The duchess, soon to be queen, is truly magnificent in her gown of intricately embossed cloth of gold. I lean toward her, pretending I am adjusting her ermine-lined mantle. “You are well, Your Grace?” There has not been a moment all morning to catch a word alone with her. The regent’s attendants descended upon her chambers at dawn’s light to begin the hours-long preparations for her wedding.
She glances at me, her regal, serious expression giving way to a ghost of a smile that does not reach her eyes. “Well enough.”
Fiddling with the clasp on her mantle, I whisper, “You have achieved your life’s goal, Your Grace. You have secured an enduring peace for your people. Your children will sit on the throne of France. Surely there is much to be proud of.”
“You are right,” she murmurs. “But I cannot help but think of all those who are not here.”
“It is hard not to let our grief over Captain Dunois trail behind us like a long, despondent tail,” I agree as I busy myself adjusting the folds of her gown. “But I know he would not wish you to begin your marriage that way.”
“It’s not just those I’ve lost, but all of those I nearly married.” She turns to face me. “Did you know I was to be betrothed to Prince Edward of England? And when he was reported dead, then his brother the Duke of York? But for a moment of violence, I would be queen of England.
“It would have taken me even farther from my home, and there is a good chance it would only have made Brittany a staging ground for all the friction between France and England. So I assure myself that this is a better choice, although it ceased being a choice a while ago.”
She pauses a long moment. “Or I could be wife to Count d’Albret.” There is a faint tremble underlying her voice, as if it still gives her nightmares. “That, too, could have been my fate.” She reaches out and takes my hand—?her fingers are ice-cold. “If not for your help.”
I squeeze her hand before she withdraws it. “In my experience, Your Grace, all victories are bittersweet. It is simply a matter of degree.”
Then the trumpets blare, heralding that the wedding ceremony is to begin. I take my position in the procession of attendants in charge of her long train and solemnly follow the duchess into the grand salon.
While I had expected a wedding fit for royalty, the extent of the richness and grandeur causes me to blink. The room is enormous, with a high-beamed ceiling and marble fireplaces on either end. Drapes of Turkish velvet protect the guests from drafts, and a sea of silver and gold cloth adorns the room.
In addition to the royal finery are plaques of walnut upon which the king has commissioned carvings of the ermine of Brittany as well as the lily of France. All the silver that adorns the room, the platters and pitchers and chargers and ewers, have been engraved with delicate flowers encircling the king’s and queen’s intertwined initials. All the details, large and small, fairly shout a warm and loving welcome to his new queen.
The king has outdone himself, for this is not simply a display of his wealth and royal status, but a far more personal statement. It would seem that whatever rancor his sister holds toward the duchess, the man who arranged for this reception does not share it.
The duchess’s procession comes to a stop.
Charles of France is short and somewhat frail, in spite of his well-padded doublet and thick-heeled boots. While he holds himself stiffly, his brown eyes seem both kind and intelligent, if a little too prominent. They have the misfortune of being perched over a royal beak of a nose that is far too large for his face. His long hair is dark and wavy, and his shoulders square, if not broad. But most important is the way his eyes shine as he looks upon the duchess, as if he is in awe of his new bride.
I scan the hall once more, noting all that has been arranged, all the richness that has been put on display, all the ways the duchess has been included in this pageant, and allow myself a sigh of relief. We are in the presence of the king now, not the regent. Not only will the duchess hold a queen’s political power and sway, but it appears she will also have a chance to explore the tender shoots of romance that sprang up between them four weeks ago.
We have survived the gauntlet the regent laid before us and reached the safety of the king—?not just his protection, but his love and respect. His affection will neutralize the regent’s animosity, if she is not soon out of the picture altogether.
I smile and allow myself to enjoy the ceremony.
* * *
After the marriage contract has been signed and the wedding mass performed by the Bishop of Angers, some of the stiff formality gives way to the more festive air of a wedding. Music begins to play softly in the background as gathered nobles and dignitaries pay their respects and offer their congratulations to the king and his new queen. The regent hovers at their elbows, standing too close and oftentimes answering questions directed at them.
I, along with the rest of the queen’s attendants, wait nearby. To distract from my growing irritation at the regent, I keep one eye on the queen and allow the other to survey the room. It is thick with the stench of French nobility—?roses and violets, civet and musk. Sly, speculative glances dart my way. Clearly news of our adventure on the road has reached the court. Whether they include my role in deflecting the ambush or in aiding Captain Dunois as he lay dying, the rumors and whispers about me have already begun.
Beast, standing rigidly at attention with the rest of the queen’s guard, is also the subject of furtive scrutiny. I do not know if it is because of his reputation on the battlefield against the French, his recent exploits during our ambush, or simply due to his size and sheer ugliness. He pays it no mind, but it sets my teeth on edge, and I want to clout their foolish heads and tell them to crawl back into their castles and dreary chateaux.
