Henri had already gone outside. The cheering in Rennes was cresting. Marguerite heard those cheers like the stamp of doom, though she did not know exactly why she was afraid. Even if some miracle had happened, even if some city had leaped into being from the Lost Lands like a pebble from the hand of God, no city could have arms and armaments enough to face all the might of France.
They went to change into riding-clothes, except La Trémoille, who was dressed for the field already. He went out to make sure of the king’s horses.
Her ladies were only just fastening Marguerite’s riding skirt when La Trémoille burst into her garderobe. He was panting wildly.
“What is it?” she demanded, cutting across all the chatter.
“The doors of the castle,” said La Trémoille, real terror in his eyes. “The doors don’t lead outside.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
But it was also quite true. Not one door, however many they tried, led outside. They would open the outer door and find themselves in another room. For Charles it was the same. For La Trémoille. For their diviner, Volucris. For their councilors and greater servants.
When they tried to send a message to their officers outside, the messenger stormed back in a few moments later saying that the note was blank. And after that, he could not find his way outside either.
“It is a curse,” said Charles, afraid. “We are damned, we are doomed.”
“It is sorcery,” said Marguerite, grimly. “And the balance of power in the world has changed.”
“It is enchantment, in fact,” said a new voice. “But it need not be enmity, cousins.”
They were together in the great hall of the palace, and Anne simply walked down the stairs.
With her walked Louis of Orléans.
Marguerite drew a sharp breath. “So, it is true.”
“Yes,” said Anne. She glimmered like foxfire in their eyes. Her gown was sea-blue as her blazon had been, sewn with diamonds. But it was an unknown style of gown, open in front, with long, bell-shaped sleeves and an underskirt of silver. Her hair was not up in a crespine but plaited down her back, loosely veiled, and they could see more diamonds, in ropes, woven through. She wore the fillet of unicorn-hair.
But Anne’s gaze was the same. Wry, direct. Marguerite recalled, with some discomfort, that she had made this girl kneel in her chemise and plead for her dignity at Charles’s feet.
Louis’s hair was very dark against the blue and silver of his doublet and points and silk hose. Diamonds glittered on the backs of his gloves. One hand lay lightly on the hilt of the sword in a jeweled scabbard at his side.
“You have used the black arts—” began Marguerite.
“Arts, perhaps.” Anne did not raise her voice. “We have no malice toward France. We would ask you to retreat across your border and let us be allies and not enemies.”
“What says your husband?” demanded Marguerite. “What say will he have in these fine negotiations?”
“Maximilien of Austria?” said Anne. “I have spoken to him just now. He has renounced his claim to my hand, in return for paymentsof money and a state of amity between our two nations. We will also accord him three studs, three broodmares, and favorable trading rights in the port of the bay of Douarnenez.
“He was surprised,” Anne added dryly. “But not displeased. They are very fine horses, you see. The marriage shall be annulled.”
“You cannot do this,” said Charles. “You are only the duchess of Brittany.”
Anne and Louis exchanged a very private glance. Louis said, “Dearest cousin, I think you will find that she can.”
“Will you keep us inside till we starve?” demanded Charles.
“No, of course not,” said Anne impatiently. “You shall have dishes from my own table if you like, and linen and books and all the comforts that you wish. But you shall not leave this house until you have ordered all your men, save personal escort, to decamp for the border. You must also swear strong oaths never to come again armed for war.”
“You will be excommunicated for this sorcery,” said La Trémoille, bristling. His hand was on his sword.
Anne said, “I think not. There is precedent; enchantments and sorcery were once sanctioned by the Church and, forgive me, I think will be sanctioned again, with the right application of money. And if you will go in peace, I can offer you guarantees.”
The men’s mouths opened and closed in helpless rage. Anne met Marguerite’s eyes. In her gaze was not hatred, but quiet acknowledgment. The siege of Nantes, the battles, her father’s death. The fine locked coach to Amboise they had meant for her, the conquering husband, the relentless child-bearing.
Marguerite swallowed. “What guarantees?”
