The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(59)

But still Louis did not move.



* * *





Louis of Orléans had thought he’d left the impulsive passions of his youth behind. These passions had won him nothing but suffering, left him captured, imprisoned, vanquished. During those long, clawing days in Bourges, where each hour hung as heavy as a stone on a spiked wheel, he had sworn to himself that if he ever won his way free, his head would rule his life, never again his unthinking heart.

She is married.

Married and betrayed. Her own guardian had betrayed her. And here was the reason for the Triumphal Entry, the feasting, her seeming foolishness. She’d been delaying, counting on Maximilien of Austria to come and save her. But he had not come in time. And what frivolity could maintain its fa?ade under the unrelenting strain of the last days’ surprises?

Marguerite will take the duchess away—and Isabeau as well, to ensure her sister’s compliance—and with their company will ride for the French army as hard as ever a horse can gallop, and thence to the French border. Whatever proxy-vows she has said to Maximilien of Austria cannot survive a consummated union with Charles of France. Not with a pope in Rome, ready to take French gold to annul the Austrian marriage. Marguerite will threaten Isabeau if Anne does not agree, and then when she is at Amboise, pregnant with Charles’s firstborn, it will be too late. Maximilien will not take her back if another man has her first.

Anne was holding tight to her sister, her gaze turned inward, obviously thinking fast, looking for a way out. Her pupils were still dilated, misted over with silver.

Damn you, Louis of Orléans said to himself, violently. Damn you for a romantic, deluded fool. He went to the door of the garderobe and listened. Marguerite had no reason to think he’d deceive her. It was too far against his own interest. Anne could give him nothing, while Marguerite could give him what he wanted most.

The firelight played in soft stained-glass colors over Anne’s cheek, and he was shaken by his heart’s own triumphant beating as it overbore, at last and forever, his head.

“You must go to Rennes,” he said. “You can’t stay here. I’ll take you.”

A fleck of silver spatter lingered on her cheek. “You can’t. You know what Marguerite will do to you—if you betray her now and she wins anyway.”

“I’ll thank you to leave my personal affairs to me. We still have to get out of this castle.”

Henri seemed about to speak, but one of Anne’s maids-of-honor put a hand on his arm and he closed his mouth. A crash came from outside, a neighing and a great chorus of shouts.

Isabeau went to the window. “Someone let out all the horses. The courtyard is full of them. The soldiers can’t move around, they are swearing.”

“No one wants the duchess to be French,” piped Elesbed triumphantly, pushing in behind her.

All very well, thought Louis, but how to get out of the castle?

Henri had broken free of the women; he said, low and savage, “Why would you do this? Orléans, on your honor, why? Is this a trick?”

“A fit of madness,” said Louis. “On my honor.”

Henri’s face relaxed a fraction.

Then Anne’s diviner passed the guard outside and came staggering in, his face like chalk. He said, slurring, “Highness, Highness, there are soldiers at the gate.” He was carrying an empty cup. He must already have drunk it, never mind what a terrible state he was in. “I will tell you where to go.”

“Calyx, you can’t divine now,” said Anne sharply. “It is dangerous; you hurt yourself earlier when your divination touched the Lost Lands. You can’t help me. It’s all right. You must go back to bed.”

“I can,” he said. His eyes were scarlet and bleary. He tilted the cup into the firelight.

“Don’t!” cried Anne.

Too late. His eyes rolled back, the cup clutched convulsively in his hands. He whispered, “The servants’ postern, out through Nantes, cross the river. It is unguarded yet.” Calyx’s voice faltered, then rallied. He stared harder than ever into his cup. “I see—there is a city in the sea. That is your salvation, Highness. A city in the sea.”

Diviners could not make prophecies. They knew the world as it was. But at the moment of death, the limits of the mind faltered and a diviner could see a little more. Anne’s voice was thick with tears. “Calyx, no.”

Calyx slumped into a chair, and the cup fell away, clattering on the stones. They were all shocked at the suddenness. His face was gray and still.

Now, outside, there were the shouts of guards, squealing horses, arms clashing in the courtyard, the running feet of servants.

Louis and Henri put the old diviner’s limbs straight and covered him with a cloak.

Anne wiped tears from her eyes. “Stay with him,” she told three of her maids-of-honor. “It’s safer here; they seek only Isabeau and me. My guardian is not cruel; he is doing this out of love and fear. He will protect you.”

They all nodded, though Louis saw that they were crying. “Madeleine?” said Anne.

“I’m going with you, of course,” said the tall, fair girl. “You will have to break your journey at Ch?teaubriant. My father will think I am a true coward if I am not with you.”

“Never that,” said Anne, sadly.