Grave Mercy by Robin Lafevers

Author:Robin Lafevers [Lafevers, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780547628349
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2012-04-02T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-six

The great hall, which once seemed impossibly large, now seems impossibly small, stuffed as it is with this many bodies. Oh, they are noble enough bodies, but ripe with sweat and perfume and unbridled anticipation. I cannot tell if they are expecting disaster or farce. My sincerest hope is that my god will marque all the traitors today and my duty will be clear.

I worm my way to a spot by the far wall, and my shoulders press painfully into the carved paneling at my back. even so, I am glad for the space and am all too happy to defend it with my elbows when others press too close.

As the main players assemble on the raised dais in the front of the room, I scan the crowd. The men have left their swords with guardsmen at the door so that none may be drawn during the meeting, but no one has been searched for knives or daggers. My hand drifts to my own hidden weapons at my wrists, and I wonder just how many other blades are nestled inside sleeves or hidden in folds of satin.

Once all of Anne’s councilors have taken their place, the assembly rises and the duchess herself comes into the room. Her chin is high, her spine rigid with determination. Of their own accord, my eyes search out Duval, who sits at the far end of the dais. He is dressed in his customary black and is the very picture of somber reason. De Lornay and de waroch stand near him at the front wall. They have kept their swords, most likely at his insistence.

D’Albret sits directly before the dais, sprawling in his chair, trimming his nails with a knife, either a subtle threat or a sign of just how uncouth he really is. I study him carefully, but no matter how much I will it, there is no visible marque upon him.

Chancellor Crunard calls the meeting to order, and the room grows quiet. Before the chancellor has finished the formal opening remarks, Count d’Albret puts away his knife and rises to his feet. There is the swish of skirts and creak of boot leather as the courtiers lean forward to hear better. The duchess eyes him shrewdly but gives him her full consideration, much as one gives a venomous serpent.

“My lords.” He runs his gaze along the dais, then turns to the crowded room. “I am here to collect what was promised to me by your late Duke Francis. Namely, marriage to his daughter — my rightful payment for lending aid against the French last fall.”

“A war we lost,” Chancellor Crunard is quick to point out, and I cannot help but think of his two sons who died in that war.

A rumble reverberates around the room, but whether it is one of outrage or approval, I cannot tell.

The duchess’s clear young voice carries over the crowd and they grow quiet once more. “My lord d’Albret. while your offer is worthy of our consideration,

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