You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  St. Briac rubbed long fingers along his jaw. This was the most extraordinary female he had ever encountered or even imagined.

  "I suppose you want me to let the old crone go free," he muttered, arching a dubious brow.

  "Yes. Now that those men are in prison, as they certainly should be, Madame Lissieu will do no more harm." She put out a small white hand and touched his bronzed one. "And Thomas?"

  "I don't like your tone. You want me to do something even more outrageously foolish."

  Aimée laughed, well aware of the charming picture she made. "I would appreciate one more generous gesture on your part, monseigneur. I would feel so much better about the fate of Madame Lissieu if I knew what she was doing."

  Wincing, he murmured bravely, "And?"

  "And I thought it would be wonderful if she could have a place on the household staff. I'm sure there must be any number of things she could do, and then we would be certain not only that she was behaving herself but also that she was no longer hungry, cold, or lonely."

  The words had poured out in a persuasive rush that left St. Briac momentarily stunned. "Are you mad?" he choked out at last. "No, don't bother to reply. I've known the answer since the moment I met you, when you halted the king of France in the midst of a hunt. You dare too much, Aimée. You push too far."

  "I don't mean to," she replied. "It seemed a fine, honest solution to me. Sensible, in fact."

  "Sensible!" he repeated loudly, as if unable to believe his ears. "You've never had a sensible thought in your life. I've yet to see you behave sensibly for even an instant. And you have the audacity to tell me what's sensible? This is too much!"

  "You needn't announce it to all of France," Aimée muttered, and then added stubbornly, "And I still say it's a sensible idea."

  St. Briac was holding his head in his hands and shaking it from side to side in disbelief. "I suppose you'd also like a slice of the moon for supper."

  "Thomas?" She put a hand on his crisp, dark hair. "If you do this for me, I will promise you something that will make you very happy."

  "Don't keep me in suspense," he retorted.

  "If you will see to it that Marie Lissieu is given a position on the household staff here at Blois, I will find a way to leave here in less than a week without damaging your reputation."

  He experienced an unsettling twinge in his chest at her words but dismissed it as relief. Straightening, he gave Aimée a pleased smile and held out a hand to take one of hers. "Music to my ears, Mademoiselle de Fleurance. I would say that's a fair exchange of favors."

  When she returned his smile, it felt as if her face might crack. As they shook hands, Aimée said lightly, "Not only fair, monseigneur, but eminently sensible."

  Chapter 15

  May 12, 1526

  Lilies of the valley, apple blossoms, purple and white lilacs, and gilly flowers mingled their fragrances in the warm breeze that wafted over the courtyard. Aimée inhaled appreciatively as she made her way across the giant cobbles to the Saint-Calais chapel, which stood behind the section of the Louis XII wing that paralleled the river. The king did not attend mass until ten, and so there was still time for Aimée to say a few prayers alone. She was feeling in need of divine inspiration after days of struggling to formulate a suitable plan for her departure from Blois. There were so many aspects to consider, involving so many people, that there seemed to be no ideal solution. She had just three days to discover one. St. Briac had kept his part of the bargain; Marie Lissieu was now a laundress at Blois. It was Aimée's turn to live up to her promise.

  The silk skirts of her hyacinth-blue gown whispered as she made her way down the nave of the chapel. Stillness and peace always seemed so much richer and more meaningful to Aimée inside a church. As a child, she'd imagined that the quiet meant that God was listening, waiting to hear all her needs and feelings. Smiling, she approached the chancel. Morning sunlight streamed through brightly tinted stained-glass windows, intensifying the golden spell. A movement off to one side caught Aimée's eye then, and she realized with surprise that a man was kneeling there, his head bent in prayer. For a moment she thought it might be St. Briac, for the dark hair, broad shoulders, and partially visible beard struck a familiar chord. Yet the golden jerkin, trimmed with sable and set with emeralds, was a bit lavish for St. Briac's tastes.

  All at once the head came up, swiveling to seek her out, and Aimée flushed with embarrassment as she realized how curiously she had been staring. She gasped, then whispered agitatedly, "Oh, Your Majesty! I—pardonnez moi! I did not mean to disturb you! I am surprised that you would be here alone, that is, I did not expect—"

  Francois rose lightly, smiling, and walked to the nave to clasp one of Aimée's hands. "I slipped in for a moment of privacy before mass. I wanted to speak to Claude, my cherished queen, before I depart for Cognac tomorrow. They don't like me to wander about on my own, but I exercise my royal temperament from time to time."

  Aimée found this warm little speech quite intriguing. He had come alone to speak to Claude, the queen she imagined he had used up like so much wine or rich clothing. So disarmed was she by his manner that she heard herself asking, "Has your wife's death truly caused you such pain? Did you cherish her so fervently?"

