You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  A moment later Aimée repeated the question aloud.

  St. Briac laughed softly. "You may as well ask me the reason why your own parents are married, miette. I can assure you that the king is quite human. No doubt the same mixture of intangibles drew him to Anne that causes any of us to fall in love." Regarding a wedge of cheese, his eyes were averted as he added, "Anne d'Heilly may not appeal to any man but Francois, but then you obviously would not strike his fancy at all. C'est la vie. How wise was God to give each of us different tastes."

  Aimée tried to decide whether she had been insulted, but St. Briac's study of the cheese made it impossible to read his eyes. "Hmm. Well, some say that the king loves his mother and sister better than any other woman."

  "What a scholar of gossip you are. Are you acquainted with Louise and Marguerite?"

  "No."

  "Then pay attention. The king's mother is seated on that bench to the right of her son. She is slicing a pear. Marguerite, who is a particular friend of mine, is beside her mother. Observe as she lifts the goblet of wine to her lips. The lady is not only graceful but compassionate and intelligent as well. The devotion the king feels for both of them is only the sort that we all strive to attain within a family. Because they are proud of him and have missed him this past year, Louise and Marguerite display love that is easy to understand. I understand his for them as well."

  Aimée pondered this, piecing together clues from St. Briac's conversation. How many could refrain from constantly agreeing with the king and deferring to his ideas? How many cared for him as a person rather than a king? At least four people, it seemed: Louise de Savoy, Marguerite d'Angouleme, the seigneur de St. Briac, and Anne d'Heilly.

  "I see what you mean," Aimée whispered.

  St. Briac's eyes rested on the king's mother and sister. Louise, now fifty, was sorely afflicted with gout and had undergone great suffering to travel south to meet her son upon his return from captivity. She was a passionate, shrewd woman of action. A widow at age nineteen, she had lavished her attention on her children. Marguerite, two years older than her brother, had adored him from his birth. Through the years of her first marriage, unhappy and childless, she had found comfort in her religion and in Francois, who fairly exuded a zest for life. Now there was talk that the king would have his sister wed Henri de Navarre, who had become a hero after his escape from the castle at Pavia. St. Briac hoped that Marguerite would find the fulfillment she deserved if that marriage took place.

  "It was thoughts of Louise and Marguerite that sustained the king during his captivity," he remarked to Aimée. "And, of course, his determination to see France again. Louise, as you probably know, served her son as regent in his absence, and Marguerite displayed enormous courage by journeying to his side in Spain. She arrived at a time when he was near death from a fever caused by an abscess in his head. He swears to me that her prayers were his salvation."

  Touched by this story, Aimée gazed at her king with softer eyes. Perhaps she had been hasty in forming her opinion of the man.

  "Your sister would appear to be making the most of her evening." St. Briac leaned back with a smile and sipped his wine.

  "That is not surprising." Indeed, the girl was staring in rapt fascination as Francois spoke to her. No sooner had Anne d'Heilly turned away to answer a nobleman's friendly greeting than Honorine was laying her hand lightly on the king's forearm. "Wealth and power intoxicate her."

  "But not you?"

  "Need you ask?" Aimée retorted disdainfully.

  St. Briac admired her proud, exquisite profile. All too well he remembered the sweet warmth of the mouth she now set so firmly, the violet essence of her abundant curls that now were tamed by the formal crispinette. Slowly, Aimée turned her head, and wide leaf-green eyes locked with gleaming sea-blue ones. Her heart began to pound.

  "Excusez-moi."

  A shadow darkened the bench. Startled, Aimée gasped and looked up to discover Armand Rovicette regarding her with hot, nervous eyes.

  "M'sieur Rovicette." She was swept by a wave of revulsion. "May I present Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac."

  "My pleasure, monseigneur," Armand muttered coldly. "I am certain that you will forgive my intrusion when I explain that I simply was unable to allow another man to enjoy the considerable pleasure of my fiancée's company for another moment."

