Finally, unable to bear the sound of one more smug insinuation from his manservant, St. Briac hoisted himself onto his elbows and turned slightly, one brow arched in a sharp, unfriendly manner. "Not another word!"
"As you say, monseigneur." Gaspard glanced away, looking offended. "I was only trying to help."
"At this moment you can help me most by procuring a cuve, soap, and lots of hot water so that I may bathe. Food, too, and my clothes." He gave the little man a severe look. "I did not employ you for your expertise at meddling and dispensing unsolicited advice."
The manservant nodded woodenly, bowed, and exited. Only then could St. Briac let a smile steal over his face. Both of them were well aware that Gaspard's nosiness was a trait that his master found endearing despite the occasional irritation it caused. God forbid that he should ever mind his own business!
Now, however, Thomas's thoughts flew off in a different direction. The violet scent that Gaspard had mentioned so pointedly clung also to his skin, tantalizing and tormenting him with memories of the night before. Aimée! How could he have been so irresponsible, so blind, so lacking in strength as to allow such a thing to happen? With a groan, he buried his head in his arms again and wished that he could forget not only the act itself but the sheer, blinding magic of Aimée's lovemaking.
Two kitchen maids were carrying in a silver cuve, followed by several more with buckets of steaming water. St. Briac forced himself to sit up, his brown legs swinging over the side of the bed. He ran both hands through his tousled hair and glanced over to see the clutch of servants staring in anticipation.
"Merci," he murmured wryly. "I think that I can find my own way to the bath."
They departed in a flurry of blushes, giggles, and curtsies. St. Briac smiled and walked naked through the morning sunlight to the cuve. Then he realized that it was the memory of Aimée's laughter, rosy blush, sparkling green eyes, and so very much more that was making him smile. Settling into the hot water, St. Briac shook his head once more and asked God why He had been so vexing as to thrust Aimée de Fleurance into his previously well-ordered existence.
* * *
It was not yet ten o'clock when Francois glanced up to see his friend Thomas entering the guardroom. The king was looking particularly splendid this morning in black and gold silk, a fur-trimmed cape, and a soft black velvet hat with a white plume and jewels, yet the sight of St. Briac was never less than arresting. The guardroom, with its elaborately painted beamed ceiling, Flemish tapestries, and floor of majolica tile, served as a perfect backdrop to the seigneur's magnificence. He was taller, more masculinely chiseled, and somehow richer of spirit than any man Francois had ever known except Bayard, his dear, dead friend and foremost knight. Today St. Briac was clad simply in slashed blue-gray velvet which should have accentuated the turquoise of his eyes. Those eyes, however, looked unusually muted; there were fine lines of exhaustion or strain at the corners and at his mouth as well.
"Mon ami," Francois murmured in greeting, "you look tired. I do hope you're not ill."
"Not at all, sire. In truth, I may have slept too long. Gaspard was scolding me for missing chapel. Did you desire my presence?"
The king selected a perfect pear from a nearby dish and smiled vaguely. "The matter is not serious, but I find myself puzzled by some of last night's events."
"Indeed?" St. Briac examined the sleeve of his doublet and then managed to meet his friend's curious hazel eyes. "Were you unable to locate the elusive Mademoiselle de Fleurance?"
He snorted derisively. "I begin to think that the girl does not exist at all."
"Well, the mystery will soon be solved, for Blois awaits us," Thomas interjected, hoping that would end the conversation.
"There is another mystery that I would solve, my friend. Do you remember our encounter on the stairway last night when I informed you of my plans to look for Honorine outside? I went to fetch a jerkin and then looked everywhere for her, in the gardens, calling into the woods, until I heard a noise in a row of trees off to one side of the forecourt. To my embarrassment, I glimpsed a couple lying in the grass, locked in a passionate embrace. The female was brunette, so I knew it could not be Honorine, and I turned away with haste."
"Your tact is legendary, sire." St. Briac wished there were a wizard present who could make him disappear.
