Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 51
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As I turn away from them, I see a small, hunched figure hovering just outside the doorway. It is Yannic, whom Beast has no doubt sent to spy on my movements.
Furious, I turn and search the hall, looking for someone I can attach myself to and prove that I am not moping over him. Nor am I the pariah he no doubts wishes me to be.
The duchess’s cousin Jean de Chalon is but a few paces from me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, which surprises me somewhat, as the last time we were together he appeared most distant and guarded. But he is handsome and titled and will make a good story for Yannic to carry back to his master. I smile at Chalon, a smile filled with more mystery than sparkle, for he is not a man to be lured with simple wiles.
He draws closer and bows. “You look lonely, demoiselle.”
“Ah, not lonely, my lord. Simply discerning in the company I keep.”
“A lady after my own heart, then.” He snags a goblet of wine from a passing page and hands it to me. As I take it, I let my fingers brush against his, and I feel his pulse flare with interest.
I pray that Yannic is watching all this, for it is far too much effort if he is not.
Chalon eyes me hungrily, and he is not an unattractive man. Tall, lithely muscled, and with a graceful arrogance that one expects from a prince. But looking at him, flirting with him, I feel . . . nothing. It is cruel of me to use him this way, for I do not desire his affection, simply his attention, and that only long enough to make an impression on Yannic. I murmur inanities a moment longer, then check to be certain Beast’s little squire is watching. But he is gone, and at last I can bring this game to a close, for Chalon is too smooth and tame and far too pretty a creature to hold my interest.
The only other pleasure to be had from the evening is watching young Isabeau and her sweet, uncomplicated joy in the music. Her hands are clasped, her eyes bright. But as I watch her, I am again reminded of Louise and Charlotte and how very much I miss them. I have not seen them in nearly a year, not since my terror over their safety forced me to thrust them from my heart, from my mind.
Isabeau is a painful reminder of everything I have had to give up, all that I have lost. Even though the room is full of people, I feel suddenly surrounded by a moat of loneliness. I cast about, looking for Ismae, the one friend I have in this accursed place, but she has left the duchess’s side and is grabbing a quiet moment with Duval. And while I do not begrudge her the love she has found, I am also filled with envy, for I know such a chance is lost to me.
Chapter Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING I AM summoned to yet another council meeting, which makes me uneasy, for the only business the council has with me is to grill me further on my time in d’Albret’s household. Not to mention I am still filled with dread at having to see Beast. I would rather do anything else than face the accusations in his eyes: suffer one of the abbess’s tongue lashings, play one of Julian’s sordid games, even subject myself to one of d’Albret’s punishments. But although I am many things, a coward is not one of them. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and enter the room with my head held high. Leaping from the barbicans back in Nantes would have taken less courage.
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.
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