Louis’s memory was suddenly full of a street in Nantes packed with illusory people staring at something he could not see. He thought,It is connected. This is no accident. Maximilien has been kept here.
“I see,” he said aloud. “Perhaps I may be permitted an audience with your master. To persuade him to put aside fancies of his dead wife, to go and embrace the living one, who sorely needs him.” His voice was arid, to mask the feeling beneath.
“Yes,” said Polhaim with gratitude. “I will arrange it. And pray to God you may convince him where the rest of us have failed.”
But Louis had broken a dozen lances in the palace tiltyard before the invitation came from Maximilien. He went to make his bow, found the king in a room with velvet and perfume and a tumble of hunting dogs, all gently panting. The precision and the danger, the heat and physical exertion of jousting had dulled the edge of Louis’s wrathful impatience, and he was able, with tolerable composure, to bow and doff his hat and say, “I am come from your wife, Sire.”
Maximilien’s dark, straight brows rose. “We had heard you were a prisoner in France, cousin.”
“I was set free,” said Louis shortly.
“And went to offer your services to my lady, the duchess of Brittany?” said Maximilien with delicate skepticism.
“Her father was my friend. And she is a lady of courage.” He stepped nearer and dropped his voice. “Marguerite of France discovered your marriage, Sire, and swayed the duchess’s guardian to treachery. They meant to carry her to Charles of France by force, only she was warned and fled in time.”
Maximilien looked dubious. “She might as well have saved her efforts, and you too; she is wedded to me in law, and what can France do against that?” His eyes were heavy with fatigue.
“Marguerite of France would notwaitfor you to wrangle it out inlaw. She means to pack the duchess off to France at the first chance, and send a fine bribe to Rome for the pope to annul your marriage. The duchess would be wed to Charles and kept close at court until she was pregnant for all to see. Forgive me, Sire, but it is the truth.”
Maximilien was frowning, unconvinced. “Surely such outright villainy is unlikely. Do they think I count for nothing in this world? I have married the duchess of Brittany. What God has joined, let no man put asunder. One day or another before I see her will not change the fact of it. And in the meantime, I have business that keeps me in Ghent.”
It went against Louis’s very soul to have to beg on Anne’s behalf. Especially since he strongly suspected that Maximilien could not love this girl who embroidered with unicorn hair and shouted at sea-serpents. He was merely chasing his own lost lady, the other duchess. With as much steadiness as he could muster, he said, “The duchess has charged me to beg you to hasten. The French will soon besiege Rennes.”
Maximilien said, “You must not agitate yourself. A few days only and I shall go. Will you watch with me tonight? You will understand then why I tarry.” His hands twisted together, as though they pleaded silently for understanding.
Louis said, between his teeth, “A night, Sire. Then I must ride back to Rennes with your answer to the duchess, who is depending upon you.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Maximilien. “And I trust I shall soon bring the duchess with me back to my father’s court and all shall be well.”
“God send that it end so simply.”
Go and save her,he did not say.Make her your wife in truth,he could not bear to say.Madness, Sire, to think you could have Brittany, the world’s green jewel, and its duchess, and instead you sit here pining like a maiden for your wife who is gone.
And then he remembered their flight from Nantes, the street packed with people who were not there. He thought,This is a dark power at work and not entirely my lord’s fault.
God save us all.
Chapter
23
The French closed upon thecity of Rennes as quickly as men could be induced to march, and with them rode the grand lady Marguerite of France. And also a stranger called Julien Moreau, whose sly, sorrowing eyes were often downcast, always deep in thought.
They hurried because France feared that Maximilien of Austria would have a fair wind to Saint-Malo and reach Rennes before them.
“Where is Maximilien now?” Marguerite demanded of her diviner, Volucris. Her question was a little unreasonable, for no diviner could be accurate across the distances in question—anywhere on land or sea between the city of Ghent and the port of Saint-Malo. But she was hungry for information, and Volucris could at least tell her whether Maximilien had sailed or still tarried ashore.
“I do not know, lady!” cried Volucris, with more emotion than ever he showed. They had stopped that day’s march at the end of a long afternoon and he’d set out his sand tray in the sunny potager of a convent where they were to pass the night, setting his beetles to run on the hot sand. For this was his method of divination, to read truths in the tracks of beetles. He was pale, sweating, a sickly green. Marguerite was relentless. Where was Maximilien? She expected and feared a trick. All her spies brought were rumors, and none of them made any sense.
Volucris squinted at his beetles, a wheeze in his breath. “The beetles say onlydarkandcoldandlost.Dark and cold and alone. All alone!” His voice pitched up shrill, bringing every head in the garden round. Moreau strolled into the potager and overheard. His brows rose.
“Red walls,” muttered Volucris. “Thorns…” The sweat dripped from his pallid face.
“No,” said Julien, in a strange voice, “you cannot—” just as Marguerite said, “What ails the beetles?” They had begun to run in wild circles.
“It’s the thorns,” Volucris said, his voice choked suddenly, his tongue sagging purple from his mouth. “Thorns thorns thorns…”
Moreau strode forward, so suddenly that the guards’ hands twitched for their weapons, and seized Volucris’s beetles. He crushed them one-two-three in his hands, then swept clawing fingers to obliterate the marks in the sand. Finally he shoved Volucris away. “Mencannot divine the korriganed,” he said coolly as Volucris fell back, panting, the sweat pouring sickly down his face. “You go mad if you try. Or die.” Volucris had fallen to the sward, a terrible dull blue flush coming into his face.