“And I believe you know Count Angoulême.” I turn my full attention to the count, who is second in line for the French crown, preceded only by the Duke of Orléans. The king’s voice is remarkably neutral, given that Angoulême’s relationship with Brittany was primarily in allying against France.
The queen greets him warmly. “I am pleased to see you again, my lord.”
“And I you, Your Majesty.” He is tall and still bears the vestiges of the soldier he once was, although the effect is tempered by too much indulgent living.
“I hear that congratulations are in order,” the queen continues. “Your wife is expecting your first child.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I indeed feel graced by God for this joyous news.” If he feels any rancor at the king’s new bride for her expected role in producing an heir and thus removing any chance he might have at the crown of France, he does not show it.
The regent steps forward. “Speaking of the countess,” she says, taking the count’s arm, “come tell me how dear Louise is faring.” The count nods in farewell to the king and queen, and allows the regent to lead him away. We can all stand a little easier without her breathing down our necks. Just as the king turns to speak to the queen, a foppish, self-important man steps forward to offer his good wishes. After a brief introduction to the queen—?he is the Italian ambassador—?he dismisses her and pulls the king to the side and begins discussing something with him in low-pitched, rapid Italian.
Before I can be affronted on the queen’s behalf, she turns immediately to the Duke of Bourbon and drops some of her forced cheer. “Have you been able to learn anything about our attack, my lord?”
The duke glances nervously toward his wife, who is a safe distance away, still talking with Angoulême. “I’m afraid not. We returned to the place of the ambush, but there was not much to learn. They left their dead behind, which should have yielded us some answers, but did not.”
“How so, my lord?”
“These soldiers had no personal effects on them. No possessions of any kind that might indicate where they were from. While many mercenaries have little more than the clothes on their back, their weapons, and their horse, there is usually some small, treasured possession from home. A coin, a
trinket, or a lock of hair. But these men had nothing. It was most unusual.”
“That is an answer of sorts, is it not?”
The duke blinks at my question, but does not dismiss me. “Yes. Clearly they went to great lengths to keep their identities a secret.”
“Have you asked the nearby farmers and villagers?” the queen presses.
“I have sent men out to inquire, but I fear that for all intents and purposes, the trail began and ended on those bridges.” His mouth snaps shut, and his chin recedes a bit further. The regent is returning. I glance to the king, hoping he will dismiss the Italian ambassador and return to his wife’s side, but both men are gone. Furthering my annoyance, the Duke of Bourbon quickly excuses himself and also beats a hasty retreat.
When the regent reaches us, her smile is as false and brittle as spun sugar. “Now that Your Majesty is married in the eyes of the law and the Church, it is time to ensure that the contract cannot be broken.”
The queen frowns slightly. “It cannot be broken. We have signed it, attended by witnesses, your own hand among them. The bishop has celebrated the wedding mass.”
“Due to your farce of a marriage to Maximilian and the king’s prior betrothal, this marriage is most irregular. While we have the blessings and assurances of the bishops, we will not take any chances that a challenge to its validity can be made. Even now, the emperor sends his own petitioners to Rome to argue his case against the pope allowing his marriage to be annulled. Our best protection is for the marriage to be consummated.”
“Of course,” the duchess answers, blushing. “But surely not now.”
“On the contrary. What better proof can we offer the pope than a roomful of witnesses to the consummation? They can then carry the tale back to their cities and countries—?and Rome—?that the marriage is binding and cannot be annulled. It is the best way to ensure that all we have worked for cannot be undone.”
I stare at the regent. “You are talking about a public consummation?”
The regent gives a quick shake of her head. “Not fully public, no. There will not be a room of witnesses to oversee the deed itself. But there will be a doctor to confirm that it has taken place, and the guests will await the news of the consummation here in the grand salon.”
The duchess has grown as white as one of her linen sheets. What a fool I was to not see that the premarital inspection was to be a road map the regent would continue to follow. “Surely this is not necessary.” I try to modulate my voice so that it is well measured and reasoned, but instead it comes out high, almost shrill. “The holy vows have been exchanged. The contracts legally signed and witnessed.”
“So have the contracts with Maximilian and Marguerite.” The regent leans in closer. “Believe me. This is most necessary. There have been marriages, of royal blood even, that have suffered for lack of attention to such details.”
Of course. Her sister and the Duke of Orléans. To this day he vows it has never been consummated. The duchess was but four years old when that scheme was hatched. Why does the regent insist on making her pay and pay for something she had no control over?
But I already know the answer. It is because the duchess is the only one who is powerless enough to be punished. The duke is dead. And in spite of the regent’s best efforts, the Duke of Orléans is back in the good graces of the king, his lands and estates restored. There is no one else she can whip for this old sin except the person who is least culpable.
Chapter 38