was the first voice that reached through my grief and despair when I arrived at the convent. If not for her gentle coaxing, I would have run away rather than allow myself to be trained by the nuns who served Mortain.
“No,” Duval answers. “He is not scheduled to return until tomorrow.” The heels of his boots are clipped and hard upon the floor.
“Duval.” Ismae’s voice is filled with both compassion and warning.
His footsteps slow. “What?”
“Whatever Crunard was planning, it failed. Do not . . . do not act rashly.”
“Says the woman whom I spent nearly a year trying to restrain from killing half the nobles at court.” His words do not hide the pride or love he holds for her, although he would be appalled to know that.
“It’s been a long time since I tried to kill anyone,” Ismae grumbles.
Duval ignores her protest. “Why do you think I would do anything rash? Crunard has only betrayed our country and my sister, poisoned me, tried to kill you, and has now repaid the leniency we showed him by littering the hallway with bodies.”
Father Effram clears his throat. “I believe that was Lady Sybella, my lord.”
Gavriel Duval appears in the doorway, his gray eyes filled with a barely contained fury. I do not even pretend that I was not eavesdropping. “What took you so long?”
“Stepping over the trail of bodies you left in the hallway.” Duval’s voice is dry as bone, but the harshness in his face is softened by gratitude. “Once again, we owe you a debt of thanks.”
Before I have time to rebuff his sincerity, Ismae pushes past him, shaking her head in exasperation. But silent questions—?and envy—?lurk deep within her probing gaze. “If you wanted to get out of your stitching duties, I’m sure there was an easier way.”
I shrug carelessly. “It’s important I keep my skills honed, especially in light of my upcoming trip to the French court.”
As she draws closer, she scrutinizes my face, my gown, my very soul, to assure herself that I am okay.
“Your concern is almost insulting.”
“Hush.” She reaches up to wipe something from my cheek. “You’re covered in blood.”
Without taking his eyes from Crunard, Duval clears his throat. “Would you mind telling us what happened here?”
Ismae grimaces at his stuffy formality, but I know it is the mask he wears when his emotions run high. “Of course, my lord. Your prisoner Crunard was ungrateful over his improved conditions and decided to take advantage of the duchess’s mercy. He bribed or coerced three of the duchess’s men to his cause and used them to take the bishop hostage, killing a fourth guard in the process.”
Duval turns on his heel and strides over to where Crunard sits on the floor. “Why? What was worth these four men’s lives?”
“My son.”
A vein in Duval’s temple begins to pulse. “Do you really think Anton would want you to slay his countrymen in his name? If so, he was right about you all these years—?you do not know him at all.” The disgust on Duval’s face is palpable. “I should have had you killed months ago,” he mutters.
“But you didn’t.” Crunard smirks. “And now you cannot, because it would be in cold blood and your honor”—?he nearly spits the words out—?“would never allow that.”
“You have no idea what my honor will allow, old fox.”
“I beg to differ. It will keep you from ever truly winning.”
The words sting, as Duval has done everything in his power to keep Brittany independent of France. That they will now be joined by a marriage contract rather than outright conquest is thin comfort. Duval looks away a moment, as if arguing with himself. Without warning, he turns back around and gives Crunard a healthy clip to the jaw.
The older man’s eyes widen in surprise as his head snaps back, then close as he slumps into unconsciousness.
I shoot Duval a look of annoyance. “If I’d known we were allowed to do that, I would have clouted him myself.”
Duval flexes his hand as he takes in Crunard’s injured wrist and twisted knee. “It looks like you got a good shot at him. But you are truly all right?”
“If either one of you asks me that again, I will prove how fine I am by stabbing you with my knife.”
That elicits a begrudging smile out of him as Ismae announces, “Clearly, she is fine.”
* * *
When more guards arrive to remove the bodies and return Crunard to the dungeon, Ismae accompanies me to my room so I may change. “Knock first,” I warn her. “I don’t want Charlotte and Louise to see me covered in blood and trailing the scent of death.” Such easy violence is precisely why I am determined to keep my sisters from our family.
Ismae raps on the door. When there is no answer, she opens it and waves me inside, then pulls me over near the banked fire and begins unlacing my gown.
“Well?”
She and I have been prowling the palace and surrounding parts of the city like vultures, waiting for someone—?anyone—?to die so we could see how death worked in this new, upended world.
I take a deep breath before answering. “There are no marques any longer.” Saying the words out loud feels as if someone has carved my heart out of my chest, leaving it empty and hollow.
Her hands on my laces still. “Truly?” she whispers.
“Truly. Not on the guards rushing me, not on the man holding the bishop hostage, and not on the soldier who lay dying in my arms. Even as he passed into death, no marque appeared.”
Ismae’s silent disappointment fills the room as her fingers resume their work. “So, that is it. His gifts have left us.”
I give a quick shake of my head. “Not all. I am still able to feel heartbeats and sense souls as they leave their bodies.”
She lets out a breath. “Well, that’s a good sign.”
“Are you still able to sense the presence of life?” For all that we are half sisters, her abilities have differed somewhat from mine—?all of Mortain’s daughters have variations in their gifts and skills.
“Yes,” she answers slowly. “But I was never certain if that was Mortain’s gift or the convent’s training.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “Do you dare try poison
?”
Blushing, she pretends to struggle with a knot. “It still does not appear to harm me in the slightest. But again, I wasn’t sure whether that was one of his gifts or some strange aspect of my own body.”