As he speaks, something inside me relaxes, for those are the words of a potential suitor rather than a conqueror. The duchess blushes prettily and bows her head, and something swells deep within me. She has been pursued by men and rulers of all sorts, and not one has approached her as a suitor rather than a political ally. Mayhap there will be love in her future after all.
I draw a little farther away to give them their privacy.
They talk for nearly an hour, and when they are finished, the duchess asks that I let the courtiers back in. As I do, I see that their numbers have doubled. News of the king’s arrival has spread quickly. Duval is one of the first back in through the doors, with Captain Dunois and Chancellor Montauban following close behind.
When everyone has assembled, the duchess looks bashfully at the king, who nods kindly at her. She stands with her full regal bearing and surveys the nobles and attendants who have gathered. Briefly, her eyes rest on me, and she winks. It is all I can do not to whoop with relieved laughter.
“We have an announcement to make. His Majesty the king of France and I have discussed the future of our great countries and find that we have more in common than we have differences. We have decided to resolve those remaining differences through marriage.”
A cheer goes up from everyone in the room: for having averted a disastrous conflict, for old differences put aside, and for the duchess having managed to thread this needle with love rather than war. As I look at both their faces, I realize it is indeed a triumph of the heart.
For the next three days, while the duchess and King Charles come to know each other, the duchess’s councilors and a delegation from France sequester themselves in the privy chamber and wrestle over the details of the marriage contract. The king is of no help, for whatever point of contract the duchess’s advisors insist on, he agrees to, until his own advisors throw up their hands in disgust. I think once more of Arduinna’s last arrow and all that it has bought us.
Deep in the bowels of the castle, in a room tucked well away from observers, another series of meetings is held. The first of these is a private meeting between Crunard and me. In the rush of all that has happened, I had nearly forgotten about him, for he is still so new in my life, it is hard to remember I have a father.
I find him sitting in his cell, thinner than when I last saw him, and with the lines of fatigue etched more deeply in his face. When he sees me, he leaps to his feet and strides to the bars. “You are safe!”
“I am safe.” I tilt my head. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
“The guards—there have been rumors, stories flying about you riding out, but no one could give me any details.” He appears to rein in his emotions somewhat. “I was worried for you, that is all.”
“I appreciate your fatherly concern, but as you can see, I am fine. I do come bearing news, however. The duchess and the French king are to be married.”
His eyes widen. “He agreed?”
“With a bit of persuasion, yes. But more importantly, she has agreed, and he appears to care for her, and there will be peace.”
Crunard closes his eyes. “Peace,” he says, the word bittersweet with all that he has lost.
I cannot help it then—I step forward, my voice gentling. “I come to bring you a boon. The duchess, as a sign of her appreciation for my help in this matter, has agreed to investigate the whereabouts of your son—my brother—herself. She will seek him out or learn what has happened to him, and if he is still alive, she will have him safely returned to Brittany. She has given her word.”
Some of the grayness leaves his face, and his mouth twists in a sour smile. “And he can find me here, rotting in a prison for dishonoring us all.”
“The duchess is in a forgiving mood,” I tell him. “She has already pardoned many of those who crossed her. Perhaps she will pardon you as well.”
His hands grip the iron bars. “And if so, what does that mean for us?”
I step back then. “Why should it mean anything? Why should I care at all for the man who abandoned my mother when she needed him most, who left me to be raised as an orphan, who betrayed his entire country? What makes you think there is any us to be considered?”
His gaze meets mine steadily. “Because I know the daughter to be a far better person than the father was, and I hope that she will see that the most recent of his crimes were committed out of love for his children.”
I stare at him a moment longer, then leave without answering his question.
The second meeting is a convocation of the Nine, called in order to hold the abbess accountable for her crimes and to determine the rightful punishment.
On the first day, a delegate from each of the Nine arrives, called to the convocation by Father Effram’s summons. The abbess from the Brigantian convent here in Rennes is the first to arrive, followed by Floris and the high priestess of Arduinna. Father Effram—I cannot quite manage to call him Salonius, for I am still not certain I believe that he is; it is just the sort of trick the gods like to play—presides over all.
The abbess of Saint Mer arrives, a wizened old woman with wild gray hair and seashells strung around her neck like jewels. She is accompanied by two girls, one on either side, both followers of Saint Mer. I try not to stare, but I have never seen the sisters of Saint Mer before and they are startling to look at.
Beast is here, representing the followers of Saint Camulos, as their rank is closely tied with their order’s hierarchy. A tall older man with dirty bare feet and a thick walking staff is introduced as the head of Saint Cissonius’s order.
Mortain himself will take his place among the Nine. When he steps into the room, silence falls, as thick as a heavy snow. All eyes turn toward him, for these are people who have devoted their entire lives in the service of their gods, yet they have never met one face to face before. One by one, they sink into deep, reverent bows, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.
“Please, rise,” he says, then makes his way to the seat that is for him. It is hard to tell in the torchlight, but it appears as if a faint tinge of pink has risen in his finely sculpted cheeks.
Two of the seats are empty. Amourna is no longer worshiped so much as her name is invoked when one is seeking true love. There is not any convent or abbey that serves her, and I cannot help but wonder if there ever was.
Dea Matrona too is not worshiped in a formal way, but instead finds her place in the homes and hearths and fields throughout our land.
Just as the Brigantian abbess calls the meeting to order, the door opens. An ancient, bent-back woman shuffles into the room, her long, gray hair nearly reaching the floor, her old homespun brown gown faded and closer to rags than a gown. She too has a staff, which she leans heavily upon. Slowly, she shuffles across the floor and takes the empty seat left for Dea Matrona.