Chapter 36
Chapter
Marguerite of France had much to think of. The brave duchess, her younger sister, and her bastard brother were lost. Fallen out of the whole world in pursuit of Julien Moreau, and no one could find them. And Louis of Orléans with them. It was a tragedy.
But it was also very convenient.
The next in line to the duchy of Brittany was arguably the king of France himself.
Marguerite’s father, in his foresight, had long ago approached the last scion of the Panthièvres, an ancient lady who boasted a dubious claim to the Breton throne after Anne and Isabeau.
France had purchased that claim for a handsome sum.
Now, with Anne and Isabeau dead, France was in a position to inherit and annex the duchy outright.
Marguerite thought they could placate Maximilien of Austria, who was currently fuming in Saint-Malo. They could offer Charles’s hand to Maximilien’s daughter, Margaret.
Tidy. Neat. Perfect.
She was sorry about the girls. Anne had deserved better, and Isabeau had been but a child. But truly it could not have fallen out better for France.
Naturally, the Bretons were displeased. Rumors shot up and down the length of the country—and surely all across the breadth of Christendom—that France had done away with the young duchess.
But the rumors could be refuted. Naturally, they had witnesses to say that France had done nothing of the kind.
A week passed in a frenzy of letters, auguries, messengers.
She and La Trémoille invited Maximilien of Austria to treat with His Majesty Charles of France, and he came with great ceremony, considerable hauteur.
Whatever sickness had kept him in Ghent so long was quite gone.
He was lean, decisive, angry. He too thought the duchess had been murdered.
They sat together in the great hall of the Guardhouse in Rennes, with the boards and trestles laid out for a council meeting, scribes and secretaries crowding the back of the room, councilors packing the table. The great men of two realms were glaring at each other. Well, Maximilien was glaring.
Charles was saying, “Is she a virtuous girl, your daughter Margaret?”
Marguerite’s expression did not change, but she pleaded with Heaven for patience. Maximilien said coldly, “She is eleven years old.”
“Excellent,” said Charles cheerfully. “Would she like to go unicorn-hunting?”
Only a violent effort of restraint, it was obvious, kept Maximilien of Austria from a hot reply. Restraint—and a sudden commotion from outside.
Heads turned. A chamberlain went out. Marguerite waited for a diviner to come in with news, but none came. The commotion grew louder. There was cheering in the streets of Rennes. What on earth?
“What is going on?” demanded Charles.
The door opened and the chamberlain came panting into the room. “There is—there is a messenger.”
“From whom, God the Father?” muttered one of the councilors, very low to his fellow. The cheering outside had redoubled.
“It is,” said the chamberlain, and paused, gulping like a fish.
“It is the baron of Avaugour, with escort upon such—such horses, Sire. And his banner—his banner— Sire, perhaps he might explain himself?” Marguerite had never seen the man incoherent.
Dunois, who had been sitting in hard-eyed silence as they made plans for his country, had flushed up to the roots of his hair.
“Avaugour is dead. It is an impostor,” said La Trémoille.
Marguerite was not sure. Unease stirred in her mind.
“By all means,” Maximilien was saying, “let this man explain himself.”
All eyes turned toward the door and a young man in glittering surcoat walked in.
The color of his device was sea-blue and the charges were— Marguerite stared.
Azure, ermined sable, quartered with two sea-drakes involved beneath a unicorn couchant.
It was not Avaugour’s device, nor certainly Anne of Brittany’s.
It was, in fact, like no coat of arms she had ever seen.
Nor had anyone else in the room, judging by their faces.
Except that a tide of even stronger color was rising in Dunois’s face, and the Breton servants had all caught hands in excitement.
Henri, Baron of Avaugour, doffed an old-fashioned but quite magnificent hat. “I am come on behalf of my sister Anne of Brittany, who sends her best respects to her royal cousins of France and of Austria.”
Charles said, “Oh—delightful—she is not dead after all! Where is she?”
“With the army,” said Henri, composedly.
“What is this crest you are wearing?” demanded La Trémoille.
“It is that of my sister,” said Henri, Baron of Avaugour.
