You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  But the night had passed without the appearance of Francois. Next morning, he and several of his Gentlemen of the Chamber left the chateau on horseback. Suzette learned that they were making an impromptu visit to Chambord since the king craved a glimpse of the castle that had filled his dreams during the long months of captivity. St. Briac stayed behind, ignoring Aimée just as she had insisted he should. She had no choice but to remain in her chamber, pacing and occasionally stealing onto the balcony, only to be rewarded with the sight of St. Briac and his mistress strolling arm in arm in the courtyard or gardens.

  Suzette volunteered information gleaned from the servants at Blois. The toffee-haired woman was named Ghislaine Pepin, and she was the duchesse de Roanne. Her husband, Marcel, loved court life and hunting better than a beautiful woman, and so he did not begrudge her her own amusements, the principal one being St. Briac. Suzette whispered that Ghislaine was over thirty but that St. Briac continued to choose her over young, eager maidens because of her intelligence, wit, and generosity of spirit. One of the duchesse's own servants had told Suzette that the woman never berated him for his absences, never questioned him about how or with whom he spent his time, and never talked of the future. It seemed that Ghislaine had learned to enjoy each moment by St. Briac's side and coveted nothing more.

  Aimée pretended a lack of interest in Suzette's gossip, but inwardly she was conscious of a growing animosity toward the duchesse de Roanne. Obviously, the woman was very shrewd, and St. Briac was too densely male to realize how she had trapped him in her silken web. Men could be so obtuse!

  Even now, as she watched the king crossing the courtyard, Aimée's eyes strayed back to the figures of St. Briac and his married lover. It was positively decadent that the woman was so lacking in conscience as to carry on this way right under her husband's nose. How could she laugh with St. Briac with such a total absence of guilt? They were standing close together on the second balcony of the magnificent spiral staircase that was the centerpiece of the Francois I wing's facade. Built of white stone in an open octagonal tower, five sides of which projected from the wall, it boasted lavish decorative panels carved with the king's salamander emblem. Aimée seethed as she noted the light touch of the duchesse's fingertips on St. Briac's cheek. Morning sunlight streamed through the open stairwells and struck sparks off her burnished hair, causing Aimée to think that her own curls were the gloomiest color possible.

  She forced her gaze away from St. Briac, who was looking splendid in a plain fitted doublet of cocoa-brown velvet, and sought the figure of the king again. Members of the court seemed to stop him at every turn, but he was working his way gradually toward her wing, and she knew with unerring instinct that she, or rather Honorine, was his goal. Heart pounding and palms perspiring, Aimée crossed the chamber and climbed back into bed. There wasn't time to dress properly, and perhaps a sweet, half-asleep appearance would blunt Francois's inevitable rage.

  Out in the courtyard, a pair of tiny gray eyes in a wizened face also were following the progress of the king. After watching him reach the entrance to the Louis XII wing, Gaspard LeFait made haste toward the great stairway.

  "Monseigneur," he called, his foot on the first stone step. "Monseigneur, I crave a word with you!"

  St. Briac lifted his head with a grimace. He and Ghislaine had been deep in a discussion of what they would pack for their luncheon in the woods. Already he could taste the Chinon wine, the succulent oranges and strawberries, cheeses, cold salmon and pheasant, sweetmeats.

  "Gaspard, you meddler, speak your mind." Something told him that the subject would be one he would prefer not to consider, yet when the little manservant bade him descend the stairs for a word in private, St. Briac apologized to Ghislaine and went to hear the news.

  * * *

  When the knock sounded at her door, Aimée thought fleetingly that it was a good thing Suzette was exploring the town today. Humiliation would be easier to bear alone.

  "Mademoiselle de Fleurance?" The soft, imploring voice was familiar by now. "Will you be gracious enough to admit me?"

  Aimée sat up in bed, pressing the coverlet to her bosom, and steeled herself. "Of course, sire. Please come in."

  The heavy paneled door swung open, but she could not summon the courage to look in his direction.

