Louis bowed, far more soberly than the duchess had, and disappeared in the direction she and her entourage had taken.
Chapter
12
Louis of Orléans reflected thatAnne of Brittany had inherited at least one thing from her father, in addition to her throne. Francis had also been expert in the fine art of amusing oneself.
Bells were ringing in Nantes, and Anne’s Triumphal Entry took shape: decorated carts and marching knights, glittering riders, representatives of the various guilds. People mounted horses in all forms of hunting-dress, liberally spangled and gilded. Then Anne emerged from her pavilion, dressed in a divided riding-skirt and a bodice of purest silver, smiling at something someone had said, and Orléans stopped wanting to laugh at all.
Duchesses, princesses, girls of exalted birth werenotsupposed to look like that. They could be as innocently pretty as plaster-saints or inbred and hideous, helped along with wigs and padding in their clothes. But a duchess regnant had no business being a glowing-eyed armful with a rosebud mouth and pointed chin and shining masses of brown hair.
A child darted out from another of the pavilions, a girl with long, skinny arms and an impetuous way of running. The child passed him, paused, and turned around. He recognized her. He’d taught her to ride her pony, back when snub-nosed babyishness still clung to her face. Now she was gangly, half-grown, and in her face was pure belligerence.
“Demoiselle,” he said to Isabeau of Brittany. He made her an elegant bow.
Years ago that would have made her giggle. But today, with dignity, she said, “You have fallen in with our enemies, haven’t you? I thought you loved Father. And us.”
He would have savaged any impertinent courtier who had spoken thus, but when he opened his mouth to answer, the words caught in his throat. Before he could collect his wits, Anne appeared from nowhere and put an arm round her sister. The two were nearly of a height. Francis’s girls, except one of them had become a woman. Anne said chidingly, “Isabeau, people don’t have to love you so much that they lose everything.”
The small jaw set. “I would! If it was for you.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Anne instantly. “I would not let you. And Orléans won’t because it isn’t sensible. The French king is his cousin and Father is dead. Now, let us go and ride the unicorn and the city will get drunk and throw flowers and celebrate and we shall all be very happy. Orléans is joining the Entry too; you may make faces at him from the cart.”
He stared at them both.She hides such barbs in all that breathless talk. Am I merely sensible now? Can I blame Isabeau for despising me? Her parents were taken from her and now I am come to help take her sister.
Stiffly, he said, “I have not come back by choice. I mourned your father.”
He thought Anne had bitten her lip, though he kept his eyes on Isabeau.
“Why do you care?” flared Isabeau. “Are you not the heir of France?”
He answered, “An unwanted heir, to be put into a cannon and heaved out of sight the instant Charles has a son in the nursery. I did love your father. But I think it is better for your sister to yield to the inevitable and be married in honor. I hope she agrees with me.”
Honestly, he hoped he agreed with himself. Political necessity wasa cold answer when the object of it stood before him, half-familiar and alone and too young.
“My sister—” began Isabeau, but she was interrupted by Anne, who said, “Your sisteris honored by the kind attention of the lady of France and glad to see her father’s friend the duke of Orléans. Hush, Belle, you’ve a tongue like a bombard. Now, come and let us ride our unicorn. They can hardly have the Entry without us.” The sun gilded the brown of Anne’s hair, and brought fresh color to her face. He found himself wondering whether her artless expression concealed something more complex than Isabeau’s straightforward anger. A fool? A paragon? He had known the child, but he knew nothing of this duchess who had grown up and grown beautiful and touched a unicorn.
“All right,” said Isabeau. She threw Louis a scowl.
Anne smiled winsomely at him, and steered her sister away.
Louis was watching them go when a hard hand landed on his shoulder. He whipped around and saw Henri of Avaugour. They were nearly the same age. They had been friends once. “Well met, Orléans,” said Henri, though he sounded dubious.
“As you say,” said Louis in the same tone. They measured each other.
“I told Anne you would never agree to ride with us,” said Henri after a moment.
“Let it never be said that I balk at trifles,” said Louis in a polite but slightly dangerous voice, “but I am damned if I ride in an oxcart, and the ox wearing a hat.”
“My God, I know,” said Henri fervently. “My sister wanted chariots, but it was too late. Heaven be thanked, she was happy enough with hunting-dress.” His honest face was suddenly grinning and they clasped arms. “It is good to see you,” said Henri. “I could wish you’d come in better company.”
“I had no choice,” said Louis. He couldn’t fall back into his friendships, not with this truth hanging over them. He must either say it or name himself hypocrite. “Neither does your sister.”
Henri said nothing at that, and some of the warmth faded from his face.
Someone—probably Louis’s squire, with blessed presence of mind—had replaced his riding-horse with his destrier for the purposes of parading. Kestrel was a stallion like a snorting mountain, fearless and vain, who ordinarily came out only for jousts and other occasions that involved a great deal of noise. He would not panic at a crowd. If anything, he would decide he was in a mêlée and kick them.
Louis asked Henri, “Why do an Entry at all?”