“For you see, my good lords, the drowned city of Keris has been removed from the Lost Lands. It is restored to its place in the bay of Douarnenez, under the light of the earthly sun, with all its riches and its people. And,” Henri added idly, “its sorcerers and its men of war. And also, Excellencies, my sister Anne of Brittany has been crowned there, and the people great and small of that ancient city have acclaimed her their queen. She is”—his voice rose a trifle to cut through the hubbub but he went on—“she is styled Her Majesty Anne by God’s grace, Duchess of Brittany and Queen of Keris and Armorica. ”
Utter silence in the room. Outside, the cheering had redoubled. The whole city, Marguerite gathered, had seen the azure banner with its absurd charges of unicorn and sea-drake. She said, “There is no Keris.”
“There is,” said Henri gently. “You may ask your honored diviners.”
Volucris came gasping into the room, wild-eyed. Marguerite turned to face him, unease now gripping tight round her heart. Volucris panted, “A city. There is a city now in the bay of Douarnenez, where there was none before. It is a miracle.”
“Keris was drowned,” said La Trémoille. “It was drowned hundreds of years ago.”
“It has been restored,” said Avaugour.
Maximilien said, in the crisp tones of a military man, “What army do you speak of?”
They all hung upon the answer. “Why,” Avaugour said courteously, “the army of Keris, with sorcerers of their Guild and also allies of the korriganed, who have come forth from their long hiding to make common cause with the people of Brittany. It is,” said Henri calmly, “a fair company. And I come from my sister with certain requests that she makes of her honored cousins; that they abandon their claims on all territories of Brittany forthwith.”
“Preposterous!” said La Trémoille.
“I should like to see your lady,” said Maximilien coolly, “if any of this absurdity is true. This lady is my wife.”
A faintly amused curve appeared on Henri’s mouth. But he said, “Certainly, Sire. You may ride back with me if you wish. And the queen awaits an answer, naturally, from her cousins of France.”
Charles was finally—finally—looking angry. “She was to hunt unicorns with me, and then become my wife.”
Henri replied, with unmitigated politeness, “I will convey your answer, Sire. And I am bidden to say that when you change your mind, you need only signal by diviner. Good day, Excellencies. Majesty.” He bowed to Maximilien.
Maximilien nodded and signaled his aides. To Charles he said, “Sire, when I have plumbed these mysteries, I shall advise on the steps I mean to take.”
“I shall go with you,” said Dunois, and followed Maximilien and his party out.
The door closed behind them and Marguerite and Charles were alone again in the council-chamber with La Trémoille and Volucris and certain of their advisers.
“It is some trick,” said Charles. “Volucris, can you not divine—”
“No, Sire,” said Volucris. “For I have been trying these hours. I can see the city, but not within.”
“Well, then, we shall send a messenger of our own to see if this is not a lie,” said Charles.
Marguerite said, “I will go myself. I would like to know the truth.”
“Yes, of course,” said Charles. “And La Trémoille. I wish to confront the duchess with her insolence and perfidy.”
Henri had already gone outside. The cheering in Rennes was cresting.
Marguerite heard those cheers like the stamp of doom, though she did not know exactly why she was afraid.
Even if some miracle had happened, even if some city had leaped into being from the Lost Lands like a pebble from the hand of God, no city could have arms and armaments enough to face all the might of France.
They went to change into riding-clothes, except La Trémoille, who was dressed for the field already. He went out to make sure of the king’s horses.
Her ladies were only just fastening Marguerite’s riding skirt when La Trémoille burst into her garderobe. He was panting wildly.
“What is it?” she demanded, cutting across all the chatter.
“The doors of the castle,” said La Trémoille, real terror in his eyes. “The doors don’t lead outside.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
But it was also quite true. Not one door, however many they tried, led outside. They would open the outer door and find themselves in another room. For Charles it was the same. For La Trémoille. For their diviner, Volucris. For their councilors and greater servants.
When they tried to send a message to their officers outside, the messenger stormed back in a few moments later saying that the note was blank. And after that, he could not find his way outside either.
“It is a curse,” said Charles, afraid. “We are damned, we are doomed.”
“It is sorcery,” said Marguerite, grimly. “And the balance of power in the world has changed.”
“It is enchantment, in fact,” said a new voice. “But it need not be enmity, cousins.”
They were together in the great hall of the palace, and Anne simply walked down the stairs.
With her walked Louis of Orléans.
Marguerite drew a sharp breath. “So, it is true.”
“Yes,” said Anne. She glimmered like foxfire in their eyes.
