His eyes narrow in thought. “That at least makes more sense.” He turns back to the guards. “Find everyone who visited this room within the last two days, then bring a list of those names to me.” He sighs heavily. “Let us go speak to the duchess. At least we have one piece of good news to trade for this latest setback.”
We find the duchess in her solar, sitting with her ladies and Madame Dinan, embroidering an altar cloth for the new cathedral. A young girl lies on the couch beside her. Isabeau, her younger sister, is delicate and frail-looking and cannot be older than ten. Both of their faces light up when Duval steps into the room.
He bows and I drop a deep curtsy. “Your Grace; my lady Isabeau.”
“Hello, Gavriel.” Young Isabeau smiles at him. "What brings you out from behind your stuffy desk?”
“Since the sun is not shining today, I thought to catch sight of your face instead.”
I have to look twice to be certain this is the same Duval I walked in with for I have never heard such pretty words fall from his lips, not even when he was with the duchess. But young Isabeau throws back her head and laughs, amused by his flattery. Before long, her laughter gives way to coughing; great, racking coughs that shake her frail body. Instantly the duchess is at her side, rubbing her back and trying to soothe her.
Madame Dinan slaps her needlework down and hurries to Isabeau. She scowls at Duval. “Your teasing is unseemly, my lord Duval. It is too much excitement for the girl.”
“Nonsense, madame,” Anne snaps back. “Isabeau coughs like this with or without my brother’s words, and at least he brings a smile to her face.” She turns to her ladies in waiting, who hover nervously. “Leave us, please.” with rustling as faint as butterfly wings, the ladies set down their embroidery hoops and leave the room. But not Madame Dinan, who boldly stands her ground.
A look passes between Duval and the duchess, and then Anne turns to her governess. “Madame, sit with Isabeau, if you please, as I must speak with my brother.”
Dinan wishes to argue, it is there in her eyes, but Duval does not give her the opportunity. "Walk with me, Your Grace.” He holds his arm out and the duchess takes it. He leads her to the far window, and I stand there like a bump in the floor, unsure if I should follow or stay and distract Madame Dinan. Anne glances over her shoulder and gives a quick motion for me to follow. I lift my skirts and hurry after them, Madame Dinan’s scorching gaze fair burning a hole through the back of my gown as I go.
The three of us gather in front of the oriel window. It is a large room, and Duval speaks softly enough that his voice will not carry back to Dinan. “I bring interesting news, Your Grace.”
“That is good to hear, as there is a desperate shortage of that just now.”
Keeping his voice low, Duval tells her of our meeting with Nemours. when he is done, she clasps her hands together, hope lighting her young face. “Are my prayers being answered in such a fashion?”
when Duval smiles at her, I realize that I have never seen him truly smile. Not like this, where it warms his entire face. “It would appear so, dear sister. But I would warn you not to speak of it to anyone. Gisors’s men followed us today, but we evaded them.” Duval glances over to where Madame Dinan is attending to Isabeau. “Nor do we want word to get back to d’Albret. who knows what mischief he could make for our plan.”
The duchess quickly nods her understanding. “I will say nothing to anyone, but I cannot deny it will give me something to cling to during the meeting with the barons tomorrow. I cannot tell you how much I am dreading it.”
Duval’s face settles back into seriousness. “I think the simplest course is to plead your grief over our father’s death. It is too fresh right now for you to consider marriage to d’Albret or anyone else.”
The duchess’s mouth trembles ever so faintly. “It is not even a lie,” she says, and I am struck by how few choices she has for all that she is a duchess.
Chapter Twenty-six
The great hall, which once seemed impossibly large, now seems impossibly small, stuffed as it is with this many bodies. Oh, they are noble enough bodies, but ripe with sweat and perfume and unbridled anticipation. I cannot tell if they are expecting disaster or farce. My sincerest hope is that my god will marque all the traitors today and my duty will be clear.
I worm my way to a spot by the far wall, and my shoulders press painfully into the carved paneling at my back. even so, I am glad for the space and am all too happy to defend it with my elbows when others press too close.
As the main players assemble on the raised dais in the front of the room, I scan the crowd. The men have left their swords with guardsmen at the door so that none may be drawn during the meeting, but no one has been searched for knives or daggers. My hand drifts to my own hidden weapons at my wrists, and I wonder just how many other blades are nestled inside sleeves or hidden in folds of satin.
Once all of Anne’s councilors have taken their place, the assembly rises and the duchess herself comes into the room. Her chin is high, her spine rigid with determination. Of their own accord, my eyes search out Duval, who sits at the far end of the dais. He is dressed in his customary black and is the very picture of somber reason. De Lornay and de waroch stand near him at the front wall. They have kept their swords, most likely at his insistence.
D’Albret sits directly before the dais, sprawling in his chair, trimming his nails with a knife, either a subtle threat or a sign of just how uncouth he really is. I study him carefully, but no matter how much I will it, there is no visible marque upon him.
Chancellor Crunard calls the meeting to order, and the room grows quiet. Before the chancellor has finished the formal opening remarks, Count d’Albret puts away his knife and rises to his feet. There is the swish of skirts and creak of boot leather as the courtiers lean forward to hear better. The duchess eyes him shrewdly but gives him her full consideration, much as one gives a venomous serpent.
“My lords.” He runs his gaze along the dais, then turns to the crowded room. “I am here to collect what was promised to me by your late Duke Francis. Namely, marriage to his daughter — my rightful payment for lending aid against the French last fall.”
“A war we lost,” Chancellor Crunard is quick to point out, and I cannot help but think of his two sons who died in that war.
A rumble reverberates around the room, but whether it is one of outrage or approval, I cannot tell.