You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  * * *

  "Do you jest? Perhaps you fell asleep or forgot the time and that is why you did not join me for our rendezvous in the woods!" Ghislaine turned away from her fireplace, haloed by the dancing flames, and stared hopefully at St. Briac. "Truly, mon cher, I would not dream of interfering if I could believe that you were serious about this abrupt betrothal, but I confess that I am stunned."

  "No more than I, Ghislaine," he muttered. His attempts to explain Aimée's situation and his own involvement had sounded bizarre even to his own ears. No wonder Ghislaine thought he had spun the tale for her amusement. "The marriage proposal was not something I planned. I was not contemplating it as we spoke on the steps this morning. If Gaspard, that devil's agent, had not told me that Francois was in Aimée's chamber, none of this would have happened."

  "But Thomas, I still do not understand why you feel such responsibility for the fate of this girl who has been unknown to me and as yet unseen."

  He stared at Ghislaine as she crossed the room, arms outstretched with typical warmth and generosity. She already had dressed for tonight's banquet and looked especially lovely in a gown of rose silk, its long fitted sleeves and bodice sewn with crystals and pearls. Her toffee-hued waves of hair were tamed by a golden caul studded with more pearls, making a focal point of the large, luminous blue eyes that were the duchesse's most striking feature. They were invariably clear and honest; St. Briac needed to ask few questions when he could search her eyes.

  "I wish that I could explain," he whispered, gathering her into his embrace. If the story of the passionate encounter between himself and Aimée at Chenonceau would have clarified the situation, Thomas would have offered it, but he knew that that was not the true reason for this entanglement. It had begun the first moment he saw her in the Nieuil woods. "If only she had not begun this foolish masquerade, we would never have come to this. I told her—the instant I discovered what she was up to—that it was insane, that she was asking for trouble she couldn't imagine, that it would end with the king in her bed or worse!"

  Ghislaine drew back to gaze up into the face she loved so well. How tense he was, how unaware of her own presence. "Your Aimée is very headstrong, I take it. I wonder why she arouses such protective instincts in you."

  "Protective? The principal emotions I feel in her company are frustration and rage. The vixen has caused me nothing but trouble. I wish our paths had never crossed. I swear, if I could wake up tomorrow and find her returned to Nieuil, I would feel only profound relief."

  "I hope then, for your sake, Thomas, that you will not be forced to live with Mademoiselle de Fleurance for the rest of your days."

  He gave a derisive snort and reached up to rub the back of his neck. "I don't intend that it will come to that, my dear."

  "Well, as you know, I cannot protest if it should, since I am a married woman myself. In any case, we can go on as before, can we not?"

  St. Briac was touched by the stricken expression that passed over Ghislaine's usually serene countenance. "Yes, of course." He kissed her long and deeply yet without desire.

  "It is late, Thomas," she whispered when at length they drew apart. "You must dress. I will see you when we sup."

  His eyes were distracted as he lifted both of Ghislaine's pale hands and kissed her fingers, each of which gleamed with a unique and beautiful ring. "I am grateful as always for your gift of listening without judging or arguing with me. You are my peace."

  Ghislaine sighed to herself as he departed and wondered why trouble rather than peace seemed to have captured her lover's attention and passion.

  * * *

  Gaspard LeFait was waiting with a large linen towel when his master stepped dripping from the cuve.

  "You will be late if you don't hurry," the little man muttered.

  Fed up with his own bad temper, St. Briac managed not to reply. Instead, he dried off briskly in front of the fire and looked around for his clothes.

  "I suppose you will be dining with your betrothed," Gaspard ventured while producing the garments.

  "Guard your tongue," came the low response.

  "At times it has a will of its own, monseigneur."

  "So I've noticed." St. Briac drew on hose and then pulled a snowy shirt over his head.

  "In truth, I cannot stop it now from saying that this day's events astonish even me."

  "Indeed?" Sighing, St. Briac tucked the shirt into snug haut-de-chausses of black velvet.