Francois would not be deterred. "The man—though I caught but a glance in the moonlight—strongly resembled you! I told myself that it could not be possible, that you were inside the chateau just moments earlier, and that I was certain you were bound for bed. So I went to your chamber to discuss these curious events, but you were not to be found." He paused for a significant moment, took another bite of the pear, and then continued. "Voyons, I realize that I have no right to pry into your affairs, but I have been so puzzled, and I thought you might know something about Honorine."
Unable to lie, Thomas rubbed his brow and said tersely, "It was I in the garden last night. When you returned to your chamber for the jerkin, I was already on my way. It was an interlude that I am not proud of, however, and would prefer to forget."
"But why?" the king demanded with a mischievous wink. "I had but a glimpse, but the maiden appeared quite fetching, not unlike that girl we encountered in the Nieuil woods. Was she a servant from the chateau?"
"I would rather it hadn't happened because the passion came out of nowhere, like a summer storm. Conversation was all I'd intended, and then"—St. Briac blinked, reminding himself that this was one problem he shouldn't talk over with his friend—"then lust got the better of me. The girl was no common fille de joie who lifts her skirt for every man she meets, and I'm concerned that—"
"Never mind. I understand." Francois inclined his head toward the chapel entrance to indicate that they would not be alone for long. Any further private words must be spoken quickly. "Put it out of your mind. Before dawn breaks again, you will be with Ghislaine at Blois, and I'll wager that she will make you forget that comely kitchen wench. Would you like me to invent a royal errand that would take Ghislaine's husband to Paris for a few days?"
St. Briac tried without much success to smile at this mention of his lover, an intelligent, kind duchesse who had never been so far from his thoughts as during this past week. He'd almost forgotten that she waited for him at Blois. Perhaps her presence there would help him forget Aimée. "I will leave any possible diversions for the duke entirely in your hands, sire," he replied.
The king was looking toward the chapel, which opened off the guardroom's eastern wall. Jutting out from a pier head, its triagonal stained-glass apse faced upstream and was awash with sunshine at this hour. Louise, Marguerite, Anne, and Chauverge were emerging from the vaulted entry. Behind them were Florange and Bonnivet in the company of several other Gentlemen of the Chamber.
"Be kind enough to tell me one more thing, won't you, Thomas?" said the king in a deceptively light voice.
"Gladly." St. Briac thanked God for sending this crowd to rescue him. Just one more question...
"Did you see Honorine last night? Could it be that she was hiding from me? I would not have her afraid."
He drew a sharp breath. "Honorine? No, sire, I saw no sign of that lady in the garden last night."
Francois smiled, whispering as the group drew nearer. "I find myself very anxious to hold Mademoiselle de Fleurance in my arms once we reach Blois. I need just such a diversion from the problems of the treaty, Semblancay and Teverant, and the fate of my hostage sons."
"Your list of trials is endless," St. Briac murmured in ironic agreement as he watched Chauverge lean down to murmur something in Louise de Savoy's ear. "I only hope for your sake that Mademoiselle de Fleurance will not add to it."
The king thought of the lovely golden maiden who had gazed at him so adoringly the night at the hunting lodge. "Impossible!" He laughed and then put out a hand in welcome to his family and mistress.
* * *
Aimée stood on the barge and gazed dreamily over the wide, al
luring Loire River. It shimmered, aquamarine bordered by banks of golden sand. A mellow breeze stirred the gable-hooded headdress that so effectively concealed her dark curls, and she sighed, at peace if only for that instant.
She wished it were possible to put St. Briac completely from her thoughts, and Francois as well. She was tired of worrying, of starting anxiously at every noise, even this afternoon, when she knew that he and his comrades were sharing a leisurely meal in the cabin of this great royal boat. It had been a long day. Twilight was approaching, yet Blois was still far away. The court train had traveled over land to a point between Amboise and Chaumont and then surprised Aimée by boarding this tremendous barge. The Loire was a dreamy river, and gliding over it made her feel as if she were dreaming too, that the soreness between her legs wasn't real, that there was nothing to worry about, that only happiness and love waited for her at the king's chateau at Blois.
