Polhaim thought this marriage was too soon and also imprudent, for if France discovered the betrothal untimely, it could mean war. But no one had asked him.
The girl said ingenuously, “It is a long ride from Flanders, isn’t it?” Maximilien was widely known to be in residence near Ghent, on the lands he’d inherited from his dead wife.
“Not so long. I have a good horse.” Extravagantly he added, “And with such beauty at the end, the road cannot seem long.”
He would have continued in this complimentary vein, but Henri of Avaugour, that wretch, appeared and said, “Forgive me, but I must cut you short. There are men of my sister’s council who wish to speak with you.”
Polhaim stared. Now.Now?Was this a joke? He was suddenly, hideously aware of his open doublet, his fingers and lips sticky with wine,his head whirling. He said, collecting himself as suavely as he could, “Very well, but there are documents that I must—” Damnable, frivolous timing.
“No time,” said the baron of Avaugour, unsympathetically.
Polhaim was vaguely aware that the pretty girl was giving Avaugour a look of mild exasperation, but when he turned back to her, he saw only a rueful smile. She put out a hand. “I hope we shall meet again.”
“I hope we shall,” said Polhaim, and meant it. Reluctantly, he followed Henri out of that chamber, back down the tightly spiraling stairs, and into the torchlit night.
They crossed the rain-glazed courtyard with music pouring still from the open casements. Out of sorts, Polhaim stopped at a horse-trough, splashed his face, and smoothed his hair. They climbed a slippery staircase to the wall-top, with the lights on the Loire resplendent below, and then went into the Roman tower, the oldest part of the keep. The door opened onto a round room with a fire already drawing, boards and trestles laid with cloths of damask, good wine in a jug, and sugared fruits like smoke-darkened jewels.
Henri left Polhaim at the doorway and went back into the rain. Polhaim sank into a chair, his head still spinning. A man was already in the room, wearing the court robe of a diviner, a cup of wine in one wavering hand. Four other men entered—the duchess’s council, surely. They all looked tense. Every one of them was sober. Polhaim badly regretted his own wine. He waited stiffly for someone to address him.
Then a slightly uneven footstep scraped on the wall-top outside and the girl in the violet dress came into the room, leaning on Henri’s arm and giving every impression of a sister reading her brother a lecture, never mind the fact that she hardly came to his shoulder. “I absolutely did not say that you were to—” She broke off, lifting her head. The whole room straightened.
Polhaim was shocked. He had seen her face in miniature, when her portrait was sent to his master. But that small, insipid image—brownhair and a prominent prie-dieu—bore little resemblance to this sparkling girl. He would never have dreamed— One did not expect a pretty duchess. One did not expect to meet a duchess incognita, judging bad poetry and laughing. But now, with his head clearing, he recalled how they had all hung on her words. And rumor did say the duchess had a deformed hip, which gave her a limp.
“An inhuman hour, I know,” said Anne, duchess regnant of Brittany. “And yet there was not much help for it.” Someone had refreshed the paint on her face. Her lips were a deep and fascinating rose. She nodded in answer to their bows, and went to the chair nearest the fire. The dimples made a brief reappearance. “Forgive me,” she said to Polhaim. “I had not intended to make a mystery of myself, nor did I tell my brother to be quite so—enthusiastic—in his hospitality.” She shot poor Avaugour a glare. “But there is a French envoy in the castle this night.”
“He will find out about this meeting!” said one of her councilors. “Highness, I told you—”
The duchess looked at him and his mouth closed. Lightly, she said, “The envoy found his marchpane disagreeable, I fear, and has not left his chamber since. But let us conclude our business quickly.”
Polhaim swallowed and bowed. It did not seem likely that this girl was the puppet of her advisers, whatever the world supposed. He recalled that many of the men who might have otherwise tried to control her were prisoners in France.
Anne went on, “France has always meant to have me wed their king, and this envoy has come at last to say that they will brook no more delay.”
Polhaim was sobering fast. “Do they know that I am here?”
“No,” said the duchess. “Nor do they know of our successful negotiations with Maximilien of Austria. But the timing is unfortunate.”
That was a monstrous understatement. “If they do not yet know, I fear they will find out soon enough,” said Polhaim frankly. “If there is an envoy actually in Nantes, pressing for a French marriage, then the gifts of France’s diviners will be fixed on your court, Highness.An Austrian marriage cannot be concealed long enough for soldiers of my king to cross the border.”
What would France do if they found out she had betrothed herself elsewhere? Likely send a message by diviner to the garrison in Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier and come in force to either make the duchess yield or take her forcibly back to France. How could they be prevented? No hope that Maximilien would come in time—he would not make the attempt if he were not already her husband. The risks were too great if he had not yet made sure of his prize. But La Trémoille’s presence made the wedding impossible. This marriage could not go ahead at all. It was too late.
And yet he read undimmed determination in the duchess’s eyes, beneath the luster. A strand of hair had escaped confinement and crept round her jaw. She smelled of myrrh and cedar. Polhaim told himself to be sensible. She went on, “Despite their eagerness, France has this day agreed to delay these negotiations. General de La Trémoille wishes greatly to go unicorn-hunting.” An impudent dimple showed at the corner of her mouth.
Polhaim did not see the significance. He said weakly, “Does he?”
“He does. And the only place where men may sometimes find unicorns in these days is the forest of Brocéliande, a day’s ride from Rennes. The general has agreed that there shall be no more talk of my marriage to France until after a unicorn-hunt.”
Polhaim still didn’t understand. “Highness—what good will this delay serve?” he managed.
The duchess said, “Divination does not work in Brocéliande.”
The Breton diviner nodded confirmation, but Polhaim still did not see her point.
She added impatiently, “If my marriage to Maximilien of Austria were solemnizedinBrocéliande, France would have no way to know it; and even if they did, the news of it could not be conveyed by a diviner. It would give my lord of Austria the legal assurance of a valid marriage and time to move his army across our border and garrison Rennes.”
Polhaim answered slowly, still stupid with wine, “But my lord cannot go to Brocéliande. Not in secret.”
“He doesn’t need to.”
