The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(8)
Polhaim was sobering fast. “Do they know that I am here?”
“No,” said the duchess. “Nor do they know of our successful negotiations with Maximilien of Austria. But the timing is unfortunate.”
That was a monstrous understatement. “If they do not yet know, I fear they will find out soon enough,” said Polhaim frankly. “If there is an envoy actually in Nantes, pressing for a French marriage, then the gifts of France’s diviners will be fixed on your court, Highness. An Austrian marriage cannot be concealed long enough for soldiers of my king to cross the border.”
What would France do if they found out she had betrothed herself elsewhere? Likely send a message by diviner to the garrison in Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier and come in force to either make the duchess yield or take her forcibly back to France. How could they be prevented? No hope that Maximilien would come in time—he would not make the attempt if he were not already her husband. The risks were too great if he had not yet made sure of his prize. But La Trémoille’s presence made the wedding impossible. This marriage could not go ahead at all. It was too late.
And yet he read undimmed determination in the duchess’s eyes, beneath the luster. A strand of hair had escaped confinement and crept round her jaw. She smelled of myrrh and cedar. Polhaim told himself to be sensible. She went on, “Despite their eagerness, France has this day agreed to delay these negotiations. General de La Trémoille wishes greatly to go unicorn-hunting.” An impudent dimple showed at the corner of her mouth.
Polhaim did not see the significance. He said weakly, “Does he?”
“He does. And the only place where men may sometimes find unicorns in these days is the forest of Brocéliande, a day’s ride from Rennes. The general has agreed that there shall be no more talk of my marriage to France until after a unicorn-hunt.”
Polhaim still didn’t understand. “Highness—what good will this delay serve?” he managed.
The duchess said, “Divination does not work in Brocéliande.”
The Breton diviner nodded confirmation, but Polhaim still did not see her point.
She added impatiently, “If my marriage to Maximilien of Austria were solemnized in Brocéliande, France would have no way to know it; and even if they did, the news of it could not be conveyed by a diviner. It would give my lord of Austria the legal assurance of a valid marriage and time to move his army across our border and garrison Rennes.”
Polhaim answered slowly, still stupid with wine, “But my lord cannot go to Brocéliande. Not in secret.”
“He doesn’t need to.”
Polhaim forced his mind to work faster. “Of course a legal proxy could be designated.” Proxy-weddings were not unknown. “But even then I do not see how this can be concealed if the French emissary is actually in the hunting-party?”
The duchess said, “There is no difficulty. I shall seclude myself in a convent the night before the hunt; France will only applaud my piety. There is a chapel there. It will serve.”
Polhaim could hardly believe this was the same girl he’d met flushed and laughing and frivolous in the castle. She was coiled, intent. Slowly, he said, “I think I must go back to Flanders, Highness, and so learn my lord’s mind. This is too complex for the exchanges of diviners and I do not think you want to trust a letter alone.”
She thought, then nodded. “Go tomorrow. We shall wait for you.” Polhaim found her lifted chin and straight back strangely moving. A determined girl looking out of the duchess’s face. “But I beg you will hurry.”
“I will ride at dawn, Highness.”
When she smiled at him, his blood seemed to slow and thicken. She leaned forward and said, “My thanks forever, and you must forgive my brother. I never once told him to get you drunk. He got a little mixed up.”
Chapter
3
Later that night, on the threshold of her chambers, De Rieux said, “Anne—Highness—if this goes wrong…”
“It will not go wrong.” They faced each other. Her guard had dropped out of earshot on the stairs below; Anne’s maids-of-honor waited within.
“If it does go wrong,” he persisted, “have you considered the risk to Isabeau?”
“I have,” said Anne. More than he knew. If Anne were killed or deposed, Isabeau would become duchess. But Isabeau was too young. She could not hold Brittany, and she would be taken away, raised in the French court, and then married to Charles. Sometimes princes didn’t even wait when their fiancées were too young. Margaret Beaufort had been married at twelve, had borne her son, the present king of England, at the age of thirteen. The thought haunted Anne’s dark hours, made all her warm courage go cold. “What can I do if not this?” she asked De Rieux, sharp with old fear. “Submit tamely to a marriage that I promised my father I would never undertake? I am not going to be deposed. I won’t let anything happen to Isabeau.”
“Anne,” said her guardian. “Only think—”
“I won’t submit,” she said. “And I won’t be deposed either. Good night, Jean.”
She left him on the threshold before he could say anything else. His fear was contagious.
That doorway opened onto her garderobe. A crowd lingered in this outer room still, but it was all people she trusted: maids-of-honor and attendants, and Hawiz, who had been Anne’s wet-nurse and taught her Breton before she’d learned to speak courtly French.