She crossed the garderobe and planted herself beside the hood of the enormous stone fireplace, nodding at the reverences of a dozen courtiers. “Tell me your news, brother. Who has come? I saw the horses below.”
De Rieux followed them to the fireplace, his mouth downturned and worried. Her council was scattered about the room: Clever, jollyDunois, whose father was the famous Bastard of Orléans. The Comte de Comminges, and Montauban, her chamberlain, catlike and wary and intensely loyal. They all drifted unobtrusively nearer, while her maids-of-honor raised a chorus of chatter to mask their conversation.
“La Trémoille is here with a grand escort and messages from the French court,” said Henri, low. “He has had word via diviner and rode from the garrison at Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier. I think he is come to insist upon the French marriage with no further delay.”
Anne went very still. Her mind instantly darted back to the day of her coronation. She had been too young and red-eyed, her father newly buried.
“I will not marry the king of France,” she had told De Rieux. She knew—everyone knew—that if she were to wed the king of France, there would be no more Brittany. Only France, from the Rhine to the stormy sea. “I promised my father.”
“What choice do you have?” De Rieux had rejoined, with some justice. Her father had lost a war over this very question, and died in the aftermath. Brittany was a fair green jewel rich with the wealth of the sea, and France was ten times its size and coveted it. Brittany was also Anne’s bridal portion, and would go to her husband when she married. Of course France wanted her.
“I will make myself new choices,” she had said then.
And she had. She was sure of it. Her secret messenger from Flanders was carrying Brittany’s salvation even now, sewn up hidden in his saddle-skirt.
“They must have found out,” whispered De Rieux.
Anne’s mind was racing. She said, “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. He would have brought soldiers if he knew, and he has only his escort, hasn’t he?”
“But why else would he have come now?” murmured Montauban.
They were all worried, and she did not blame them. If France laid bare her plans too soon, she would be deposed. Or taken away and married forcibly. She was finding it hard to draw a full breath.
“I can think of a few reasons,” said Dunois, brows drawn together.“But I like none of them.” He took a gasping draught of his spiced wine.
“He has not said why he is here, only asked for audience with the duchess,” said Henri.
Her brother had no head for statecraft. He liked jousting and expensive horses and a well-cut doublet. But he was an easy, kindly man, her father’s mistress’s son.
Anne’s rising heartbeat seemed to shake her whole body; she forced her voice to mildness. “We’ll find out soon enough. Give him my utmost respect and say we honor our cousin of France and wait upon his noble general’s convenience.” She’d given standing orders to treat anyone from the French court with an exasperating degree of servility. She cast a speculative glance at her brother. “Henri, go and put on something more expensive. That vulgar hat with the ostrich plume. I want him to think you have ambitions and have spent all your money.”
“What?”
“Now,” said Anne. “Quick. He’ll probably come in here any moment, when he gets the summons. Hates delays. Don’t you remember? And another thing—” She whispered in his ear.
“I don’t understand,” said her brother dubiously.
“No need,” said Anne. She said it cheerfully, but the firelight kept wanting to go sideways in her vision, to remind her of the stabs of light that roared from besieging cannon. The first time she had seen La Trémoille was from the wall of that very castle. He had been directing the French army that was methodically laying siege to their battlements. Her father had pointed out the three blue eagles of his standard, noted the bombards being drawn into position to fire.
That day was years gone, but the cold fear of it still clung to her.
Henri said, “You should know that my hats are the envy of the court.”
“Now.”
He went off, muttering something incredulous about how their easy-tempered father could have sired such a baby tyrant. Anne smiledas she watched him go, but her smile faded when she met De Rieux’s worried eyes.
Four years ago, Guillaume de La Trémoille, lieutenant-general of France, had been the architect of the conquest of Brittany, and in his firm opinion, the war had stopped too soon. The Bretons had been defeated, roundly, at Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, but France ought not to have heard their suit for peace after the battle. They should not have relented, in the face of Duke Francis’s death. They ought to have driven on, reduced the château at Nantes, taken Rennes, packed off the girls, the ducal heirs, to be wards of the crown of France, and set a loyal man—himself, for preference—in the seat of the duke of Brittany.
That was the way wars were won.
That was how the old king would have won.
But Charles was young and naïve and desired to emulate Saint Louis, his canonized ancestor, in the matter of virtue. Virtuous kings, Charles opined, did not seize territory on the thinnest possible claim, backed with a legion of bloody hired swords. Virtuous kings enlarged their holdings by good, lawful Christian marriage, and both of Brittany’s heirs were girls.
His court agreed in public, but in private they wondered what Charles’s warlike father would have said to his amiable son.
La Trémoille knew very well what the old king would have said and wished with all his might that he could have said it for him.