"Mam'selle!" It was Suzette, her cheeks glowing in the spring sunshine. She held a baguette and wedge of cheese aloft triumphantly, drawing a grin from Aimée. How hungry they both had been, yet neither dared venture toward the food being consumed by Francois's party. Obviously, Paul the squire had provided these emergency rations. Now Aimée ran to join her maid in a little nook toward the back of the barge that they had claimed immediately upon boarding. It was shadowed, yet it offered a sweeping view of the river and the picturesque villages, vineyards, mills, and chateaux that perched amid budding trees on the banks of the Loire.
The two girls ate with relish and savored the unfolding panorama. From time to time Suzette stole a glance in Aimée's direction. Her mistress looked more drawn than at any time since their abrupt departure from Nieuil. It had been a trying ordeal as well as an adventure, and Aimée had earned the mauve smudges under her lovely eyes. Still, there was something about those eyes and the way her pretty mouth turned down at the corners that alerted Suzette to more complex problems. She sensed that they shared a common source: the man called St. Briac.
"Isn't there something I can do to help, mam'selle?"
Aimée blinked in surprise. "Help? I am fine. You have helped enough for one day by seeing that the way was clear when I left Chenonceau."
"That was easy enough since all of them were in chapel or the guardroom!"
"And by obtaining this feast for us," Aimée continued blithely, as though she hadn't heard the maid's words. "You must not be concerned about me. I am only fatigued and, I admit, a trifle worried about what tomorrow will bring."
At length, her hunger appeased, she leaned against the side of the shadowed, swaying nook and closed her eyes. Sleep came within moments.
Suzette continued to fret until a loud "Hsst!" reached her ears from the far side of the barge. She peered around the corner and saw the distant but unmistakable figure of the seigneur de St. Briac outlined against the azure sky. When he beckoned, the serving girl forgot her sleeping mistress and scurried across the deck to his side.
"Suzette, why don't you take a stroll and look for Paul so that I may have a private word with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. There are... ah... certain things she should know about Blois before we dock."
"But monseigneur, she is asleep."
"I will wait, then, for her to waken," he said with a note of finality.
Suzette turned her head to watch him stride toward the rear of the barge, wondering once more what was going on between St. Briac and Aimée. What had happened last night when he went to the garden to warn her about the king? It had been a long time before her mistress had appeared in her upstairs chamber, looking flushed and disheveled, with bits of grass and leaves tangled in her curls. Was it possible? Suzette sighed dreamily at the notion and set off to search for Paul.
St. Briac also was sighing as he stood above the sleeping girl. In spite of the ridiculous headdress, there was a lushness about her that betrayed last night's interlude. Her lips, pouting slightly in repose, were a darker rose and seemed fuller, as though bruised from so much unaccustomed kissing. Was it conceivable that such an experience could actually impart an aura of womanliness to a girl, that she somehow could change overnight? Even Aimée's breasts looked riper within the bodice of her simple sea-green gown.
Stirring in her sleep, she turned her head, and a downy black curl freed itself from her hairline and escaped the headdress to caress Aimée's brow. Shadows played over the elegant line of her throat, but St. Briac's eyes were drawn to a tiny lilac-hued mark that was now visible near her nape. He had left it there, branding her in the blaze of passion she'd aroused in him. A bittersweet mixture of emotions rose in him. Reaching out with one long, dark finger, he brushed the curl on her forehead and then traced the velvety line of Aimée's face down to the smudge of lilac.
Briefly, a smile touched her mouth, and she made a soft, contented sound before awareness dawned and her eyes flew open. Even as Aimée straightened and stiffened, St. Briac deliberately let his fingertips continue to rest near the nape of her neck.
"You," she whispered. Shadow and sunlight combined to etch his body against the blue sky. How splendid he was! Wide shoulders and a tapering chest were defined under his doublet while snug haut-de-chausses outlined the long muscles of his legs. Aiméee almost could feel the warmth of his golden-brown skin under her fingers. "What do you want?"
