The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(36)
Jean de Rieux’s mouth gaped, though he said nothing. “I would not,” said Marguerite.
Anne said, “A great pity, but of course you are tired from your journey.” She turned vast, appealing eyes on Louis. “Surely you will like to ride with us? My guardian says that touching the unicorn was an occasion to be commemorated. Don’t you, Jean?”
“I do,” said De Rieux firmly.
Louis said in a smothered voice, “Then I should be honored.”
Anne favored him with a smile that wiped the laughter suddenly from his face.
Marguerite could not resist saying outright, “That band in your hair, is it truly made from—?”
“Unicorn hair,” said the girl. “Isn’t it nice? I borrowed against it to pay for all this.” She indicated the gathering procession with a careless arm. As though the unicorn-hair fillet was a mere bauble, a commonplace surety for the moneylender.
Louis said to Anne in that same stifled voice—Marguerite suspected that he was trying to make the situation worse—“But hold. You must first tell us if the rumors are true, Highness.”
Anne seemed distracted, watching the churn of people getting to their places, but Marguerite, who was watching her, saw the momentary tensing of her shoulders. De Rieux also stiffened. That was interesting.
The duchess said, “What rumors?”
Louis said, “That the king of France has competition for your hand.”
The faintest hesitation. Then Anne said in a new voice, “Oh! You mean the korrigan-king. That.”
Louis, unruffled, said, “Yes, that.”
She said, “Well, we met a man in Brocéliande who said he came straight from the court of the king of the korriganed but no memory did he have of this court except that its king wished to make me his bride. He said that the korrigan-king would send me signs.”
“You have been hoaxed,” said Marguerite impatiently. “I hope you imprisoned this man.”
“Oh, no,” said Anne. “My guardian said we ought to send him to the Guild—didn’t you, Jean?—and so we did. He says he was a diviner in the court of Philip the Fair. Well, he did not renounce the claim, and so it became Guild business.”
“Poor man,” said Marguerite indifferently. The Guild took impostors very badly, and the diviners didn’t care whether such men were mad or merely criminal. Impostors died slowly and painfully.
Anne was distracted by the adorning of her wooden unicorn. “Yes—more flowers, the lilies!—I suppose being tested wasn’t very pleasant. But this man did pass, you know. He is a diviner.” Earnestly, she added, “My own guards will escort you with honor to the castle, Madame. I am sure if you go to the wall-top you may see something of the Entry. Farewell, dearest cousin, and my best welcome to you.”
The duchess of Brittany kissed her hand gaily to Marguerite and then slid off her horse once again and disappeared into the cheerful throng. Most of her court followed.
Louis gave Marguerite a glance. “I never saw a paragon of virtue as free-spirited as that before. Nor did I ever think to see you stampeded by a girl. She has changed.”
Marguerite was watching Anne go, grimly. “She must be secured for Charles, and that priceless thing she is wearing also, before she trades it to a passing tinker for baubles. See to it, Orléans.”
Louis bowed, far more soberly than the duchess had, and disappeared in the direction she and her entourage had taken.
Chapter
12
Louis of Orléans reflected that Anne of Brittany had inherited at least one thing from her father, in addition to her throne. Francis had also been expert in the fine art of amusing oneself.
Bells were ringing in Nantes, and Anne’s Triumphal Entry took shape: decorated carts and marching knights, glittering riders, representatives of the various guilds. People mounted horses in all forms of hunting-dress, liberally spangled and gilded. Then Anne emerged from her pavilion, dressed in a divided riding-skirt and a bodice of purest silver, smiling at something someone had said, and Orléans stopped wanting to laugh at all.
Duchesses, princesses, girls of exalted birth were not supposed to look like that. They could be as innocently pretty as plaster-saints or inbred and hideous, helped along with wigs and padding in their clothes. But a duchess regnant had no business being a glowing-eyed armful with a rosebud mouth and pointed chin and shining masses of brown hair.
A child darted out from another of the pavilions, a girl with long, skinny arms and an impetuous way of running. The child passed him, paused, and turned around. He recognized her. He’d taught her to ride her pony, back when snub-nosed babyishness still clung to her face. Now she was gangly, half-grown, and in her face was pure belligerence.
“Demoiselle,” he said to Isabeau of Brittany. He made her an elegant bow.
Years ago that would have made her giggle. But today, with dignity, she said, “You have fallen in with our enemies, haven’t you? I thought you loved Father. And us.”
He would have savaged any impertinent courtier who had spoken thus, but when he opened his mouth to answer, the words caught in his throat. Before he could collect his wits, Anne appeared from nowhere and put an arm round her sister. The two were nearly of a height. Francis’s girls, except one of them had become a woman. Anne said chidingly, “Isabeau, people don’t have to love you so much that they lose everything.”