  Chapter 4

  April 25, 1526

  Aimée watched St. Briac laugh with the woman who leaned toward his cheek. She was beautiful, honey-haired and garbed in sumptuous rose satin. Meanwhile, Aimée endured the proximity of Armand Rovicette. The pungent fumes from his mouth told her that he had imbibed excessively before summoning the nerve to confront her and the seigneur de St. Briac. Now the man prattled on about their wedding and all the possessions he planned to lavish on her afterward. Aimée pretended to be polite, but she was certain of one thing: Their marriage would never take place.

  Thomas was keeping an eye on Aimée de Fleurance in his own nonchalant manner. It astounded and saddened him to think that a girl of such quality should be forced to marry a man who resembled one of the boars mounted in the entry hall.

  "St. Briac," a voice exclaimed beside him. "How good it is to see you."

  He turned to discover the face of an old friend. "Teverant! It had been far too long, mon ami."

  The two men embraced heartily. Georges Teverant barely reached St. Briac's shoulders, but his body was solid and muscular, crowned by a profusion of short brown hair and a face that boasted even features and clear blue eyes.

  They had been friends since childhood. Teverant came from Brittany but had often visited his grandparents in the village of St. Briac. As a young man he had courted Thomas's younger sister, Nicole, but the romance collapsed when she fell in love with and married an impoverished Parisian artist. Now twenty-five, Nicole remained radiantly happy with her choice and the friendship between Teverant and St. Briac endured. They'd met often at court functions after Georges became assistant to the king's master financier, the baron de Semblancay.

  The old man was a wizard who had the skill to balance the crown's private and public funds. In 1522, however, Semblancay had managed not only to make an enemy of the king's mother, but also to be questioned about his handling of the king's finances. Soon, he'd been forced into retirement.

  Teverant had remained to work for the new treasurer of the national savings, a man who was also Semblancay's enemy. Although time had passed, Louise continued to nurse her grudge against the baron, particularly after he refused to lend the king more money for his war with Charles V. It already had occurred to St. Briac that Louise might return her attention to the Semblancay affair now that her regency was at an end.

  "I trust that all is well with you?" he inquired of Teverant.

  "I fear not, my friend; in truth I am frightened. That is why I have come here to be with my king and reassure him of my loyalty. I have heard rumors that Louise de Savoy, unable to take revenge on Semblancay, may have set her sights on me instead."

  St. Briac's brows went up. "Indeed?"

  "You must think me mad, but I assure you that my reason is intact. After all, it was I who carried out much of Semblancay's dealings. I did so with many doubts at times, but he was so powerful! What was I to say?" His blue eyes wandered toward the king's mother. "Do you see how she watches me and whispers in the ear of that devil Chauverge?"

  St. Briac glanced at Louise, and then his gaze fell on the weasel-like countenance of Louis Arget, chevalier de Chauverge. "If Chauverge is encouraging her to plot against anyone, it is more likely me than you, my friend." His voice was cold. The chevalier was one of the few people for whom the affable St. Briac had no use.

  "Everyone knows that Chauverge only hates you because he is consumed by jealousy."

  "The man is warped." St. Briac shook his head. He knew that Teverant spoke the truth, however. Since their youth, Chauverge had envied St. Briac's friendship with Francois. Now, even though he had attained the p
osition of Gentleman of the Chamber, Chauverge's attempts to gain the respect and ear of the monarch remained ineffective. Bitter frustration fed his grudge against the merrily nonchalant seigneur de St. Briac. "But Georges, putting Chauverge aside for the moment, I really don't think you should be alarmed. The king is fair. He won't allow you to be made a scapegoat for Semblancay. You were only doing what you were told."

  "There's a bit more to it than that. His Majesty became angry with me four years ago, and I sometimes worry that he's never gotten over it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you remember when France all but lost Milan in the battle of la Bicoque?"

  "Of course." He nodded. "The king had set aside 400,000 crowns to pay Swiss mercenary soldiers, but his mother convinced Semblancay to give the money to her instead. When the Swiss didn't arrive and Francois blamed Semblancay, he told the king what had happened, and Louise felt betrayed. That was the beginning of her grudge against Semblancay, wasn't it?"