  The sigh struck deep inside Gaspard. What had become of his devil-may-care master who always faced trouble with a jest? "Will you listen to no one? How could you have allowed yourself to become ensnarled in such a coil? I sensed from the first that the black-haired chit would complicate our lives, but I never would have dreamed that she'd change them—or you, monseigneur."

  St. Briac raised blue-green eyes to stare hard at his manservant. "My life is my own, Gaspard, as are its complications. I'll deal with both, one way or another."

  The little man tightened his lips but kept silent as he proffered a black velvet doublet trimmed in silver to his master. After it was laced, he straightened St. Briac pleated fraise and pulled bits of white shirt-sleeve through the slashings in the doublet.

  "Monseigneur," Gaspard said at length, watching the tall man distractedly brush his hair. "Pardon me for saying so, but it is my feeling that this misadventure will not be resolved with your usual roguish ease. Truly, my feeling is that Mademoiselle de Fleurance is the greatest problem we—that is, you—have ever encountered. Even in battle I was not so concerned about whether you would emerge unscathed."

  St. Briac paused in the doorway and gave his manservant a wry smile. "Don't quote me, windbag, but for once you are absolutely correct."

  * * *

  Downstairs in the hall of honor, Aimée stood near the elaborate fireplace where tiny sculpted angels held up gilded carvings of a salamander and an ermine on the mantelpiece. She looked around, decidedly ill at ease, and sipped her wine. People whose names she could not remember milled about, garbed in rich fabrics crusted with jewels. The colors were unlike the simpler ones she was used to: copper, violet, gentian, topaz yellow. The king wore cloth-of-silver set with sapphires and diamonds; his jerkin was royal blue velvet with more diamonds and ermine trim. Even standing off to one side with Anne d'Heilly and a small group of rapt admirers, Francois was the focal point of the hall. This was the first banquet given on a grand scale since the court's arrival at Blois. Celebration was in the air, and spirits were high.

  Aimée regarded the king for a long minute. After his entrance that evening, to the loud fanfare of trumpets, he had surprised the uneasy Aimée by working his way gradually to her side. With good humor Francois introduced her to everyone in sight and told the story of her masquerade as though it amused him endlessly. The members of the court, pink-cheeked in the rosemary-scented firelight, nodded politely before drifting away in the eventual wake of their monarch. Now she stood alone and felt their eyes on her from a distance, sensed their curious whispers and condescending appraisals of her person. Francois had said nothing of St. Briac or his astonishing marriage proposal. What had he decided? What did she want him to decide?

  Her eyes strayed back to the mantelpiece and rested on the ermine. Queen Claude had been raised here at Blois, the daughter of Louis XII and Anne de Bretagne. Francois had undertaken the creation of the newest wing so that his wife might continue to live in a fitting manner at her childhood home. This was the first time Francois had been here since her death during the Italian campaign; Aimée wondered whether he mourned the poor young queen who had died at twenty-five after giving her husband seven children in eight years of marriage. Had he loved her? Everyone knew that there had always been royal mistresses, most principally Francois de Foix, the comtesse de Chateaubriant, who eventually had fallen out of favor and now was in exile in Britanny. Aimée found this style of life bewildering and wondered whether Queen Claude had, too. By all accounts she had been sweet, loving, and ch
aritable, though not a beauty. Had her plainness been her undoing with Francois? Aimée sighed. Perhaps the poor little queen had died of a broken heart. "Better death than disgrace" was the motto inscribed beneath the graceful ermine.

  "Bon soir, Mademoiselle de Fleurance. Pardon me for saying so, but I could not help noticing that you appear a bit forlorn. Would you mind company?"

  Instantly on guard, Aimée looked around to discover the kind, lovely face of Marguerite d'Angouleme. They had met in the flurry of introductions performed by the king but had exchanged only a word or two of polite greeting. Aimée remembered now what St. Briac had said about Francois's beloved sister: "The lady is not only graceful but compassionate and intelligent as well."

  "It is very thoughtful of you to offer..."

  "Marguerite. You must call me Marguerite; everyone does."

  Aimée beamed, put at ease by the older woman's warmth and friendliness. "I would be honored—and I am Aimée."

  "I saw you looking at the ermine, Aimée. Lovely, is it not? Just as was the woman whom it symbolizes."

