“As though I would,” said Anne. Her smile was almost convincing. “Truly, this is for the best. After all, the king would have taken me to France to marry me already, except that you and I and La Trémoille are keeping it in his head that he must go unicorn-hunting.”
“Anne.”
She leaned forward. “I am not beaten and I shall not break,” she told him, though her eyes were afraid, and her voice was not quite steady. “And neither shall you.”
Anne of Brittany did not act as she ought, Marguerite thought. But when had she ever? She was childish when she ought to be serious, too clever by half when her youth and inexperience ought to have worked against her.
At the hour that had been set for her public examination, Anne swept into the great hall of the Guardhouse like a queen into her own throne room, smiling at them all: Charles’s cronies, the priests and diviners, the whole watching court. She made the king a reverence and said, “Sire.”
“Madame.” Charles was staring. She had never been more beautiful. Beside him, the duke of Orléans looked bored.
The duchess said, her voice troubled, “Have the diviners spoken ill of me?”
To Marguerite’s annoyance, Charles was leaning forward, watery eyes bright. “No, no. But we must just make sure of you. For the unicorn-hunt. And to have my sons. Since you were married, which was very wrong of you.”
“It was terribly wrong of me,” said Anne composedly. “Especially since I brought that dreadful man Moreau out of the forest— Oh, forgive me. Was he not your ally? I suppose we can’t choose our allies.”
“He certainly was not!” Charles sat straight up. Anne was going to have Charles in full political debate in a moment, forgetting why they were there. Marguerite signaled to her own maids-of-honor. An interested stir went through the court.
Anne stood still as her sleeves were untied, her skirt, her bodice, piece by piece, every eye in the hall riveted. The only sign of her disquiet was her posture, taut as an angry cat. Finally, when Anne was in nothing but her chemise, her feet and shoulders bare, with their hands reaching for the ties at her neck, she slipped out from between the maids-of-honor, catching one with a cold eye when she would have prevented her.
She walked steadily across the floor.
Anne had high-arched feet and delicate collarbones; her limp was more obvious without her shoes or stockings. As she crossed the open floor, she collected eyes like a herald, but her gaze was on Charles alone.
The startled room held still.
Mummery,thought Marguerite in anger. All this was mummery, just like the Triumphal Entry, yet no one in the room could look away. Anne came all the way to the king’s chair and knelt. Her hair was still plaited up in the fillet of unicorn hair. She looked like a princess in a tale of long ago. Charles hesitated.
Very softly, Anne said, “What kind of innocence does this preserve, my lord, for your hunting? Will not the unicorn see the impress of all these eyes? For no man has seen me before this day, and I swear it upon the Almighty God.”
Now, at last, Marguerite saw Louis move; a tiny twitch of his closed fist. But he did not speak.
“Do you swear it?” Charles whispered to Anne, like a boy exchanging secrets.
She looked steadily up into the king’s face, as though they were alone. He was entranced now. “Yes.”
Charles put his own cloak over her and Anne rose and smiled at him. When he offered his arm, she took it: perhaps the first gallant thing he’d ever done in his life. The room sighed, and Marguerite knew, with anger, that Anne would drag this game out to the bitter end, create more chances to ruin all if she could. Charles still meant to hunt a unicorn, and Marguerite could not yet go home.
And if the duchess wept afterward, Marguerite did not see, and if Louis had bitten blood from his own mouth, watching, she would never know.
Louis was seated at the high table beside Charles of France, where he could watch Anne enter the room for the feasting, fully dressed now, layered like an armored saint, Isabeau beside her. Anne had asked for the child to be excused, but of course Marguerite would not agree.This was ritual, this was statecraft; the heirs of Brittany in the keeping now of France.
She must have taken all the gold the French had to buy that dress, Louis thought. It was scarlet and black with gold thread and jewels in her hair and the band of the unicorn’s mane holding the crespine. A small defiance, but he was glad of it.
They all watched her come before them and make a courtesy to the king. Louis could understand why she had let them take off most of her clothes before she went and hypnotized Charles. Her performance had been flawless, as good as any traveling player. They’d seen enough of her to stop baying for her blood. She had come out with her dignity intact and the king ready to eat out of her hand. Marguerite had been furious.
So had Louis, for quite a different reason.
The duchess and her sister were seated. Charles made a joke that Isabeau, sitting stiff and studious, did not smile at. The meats came round, the wine. The feast was a glittering thing, funded by the deep-pocketed French, and largely attended by them too. Marguerite was taking no chances of any Breton noble making an untoward declaration of loyalty. Orléans knew that assessing eyes were on him, but he would not give them fodder. He could do that much for her. He conversed with his neighbors and did not lift his eyes beyond.
Would Maximilien continue on to Rennes? Perhaps; it would go against a king’s pride to have his wife taken so. But what could he do? No one had expected Rennes to fall so fast. Louis ate and conversed with his neighbors, kept his eyes from Anne, made himself agreeable to Charles. Made himself think of nothing.
A stir went through the room. The music stopped.
And in that silence, like that of rabbits when the hawk comes circling, Julien Moreau walked out of nothing into the center of the room. He moved awkwardly; his face was a bad color. Beneath a robe tawdry with frayed embroidery was the bulge of bandages, a bloodstain working its way through.
The room froze.
