His voice was crisp. “Anne. The water stopped when you touched it.”
She pretended not to hear.
“They are whispering this nonsense tale of a faerie-king coming for you. Anne, are you in danger?”
She was still smiling. She kissed her hand to the crowd; she caught a flung flower and put it to her lips, to cheers. “You would like me to be in danger, wouldn’t you? That you might hurry me off to France the faster?”
“No,” he said coldly. “I would like to keep you from danger, because your father’s ghost would smite me from the grave if I let anything happen to his daughter.”
She glanced back. A mistake. The shared memory of a lost time lurked in his eyes.
She told herself to smile, to be the girl that Marguerite and La Trémoille thought she was. Vivacious, silly. But she found herself saying, “Anythinghappen to his daughter? Such as being made to marry his greatest enemy?”
“That cannot be helped.”
She felt blinding rage, but fought for reason. Orléans had been dragged off the battlefield at Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier and taken away, imprisoned. He was caught now as much as she was, making bitter compromises also. Perhaps if he saw how she resented the French marriage, it would never occur to him that she had also moved to circumvent it.
Low, she said, “Did she offer you your freedom if you ensure I marry Charles of France?”
“Yes.”
She said nothing.
“I am sorry, Anne.”
Her name, his eyes on her: persistent, aching memory. How glad she would have been if he’d walked with her thus before, his arm under hers, his glance turned often to her face. The bridge from Nantes to the castle proper loomed before them. “We have all done what we wish we had not,” she said finally. “But you will not use my name again.”
They were nearing the courtyard now, and all around were milling people, grooms and courtiers, a wellspring of furious gossip. Louis said, “Do not think of me as your enemy, Highness.”
She gave him her most brilliant smile. “Do not worry, Monseigneur. I shall not think of you at all.”
Chapter
13
Marguerite, having approved her chambersin the castle, went up the battlements with her diviner, Volucris, to escape the orgy of unpacking. She wanted to think, and perhaps watch a little of this Triumphal Entry.
But on the corner of the wall-top nearest the town, just beside the Roman tower, she encountered a stranger with russet hair. He was holding a plain cup and squinting into its contents. He did not turn as she approached. One of her guards stirred the man with his foot and said, “Knave, this is the lady of France.”
The stranger turned, sweat on his face, eyes amber, made larger with shadows. “Forgive me, Madame,” he whispered, bowing. His French was crisp, but the accent and intonation were unexpected.
Volucris stiffened. “He is auspex.” A diviner. They often knew one another on sight.
But this man wore no robe, no mark of his trade. She said, “Who are you?”
The deep-set eyes were sad. He held the cup almost ceremonially between his two hands. “I was a diviner.”
Then he must be— “You are the man who came out of that forest. I thought they were keeping you locked up.”
The stranger bent his russet head. “I was Miravi when I was adiviner, but I do not like that name anymore, for it reminds me of what I lost. I am Julien Moreau.” He bowed again.
Volucris knew when Miravi was supposed to have lived; he was bristling with disbelief. “You were not born two hundred years ago.”
Moreau said nothing.
“Never mind that,” said Marguerite. “Was it you who told the duchess some farrago that the king of the korriganed desires her hand?” Why were they just letting this man roam loose?
Fine white hands spread out helplessly and Moreau looked weary. Even ill. “I did. But I know not why. Believe me, I should like the answers more than any man alive, I assure you, Excellency.”
