She said, “I am not—I will not give up sovereignty. Not even for love.”
He burst out laughing. “Do you think I am come to take the city away from you? They would not allow it. Why would you think I want you to give up sovereignty? It is what you were born for. The unicorn came for you; there is this light in your face.”
She was silent. Then she asked, “But what do you want, truly?”
He made an exasperated noise. “To let my Jeanne go to a convent forthwith; sainthood is the only thing she’s ever wanted. She’ll weep tears of gratitude and put all France right with God. Then I shall marry you, and lead your army, if you will have me. It is possible that France will object to my adding the duchy of Orléans to the crown of Armorica; that we will have to see. No matter. I shall take you to bed as often as you’ll let me, and we shall learn what this world holds for us, this world that you have changed forever. Is that enough, to begin with?”
When she stared at him, disbelieving, he shook her very gently. “Anne—I am not angry. You did what you must; it is in our blood. Has it not yet come through your head that it need not be a penance, being married? You were so willing for so long to yield up your very self, so long as your realm was saved, that you have utterly failed to notice that the case is altered. It is I coming suppliant, with a disputed dowry. If you marry me, you need not leave home. You need not yield sovereignty. You do need help, and I do not think—I very much do not think—that you are the kind who will like sleeping alone.”
His fingers traced clavicle and throat and shoulder; his hands were hot. “Anne,” he whispered, into the hollow of her throat. “I’ll have noone else.”
And because he was a conniving man, as were all born to his position, he kissed her, there in the privacy of the empty council-chamber, and sent white lightning through all her tired limbs.
“Oh, very well,” said Anne. She tried to sound resigned, but she could hardly breathe. “With an ironclad marriage-contract, and Keris our capital.”
“As you say,” he said, not looking up. Anne laughed suddenly with joy. “Would you even love me?” she whispered, into his hair.
“Until the end of my days. But didn’t you know?”
“I knew,” said Anne, and kissed him.
Chapter
36
Marguerite of France had muchto think of. The brave duchess, her younger sister, and her bastard brother were lost. Fallen out of the whole world in pursuit of Julien Moreau, and no one could find them. And Louis of Orléans with them. It was a tragedy.
But it was also very convenient.
The next in line to the duchy of Brittany was arguably the king of France himself. Marguerite’s father, in his foresight, had long ago approached the last scion of the Panthièvres, an ancient lady who boasted a dubious claim to the Breton throne after Anne and Isabeau. France had purchased that claim for a handsome sum. Now, with Anne and Isabeau dead, France was in a position to inherit and annex the duchy outright.
Marguerite thought they could placate Maximilien of Austria, who was currently fuming in Saint-Malo. They could offer Charles’s hand to Maximilien’s daughter, Margaret.
Tidy. Neat. Perfect.
She was sorry about the girls. Anne had deserved better, and Isabeau had been but a child. But truly it could not have fallen out better for France.
Naturally, the Bretons were displeased. Rumors shot up and down the length of the country—and surely all across the breadth ofChristendom—that France had done away with the young duchess. But the rumors could be refuted. Naturally, they had witnesses to say that France had done nothing of the kind.
A week passed in a frenzy of letters, auguries, messengers. She and La Trémoille invited Maximilien of Austria to treat with His Majesty Charles of France, and he came with great ceremony, considerable hauteur. Whatever sickness had kept him in Ghent so long was quite gone. He was lean, decisive, angry. He too thought the duchess had been murdered.
They sat together in the great hall of the Guardhouse in Rennes, with the boards and trestles laid out for a council meeting, scribes and secretaries crowding the back of the room, councilors packing the table. The great men of two realms were glaring at each other. Well, Maximilien was glaring.
Charles was saying, “Is she a virtuous girl, your daughter Margaret?”
Marguerite’s expression did not change, but she pleaded with Heaven for patience. Maximilien said coldly, “She is eleven years old.”
“Excellent,” said Charles cheerfully. “Would she like to go unicorn-hunting?”
Only a violent effort of restraint, it was obvious, kept Maximilien of Austria from a hot reply. Restraint—and a sudden commotion from outside.
Heads turned. A chamberlain went out. Marguerite waited for a diviner to come in with news, but none came. The commotion grew louder. There was cheering in the streets of Rennes. What on earth?
“What is going on?” demanded Charles.
The door opened and the chamberlain came panting into the room. “There is—there is a messenger.”
“From whom, God the Father?” muttered one of the councilors, very low to his fellow. The cheering outside had redoubled.
