Chapter Forty-One
FOUR DAYS LATER, THE FRENCH ambassador arrives. With the mud of his journey still clinging to his boots, he comes striding into the hall where the duchess is holding court. As he steps through the door, Duval’s head snaps up, and he grows still, like a wolf who has just sensed another predator.
Sybella and I stand just behind the duchess’s chair. We exchange a glance, and, almost as if we have rehearsed it, our hands go to our weapons. Not that we will kill him on sight, but we will simply remind him to step carefully.
The ambassador is tall and leanly muscled, with a great beak of a nose and piercing green eyes. As he draws toward the dais, Duval motions subtly with his hands for the soldiers to begin clearing the others out.
As the people make their way to the door, the duchess looks up from the stolid burgher whose claim she has been adjudicating and sees what is happening. Although she keeps her face serene and composed, I can see the faint trembling in her fingers before she tightens her grip on the arms of her chair.
“Gisors.” Duval’s voice is pleasant, for all that his body is fairly humming with tension. “I did not expect to see you again. Ever.”
Gisors ignores him and executes a flawless bow, his attention -never wavering from the duchess. “My lady.” There are small gasps from around the room, as he pointedly does not use the respectful form of address her title demands. Sybella’s hand closes around the hilt of her knife, her eyes narrowing in anticipation. The ambassador catches her movement and becomes slightly more circumspect. “I pray my visit finds you in good health.”
“It does, Lord Gisors. And I hope you have had a pleasant journey.” The duchess clings to the protocol and courtesies required by her position.
“I apologize for appearing before you in such an unworthy state, but the message I bring cannot be delayed.”
“By all means, then, let us hear it,” Duval says. Gisors continues to ignore him and waits for the duchess to nod her agreement.
“I have been sent by His Majesty to accept your unconditional surrender of Brittany, her offices and estates and lands and armies. Once you have surrendered these, I am authorized to offer you safe passage to the court of your new . . . husband.” He manages to imbue the word with utter contempt.
The entire room is as quiet as a crypt, with not even the sound of breathing to disturb the utter silence his words have effected.
Duval leans forward. “And this message comes from His Majesty the king or from the French regent?”
“It matters not, for they speak as one. My lady? May I report to His Majesty that you agree to the terms?”
By the tense line in the duchess’s jaw, I can tell she wishes to tell him that no, he may not, but even now, under such circumstances, her grace and bearing hold. “I fear I cannot make such an enormous decision without careful consideration, my lord. I would give you and your king”—she manages to infuse your king with as much acid as Gisors did the word husband only moments ago—“in a few days’ time.”
“Time is the one thing we do not have much of, my lady.”
“Nevertheless, I must insist. I have my people to consider and their interests must come first.”
Gisors opens his mouth to argue, but Duval motions for sentries to step forward and escort him away. Unless the man wishes to be dragged from the room, he has no choice but to comply. “I will expect an answer by tomorrow, my lady.”
“You may expect all you want, but you will not get it,” she mutters under her breath.
When he is gone, she turns shakily to Duval. “I think I will return to my chambers now,” the duchess says.
“But of course.” Duval leaps up and helps her to her feet. He glances at Sybella. “Find Beast for me, would you?” She nods and hurries off. Together, Duval and I escort the duchess to her chambers.
Once she and I are alone in her room, I slip the heavy headdress off her head and place it on the bureau.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Her question surprises me so much that I nearly drop the brush I hold in my hand.
Without waiting for an answer, she says softly, almost to herself, “I have. Once.” I begin brushing her hair. “I was very young.” She closes her eyes. “Do you think you can fall in love with someone when you’re that young?”
An image of Mortain sitting beside me in the wine cellar fills my mind. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.”
Her eyes flash open and she turns to look at me, surprised. She smiles. “You are the first to agree with me,” she confides. “I knew we would get along.” She turns back around so I may finish her hair. “His name was Louis, Louis d’Orléans, and he came to my father’s court when I was but five years old. He was so charming and gallant, but mostly kind, kind and gentle with the child I was then. And of course, I had heard plenty of stories of how bravely he fought beside my father as they tried to restrain France’s encroachment on her surrounding duchies.”
My mind scrambles to the tapestry back at the convent, but Louis d’Orléans was a French noble, not a Breton one, so I knew little about him other than that he is a cousin of Charles VIII, and that he fought in the Mad War beside the duchess’s father.
“Why did your father not betroth you to him? Surely it would have been a good match.”
The duchess sighs in sorrow. “Louis was forced to marry Joan, the daughter of the late king, when he was only fourteen years old. It was especially hard because his wife’s physical infirmities left her sterile, so he would have no hope of producing an heir.”
“And thus there would be no threat to the French crown,” I murmur.
“Precisely. There was talk, during that visit, of having his marriage annulled so that we could marry, but the plan was vehemently blocked by France, which held much sway with the pope.
“And then he was captured last year and has been kept as a prisoner ever since.” There are tears in her eyes. Whether because he is imprisoned or due to her lost dreams, I cannot tell.