Duval tilts his head, studying the man. “I know you,” he says at last.
The young man smiles. “You have a good memory. I am Fedric, Duke of Nemours.” He bows deeply.
Duke of Nemours! My mind scrambles back to Sister Eonette’s lessons. Nemours is a small but rich holding that, like Brittany, pays only nominal homage to the French Crown. The old Duke of Nemours had fought alongside Duke Francis in the Mad war, and died there. The young lord before us was one of the many men betrothed to the duchess.
“I come to offer to reopen negotiations for the hand of your sister,” Nemours says.
“But I thought you were already married.”
Nemours’s face grows somber. “I was. My wife and young son died of the plague that passed through Nemours at the end of the summer.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Duval says.
Nemours’s grin is somewhat forced. "Which is why I come to you seeking a new bride. when word of your sister’s circumstances reached me, I thought to approach you.”
"What have you heard?” Duval asks warily.
Nemours barks out a humorless laugh. “That the French regent has bribed half your barons to join France’s cause and that the Holy Roman emperor is too mired in his own wars to come to her aid. And the duchess’s own barons are too busy fighting for her crown to fight on her behalf.”
“You have heard the right of it, I’m afraid.”
“So I offer a way out. I propose the same terms as the original betrothal agreement, so you will see that I am not trying to take advantage of your situation.”
Duval is suddenly cautious. "Why? what is in it for you that you are so chivalrous?”
“Is chivalry not its own reward?”
“Not in my experience, no.”
Nemours shrugs, then smiles. It very nearly reminds me of Beast’s maniacal grin. “In addition to the great fondness I bear your lady sister, is not beating the French at their own game enough? My father died at their hand.”
“How many troops can you lend to enforce the betrothal? For the French regent will move quickly once she learns of it.”
“Three thousand,” he says, "Which I know is less than d’Albret’s considerable numbers, but at least I can guarantee they will be loyal to the duchess.”
“And that is worth much, I think.”
“There is more,” Nemours adds. “My cousin, the queen of Navarre, will send fifteen hundred pikemen to aid our cause.”
Duval’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Not that we would not welcome them, but why would she bestir herself on our account?”
A grim note creeps into Nemours’s voice. “Do not forget that she also is married to a d’Albret. She knows only too well what marrying into that family entails.”
A dark look of understanding passes between the two men. “Very well then,” Duval says. “I will put your proposal before the duchess.” And although he tries to hide it, the relief in his voice in plain.
It takes me a moment before I recognize the feeling burbling through me. It is not trepidation, or even apprehension, but joy. I am nearly giddy with relief that we may have found our duchess a solution to her tangle. And while it is not the task I was trained for, I savor it all the same. I tell myself that my happiness has nothing to do with coming that much closer to removing the suspicion that clouds Duval’s name.
On our return trip to Guérande, Duval does not use the shortcut I showed him but instead leads us through St. Lyphard itself. If this is a test, it is easy enough to pass. I know in my bones that no one will recognize me.
The town has not changed at all since I left nearly four years ago. we pass the blacksmith’s forge and the small square where we held our meager celebrations, the weaver’s home, the herbwitch’s cottage and that of the tanner. In no time at all, we have reached the town’s outskirts. A lone cottage sits there with smoke rising sluggishly from the chimney and a few threadbare linens hanging on the line.
In the fields beyond the house, a man works, his back bent as he struggles with the hard ground. even though he is a turnip farmer, in the winter he sows a crop of rye. I am surprised at how old he looks, how grizzled his hair, how stooped his shoulders. It is as if only his hatred of me had kept him going. Now the monster of my childhood nightmares is nothing but a broken old man struggling to eke out a living, while I have been chosen by a god to do His bidding.
As if sensing my eyes upon him, the man looks up, surprised to see four nobles prancing through his fields. when he bows his head and tugs at his forelock, I know that my disguise is complete. even my own father has not recognized me.
Duval brings his horse closer to mine. “Someone you know?” he murmurs.
“He is no one,” I say, and for the first time I realize it is true.
Chapter Twenty-five