The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(7)

“A great gentleman.” Polhaim instantly wished he had not said even so much. He was drunk, and also she was the kind of girl who could loosen men’s tongues.

His master, Maximilien of Austria, was one of the foremost men of Europe. Troubadours already sang of his wedding years ago to Mary of Burgundy, whose lands had lain under the rapacious eye of the old French king. Maximilien had loved Mary and gone to war for her and saved her patrimony, and she had given him two children. But she died in a fall from her horse before she could be brought to bed of the third. Her husband’s grief had darkened all the court. It was a magnificent tragedy.

But now the tragedy had a coda.

Anne of Brittany had sent Maximilien tender condolences in her own cultivated hand. She had sympathized, for her own honored father had also died in a fall from a horse. She had, shyly, asked his advice, admitting that her realm also lay under the grasping shadow of France. And Maximilien, still grieving, had offered his hand to this girl, who was beset by France just as his beloved Mary had been.

Polhaim thought this marriage was too soon and also imprudent, for if France discovered the betrothal untimely, it could mean war. But no one had asked him.

The girl said ingenuously, “It is a long ride from Flanders, isn’t it?” Maximilien was widely known to be in residence near Ghent, on the lands he’d inherited from his dead wife.

“Not so long. I have a good horse.” Extravagantly he added, “And with such beauty at the end, the road cannot seem long.”

He would have continued in this complimentary vein, but Henri of Avaugour, that wretch, appeared and said, “Forgive me, but I must cut you short. There are men of my sister’s council who wish to speak with you.”

Polhaim stared. Now. Now? Was this a joke? He was suddenly, hideously aware of his open doublet, his fingers and lips sticky with wine, his head whirling. He said, collecting himself as suavely as he could, “Very well, but there are documents that I must—” Damnable, frivolous timing.

“No time,” said the baron of Avaugour, unsympathetically.

Polhaim was vaguely aware that the pretty girl was giving Avaugour a look of mild exasperation, but when he turned back to her, he saw only a rueful smile. She put out a hand. “I hope we shall meet again.”

“I hope we shall,” said Polhaim, and meant it. Reluctantly, he followed Henri out of that chamber, back down the tightly spiraling stairs, and into the torchlit night.

They crossed the rain-glazed courtyard with music pouring still from the open casements. Out of sorts, Polhaim stopped at a horse-trough, splashed his face, and smoothed his hair. They climbed a slippery staircase to the wall-top, with the lights on the Loire resplendent below, and then went into the Roman tower, the oldest part of the keep. The door opened onto a round room with a fire already drawing, boards and trestles laid with cloths of damask, good wine in a jug, and sugared fruits like smoke-darkened jewels.

Henri left Polhaim at the doorway and went back into the rain. Polhaim sank into a chair, his head still spinning. A man was already in the room, wearing the court robe of a diviner, a cup of wine in one wavering hand. Four other men entered—the duchess’s council, surely. They all looked tense. Every one of them was sober. Polhaim badly regretted his own wine. He waited stiffly for someone to address him.

Then a slightly uneven footstep scraped on the wall-top outside and the girl in the violet dress came into the room, leaning on Henri’s arm and giving every impression of a sister reading her brother a lecture, never mind the fact that she hardly came to his shoulder. “I absolutely did not say that you were to—” She broke off, lifting her head. The whole room straightened.

Polhaim was shocked. He had seen her face in miniature, when her portrait was sent to his master. But that small, insipid image—brown hair and a prominent prie-dieu—bore little resemblance to this sparkling girl. He would never have dreamed— One did not expect a pretty duchess. One did not expect to meet a duchess incognita, judging bad poetry and laughing. But now, with his head clearing, he recalled how they had all hung on her words. And rumor did say the duchess had a deformed hip, which gave her a limp.

“An inhuman hour, I know,” said Anne, duchess regnant of Brittany. “And yet there was not much help for it.” Someone had refreshed the paint on her face. Her lips were a deep and fascinating rose. She nodded in answer to their bows, and went to the chair nearest the fire. The dimples made a brief reappearance. “Forgive me,” she said to Polhaim. “I had not intended to make a mystery of myself, nor did I tell my brother to be quite so—enthusiastic—in his hospitality.” She shot poor Avaugour a glare. “But there is a French envoy in the castle this night.”

“He will find out about this meeting!” said one of her councilors. “Highness, I told you—”

The duchess looked at him and his mouth closed. Lightly, she said, “The envoy found his marchpane disagreeable, I fear, and has not left his chamber since. But let us conclude our business quickly.”

Polhaim swallowed and bowed. It did not seem likely that this girl was the puppet of her advisers, whatever the world supposed. He recalled that many of the men who might have otherwise tried to control her were prisoners in France.

Anne went on, “France has always meant to have me wed their king, and this envoy has come at last to say that they will brook no more delay.”