Her gown was sea-blue as her blazon had been, sewn with diamonds.
But it was an unknown style of gown, open in front, with long, bell-shaped sleeves and an underskirt of silver.
Her hair was not up in a crespine but plaited down her back, loosely veiled, and they could see more diamonds, in ropes, woven through. She wore the fillet of unicorn-hair.
But Anne’s gaze was the same. Wry, direct. Marguerite recalled, with some discomfort, that she had made this girl kneel in her chemise and plead for her dignity at Charles’s feet.
Louis’s hair was very dark against the blue and silver of his doublet and points and silk hose. Diamonds glittered on the backs of his gloves. One hand lay lightly on the hilt of the sword in a jeweled scabbard at his side.
“You have used the black arts—” began Marguerite.
“Arts, perhaps.” Anne did not raise her voice. “We have no malice toward France. We would ask you to retreat across your border and let us be allies and not enemies.”
“What says your husband?” demanded Marguerite. “What say will he have in these fine negotiations?”
“Maximilien of Austria?” said Anne. “I have spoken to him just now.
He has renounced his claim to my hand, in return for payments of money and a state of amity between our two nations.
We will also accord him three studs, three broodmares, and favorable trading rights in the port of the bay of Douarnenez.
“He was surprised,” Anne added dryly. “But not displeased. They are very fine horses, you see. The marriage shall be annulled.”
“You cannot do this,” said Charles. “You are only the duchess of Brittany.”
Anne and Louis exchanged a very private glance. Louis said, “Dearest cousin, I think you will find that she can.”
“Will you keep us inside till we starve?” demanded Charles.
“No, of course not,” said Anne impatiently.
“You shall have dishes from my own table if you like, and linen and books and all the comforts that you wish. But you shall not leave this house until you have ordered all your men, save personal escort, to decamp for the border. You must also swear strong oaths never to come again armed for war.”
“You will be excommunicated for this sorcery,” said La Trémoille, bristling. His hand was on his sword.
Anne said, “I think not. There is precedent; enchantments and sorcery were once sanctioned by the Church and, forgive me, I think will be sanctioned again, with the right application of money. And if you will go in peace, I can offer you guarantees.”
The men’s mouths opened and closed in helpless rage. Anne met Marguerite’s eyes. In her gaze was not hatred, but quiet acknowledgment. The siege of Nantes, the battles, her father’s death. The fine locked coach to Amboise they had meant for her, the conquering husband, the relentless child-bearing.
Marguerite swallowed. “What guarantees?”
Anne said, “I will undertake to defend your coast if England should ever again come in arms against France. For so is peace fostered amongst all our peoples: I shall make common cause in arms with any enemy of France.
“And,” she added more cheerfully, speaking now to Charles, “I think Maximilien of Austria will be most happy if you would like to take his daughter, Margaret, to wife when she is grown. I shall give you a box of diamonds as a wedding present. And three studs and three broodmares of your own.”
Marguerite said nothing. Charles said, “And if we refuse?”
Anne said, “You may live here, of course, and I shall try to see you comfortable.” A little mischief in her face. “Or, if you like, I shall return tomorrow, with my own councilors and a treaty drawn up.”
They all looked at one another.
“Until tomorrow, then,” said Charles, biting his lip.
“And,” said Anne lightly, “if ever you would like to see Keris, you are welcome as my guests. It is very beautiful.”
“And shall we hunt unicorns there?” said Charles, looking caught.
“No,” said Anne. “Never again. But there are beasts like none other, in the woods of the Lost Lands, that you may see. The border is secure now, and men and women may go between to seek their fortunes.”
Marguerite could not help herself. “Is that what you did? Sought your fortune?”
“I did,” said Anne, and again she shared a glance with Louis of Orléans. “And I found it there, between the sea and the sky.”
Anne turned and walked quietly toward the stairs, ropes of jeweled light streaming along her hair. La Trémoille growled in half-coherent fury and drew his sword. But Louis was faster; he drew his own sword, blue light sparkling along its dazzling edge. He didn’t speak.
La Trémoille set his jaw.
“Put up, for God’s sake,” said Marguerite to the general. And after a long hesitation, La Trémoille returned his sword to its sheath.
Anne said, “A pleasant evening to you all.” She and Louis walked together into the shadows.