Courting Darkness Page 3

  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.”

  To hide how happy I am for her, I smirk. “And they say I am impulsive.”

  She lifts her shoulder in a half shrug as she unfastens my belt. Before she can remove it from my waist, I quickly hide the holly twig in my palm. I start to tell her of my prayer for the dying man, and the surety with which the answer came, but find I cannot. It is still too new, too nebulous. I am afraid that speaking of it will cause the connection to shatter, and I am too selfish to risk that.

   Chapter 5

  Genevieve

  t is a few days before I can break free from the others and return to the dungeon.

  Margot’s confinement began this week, so there were many trips to the chapel for the ritual blessings, final feasts, and celebrations with the household. My absence would have been noted—​and commented upon—​something I am desperate to avoid. But at last Margot has been sequestered to her room in anticipation of the babe’s birth.

  Descending the staircase, I let the bustle and chatter of the castle fall away like an unbearably stiff cloak. Fortunately, the sense of impending dread has left me, but the sense that the world has shifted in some unnamable way remains.

  As I step into the corridor that leads to the dungeon, the darkness folds itself around me like a welcoming blanket. I pause for a moment, listening for potential guards or the sound of the prisoner’s heart beating. But there is nothing. I place my hand upon my chest to be certain, but there is only the steady rhythm of my own heart.

  A fleeting sense of sorrow shafts through me for the passing of a life, unknown and alone. However, it is the passing of that life that has drawn me here—​giving me a chance to explore death more closely.

  There are so many lessons Margot and I had not yet received from the nuns at the convent of Saint Mortain before we were sent away. We know only a handful of ways to kill a man, and have even less understanding of how our arts work.

  That is what I am hoping to learn from the dead prisoner. Provided the guards have not lugged the body away, it will be a perfect map for me to study.

  It is not until I am standing almost upon the grate itself that I hear the sound of . . . panting? No, huffing. Followed by a grunt.

  The sounds of a living human. Disappointment slams into me like a fist, and I nearly crush the apple I have brought for my lunch. He had to have been close to death for me to have heard his heart. Yet now he is down here breathing and grunting. How can I explore the mysteries of death if the man is still alive?

  “Ives? Have you returned?” The deep rumble of the prisoner’s voice is more proof he is not as dead as he should be.

  “You have been alone so long your enfeebled mind is conjuring ghosts for company.”

  There is a faint whisper of movement, and though I cannot see through the murk, his regard is palpable as it reaches through the dark to take my measure. “While my enfeebled mind has conjured many ghosts these last long months, you are the first to smell of apples.”

  I loosen my grip on the fruit in my hand, the full impact of his situation finally registering. He has been locked down here for months. Was near death but a few days ago.

  “I do have an apple. Would you like it?”

  “Yes.” The force of his hunger causes his voice to crack.

  It is a simple thing, to bring such reverence to a man’s voice. The apple is too large to fit through the grate, so I reach for the small knife at my belt and slice it in half. “I will drop it down, one half at a time.”

  There is a rustle as he comes to stand beneath the opening. I peer down, but see nothing in all that sooty darkness. “It’s coming through the center,” I tell him, hoping he can catch it rather than have it land in the filth I can smell all the way from here. I drop one half, then the other, holding my breath until I hear the quiet slap of them landing in his palm.

  A long silence is followed by a juicy crunch and a grunt of pleasure. As he gulps down the fruit, I am filled with satisfaction. I have helped someone. Even if it is only to keep them from starving one more day. It is the same feeling I had as a child when I found a stray cat behind the tavern and would sneak it a saucer of milk. Although the satisfaction tonight is tenfold.

  “Who is Ives?” I whisper, wondering if I should be worried about the guards.

  A long pause. “One of the ghosts.”

  Something in his voice feels unspeakably sad, and I find myself wanting to change the subject. “And what of you? Why are you not a ghost? You seemed near death but days ago.”

  “I was. Until it rained and filled the seep so I was able to quench my thirst.”

  So, I did not imagine it. “Does no one bring you food or water?”

  “They did. Once.” There is a note of wistfulness in his voice.

  “I will bring more if I can.”