  "Cherie," Francois was murmuring gently as he came around the side of the bed, "you cannot imagine how many times I have wished to see you, to share your enchanting company since that night in Nieuil. You have been ever in my thoughts, and I confess that I had begun to fear that you were but an illusion after so many days without even a glimpse of your beautiful—"

  The sound of his gasp made Aimée wince. What would he do? Murder her? Was such a punishment allowed, even for the king?

  "God's blood," he managed to whisper harshly. "You! Impossible! Who would practice so shocking a deception at my expense? Where is Honorine? Answer me! Answer me now!"

  Somehow Aimée managed to turn her head and meet his fiery hazel eyes. She had never seen such an expression on the king's usually merry face. Shrinking back against the pillows, she breathed, "Honorine is in Nieuil, Your Majesty."

  "Nieuil? Nieuil? Sacrebleu!" He stared at her incredulously and then paced across the room and around the massive bed. "How has this happened? What devil sent you in her place?"

  It was obvious that Francois had not forgotten even a syllable uttered by Aimée that afternoon in the woods, nor had he forgiven her. She fought a wave of fearful nausea, suddenly feeling extremely tiny in the great bed that was the property of this very man. "I realize that you have no reason to have sympathy for my plight, Your Majesty, but I beg you to listen before condemning me."

  The king's anger had by no means subsided, but he was becoming more conscious of this maiden's extraordinary loveliness in spite of the fact that she had insulted and spurned him once before. There was an enchantment about the girl that was almost irresistible. Still, he glared at her before perching on the side of the bed. "I am listening, but my patience is thin. Make haste."

  Briefly, Aimée explained that she was Honorine's sister, gave her name, and then went on to describe the events leading up to this moment of confrontation. "I know that I have behaved unforgivably,Your Majesty, and that my only hope is that you will treat me with understanding and mercy. I would not be so foolish as to request another moment of your hospitality, but if you will allow me to leave quietly—"

  "Leave?" Francois laughed softly. "Leave? My dear Aimée, it is I who would be foolish to let you go. Any female resourceful enough to do what you have done all alone is a jewel. I prize intelligence in the ladies of my court, and yours is undoubtedly without peer. You have won my lasting respect and admiration. Tell me that you'll stay."

  She blinked. How could this be happening? "I—I don't understand, sire."

  His smile was playful as he reached for one of her delicate hands. "But I think that you do. I am not an ogre, cherie; in fact, some have said that my spirit is unusually magnanimous and forgiving. It would be easy for me to puff up with excessive pride and deal with you harshly, but that would benefit neither of us. I like to think that I am a wise enough man to seek out the humor in a situation rather than resorting to anger and revenge, which would be perfectly justified, I ought to point out." The king's eyes twinkled as he thought of St. Briac's advice about humor versus rage. His friend would be proud of this performance.

  Aimée realized that an appropriate response was expected of her. "I do not deserve your forgiveness, Your Majesty. Never have I encountered such benevolence."

  "Were I less impressed with your quick wit and courage in carrying off your little masquerade, my response might be different. However, as it is, I believe I am glad that Honorine is in Nieuil, and her irrepressible"—He paused to shift closer to her—"and very beautiful sister is here with me instead. Having you as part of my court promises to be an entertaining experience, Aimée."

  With a sickening jolt, it dawned on her just wha
t sort of entertainment he intended her to provide. She wore only a shift of ivory silk, and the king was gazing appreciatively at the swell of her breasts and the creamy lines of her bare arms and throat. Wildly, she considered a confession that she was not nearly so resourceful as he believed, that she could never have deceived him so neatly without the aid of St. Briac. But Aimée could not betray Thomas, even if her silence meant letting the king into her bed. Besides, it was obvious that Francois had made up his mind. He was pleased with the morning's surprises, and now he was ready for other pleasures.

  She watched with horror as one beringed hand caressed her arm. There was nothing she could do; the king was going to honor her with his lovemaking, and she must receive his gift with gratitude. His forgiveness of all Aimée had done in the past only intensified her entrapment.