  Misunderstanding her, Francois smiled indulgently and reassuringly. "Don't worry, mademoiselle. If I know Thomas, he will cherish you just as fervently once you become his wife. As for Claude..." For an instant tears sparkled in the faraway hazel eyes that stared over Aimée's head to the altar. "No one but she knew just how devoted I was. If I could bring her back with my life, I would gladly do so."

  Stupefied by this totally unexpected display of emotion, Aimée felt an urge to weep. "Your Majesty, I am so sorry. I should not have pressed you on this subject. Please forgive me."

  He shook his head quickly and focused once again on the raven-haired beauty. "Nonsense. It is I who should beg your pardon. I'm afraid I simply haven't been myself since those months of captivity. A bit of crise de foi, you know." The king gave her a charming smile. "I must go and meet the others before mass, and I'll leave you to the privacy you came here for. Au revoir, Mademoiselle de Fleurance."

  Aimée watched him stride jauntily toward the doorway and don a bejeweled and feathered velvet hat as he emerged into the May sunshine. Crise de foi, the king had said matter-of-factly: crisis of the spirit; melancholy. Resolving to pursue the subject later with St. Briac, Aimée returned her attention to this patient God who was still waiting to listen to every problem. She quickly selected a kneeling bench near the altar, for there was little time. Genuflecting, Aimée made the sign of the cross and let her prayers pour out. Before long, an inspired plan took shape in her mind.

  * * *

  High in the canopied beech tree that grew near the chapel door, a blackcap and a chiffchaff warbled loudly in a way that made Aimée wonder whether the two males were in competition. It wouldn't have surprised her a bit if they were more intent on outdoing each other than on impressing their lady loves. Even as she paused in the doorway, smiling, a tiny rust-breasted stonechat flew upward to hover momentarily on a perch in the beech tree. He delivered a scratchy and jangling song and then fluttered off toward the garden.

  Aimée's hyacinth silk skirts swirled in the morning breeze as she followed the stonechat's lead. Her destination was the Francois I wing, but her progress was interrupted by the appearance of an unfamiliar coach in the courtyard. Two sumptuously garbed women were being assisted into the sunlight. As Aimée drew nearer, she wondered idly whether they were mother and daughter. Certainly all the evidence pointed to that conclusion, for one was white-haired and the other young, and they shared an unnerving resemblance to an Egyptian greyhound a visitor once had brought to Nieuil. Their faces were long, but not in the usual way. Instead, the distance from ears to tips of noses seemed startlingly protracted, while the span from beady eyes to chins was measured in a blink. Perhaps, mused Aimée with a mischievous smile, that was because the poor women ha
d no chins to speak of. Passing them as she started up the curving stone stairway, she noticed that their rib cages were outlined against their rich satin gowns. Could there be a race of people related to the greyhound?

  The peculiar-looking women soon were forgotten as Aimée stepped from the balcony into the corridor that led to St. Briac's apartments. She wondered how she would discover the right door but was spared the embarrassment of knocking on them one by one by the sound of familiar, muted voices. She traced them to the second door, which was slightly ajar, and then paused to listen to St. Briac and Gaspard LeFait exchanging lighthearted insults amid what sounded like a great deal of rustling and knocking about. Thomas's tone of exasperated amusement sent a shiver down her spine. What delight she had felt when it had been directed at her, even when edged with annoyance. It seemed an eternity since they had shared such badinage. The few times they had seen each other since their conversation in her sickbed, St. Briac had been the essence of friendly charm, a solicitous, courteous acquaintance and no more. His eyes had been as carefully averted as his manner had been guarded.

  With a sigh, Aimée focused her attention on the task at hand. It did no good to brood over what was better forgotten. Soon enough she wouldn't be seeing him at all. "Monseigneur?" Peeking hesitantly around the door, she turned crimson at the sight of him pulling on hose. His muscular thighs were naked; from the side she glimpsed a lean hip and buttock. A snowy linen shirt was unlaced to reveal the dark breadth of his chest. Stepping back behind the door, Aimée gulped and quavered. "My apologies, monseigneur. I did not realize..."

  The sound of St. Briac's chuckle was audible as a chest lid thumped shut and Gaspard scurried over to the doorway. "Mademoiselle de Fleurance," he implored, a pair of fawn haut-de-chausses draped over one arm, "if you could just wait one minute, my master will be dressed and fit for company."

  "Oh, of course!" Aimée agreed hastily, wishing she could cool the fire in her cheeks.

  "There's no reason for you to wait, miette!" St. Briac was calling merrily. "I've nothing to be ashamed of, and besides, you've seen it all, anyway."

  Aimée gasped, and Gaspard rolled his eyes and shook his head hopelessly. Hurrying back to his master, he vented a series of whispered admonitions, which were met with laughter. A few moments later, St. Briac bade her enter, and Aimée straightened her shoulders, pushed the door open, and walked into the spacious chamber.

