D’Albret’s fighting force has already withdrawn back behind the city gates. Once they saw their trap was ruined, they retreated. Only bodies remain on the field. I climb off my horse and tie him to a tree. My hand moves to the misericorde at my waist as I go the rest of the way on foot, gripping Mortain’s own dagger firmly.
I wade among a sea of shattered limbs and bleeding wounds. I try not to let my gaze linger too long, for it hurts. even though half of them have betrayed their country, in death they are naught but dying men, their lives leaching out of them to water the grass. I am surprised to learn that I have not left all of my heart back in Guérande, and I am not strong enough to steel the small remaining piece of it to their plight.
Or their cries. Soft, pitiable cries float over the sea of the fallen. I wrap my cloak around myself, wishing for wax to stop up my ears so I won’t have to hear the quiet, broken noises they make. I scan their faces, bruised and bloodied, grimacing with the rictus of death. As I draw closer to the walls of Nantes, there are a few men that I recognize as our own, and none of those still alive. Until there, finally, a familiar face.
I lift my skirts and run to de Lornay. He lies on the ground, his body scored with cuts. Two arrows stick out from his ribs. I fear he is already dead, until I draw close enough to hear his labored breathing.
I fall to my knees in the blood-soaked mud. “De Lornay?”
At the sound of my voice, his eyes flutter open. A look of awe fills them when he sees it is me. “Ismae?” he croaks.
I grab his hand. “I am here.”
“Did she get away?”
“Yes, my lord. She is safe with Captain Dunois and two hundred men from Rennes.”
He closes his eyes and I can feel the shudder of relief that goes through him.
“Have you seen Beast?” I ask.
He starts to shake his head, but stops as a fit of coughing overtakes him. Blood oozes up between his lips. “He was taken. Set a dozen men on him.” He stops to catch his breath. when he speaks again, it is fainter. “Cut him down and dragged him back to the city.”
Bile rises in my throat to think of the Beast of waroch dragged through the dirt to be strung up on the city walls like a common traitor.
“I am sorry,” he whispers. “I am sorry I treated you so ill. I thought only to protect Duval.”
“It was not I who was poisoning him,” I say.
“No, but you had stolen his heart and I was afraid you would rip it from his chest when you left.”
every ill feeling I have ever felt for this man flees, and I am filled with sorrow. Sorrow that I am only now learning his true nature. Sorrow that we did not bridge this gap earlier. Sorrow that we did not let ourselves become friends.
“I would ask your forgiveness, Ismae, so I will have one less sin to linger over.”
“You have it, my lord.” And he does. I hope his heart is lighter for it.
“Good.” His mouth twitches in an attempt to smile. “Then I would also ask a favor of you.”
“Ask and it is yours.”
“Kill me.”
The stark request drives the air from my lungs. “Please,” he begs. “I would rather not linger here for a day while the crows pick at my guts.”
I look down and see that his other hand — the one I am not holding — is clutching his stomach together.
“It does not need to be a coup de grace. Any killing blow will do.”
“No, my lord,” I say.
Hope leaves his face. “It was too much to ask.”
I lift my finger to his lips and hold them still. “That is not what I meant. A hero such as yourself deserves the misericorde, and all our thanks besides. I know the duchess would wish it as well.”
He smiles weakly and squeezes my hand, but it is a feeble grip.
Unwilling to watch him suffer any longer, I take the misericorde from my waist. I bend over and press my lips to his bruised and bloodied cheek, a kiss as gentle as a mother gives her child, then put the tip of the misericorde to his neck.
His soul bursts from his body, a joyous exultation as it rushes past me and I feel as if I am awash in holy light. The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
I stand and survey all the fallen around me. I know what I must do.
I move to the closest fallen soldier next to de Lornay’s now empty body. I bend over and put the tip of the misericorde to his shoulder. In a rush of grace and gratitude, his spirit leaves his body. Once again I feel the touch of that holy light. “Peace,” I whisper as his soul departs.
I go on to the next, and then the next. As I move through the fallen, I notice something: they each bear a marque. And Death has found them even without my aid.