The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(44)
“Yes,” said Anne, smiling. “A broken pump, a panic in the crowd. All’s well that ends well.” She wished her councilors were better at dissembling; they were making pleasant conversation with the French delegation, but not a man among them was what she’d have called light-hearted. They all looked troubled. Dunois had exchanged stiff salutations with his cousin Louis of Orléans, and was now drinking steadily. Isabeau hadn’t come to the banquet at all. She was tired, she said. Isabeau was never tired.
“Some are saying,” said Marguerite, in her pleasant way, sounding half-amused, “that it is the first sign from this mythical korrigan-king.”
Anne realized she was breaking pieces of bread to no purpose. She hurriedly fed one to the dogs under the table and said, “My people delight in tales.”
Marguerite, elegant as an iris-flower, said, “Have you consulted with this stranger of yours? This man from Brocéliande that I have heard so much about?”
“Yes,” said Anne. “I sent for him after Nones. He is much grieved, but his memory is as impaired as ever.”
“Cousin,” said Marguerite. She sounded genuinely solicitous. “If it is not a hoax, then you are in grave danger.” Here it comes. “My brother the king is ready to take you this moment into his protection. With all honor.”
Anne returned her the most earnest look of which she was capable. “But, Madame, I shall come to no harm here. What korrigan—if indeed they exist—can touch me? No virtuous girl has ever been stolen by the korriganed. It is only the wicked. And I am confirmed in virtue.” She had changed her caul for a mere whisper of gauze over her half-plaited hair, held in place by the unicorn fillet.
“From what I hear, you very nearly came to harm today.”
Anne clasped her hands and let the tears just shimmer in her eyes. “No—I was never near harm. I was protected by God. And I must pray upon what you say. For I do not think that I should ever have touched a unicorn if God did not set great store by my virtue.”
Marguerite simply watched her with a steady, faintly unimpressed gaze. “Then perhaps you should join a convent.”
“I have asked the pope that very question,” Anne returned eagerly. “Do not worry, the message has already gone via diviner. We expect a reply imminently. Would you like some more wine? Or look—this is a wood-pigeon. I shall have more.”
The food was sand in her mouth, but she ate, and Marguerite took more wine yet said no more that night. But Anne did not think she had been much dissuaded. Nor that it would take much for the lady of France to abandon persuasion and bring force to bear instead. For Anne’s own good. And Maximilien of Austria had still not left his dead wife’s lands in Flanders to come to her in Nantes.
* * *
As a new-crowned duchess, Anne had been pleased with the throne they set out for her in her father’s council-chamber. It stood upon a dais, in a warm corner near the fire. Then she had realized that by placing her in that regal corner, the council had quite robbed her of the power of participating in, or even hearing, the debates held round the boards in the center of the room. She had ordered the great throne removed and sat herself, with dignity, in an ordinary chair at the head of the table. They had got the message.
Now when she came to the council-chamber, followed by her brother, her councilors were already waiting: De Rieux and Comminges, Montauban and Dunois, the boards and trestles set and a great snowy cloth laid over. No secretaries. Not for this. Only men who had known her father, men who had seen her born. Her maids-of-honor followed her in, took places on that empty dais where the throne used to sit.
De Rieux said, “This is grave, Highness. This Moreau claimed that the king of the korriganed wishes to take you to wife, and said there would be three signs. Was the water today not one of them?”
Dunois said, “Would you attest, Auspex”—this was to Calyx, sitting gently fuddled in a corner—“that the water in Nantes today was conveyed by means of enchantment?”
Calyx had his cup and bottle upon the cloth before him, but Anne broke in before he could speak. “He cannot attest.” For a diviner to attest was an official act, a product of divination. “We have all heard the dangers to diviners posed by the korriganed. He can only advise.”
Calyx was shaking his grizzled head. “The Guild must be consulted in any case; witnesses must be called. It is an unprecedented thing. The world forgot enchantment long ago. We might argue that this was enchantment.” His hands spread helplessly.
“And if it was,” De Rieux ploughed straight on, “as the chronicles of the Age of Enchantment describe, then do we imagine that this is truly an earnest of the korrigan-king’s intentions? What are we to do?”
A silence fell upon the table.
Dunois blew his nose, then poured wine for himself and Comminges, his neighbor. “We do not know what powers the korriganed wield. There are only legends to guide us. A splash of uncanny water might be only the beginning.”
“That man Moreau might know what powers,” said Montauban, “if he had not lost his memory.”
“Was not forgetfulness once commonly accepted as one of the powers of the korriganed?” said Comminges.
Anne broke in, sharply. “Whatever nature of creature they are, whatever powers they wield, the chronicles do say that a korrigan cannot bear forged iron or the touch of a crucifix. We have all those in plenty. I am not afraid of the korriganed.” Her voice dropped. “My intentions have not changed. We delay any talk of my betrothal to France until we have word that Maximilien of Austria has crossed the border, and then we escape the castle and ride fast to meet him. Calyx will consult the Guild on this question of the korriganed. Is there anything else we can do? Maréchal?”—this was to De Rieux. “Have you enough men to double the guard on the wall?”