  "How sad that the queen died at such a young age."

  "Do you think so?" Marguerite smiled serenely. "I prefer to think that our Lord let her remain with us until her work was done and that now she is with Him. Perhaps you have heard that Claude's body has been waiting here at Blois until my brother could return for the funerals for her and their little daughter, Louise. There is evidence that the queen has performed miracles here since her death."

  "Really?"

  "At any rate, you must not grieve for her, Aimée; she had a very rich life. As the king's daughter, she could not inherit the throne, but was it not fortunate that she was still able to become queen when my brother assumed the crown? Perhaps it was part of God's plan that King Louis would have no surviving son. His daughter was able to bring the monarch's own blood to a match with Francois, who everyone agrees was destined to rule our land. It must have been a joy for Claude to give life to their children, and she would have been proud to see her own sons conducting themselves with such bravery now in Spain. The queen graciously did not only God's work but that of France as well. Singular achievements for so brief a stay in this world, yes? And now she is enjoying her reward."

  Aimée blinked, mesmerized by Marguerite's gentle, calm voice and point of view. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

  "You are still very young. I am doubtless twice your age, Aimée, and have learned that wisdom and trust in God grow with time." Her eyes shifted to the gown Aimée wore, signaling a change in the tone of the conversation. "How are you enjoying all this excitement? It must be quite different from what you are accustomed to in Nieuil. I wonder that we did not meet at the hunting lodge last month."

  "That is another complicated story," Aimée murmured ruefully. "I am only glad that I no longer have to fear discovery by the king. How kind and understanding he has been."

  "I don't wonder, child. You are as fresh, unaffected, and lovely as a spring rain. That gown is a treasure."

  Aimée glanced down at the relatively simple creation of rich emerald velvet edged with golden embroidery. Just above her hips rode the same golden girdle she had worn to the king's hunting lodge at Nieuil, but her necklace was a single diamond on a delicate gold chain, and the crispinette that tamed her ebony curls was sprinkled with diamonds among the more numerous pearls. Still, Aimée felt that her finery paled in comparison with the sumptuous clothes worn by everyone else at court.

  "It's really nothing, Marguerite," she apologized, blushing a bit. "In truth, I feel like a sparrow in a crowd of peacocks."

  Although Marguerite's gown was as lavish as any, she scoffed lightly at Aimée's words. "Nonsense, my dear. It is your very simplicity that makes you shine, like a perfect gem that requires no excessive embellishment. I can see why my brother is so taken with you."

  Aimée flushed and tried to smile, but Marguerite exclaimed softly, "Ah, speaking of masterful simplicity, there is a brilliant example." She paused to emit a decidedly girlish sigh. "Do you see that man who has just entered at the far end of the hall? He is taller than anyone else, with broad shoulders, and is clad all in black velvet except for the white at his slashings. Black! Who else but St. Briac would dare it and bring it off so effortlessly?" All at once, Marguerite seemed to remember Aimée. "No doubt you have yet to meet the seigneur de St. Briac, but perhaps you glimpsed him as we traveled north. He is quite a man!"

  Rosy-cheeked and speechless, Aimée stared across the hall and instantly met the gleaming eyes of St. Briac. He glanced quickly away, a muscle moving in his jaw, and appeared to be intent on conversation with Bonnivet and Florange. A sigh rose in Aimée's throat.

  "Yes, Marguerite," she murmured wistfully, "quite a man, indeed."

  Chapter 12

  May 5-6, 1526

  Boards of polished walnut had been laid over trestles before the crowd was seated for the lavish repast. Aimée stayed close to Marguerite as they approached the table, but to her chagrin the king announced that she would be sitting on the other side, next to the seigneur de St. Briac.

  Moments later, eyes averted, she felt him settle down beside her on the long bench. The fresh scent of his soap was stirring, and she found her downcast gaze fixed on St. Briac's hard thigh, sheathed in black velvet, which rested just inches away from her body. Silly fool, Aimée scolded herself. Do you want him to think you are a tongue-tied child undone by his mere proximity? Straightening her back, she looked up to find that he was engaged in conversation with his comrade Bonnivet, who sat to his left. Aimée turned her attention to a goblet of strong Hungarian wine.

