The duchess’s clear young voice carries over the crowd and they grow quiet once more. “My lord d’Albret. while your offer is worthy of our consideration, I am afraid I am too consumed by my family’s recent loss to turn my thoughts to marriage, and I beg your understanding a little while longer in this matter.”
“You do not have the luxury of time, my lady. Your very country is at stake.”
“You do not need to remind me of that, sir,” the duchess snaps.
“But perhaps I need to remind you of your duty. Dukes and duchesses do not have the luxury of long mourning periods. The needs of their kingdoms come first, even before their grief.”
Of course, he is right, and the duchess knows it as well. “I have always put my country first.” There is true anger in the duchess’s voice now.
D’Albret’s tone softens in an attempt to coax. "With this marriage I offer, you will be able to turn your attention to more womanly concerns and let me shoulder your burdens. Then you may mourn all you want.” He glances briefly at the dais, but I cannot see who he is looking at. Madame Dinan? Marshal Rieux?
There is a long quiet moment during which it looks as if the duchess is considering the idea. “I see you have thought of all my needs, Lord d’Albret. even so, I must beg more time.”
The count’s face grows red as he tries to keep his anger in check. He turns to address the barons directly. “This is a dangerous time for our kingdom. war beckons, and enemies circle. It is no time for young girls or old men to whisper behind closed doors and plot and plan. It is time for action. Time to face our enemies on the field of battle.”
But at what cost to the duchess, I wonder, as I watch all the color drain from her young face. Duval’s mention of the man’s six former wives rustles through my head, as does Nemours’s disturbing whispers of his cousin’s marriage to a d’Albret.
There is a disturbance in the middle of the room as the French emissary Gisors steps forward. The crowd opens up around him, much as it would if a wolf were emerging from its lair. “It seems to me,” he says into all that silence, “that this would be a good time to remind you of the Treaty of Verger, which clearly states that Anne may not marry without France’s approval. I’m afraid her marriage to Count d’Albret is out of the question. She is a ward of the French Crown and thus everything must be negotiated through us.”
And praise the saints for that small mercy, I think.
“How did he get in?” Duval asks no one in particular. To Beast and de Lornay, he says, “Get him out of here.” with grim, satisfied smiles they begin making their way through the throng of nobles. Before they can reach Gisors, however, he turns and heads to the back door. Before him, the crowd moves aside quickly, eager to get out of his path before de Lornay or Beast catch up to him.
It is as elegant and unhurried a retreat as one can imagine, but it is a retreat nonetheless.
“And see that he is confined to his chambers!” Duval calls out after them. By the way the councilors on the dais snap their heads around to stare at Duval, I am guessing this is a great overstep of his duties or a disregard of protocol.
D’Albret moves smoothly into the breach created by Gisors’s departure. Ignoring Anne, he speaks once more to the nobles. “If you wish to keep your independence, you must support my marriage with the duchess. I will keep you safe from the French.” He smiles, but there is no warmth or humor it in. “Me and my five thousand troops.”
He turns to face the duchess and council, his voice growing hard. “But if you do not support this marriage, I will have no choice but to hold the house of Montfort in breach of contract and will use all of my considerable resources to get by force what I could not gain by reason.”
The room explodes in an uproar. I lean forward slightly, hoping that the count will now bear a marque. But there is nothing. I turn my attention to the dais, hoping that a marque will at least appear on whoever called this meeting and set this trap for the duchess, but again, nothing.
Chancellor Crunard rises to his feet, his cheeks flushed with anger. “You are but one of many who was promised the duchess’s hand in marriage; there is no way we can honor all such agreements. Indeed, if we were to take them in the order they were made, yours would be the fifth in line.”
D’Albret’s face is expressionless, but his eyes burn with an intensity that is most disturbing. “But do all those others have an army of five thousand just outside your borders?”
The blood drains from Chancellor Crunard’s face. Satisfied at the effect his words have had, d’Albret turns on his heel and quits the chamber.
The newly adjourned courtiers erupt in excited, nervous voices. Crunard motions for the guards and they throw open the large doors at the back of the chamber so the nobles may begin filing out of the room. I do not have a clear plan, but unable to help myself, I move to follow d’Albret. I am like a small boat moving against the tide of the crowd, but I ignore the bumps and stares that come my way, my attention never leaving my target.
A practical knight at arms opens the small door to the side of the chamber in order to allow some people out that way. D’Albret moves in that direction, and so I too begin making for that door, silently cursing the laggards and dullards who stand between me and d’Albret. I cannot accept that Mortain has not seen fit to marque d’Albret for his threat — for after all, he is half Breton and owes some allegiance to the rightful duchess.
When d’Albret steps out into the hall beyond, he is surrounded by nearly a score of his own men-at-arms. Merde. I cannot take on that many armed men.
“Demoiselle Rienne!” There is a tug on my skirt and I glance down to find a young page. "What is it?” I ask.
“Chancellor Crunard requests you attend him immediately.”
I cast one last frustrated glance at d’Albret’s retreating back, then give my full attention to the boy. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No, milady, but please come.”
Hoping that the chancellor has received news from the convent, I let the boy lead me to his chamber. The page knocks once on the door, then opens it. If Chancellor Crunard is ruffled by the disastrous estates meeting, he hides it well. “Come in, demoiselle,” he says as the page scampers away.
His desk is nearly as large as a bed and has a neat stack of correspondence on one side and three maps on the other; there is also a small pot of ink and a handful of quills. He does not offer me a seat. Instead, he rises and moves to the window. After a long moment of silence, he turns to face me, his expression impassive. "Where were you hurrying off to?”