Marshal Rieux’s manner grows cold and distant. “You forget yourself, Duval,” he snaps. “You are naught but a bastard, tolerated only for your sister’s sake. You do not have a formal place on the council, or a voice. You are in no position to demand answers from me.” without giving Duval a chance to respond, he turns on his heel and stalks away.
Captain Dunois watches him a long moment before turning back to Duval. "Were you intending to have that effect on him?”
Duval gives an irritated shake of his head. “No, he is just more prickly than a damned hedgehog. was it Rieux that called the meeting, do you think? Is that why he grew so angry?”
“No, I think he grew angry because he did not call the meeting and does not like being reminded that someone disregarded not only Anne’s authority but also his own.”
“Since Chancellor Crunard has been away from court nearly as long as I have, that leaves Madame Dinan. But to what purpose? Does she mean to put her half brother’s marriage proposal before the barons? Surely she knows Anne will refuse him. what does she gain by forcing the issue in such a manner?”
Captain Dunois shrugs. “Perhaps it is intended as a show of support and strength to deter our French guests?”
“French plague is more like it,” Duval mutters. “Perhaps now is as good a time as any for us to greet the French parasite.”
Dunois bows. “You will forgive me if I do not linger to watch the resulting tempest,” he says, then takes his leave.
with a sigh, Duval begins leading me across the room. “If the French ambassador bears a marque, do feel free to kill him at once. It would save us all a great deal of trouble.”
Only too pleased at the chance to open myself to Mortain’s will, I let Duval steer me to the far corner of the hall where the French envoy sits like a fat brown spider, patient and cunning, tending his carefully woven web. He is a hatchet-faced man surrounded by smirking, fawning courtiers. He makes no move to acknowledge us as Duval and I approach, but I feel him study us all the same.
when we reach the envoy, Duval looks contemptuously at those gathered round him. “Still here, Gisors?” That Duval does not even feign politeness surprises me. I thought honeyed words a requirement here at court.
The French noble spreads his hands. “But of course. I am here to oversee the wardship of young Anne.”
“Anne is no one’s ward,” Duval counters. “You are here to guard France’s interests and care nothing for our duchess.” while Duval’s words are sharp, he delivers them almost cheerfully, as if he enjoys tearing down the carefully constructed web Gisors has built.
“Tsk-tsk. So little trust, Duval.”
Duval narrows his eyes. “Says the wolf as he sniffs at the door.”
As Duval keeps Gisors distracted with conversation, I study the French envoy intently, looking for any hint of a marque, but I see nothing, not the faintest smudge or shadow anywhere.
when Gisors finally turns his hooded gaze on me, I am struck by how very green his eyes are. Those eyes travel languidly down my body and back up again, but he says nothing to acknowledge my presence. Under my hand, the muscles in Duval’s arm stiffen, and he glances at me. when I give a little shake of my head, his mouth flattens in disappointment.
Completely unaware of our silent exchange, Gisors says, “I hear Anne has received correspondence from the Holy Roman emperor. what did he have to say?”
“I believe that is between the Holy Roman emperor and the duchess.” Duval’s mild voice is at odds with the tension in his arm.
“Since he is petitioning for a betrothal that the French Crown forbids, it is most certainly our business as well.”
“Brittany is a sovereign nation, and our duchess free to choose whom she pleases.”
I peer up at Duval from under my lashes. This is not quite true and I wonder if Gisors will call the bluff. He does.
“And I would remind you of the Treaty of Verger,” the envoy says. “Furthermore, young Anne has not yet been crowned duchess.”
“A mere formality,” Duval replies, “since that treaty you’re so fond of quoting agrees that she keeps the duchy and will rule over it as duchess.”
“Only if she marries whom the French Crown says she should marry.”
"We have yet to see a serious offer put forth by you or your regent,” Duval points out.
"We have given you two.”
“A foppish minor baron and a doddering sycophant older than her father.” Duval flaps his hand at the far wall, where for the first time I notice an old, gray-bearded courtier dozing in a chair. “Neither is remotely suitable.”
Gisors gives an indifferent shrug. “Then we are at an impasse.”
“Again,” Duval says, then gives a curt bow and escorts me away. As we pass beyond Gisors’s hearing, I glance once more at the dozing figure against the wall. It takes me a moment to realize that his spirit is growing dim, like a candle flame shrinking and sputtering before going out. “It is just as well the duchess is not inclined to accept France’s candidate for a husband. That one over there will be dead within a fortnight,” I tell Duval.
He stops to stare at the aging courtier. “He is marqued by Mortain?”
“No, he is merely dying of old age or some slow disease.”