  "So, miette," he said at length in a tone both soft and cold, "we meet again. Fate can be so confounding."

  Aimée turned her head, and their eyes locked. St. Briac's expression was unreadable, as though he were making an effort to erect a high barrier between them. She wondered fleetingly if the lighthearted wit that once had seemed an intrinsic part of the man still lurked anywhere within him.

  Rising to the challenge, Aimée let her almost feline eyes flicker over his black costume.

  "Bon soir, monseigneur," she greeted him, deliberately casual. "Are you in mourning?"

  St. Briac's lips twitched of their own accord, and he cursed her inwardly for making him smile. It seemed that no matter how he tried, he couldn't hate the minx. "In mourning?" he echoed, remembering what she had said to him on the barge. "For my lost innocence? Perish the thought, especially at this late date."

  Aimée pursed her lips, struggling against laughter without success. It spilled out charmingly. Dimples winked and leaf-green eyes tilted upward to melt St. Briac's shield of ice. He shook his head with a wry smile of surrender.

  "Why is it so difficult to remain angry with you? I was looking forward to making you suffer through this entire evening. I was going to be cold as marble, ruthlessly cruel."

  "I am sorry to disappoint your plans, monseigneur," Aimée interrupted primly. Bubbles of delight rose inside her. "Truly, I am repentant."

  One side of his mouth quirked upward. "Yes, that's obvious."

  Distraction appeared in the form of silver-clad pages carrying giant dishes that held pyramids of meats in all forms, roasted or boiled, mixed with fish or vegetables. Sauces arrived in separate bowls. St. Briac was surprised to look up and find the king gazing speculatively at both him and Aimée. He raised a brow in question, but Francois merely gave him an infuriating smile before turning to respond to some remark of Louise de Savoy's.

  During the meal there was little opportunity for St. Briac and Aimée to share any private conversation, which was a relief to both. She picked her way through dishes of soup; rillons, a kind of potted pork from Tours; beef pate; shad with butter sauce; artichokes; cauliflower; fillets of veal with cream sauce; cheese from Vincennes, freshly curdled and drained in little baskets woven from wicker; and finally a colorful assortment of every imaginable variety of fruit. There was still much that she had not tasted, more courses
than she could count. The silver plates were changed with each new dish, the goblets were replaced and filled with different wines, and there was a new type of eating utensil that Aimée had never seen before. St. Briac explained that it was called a fork, and was used to spear rebellious bits of food so that they would not be spilled on one's clothes. He tried to remain matter-of-fact, but the sight of Aimée staring suspiciously at the ivory-handled implement made him want to laugh. Instead, he smiled and hoped no one had seen.

  Lofty conversation swirled about them. The guests were discussing astronomy, the law, medicine, Emperor Charles V and the possible outcome of the treaty which had yet to be signed, the fate of humanity, exploration of new worlds. Aimée and St. Briac listened with half an ear; neither could admit it, but their attention was focused on each other, and both were wondering what decision the king had reached concerning their betrothal.

  Across the table, one voice rose above the others. The chevalier de Chauverge had leaned forward to speak to the king.

  "Your Majesty, I must inquire whether you have given further thought to Georges Teverant and his involvement in the Semblancay affair. Your very wise mother and I were just discussing this, and we agree that it is a problem that merits your immediate attention."

  "Does it?" Francois asked mildly, lifting his serviette to wipe a droplet of cream sauce from his lips. "I am not quite as convinced as you seem to be, my dear Chauverge, and your constant pestering is beginning to irritate me. I'll admit that there is much that Semblancay has done that concerns me, yet Teverant appears to be an honest enough young man. It doesn't seem to me that it would serve justice to punish him for the sins of an old yet powerful man."

  "But sire, Teverant was Semblancay's assistant, his agent in dishonoring you."

  The king's almond-shaped eyes flickered only briefly in Chauverge's direction. "I am well aware of the facts and will interpret them as I see fit. When you are king, Chauverge, I trust that you will be able to do the same." He reached for a fig in a gesture of dismissal.