he hardest part of the day’s travels is remembering all the things I am no longer supposed to do now that I am headed for France. I do not ride up to the head of the line to speak with Beast, not even when we have to wait for nearly an hour while a felled tree is removed from the road.
I do not draw my weapons as we wait, or even finger my knives. I restrain myself from riding back to the litter to check on Louise and Charlotte and see how they are faring, although I wish to nearly every half hour. Most impressively, I refrain from drawing my weapons every time we pass a village and an entire flock of villagers comes rushing forward, eager to cheer their duchess and throw flower petals and small gifts in her path.
All things considered, it is far more exhausting than a full day of hard riding would have been. By the time we can see the thick stone towers of Chateaubriant castle jutting up against the sky, my soul is exhausted and my body restless.
We circle the moat that protects the outer wall until we come to the barbican, then pass through the tall, narrow space—barely wide enough for the largest of our wagons to fit. It is so narrow that it feels like a trap, and it is all I can do to keep my hands calmly on the reins.
Once we have crossed the bailey and are in the courtyard, the sensation passes.
But too soon. Standing on the castle step dressed in red velvet and a fur-lined cloak is the king’s own sister, the regent herself, bane of Brittany’s existence.
Unease skitters across my shoulders.
The regent’s greeting is gracious and polite; she kisses the duchess upon each cheek. “Be welcome,” she says with a pleasant smile.
The duchess returns her smile coolly. “Thank you for your hospitality, Madame Regent.” The irony is not lost on her that the regent is welcoming her to one of Brittany’s own castles that France’s troops nearly destroyed in the Mad War.
“I believe you know my lord husband, the Duke of Bourbon?”
The Duke of Bourbon is soft-looking and somewhat chinless, which balances nicely with the regent. She has plenty of chin for them both. The duke takes the duchess’s hand and bows over it. “Welcome, my dear.” There is a true kindness in his face. His lack of artifice and his genuineness provide a stark contrast to his wife.
Beside the regent and the Duke of Bourbon stands another man. He is tall, although stooped and thin. His flesh hangs loosely off his face, as if he has been ill. Something about him feels familiar to me, although I cannot place it.
“And, Your Grace,” the regent says, “you know well the Duke of Orléans.”
Her words have me gaping like a fish, but the duchess’s look of joy chases away my disbelief. If she feels the same shock I do at the change in his appearance, she hides it well.
It has been seven years since I saw him, but he has aged at least twenty. He was taller then, square-jawed and renowned for his prowess at hunting and jousting. Now he does not look as if he could manage to hold a lance with both hands.
After he had been captured in the final battle of the Mad War between France and the late duke of Brittany, rumors circulated that he was kept in a cage so small he could not stand and fed naught but bread and water for months on end. I had dismissed them. D’Orléans is next in line for the throne should anything happen to King Charles, and I could not believe either the regent or the king would treat a Prince of the Blood in such a way.
But I was wrong, and every word appears true. Next to him, the regent glitters like a bright red jewel in the falling dusk, and I am grateful she no longer considers the duchess her enemy.
* * *
The Duke and Duchess of Bourbon could not have provided a more gracious welcome. The light of a hundred candles sparkles brightly against the silver, gold, and crystal on the lavishly set table. The sideboards groan under the weight of roasts of beef and venison, the savory smell of fine herbs mingling with the sharp, fruity scent of wine.
Throughout it all, the duchess sits between the regent and the Duke of Orléans, talking happily with him, for they are old friends. There had even been rumors of a match between them, but there were too many obstacles, the primary one being Orléans’s wife. She is sister to the regent and the king, and the French crown would have fought any attempt at an annulment. His presence is a welcome olive branch.
After a long but pleasant meal, we finally retire to our chambers. Before I have even begun to undress the duchess, there is a knock at the door. She sets her jaw firmly and squares her shoulders. “Enter,” she calls out.
The door opens, and Madame Regent steps into the room, followed by the Duke of Bourbon, and the Duke of Orléans. She closes the door firmly behind her. “Your Grace, I trust your accommodations are to your liking.”
“They are, Madame Regent.”
My mind struggles to guess the purpose of their visit. The regent glances briefly in my direction. “Is there anyone else you wish to have with you?”
“No.” The duchess’s chin comes up a little higher, and a sense of dread begins seeping into the room. The sympathetic expression on the Duke of Bourbon’s soft face adds to my unease.
“Your Grace?” I ask softly, hoping she will inform me what is going on.
The regent spares me a brief glance. “We are here for the premarital inspection. Out of courtesy for her rank and a desire to be tactful, we agreed to wait until she’d left her own holding and conduct it here, but it will be conducted before the wedding can take place.”
The force of my revulsion robs me of caution. “The legal contract has already been agreed to and signed,” I protest. “Surely this is not necessary.”
“This was stipulated in the contract,” she answers coolly. “We must determine if she can produce an heir.”
As if such things can be ascertained by a public examination. Outrage erupts, burning away the day’s fledgling caution. “Did Madame have such an examination prior to her marriage?” My voice is polite and courteous, my words covered in the finest silk.
“Of course not. But it was not my duty to produce an heir for the kingdom.” The sharpness in her tone gives me pause. The last thing I want to do is draw unwelcome attention to myself—especially from her.
She turns to the duchess, frowning. “This cannot be a surprise to you.”
The duchess is pale, but maintains her regal composure. “No, but that does not make it any more palatable. And I was not expecting such a large audience.”