  "That's correct, but what you don't know is that I acted as the intermediary between Louise de Savoy and Semblancay! When all the trouble began, I was blamed not only by the king but by his mother as well." Teverant sighed and then strove to sound cheerful. "Let us speak of something more pleasant. How fares your family?"

  "Tante Fanchette is just the same." The thought of his strong-willed aunt helped St. Briac replace concern over Teverant's disclosure with a smile. "Her presence at the chateau almost fills the void of our parents for Christophe. He is fourteen now—can you believe it? Before I left, he was showing me what he is convinced are the beginnings of his beard."

  Georges Teverant laughed, but his blue eyes were soft as he murmured, "And Nicole? She is well?"

  "A mother again. This time I have a nephew. Michel has actually sold some paintings, so they are living quite comfortably these days."

  "I'm glad."

  "And what of you? Is there a lady in your life?"

  "Not the sort I'd like, though I admit that the company tonight is giving me ideas. That reminds me. Who was that beautiful maiden you were staring at in the corner?"

  St. Briac's eyes belied his light tone. "Just an acquaintance, I assure you. I've neither the time nor the inclination for romance at the moment, and if I did, I would certainly not choose that lady." He paused and couldn't help turning his head to look toward Aimée and the obviously enamoured Rovicette. "Besides, she is betrothed to that swine whom you may observe pressing wet kisses to her hand."

  "Oh, well." Teverant stared at the face of his friend and then hastily sought to avert the conversation from the ebony-haired beauty. "There are many ladies we can pick and choose from, St. Briac. For myself, I prefer a fairer type." He nodded toward Honorine, who continued to converse brightly with the king. "Now there's a female worthy of our admiration. Fit for a king, one might say."

  * * *

  Aimée had never been so happy to see her mother's face. Eloise had pasted on her best charming smile, and upon reaching the bench, she exclaimed, "What a lovely couple you two make! I do hope you have enjoyed yourself this evening, M'sieur Rovicette."

  He had risen and bowed and was kissing her hand with moist lips. "Most assuredly, Madame de Fleurance! I anticipate the time when I may enjoy your daughter's... ah... charms on a permanent basis."

  Aimée shuddered, only to be rewarded by a piercing glare from her mother.

  "I know that my daughter is equally eager for that day, m'sieur. Now, however, I fear that we must steal her away. My husband is waiting to bid you good evening."

  Rovicette made an elaborate parting from his betrothed. When he had crossed the room to approach Gilles, Eloise turned to her and hissed, "Go outside and wait for us while we say good night to the king. Honorine has made a particular impression on him, and I'll not have that ruined if he discovers that you are a member of our family."

  "Maman, really. You speak as though I were a leper."

  "Don't argue with me; just do as I say."

  Fuming, Aimée stalked across the salon, through the hall, past servants, and out the front door. A moat curved in a wide shimmering arc around the gardens behind the hunting lodge, but here there was only a sweep of lawn brushing the distant woods. The air was crisp, the sky blue-black and showered with stars. Aimée took deep breaths, blinking back tears as she thought of the terrible tangle of her life.

  "Miette, could you be so cruel as to leave me without a parting word?"

  St. Briac's soft voice startled her so that she jumped a little. Shakily, she turned, one hand against her thudding heart. "Oh! You should have announced your presence, monseigneur."

  "I thought I just did." He smiled. Moonlight accentuated the gleam of his white teeth.

  Aimée was dizzily conscious of strong hands reaching out to steady her shoulders. In that moment reality spun away to be replaced by enchantment. She leaned against St. Briac's broad chest, wishing she could stay there forever, memorizing the texture of his velvet doublet, its warm stirring scent, and the slow sound of his breathing.

  "We'll not meet again, Aimée," said St. Briac almost ruefully. "The court departs for Blois two days hence."

  She tried not to think, luxuriating instead in the sensation of his arms surrounding her back. How safe and fragile she felt within his embrace.

  This time, instead of bending down, St. Briac lifted Aimée lightly off the ground, and she welcomed his kiss. Her own arms twined about his neck, her fingers caressing his crisply curling hair. Their mouths joined and tasted urgently. Suffused with new and stirring feelings, she yearned to lose herself in him.

