The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(47)

Of course he knew the way to her oratory. He knew the castle almost as well as she. She said, “Why are you here?”

“The same reason as you, I imagine. I could not sleep. It felt like malice in the air tonight, Highness. A mockery meant to frighten us all.”

She didn’t reply.

Louis said, “This power is real—and unknown to us—and malevolent.”

With an edge, Anne said, “Shall I guess what you would advise? I must instantly leave Nantes and put myself under the protection of the lady of France. How convenient for you and her.” Her plait spilled over her shoulder when she bowed her head. She would not look at him, but she could see his hands. His knuckles showed white on the altar rail.

“I know you cannot think me disinterested,” he said at last, stiffly. “But I hope you believe I wish you safe.”

She didn’t reply. Her oratory was one of the few places where she could be alone, and now she regretted the ghost of an old trust that had gained him admittance. Her loneliness, which had been hidden even to herself, whispered now that she was tired of scheming and lying and waiting, that he knelt just near enough for her to feel the warmth of his body in that cold room.

She hitched a shoulder, suppressed the feeling, and said, “You owe us nothing. You fought for us once, and the battle was lost.”

He did not answer; his abstracted gaze lay upon the altar, but she thought him the prey of dark memory. Orléans had sacrificed a great deal for Brittany once. Her anger seemed suddenly childish, useless. She added, quieter, “It is cold. Will you come upstairs and drink wine in the garderobe? It will soon be the watch.”

She’d surprised him. He turned. His eyes were dark. She flushed, feeling gauche, hoped the line of her plait hid the quick pulse beneath her jaw. Hastily she added, “My brother will come to keep the watch with us, and my maids-of-honor. Perhaps others.”

After a pause, he said, “It would be my pleasure.”

She rose to her feet and stumbled, her bad side stiff with kneeling. Louis caught her before she could plough sideways into the rail. His body was warm. She didn’t realize how cold she’d been. He took her weight without effort, and she could not help it—for a moment she stood, drew a single shaken breath, her head against his shoulder. It suddenly seemed infinite, this unguessed-at well of vulnerability. Her skin cried out to be held. His hand moved, just once, to free the long plait caught between them. “Anne?”

She tore herself away. “The cold makes me clumsy,” she said, and made for the doorway. She could not bring herself to look back.



* * *





Isabeau did not join them above—children did not keep watch like adults. But the maids-of-honor were awake, and soon Henri came softly through his sister’s door. His gaze sharpened when he saw Louis, and he drew him aside.

“Why are you here?”

Louis would have fought Avaugour right then, if only to relieve very complex emotions. Anne’s chambers had belonged to Francis, but the duchess had given them a deep, almost heady air of femininity. One could get drunk off the smell of ambergris and myrrh and cedar oil. In the oratory, Louis had caught Anne by instinct, and could guess a little what combination of weariness and remembered trust had made her simply pause there a moment, breathing, while his mind ran riot. She was small and flawlessly made, and he could still smell the precious oils in her hair. He said, “The duchess is in danger, Avaugour.”

Henri gave him a measuring look. Then he said, “I think so too.” Avaugour had not gone to bed that night either, that was plain.

Louis said, “You must at least believe that I wish no ill to befall your sisters.”

“I do believe that,” said Henri cautiously. “Anne will never allow herself to appear afraid, but she feels it as we do.”

“Then we also shall keep watch.”

But when Louis turned back to Anne, he saw only that she was beautiful, with the firelight running gold along her plait, and he wondered what his protection was worth. To change the tenor of his thoughts, he said, “Highness, you have had a great triumph that I have heard nothing about. No one has told me of your unicorn-hunt.”

To his surprise, Anne and her brother exchanged a swift, unguarded glance.

Then Anne smiled and it was like a flaring of new torchlight; suddenly she was the girl she’d been at the Triumphal Entry. Bright, quick-tongued, careless. She might never have leaned on him, or knelt alone in her chapel, head bowed. The change startled him and the thought came unbidden: What are you hiding, Highness?

“Well,” began Anne. “It went this way.”

This breathless manner was armor, he thought. As she told him the story of the unicorn-hunt—one he did not entirely believe—she seemed to build her defenses up again with every word, with every winning smile.

Perhaps she mistrusted herself as much as him. But he could not quite bring himself to blame her.





Chapter


15

    Elesbed was sure that Isabeau had used the confusion of the not-fire to slip Moreau that jewel-backed mirror from Brocéliande. She was very disturbed. She went up to the room with all the odd furnishings so she could think.

“Butter,” Elesbed whispered, “what do we do? What if Moreau is not so kind as he seems? What if the korrigan comes for Isabeau and the duchess does not know? She will be so sad.” But she had promised to keep Isabeau’s secrets.