Her hand reached to pull his away from her neck, but then his fingers were holding fast to hers, and suddenly she felt chilled and then flushed.
"I only want to discover how you fare today, mademoiselle," St. Briac told her softly.
"Very well, of course. I hope that your conscience is not still plaguing you."
"Miette, would you truly have me lighthearted and uncaring?"
Aimée tried to avoid his penetrating gaze. "Well, there is no reason for you to be other than lighthearted. I certainly am not in mourning for my lost innocence. On the contrary, I feel reborn! You have relieved me of a tremendous burden, monseigneur."
"Burden? Reborn?" St. Briac shook his head. "You baffle me, Aimée."
"Perhaps I flatter you!" She strove for a bright smile and tried to ignore the deafening thud of her heart when he settled onto the bench beside her. His expression was masked by the shadows.
"Perhaps," he said finally after staring pensively into space for an interminable minute, "I am not able to be so casual about lovemaking, particularly when I engage in it with a maiden."
Aimée looked over at his profile; he seemed intent on the village that the barge was passing. Surreptitiously, she scanned his arresting features and finally the mouth that seemed made for kissing. Resisting the husky tone of his voice seemed impossible, but she made an effort.
"Monseigneur, I have told you that I feel no guilt for what happened between us, so I would appreciate it if you would stop speaking of it in a way that suggests I should feel guilty."
He blinked and looked over at her. "All right. I will not belabor the point."
Aimée could not repress a smile. Could any woman regret losing her virginity to such a man? Yet he would not understand this, and it was not a sentiment she could voice. "I implore you, Thomas, to forget last night if it upsets you so. For myself"—she grinned enchantingly—"I shall remember every moment, always, with a smile."
"You may feel differently when you meet the man you love, Aimée. That is what worries me."
"Well, you needn't worry. I can take care of myself. I have a free will, which I exercised last night. Just because I am a female doesn't mean I was at your mercy, monseigneur. You take care of yourself, and I will do likewise."
"Fine!" Suddenly he was angry. "I suggest that you do just that, Mademoiselle de Fleurance, from now on."
St. Briac stood up, glared at her, and then strode away. For several minutes Aimée found it difficult to breathe; then the sight of a town on the horizon distracted her slightly. It had to be Blois. Houses and buildings clustered together over hillsides above the Loire in a charming scramble, while the chateau itself perched on a promontory, checke
red in white stone and red brick, like a crown for the village. It was a huge dwelling, with at least three wings that looked as though they'd been built years or even centuries apart.
Aimée stared up at the chateau, barely conscious of the sun that beat down on the barge as it veered northward toward the golden sands that bordered the town of Blois.
Chapter 10
May 5, 1526
The moment was at hand. Somehow Aimée knew that she and Francois would be meeting face to face very soon. She stood at her window and watched the scene unfolding in the magnificent courtyard below. After two more days of waiting and wondering, it was almost a relief to think that her fate would be settled before the morning's end.
Other, subtler emotions made Aimée's chest ache. It seemed that an eternity rather than only three nights had passed since the court's arrival at Blois and her own installation into a spacious room in the Louis XII wing. It adjoined the Estates General meeting hall that connected the more recently constructed wing that held the apartments of the king and those closest to him. Aimée's chamber boasted a carved bed set on the loveliest tiled floor she had ever seen. Tapestries hung on white walls; there was a charming balcony and even Suzette had her own private cabinet.
It hadn't been difficult to avoid the king's notice upon their arrival at Blois. He had been far too occupied with the festivities and his own excitement to spare a thought for "Honorine" de Fleurance. St. Briac had also been preoccupied with a matter obviously more important than her welfare: an intimate exchange of greetings with a toffee-haired beauty who seemed unable to keep her hands off him. That first night, Aimée's emotions had fluctuated from panic at the prospect of finally confronting Francois to a sick rage as she watched St. Briac kissing the other woman in the torchlit courtyard.
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