  I regret the whispered promise before I reach the first corridor leading out of the dungeons, where reality begins to chase away the last dregs of satisfaction. I cannot come back. I have no convincing pretense for being down here. Count Angoulême would ask questions, poke and prod and watch me more closely.

  My role in this household is one of a biddable, humble attendant, not someone who possesses such morbid interests or would dare to explore death if she stumbled upon it. Too many years have been spent cultivating that bland demeanor. It is beyond foolish to risk it for some unknown prisoner.

  And yet my soul is hungry for such risks. A taste for them was fed to me with my mother’s milk, then nurtured and honed by the convent. To not take them feels like leaving fruit to wither and die on a vine.

   Chapter 6

  hen I reach my chamber, the countess of Angoulême sits in a chair by the fire, waiting for me. I hide my surprise with a warm greeting. “My lady.” I sink into a deep curtsy.

  She motions me to my feet. “Where have you been, Genevieve?” I cannot tell by her expression how long she has been waiting.

  “Roaming the halls. You know how restless I get when cooped up for too long.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I do not understand your need to gallop about. I have always thought it was odd, ever since we were children.”

  I nearly laugh. She and I never knew each other as children, but first met when we were twelve years old. She, too, was a ward of the regent, one of the “girls” Madame Regent raised as her own. There were others as well, including the young dauphine, Marguerite, once destined to be queen of France.

  “I only gallop when I am outside, my lady. Indoors, I keep to a trot.”

  She studies me with thoughtful eyes. Once she would have laughed at my jest, but with her new elevated station, she inspects each word for any sign of disrespect or overfamiliarity.

  She moves her hands to her belly. While it is softly rounded with child, she is not as far along as Margot. Does it bother her that her husband’s mistress—​her own lady in waiting—​will be bearing his child before she does? Deciding to ignore—​or forgive—​my jest, she says, “My lord husband wishes to see you.”

  Caution wars with curiosity. The count has not summoned me in over a month. “Ah, then. Best not keep him waiting.”

  Louise’s heavy brow creases faintly as she searches yet again for the sign of disrespect she fears.

  I reach down to take her arm and pull her to her feet. “After all,” I say cheerfully, “he is an important man with much to do.”

  “Do you know why he wishes to see you?” Her dark brown eyes meet my own, hesitant questions lurking in their depths.

  “No.” I allow a faint hint of surliness to color the word. It is a trait of mine she knows well. “I have probably offended or transgressed in some way.” Louise has always been too timid and biddable to do anything improper, but secretly enjoys when others take such risks. Her mouth quirks up in a faint smile, the questions fad
ing from her eyes.

  * * *

  The thick oak door to Count Angoulême’s room stands open. He sprawls in a chair at his desk with his back to the fire, a decanter at his elbow, a half-full glass in his hand. The room is cloying with the thick, too-warm scent of vetiver, cloves, and wine. I do not go in, but remain in the doorway. “My lord? The countess said you sent for me?”

  He waves me forward. “Come in, come in. Don’t hover. And close the door.”

  The first several times he asked me to close the door, I hoped it meant he had news from the convent regarding my duties. It did not.

  Biting back a sigh of resignation, I do as he commands.

  When I reach the chair in front of his desk, he pours a glass of wine, places it in front of me, and motions for me to sit.

  I remain standing.

  “Where have you been?” My heart pounds for one long, painful moment—​does he know about the oubliette? “You’ve been scarce of late.”

  “I have been keeping my own company, my lord.”

  “That is too bad. I miss your earlier visits. It was refreshing, being interrogated by a young demoiselle less than half my age.”

  My cheeks flush at this reminder of my behavior when Margot and I first came to Count Angoulême’s household, nearly a year ago. I had had the misfortune of attracting the king’s eye. Being his older sister as well as the regent, Madame wanted me far away from the French court—​and her younger brother. Fortunately for her, Louise was traveling to her new home in Cognac and needed attendants of her own. Margot and I were assigned to accompany her.

  I could not accept that our lives could be so easily uprooted on such a whim and was convinced it was all part of the convent’s master plan for us. Especially since Angoulême was their ally and the one who first agreed to sponsor us at the French court for the convent.