  "How lovely you are, my little wood sprite." He smiled to let her know that he was going to make a private joke out of that afternoon in the woods when Aimée's rudeness had verged on a criminal offense. "Already you are stealing into my heart. I find you captivating."

  Somehow he had moved near enough to gather her into arms covered with jewel-encrusted plum satin. Tears rose in Aimée's throat and stung her eyes. Obviously the king meant her no harm. His touch and voice were gentle, and he doubtless believed that her gaze was averted out of maidenly shyness. A new knot twisted inside her as she wondered whether he would be able to tell that she was not a virgin, and if so, what his reaction would be.

  "Do not be nervous, ma cherie. You have nothing to fear."

  When Francois bent to kiss her tenderly, Aimée felt as if she were falling down an endless black tunnel with no hope of rescue. His left arm was around her back while the other slid to her side; his fingers explored the contours of her breast. She nearly sobbed aloud but managed to keep silent as her instinct for survival won out. Trying not to think of what was to come, Aimée concentrated instead on the mouth that was pressed to her own. He was kissing her with infinite gentleness and skill, yet she was revolted. How could this experience be so drastically different from what she had shared with St. Briac? Where was the fire that had danced over her nerves that night in the garden?

  "Sweet... sweet," the king was murmuring thickly as his lips traveled downward over her neck, shoulder, and the first blossoming of her breasts. Aimée held her breath, certain that her heart would burst. He had begun to lower the bodice of her shift, when a knock at the door caused them both to start.

  "Who is it?" Francois demanded impatiently. "What do you want?"

  "Sire, is that you?" a familiar voice demanded. "What a surprise."

  "For God's sake, St. Briac, what is it? Have you nothing better to do than wander the corridors and knock on doors at random?"

  "Oh, I did not choose this chamber at random, sire," he answered cheerfully. "I've come to visit Aimée. Is she there?"

  "Incroyable," the king muttered. Climbing off the bed, he straightened his doublet and strode over to open the door. "Have you taken leave of your senses? What business have you with Mademoiselle de Fleurance, and how do you know her?"

  St. Briac smiled and strode past Francois with an audacity that made Aimée want to laugh and weep at the same time. He had come.

  "I have a confession to make, sire. Perhaps you should sit down." St. Briac perched boldly on the edge of the bed and reached for Aimée's hand. "Bonjour, miette. You are well today?"

  She blinked in confusion at his fond words and tone. What was the man about? "Yes, I am well," she replied hesitantly.

  St. Briac turned her hand over and kissed the palm, looking up at her with eyes that were reckless and unmistakably angry. "I have missed you," he whispered.

  In spite of her spinning thoughts, Aimée felt the inevitable current of warmth from his hard, hot mouth. Never had he looked more appealingly masculine to her, clad in the fitted unembellished doublet, the whiteness of the fraise contrasting with the cocoa-brown velvet and the neat line of his bearded jaw. There was a dangerous undercurrent in St. Briac's demeanor that filled Aimée with excitement and apprehension.

  "For God's sake, Thomas, I demand that you explain yourself! Quit fawning over Mademoiselle de Fleurance and make your confession." The king shifted uneasily in his chair.

  "It is not easy." He sighed as if distressed and then stared toward the windows. "How can I find words to tell my king, my cherished friend, that I have helped to deceive him? I knew from the first night, in Gencay, that it was Aimée and not Honorine de Fleurance who had joined the court train, yet I did not come to you with the truth."

  Horrified, Aimée burst out, "But it was not his fault, Your Majesty! I am to blame. I begged him and even resorted to tears, and still he refused ever to tell a lie to you for my sake."

  "Be easy, there is no more reason for either of you to be concerned about Aimée's little masquerade," Francois insisted. "She and I have talked it over and agreed that it was an amusing adventure. I find I am quite charmed by her resourcefulness and have begged her to remain with us here at court." He stood and continued firmly, "And now that your conscience is cleansed I must ask you to leave us."

