Madame turns her head to the duchess and raises one elegant eyebrow in question.
“I invited her to join us.” The duchess’s impatience makes me think all is not well between her and her governess.
“Your Grace.” Madame Dinan lowers her voice, pretending she does not want me to hear. “I know that she is a special friend of your brother’s, but it is inappropriate for someone in your position to include her in your pastimes. You have your rank to consider. Besides, have you not enough friends here to keep you company?” Her graceful hands gesture to include the other ladies, and I find myself wondering just how many of them are beholden to Madame Dinan in some way. Perhaps even loyal to her outright.
The duchess keeps stitching and ignores her governess, not deigning to address her protests. As the long silence draws out, one of the ladies in waiting clears her throat nervously. “Did they ever learn who the man was that fell to his death?” she asks the room at large. “They say he was quite handsome.”
what little color remains in the duchess’s face drains away, and she concentrates carefully on her stitching. Madame Dinan clucks her tongue. “No such morbid talk today, ladies. what do you wish for them to bring back from the hunt? Venison or boar?”
As the ladies turn to discussion of the hunt, I take a seat next to young Isabeau.
She smiles, and I smile back. She is pale and wan and it seems to me as if her life spark burns but dimly. I rifle in my basket and retrieve the altar cloth I worked on last time. I pick up the needle threaded with blood-red silk and vow to try harder this time. I intend to be capable of stitching any wound of mine I can reach. I grunt and stick the needle into the linen.
The ladies talk of the upcoming Advent festivities and discuss the court poet’s latest romantic verse. I ignore their voices and focus on my embroidery, pleased to see my stitches are growing neat and even.
After they have thoroughly discussed every aspect of the upcoming holiday merriment, Madame Dinan speaks with a casual, artful slyness that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Your Grace, my lord d’Albret did not ride out with the hunt this morning. He thought this afternoon would be a good time for the two of you to discuss some things. Alone,” she says, glancing at the rest of us.
Remembering how she squawked when Duval requested similar privacy, I cannot help but poke at her hypocrisy. “Alone?” I put one hand to my lips, as if scandalized. “You would leave her alone with him, madame?”
“No, you fool,” Madame Dinan all but hisses. “I would remain here as chaperone.”
“It does not matter,” the duchess says primly, “because I will not see him.”
“But Your Grace, you owe it to him to let him plead his ca — ”
“He has done so,” Anne says sharply. “Before all the barons of Brittany, if you remember. I refused him then and I refuse him now.”
Madame Dinan stops sewing and leans forward. “You must marry someone. He is half Breton and has the troops you need.”
“He is also old and fat and crude. He has seven children and is a grandfather!”
Madame Dinan’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “Your marriage must strengthen the duchy.”
The duchess keeps her eyes on her embroidery, but she is stitching blindly. "While I know that I must marry for duty, I do not think I must bear him.”
Beside me, Isabeau begins to wheeze slightly. She has grown even paler, and her eyes are fastened on the two women arguing. I quickly stitch a small frowning face on my linen square. I nudge her with my elbow and she looks up at me, then down at my embroidery. The silly face — or perhaps it is my poor stitching — manages to coax a smile from her lips.
Madame Dinan leans farther forward, her eyes burning with intensity. “You have a duty — a duty— to your country and Count d’Albret to honor the agreement your father made.”
The spell of my trick with Isabeau is broken, and the child begins to cough. with a cluck of frustration, Madame Dinan throws her embroidery down. “Fetch the court physicians,” she says.
Isabeau shrinks back onto her couch. “No, please, no,” she whispers. “I’ll stop coughing.”
Madame hurries over and smooth the child’s brow. “It is not a punishment, child. They merely want to make you well.”
“But I hate the leeches,” she whimpers. “See?” she says, her face brightening. “I stopped now. I don’t need to see the doctors.”
Anne leans close and brushes a few strands of hair from her sister’s face. “She is not feverish,” she tells Madame Dinan.
The governess pinches her lips. “Very well, but if it happens again, she will need to see them.”
Dinan returns to her chair, and the rest of us stitch silently, none of us wanting to be the one that sends poor Isabeau into another coughing frenzy that brings the court physicians down upon her.
It stays quiet for so long that the little girl dozes off. Anne smiles in relief, and her shoulders lose some of their tension.
Madame Dinan rises to her feet. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have something I must see to.” She speaks softly so as not to waken Isabeau.
Anne nods her permission for the governess to leave. As Dinan slips out of the room, I look at the duchess and raise my brows in question.
One corner of her mouth quirks up. “Did you see your saint’s marque upon her?” she asks so quietly that it takes me a moment to be certain I have heard.
I blink in surprise. “No, Your Grace.”
“Pity,” she murmurs, then nods her head, indicating I should follow Dinan. I drop a quick curtsy, then hurry after the governess.
I am careful to stay well behind the older woman. with her head start, it is not difficult. The lack of courtiers also works to my advantage, for with so few others about, her footsteps echo quietly, making them easy to follow even when she slips out of sight.
At the east tower of the palace, she pauses to look behind her, and I quickly duck back around the corner. I hear her rap on a door. A man’s voice greets her, and then her voice fades as she moves into a room. I poke my head around the corner just in time to see which door shuts.
Giving thanks once again for the deserted hallways, I hurry to the door and lean in close.
"What do you mean she refuses to see me?” It is the rough, coarse voice of d’Albret.
“She is but a young, foolish girl, my lord. Do not take it too much to heart.”