La Trémoille broke off his discourse. “Highness?”
If that was a woman hiding in this ruin, or a woman with children, she would not reveal herself to armed men. Suddenly Anne wanted, on a flare of pure rebellion, to aidsomeonewith her own hand instead of endlessly talking. She said, “There is someone in that ruin.”
La Trémoille looked baffled. “I dare say.”
“I want to see.” Anne made the utterance childish for La Trémoille’s benefit. She turned her palfrey, Jonquil, and cantered across the fallow field.
Behind her, she could hear De Rieux saying soothing things to LaTrémoille, heard Henri spurring after her. “Highness, what now?”
Anne didn’t answer, having come into the ruined farmyard, half her startled party following. The air breathed out smoke and old death; some beast’s bones had been picked clean. Jonquil sidled uneasily. Anne was aware of her courtiers exchanging curious glances. She said in Breton, “Let any who live here come out to me at once. For I am the duchess of Brittany.”
The fresh breeze whistled in the ruined roof. A horse snorted.
“There is no one,” said La Trémoille, who had evaded De Rieux and cantered across.
A small face peeped around a smoke-streaked wall. She could have been ten or five or fifteen, it was hard to know with ill-nourished children. Over a chorus of well-bred murmurs, Anne said, “Are you alone, child?”
The child was staring, as at an apparition. “They’re all dead,” she whispered finally, also in Breton. The folk of the countryside spoke no other language.
Softly Anne said, “God rest their souls. Would you like to ride a horse and have some bread?”
The child nodded once, looking dazed. Anne caught the eye of Peryn, the most reliable of her grooms. He got down and picked up the child before she changed her mind and bolted. He put her on his saddlebow, got up behind her. Anne said, “Child, have you anything to bring with you?”
“No,” whispered the girl, with a face full of frightened wonder. “No, nothing.”
Anne could do no more; La Trémoille was already beginning to radiate confused hostility. She let her mind fill with all the day’s frustration, and when the tears came spilling from her eyes, she put a hand on his sleeve and whimpered, “I just cannot bear it when the children suffer.” The tears smeared furrows in the careful tints on her face. “God tells us to succor them.”
“Indeed,” he said slowly. “Indeed.” And because he was the kind of man who cannot bear a crying woman, he spurred his horse on and left her alone.
“Where are we going?” Anne heard the child ask from Peryn’s saddlebow. He’d produced the heel of a loaf and she was gnawing like a mouse.
Peryn was unflappable. “We are going to the nuns in the forest. Perhaps you may live there and they will take care of you, if you say your prayers.”
“Where the korriganed live?” inquired the girl. “Will they not eat my eyes?”
“I think not,” said Peryn. “There are no more korriganed, and in any case the duchess would not allow it.”
Near the edge of the forest, the bulk of the hunting-party turned off to pass the night jammed up tight in the castle of the sieur de Trécesson. Anne, with her maids-of-honor, Henri, and De Rieux and a small escort, went to spend the night in a convent called Paimpont.
Polhaim was to meet them there, riding straight from Ghent on fast horses with the marriage-contract, a bewildered bishop to solemnize it, and a letter from Maximilien. He had promised faithfully via diviner to be prompt to his hour. Anne did not know what she would do if he did not come.
The convent, an austere heap of rain-worn stone, lay on the far side of a black mere, gray wall and slate roof, dormitories and refectory and spired chapel competing with ancient trees for its place against the sodden sky. The ground was covered in moss that muffled the sound of hooves, and the trees twisted as they soared, tangling overhead like the vaulted ribs of cathedrals. It had begun to rain, and the day was creeping down to night.
Lights glimmered into being one by one in the convent windows, multiplying like stars in the rippling water. The wind had died and now their spattered banners drooped. Anne’s hip was slowly stiffening.
The maids-of-honor shifted their shoulders uncomfortably in their damp clothes. The horses, sensing a stable nearby, picked up the pace. “Come,” said Anne to them all, finding a smile. “Let us seem a gallant company.”
They passed the convent-gate at last and came to a smooth, grassy place between stable and chapel. Anne searched about eagerly for men, horses, banners, any sign that Polhaim had reached the convent before them.
Nothing. She sat still.
Henri had already slid off his horse. “He’ll be here,” Anne told him before he could say anything.
Her brother’s arm steadied her as he handed her down, and his smile steadied her too, full of undimmed confidence. “I’ve never yet known one of your schemes to go awry,” he assured her. “Let us all find some supper, and he’ll be here before moonrise.”
For a strange instant, the convent lay quiet. Then everything moved at once. Nuns and novices and torchlight came spilling out. The abbess was the shortest and the oldest among them, leaning on a knotted stick. She hobbled toward Anne and said, “Bid you welcome, Highness.”
“Mother, I am glad to be here,” returned Anne politely. “Have you had word of another party? One led by a young man with fair hair?”
