“I, Anne of Brittany, do hereby declare that the betrothal agreement made between me and Count d’Albret is null and void, as I did sign it with no knowledge of the commitment I was making. while we appreciate the count’s valiant service during my father’s reign and continue to value him as an ally, I will not now nor ever enter into a marriage arrangement with Lord d’Albret.”
when she is finished, every head in the room turns to Lord d’Albret. His face is a deep, mottled red, his jaw clenched so tight I fear his teeth will snap. Next to him, Madame Dinan sways a little. Marshal Rieux surges to his feet and opens his mouth, but Chancellor Crunard puts a hand on his arm and holds him back with a small shake of his head.
Aware that everyone’s attention is on him, d’Albret makes a small, mocking bow to the duchess, then turns on his heel and strides away. The crowd parts before him like butter before a hot knife. Madame Dinan rises to her feet, lifts her skirts, and hurries after him, two bright spots of color burning in her normally pale cheeks. Moving as if in great pain, Anne rises to her feet and turns to leave the hall.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Two days after the duchess reads the edict against d’Albret, she, Duval, and I stand at her window and watch him ride away. He has so many retainers and attendants that it feels as if half the castle goes with him. I fear Sybella is among them. How else would she have been able to warn me of the trickery planned in the corridor?
The idea that the abbess would place Sybella in d’Albret’s household is so repellant that I thrust it aside and pray to Mortain that I am mistaken.
If d’Albret has taken a large part of courtiers with him, he has also taken a fair amount of the court’s gloom. The serving maids in particular have a renewed bounce in their step now that they no longer have to endure his pinches. even young Isabeau’s health seems to improve, as if it were d’Albret’s presence that had clouded her lungs.
* * *
One week before Christmas, the duchess calls for a full court dinner, complete with entertainment. The night before the feast, Isabeau is so excited she nearly makes herself sick. At the duchess’s request, I give her another tisane so she can sleep.
The castle steward has spared no luxury for tonight’s feast. The tables are covered with rich damask cloth embroidered with silver thread. Liveried servants stand near the walls, and gold and silver vessels adorn the table. In an especially fancy touch, notes from a horn summon us to the great hall. we are all, as ordered, dressed in our g*yest finery. Long fur-trimmed capes mingle with embroidery-encrusted waistcoats and colorful slashed sleeves. Shoes of brightly dyed leather or rich velvet peek out from beneath thick satin skirts.
The duchess and Isabeau take their places at the high table on the raised dais, and the privy councilors join them. And while it seems as if I have done nothing but drink Duval in with my eyes for the past two weeks, tonight he looks different. He has grown thinner, and there are deep shadows under his eyes as well. The negotiations with the Holy Roman emperor have been fierce. Both the duchess and Duval know they bargain for the very life of their country. The Holy Roman emperor’s envoy knows it as well and tries to use it to his best advantage. I worry that the strain is getting to Duval. He grows edgy and has taken to checking the doors and windows, certain that someone is listening in.
Most likely someone is.
I am shown to a seat at one of the lower tables with the lesser ladies and knights, but I do not mind. In truth, I need to pinch myself, for I fear this is all a dream. I can scarce believe that one such as I has been allowed into so fine a celebration.
Once we take our seats, servants bring us basins of warm water scented with verbena so we may wash our hands before eating. while we dry them on soft linen towels, the food is carried in on platters. Meat carvers set to work slicing venison and roasted boar, peacock and pheasant. There is also braised rabbit and roast goose, porkpie, pastries, and frumenty.
I am pleased to find myself seated next to Beast and wonder if Duval had something to do with this. “I have not seen much of you of late,” I say.
His face creases into a grotesque smile. “Duval has kept me busy overseeing scouting parties. we scour daily, looking for signs of d’Albret making good on his threat or of the arrival of the French.”
"Which is the greater danger?”
Beast shrugs his huge shoulders. “I do not know. If d’Albret has retired to his holdings in central Brittany, all he must do is prevent loyal barons and their armies from answering the duchess’s call for troops. That will play havoc enough with our defense.”
I take a pinch of salt from the saltcellar and sprinkle it on my venison. “And the French? where do you anticipate they will come from?”
“From the north and east. They still hold Saint-Malo and Fougères per the terms of the Treaty of Verger. They will use those as strongholds and strike out from there. But enough of this depressing talk, demoiselle. Surely you have spent your days more pleasantly than I?”
I grimace. “Actually, no. I am not overfond of either embroidery or the chattering of ladies in waiting.”
"What would you rather be doing?” Beast’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Something helpful,” I mutter, then I take a sip of wine to wash the sense of helplessness from my tongue. It is not a feeling I relish.
His face grows somber. “Is it not helpful staying by our duchess’s side, offering her peace of mind?”
“But of course, if my presence brings her peace of mind, it is most worthwhile. In truth, she seems most vulnerable since her governess’s betrayal.”
"What of young Isabeau?” Beast’s eyes turn to the high table. “She looks frail to me.”
“Her health is not good. Her lungs are weak, and, I suspect, her heart.”
Beast sends me a strange look. “Does your assassin’s training tell you this?”
His bold question makes me sputter on the wine I have just sipped. I look around to be certain no one has overheard. “No, my lord. But I worked closely with our herbalist at the convent, and it was she who tended to our illnesses.”
“I had hoped she would recover by now. That she has not is unwelcome news,” he says, then tosses back the contents of his goblet. The lord on his right asks him a question, and Beast begins talking with him. Remembering the social pretenses I must uphold, I turn to the knight on my left, but he is leaning so close to the lady next to him that I fear he will fall in her soup. Only too happy to ignore him, I look out among the feasting nobles, their chins greasy with meat, eyes slurry with wine. This celebration has the doomed feel of trying to raise a Maypole in a thunderstorm. I can only hope an order from the convent comes through. This entire room stinks of desperation and betrayal.