  St. Briac looked at Aimée for a long minute, searching her face and eyes. Then he sighed harshly. "I fear that I cannot do that, sire. There is more that I must confess. You see..." He paused to rake a hand through his hair. "I find that I am in love with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. I believe that she returns my feelings, and in truth, she has already given me her maidenhood. I came here this morning to ask her"—a muscle tightened in his jaw "—to be my wife."

  Part Two

  Ah! my heart, ah! what aileth thee

  To set so light by liberty,

  Making me bond when I was free?

  Ah! my heart, ah! what aileth thee?

  Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)

  Chapter 11

  May 5, 1526

  "Did you mean it?" Aimée managed to ask softly after Francois had left them alone. He had promised to give them an answer that night.

  St. Briac, who had been pacing like a caged panther ever since the door closed, whirled around now. "Mean it?" he echoed in a low voice deadly with sarcasm.

  Instantly on guard, Aimée cringed against the pillows as he advanced on her. This caustic, dangerous-looking St. Briac was so unfamiliar to her as to seem frightening. Why was he acting this way, and what had she done to deserve it?

  "I would laugh were this entire situation not so pathetic. Mean it? Could you doubt my eternal love for you, Mademoiselle de Fleurance? Have I not told you often enough?" When he arched a brow above narrowed eyes, Aimée thought that surely Satan was there before her. "You must know that I have dreamed only of making you my wife since the first moment we met. I cannot bear to live one minute deprived of your sweet company."

  "I beg you cease!" Aimée choked on burning tears. "Why are you saying these things? Why did you do this—tell the king that you want to marry me—if in truth you hate me so? Once you swore that you would never tell him less than the truth on my account. Now you suddenly burst in after not speaking to me for days, lie outrageously and in a way that ensnarls your own life, then attack me as if I had coerced you into behaving this way."

  "Shall we call Francois back and claim that I was momentarily deranged? Too much sun? Doubtless he'd be happy to believe it; he could resume his seduction. Is that what you want? Perhaps I was too hasty; tell me that you were eager for his lovemaking, and I'll gladly take back every word I spoke about wanting to marry you."

  His voice was like a whip, and she cringed with each lash. "No, you're right. I did not want the king to make love to me. He was kind and gentle, and I knew I had no choice after he had been magnanimous enough to forgive me, but I thought I would be ill. I thought I would die! And"—She let out a little sobbing hiccough—"and all he did was kiss me before you came. You were like an angel, appearing from heaven to save me—"

  "Oh, no. Spare me this, I beg you!" Feeling himself weaken slightly in the face of her appeal, S
t. Briac turned away and groaned in frustration.

  "I still do not understand," Aimée whispered tentatively.

  "Why I asked for your hand in marriage? Because, my naive troublemaking vixen, nothing short of honorable intentions on my part could have dissuaded the king of France from claiming you as his own. What should I have said, 'Excuse me, sire, for interrupting you in the act of seduction, but I happen to know that this young lady would prefer not to engage in lovemaking with you'? Or I could have told him that I had already deflowered you but it was a mistake and I had no further interest in you yet would prefer that he keep his hands to himself. Or—"

  Aimée put up a hand, conscious all the while of a nagging pain in her breast. "I understand. It was the same dilemma I was faced with. One doesn't deny the king."

  "Unless we were friends, I couldn't have interfered even with a marriage proposal. Only because he is fond of me will Francois consider it."

  None of this answered the question uppermost in Aimée's mind, the one she was terrified to pose. "But you did not have to do this, monseigneur. You care not for me but for the duchesse de Roanne. I do not understand, and I would appreciate hearing the reason."

  "I don't know the reason!" Every muscle in St. Briac's body was clenched as he towered above her. "It must be this cursed excess of conscience that has plagued me all my life. Just this once I would that it had deserted me!"

  He exited, slamming the paneled door, and the floodgates broke inside of Aimée. Collapsing, she turned her face into the pillows and wept until she was spent.