  When the muffled sound of voices reached their ears, Aimée's feet returned to earth with a jolt. St. Briac had to unlock her clinging arms and hold her away from him.

  "Your family," he whispered harshly. The eyes that gazed up at him were as fresh and innocent as new spring leaves. "Aimée, this must be adieu for us." St. Briac's tone had softened along with his heart. "Promise me that you will hold fast to your courage and your principles. You have the spirit to win if you will only fight."

  Hot, confused tears filled Aimée's eyes as she caught a glint of turquoise in the shadows before his head bent and his warm lips grazed the back of her hand. In the next instant, St. Briac was melting gracefully into the night and the door to the hunting lodge had opened to reveal her family.

  "Adieu," Aimée whispered to the stars.

  * * *

  It was long past midnight before Aimée was able to shed her velvet gown, free her curls of the golden crispinette, and crawl naked into bed. She could hear Honorine chattering in the passageway with Suzette, the family's serving girl; she was still awake when the door to her chamber swung open.

  "Surely you must be far too excited to sleep, dear sister. Don't you want to hear about my conversation with the king?"

  "Not particularly. If you'll recall, I have conversed with him myself and found the experience less than inspiring."

  Honorine giggled, lit a taper with a bit of candle she held, and perched on the bed. "That is only because you didn't know who he was and were so inexcusably rude to him. How could you expect to glimpse his charm under those circumstances? And, oh, Aimée, he is so very charming. One could swoon!"

  "He probably swoons himself under the weight of that great nose," she muttered under her breath.

  "I heard that! How can you be so disrespectful of the most magnificent king France has ever had? Everyone agrees that he is a hero, that he fought alongside his men at Pavia and displayed astonishing courage during his captivity."

  Since her discussion with St. Briac that evening, Aimée had come to agree with much of what her sister was saying, but certainly she would never admit that to Honorine. "Everyone also says that the king is a trifler, my dear, and if I were you, I would not be particularly proud to be added to the long list of those he's trifled with."

  Honorine gasped and tossed her blond curls. "You are just jealous because he couldn't bear your company. You are pouting be
cause you had to sit in the corner all night while I was being complimented and admired by the king of France!"

  An odd pain spread over Aimée's heart as she thought of the man whose company she had found so stimulating for most of the evening, and the pain deepened when she remembered Armand Rovicette, who would be remaining in her life now that St. Briac was disappearing. "I'm tired, Honorine." She pulled the covers higher.

  "Then you must stop interrupting, dear sister," Honorine said sweetly. "Lie back, and I will tell you my story."

  Aimée hadn't the energy to protest. Eyelids drooping, she endured a detailed account of the king's descriptions of court life, Paris and the Loire valley, and especially the chateaus he had built or added to.

  "He began a new one at Chambord before that nasty war with Charles V, and now he says that he means to devote himself to finishing it. It will be the grandest palace in all the world." Honorine sighed expressively. "In fact, Francois told me that this will be his last visit to Nieuil for a very long time—possibly forever—because he has exchanged this hunting lodge for more land at Chambord."

  "I am surprised that you are not desolate over the prospect of never seeing the king again," Aimée murmured sleepily.

  Honorine stood and leaned for a moment against the bed hangings, savoring her next words. "But that is the best part. When I said that I dreamed of experiencing life at court and that I longed to view Chambord and his other magnificent chateaus, Francois winked at me and whispered, 'Well, mademoiselle, perhaps that might be arranged!'"

  * * *

  For all her protestations of fatigue, Aimée discovered that she could not fall asleep once Honorine left her. The day's events crowded her mind in a chaotic swirl. Francois, St. Briac, Rovicette, her parents, Honorine—one by one their faces and voices haunted her. Ironically, in spite of her frustration over the marriage that was being forced on her, Aimée found herself thinking of St. Briac more than anything else. It bothered her that the feelings he aroused within her, ranging from violent dislike to inexplicable passion, seemed to be beyond her control or understanding. Part of her never wanted to see him again, but another part despaired at that prospect.