Beast’s face is calm, and a polite smile hovers on his lips, but his eyes burn with the light blue of a fire’s hottest flame, and the look he gives me has all the force of a physical blow. I smile vaguely at him, then turn to the others.
It is the same advisors as before. They even sit in the same places, except for the abbess, who is now seated at the table rather than lurking in the corner of the room.
“And here is Lady Sybella.” The duchess’s voice is warm and welcoming and gives me some small measure of courage as I take my seat.
“I’m afraid the latest news is dire,” Duval says. “The French are on the march. They have taken Guingamp and Moncontour.”
The duchess grips the arms of her chair, her fingers turning white. “And the casualties?”
“From all I can determine, the French did not meet with much organized resistance. The local burghers, worried about the town, quickly handed it over, and the small pockets of protest were easily dealt with.”
The duchess stares unseeing into the distance. “They are so close!” she says. “What of the English troops? Are they close as well?”
“More bad news, I’m afraid.” Duval’s voice is grim. “A series of storms off the coast of Morlaix has kept the English ships from landing. Those six thousand troops will be delayed.”
“How long will it take the British troops to arrive in Rennes once they have reached the coast?”
“At least a week, Your Grace.”
“Is there any sign the French will attack before then?”
Duval answers with a shrug. “It is hard to say. They seem to be holding just inside our border and are sending out sorties and small scouting parties, nothing more. Except for their attack on Ancenis and the occasional pillaging for food, there have been no reports of fighting.”
Captain Dunois taps his finger on his chin. “What are they waiting for? I wonder.”
“For us to break the Treaty of Verger, is all I can surmise,” Duval says. “We have had much acrimony between the French regent and our own politics, but we have honored the dictates of the treaty. At least openly,” he adds with a rakish grin.
“Do you think they know of our negotiations with the Holy Roman emperor?” The duchess’s brow is furrowed with concern.
Duval considers. “Suspect it, yes. But do they know? I do not think that they do. If they had actual knowledge of the betrothal agreement, they would have used that to justify an attack by now.”
“True enough,” Captain Dunois agrees. “I suppose it is too much to hope for that if Count d’Albret decides to march on Rennes, he will run into the French and they will eliminate each other.”
Duval gives a rueful smile. “Would that we were so lucky.” He pauses to look at his hands, then meets his sister’s gaze full on. “It is said that bad news arrives in threes, Your Grace.” Looking as if he could happily commit murder, Duval delivers the final blow. “We have received a letter from Count d’Albret.”
All eyes in the room turn to me. I ignore the sharp sting of their regard and concentrate wholly on Duval and the duchess, as if we are having a private conversation. “Does he know Beast is here?” I ask.
“Not that he indicates. The purpose of the letter was to ask that the duchess reconsider honoring their marriage agreement, else he will be forced to do something she will not like.”
“Besiege the city,” I whisper.
Duval nods. “He does not come out and say so, but that is my assumption as well.”
The duchess, who has gone pale at this news, visibly gathers herself. “What of the Holy Roman emperor? Has he received word of how dire our plight?”
“He has. He will send two auxiliaries to aid us.” Duval’s voice is drier than high summer.
“Two auxiliaries?” Captain Dunois says. “Is he serious? So few, and not even professional soldiers?”
“I’m afraid so. He is also suggesting that we perform the marriage ceremony by proxy in order to get the thing done.”
Jean de Chalon shifts uneasily in his chair; it is his overlord they are speaking of, and perhaps he feels his loyalties are being stretched thin. “I am sure he is doing all that he can. He is much besieged by his war with Hungary.”
Duval does not deign to answer this. The duchess’s mouth tightens in disapproval, but she does not contradict her cousin, although I feel certain she wishes to. “Does a marriage by proxy even count in the eyes of the Church?” she asks the bishop.
“Yes, it can, if done properly.”
“But we still won’t have his troops to defend the alliance,” Captain Dunois points out.
“What of mercenaries? How difficult would it be to get companies of mercenaries here?”
“Not too difficult.” Duval’s voice is gentle, as if he wishes to take the sting from the words that now follow. “What presents a problem, Your Grace, is that we have no money to pay them.”
She looks at him blankly for a moment. “None?” she whispers, then looks to her chancellor.
He confirms Duval’s assessment. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. The duchy’s coffers were greatly strained by the wars with the French over the last two years. The treasury is empty.”
The duchess rises from her chair and begins pacing in front of the fire. She is very nearly out of options, and she must know it. “What of my family’s jewels? The silver plate? The crown—”
The bishop gasps in horror. “Not your crown, Your Grace!”
“Will that bring enough coin to pay them?”
“Your Grace! Some of your jewelry has been in your family for generations,” Chalon says. I cannot help but wonder if he is keeping track of what he would inherit if anything were to happen to the duchess.
“Jewels can be replaced, my cousin. Independence, once lost, cannot.”
The room is silent as the company digests her words, then Beast leans forward to speak for the first time. “There are some who would fight at our side for free,” he tells them.
“Who?” Captain Dunois and Chancellor Montauban ask at the same time.
“The charbonnerie.”
“This is no time for jests,” the chancellor says with reproach.
Beast meets his eyes levelly. “I am not jesting. Furthermore, they have already agreed to fight by our side.”
“They are nothing but outcasts, ruffians who must scrabble in the forest to get by. Do they even know how to hold a sword?” Montauban asks.