  "You'll pardon me for my earlier state of dishabille, I trust," St. Briac was saying casually as he laced the front of his doublet. It was a handsome garment, fawn, with two long panels of sage green down the front. "I must have forgotten our appointment."

  Aimée's cheeks grew warm again. "We had no appointment, as you are well aware, monseigneur. I merely came to discuss a matter of importance to both of us."

  "Ah." He nodded with mock sobriety, knitting his brows in a way that made Aimée want to smile, and turned to Gaspard, who had gone to fetch his shoes. "Mademoiselle de Fleurance and I are about to engage in an important discussion, so I suppose you should leave us, Gaspard. I would appreciate it if you would inform the duchesse de Roanne that I will be unable to escort her to mass."

  The little manservant nodded, bowed, and cast a smile at Aimée before backing out the door.

  "Well, won't you sit down?" St. Briac gestured toward an upholstered chair decorated in gold and silver passementerie. "Can I offer you a glass of wine or some food?"

  Aimée took the chair and watched as he perched on the edge of his rumpled bed, pushing aside a richly embroidered silk curtain. For some reason the sight of him on the unmade bed caused her heart to race. "No, I don't care for anything, thank you. I—" She fussed with a fold in the skirt of her gown and then raised her wide green eyes. "I am sorry to have upset your plans with the duchesse, but as you probably realize, the time is nearly at hand for me to meet my part of our bargain. That is what I wanted to discuss with you."

  "Miette, you mustn't worry about Ghislaine or the time limit on our bargain." His gaze had softened as he regarded her thick-lashed eyes, dusky cheeks, and charming hyacinth gown against the background of the ornate chair. Ebony curls spilled over her shoulders, loose and abundant. "I don't intend to send you into the streets at week's end."

  "I'm sure you wouldn't, but I did give my word, and I know how anxious you are to be rid of me." She lifted her chin proudly. "No doubt the duchesse will be overjoyed to have you all to herself."

  St. Briac arched an eyebrow. "Am I to assume that you are leaving? I do hope you will confide your plan since it will certainly involve me."

  "Of course I will tell you; that is why I am here." Brightening, Aimée rushed over to the bed and perched beside him, but St. Briac moved slightly away and regarded her suspiciously. "Don't look at me that way, monseigneur! My plan is perfect. I don't know why we didn't think of it sooner."

  "Probably because we are so dull-witted," he muttered sarcastically.

  "You needn't act so apprehensive. You won't have to do anything except uphold my story here at court... and make me a small loan, which I will absolutely repay."

  "I can't wait to hear how you will do that, but first I would appreciate a few more details of this brilliant plan."

  Aimée grinned, pausing for effect, and then leaned over to his ear and whispered, "We shall say that I have had a vision, while I was ill, perhaps. I've realized that my first duty is to God, and so I am going to enter a convent."

  St. Briac blinked at the triumphant expression on her face. "That's it?"

  "The main part."

  "I am still waiting to hear the brilliant part. Please tell me also why you need to borrow my money if you're going to a nunnery."

  "I'm not really going to one, Thomas," she exclaimed. "We're just going to tell them that's where I've gone. It will be a perfect reason for us not to marry, and no one will think the worse of you. You will just have to act excessively noble about losing me to God, and then the entire matter will be forgotten before you know it."

  "I hate to bring this up," he said with a wince, "but where are you going in truth? I don't think a convent would be such a bad idea, personally."

  She waved a tiny hand as if to dismiss this subject as incidental. "I'm not exactly certain about that yet, but I can assure you that my destination will not be a convent. I was thinking of Paris. I could use the money you lend me to establish a little shop of some sort."

  "Aimée, this plot you've hatched sounds as insane as the one that landed you here at Blois. I can't let you go off alone to Paris. Look what happened to you in less than an hour the other day."

  "Oh, I wouldn't go alone. Suzette would come with me, and I thought that Paul, her young man, might accompany us, for safety's sake, of course."

  "Of course," St. Briac echoed ironically. "Never let it be said that you would overlook something like safety!"

  "Monseigneur, I don't see why you are being so mean about this. I thought you would be overjoyed to hear that I am going at last and that you won't have to be bothered with me any longer. There's no need for you to worry about my fate once I leave here; I'll manage somehow... I always have before."

  "It isn't your fate that concerns me so much as that of my money," he returned grouchily, springing up to pace across the room in a way now very familiar to Aimée. "I would like to hold out some hope that it might be returned to me eventually."

  "Oh, you needn't worry about that," Aimée said airily. "I'm like a cat; I always manage to land on my feet."

  St. Briac held his bowed head in his hands and groaned. "When did you plan to embark on this journey into the cold, hard world, my clumsy little kitten?"

  "Just as soon as we can set the stage. The king has already seen me in the chapel alone this morning, so that's a start. I shall just have to spend a great deal of time there and act very pious until tomorrow. Then I will go to the king with my story before he departs for Cognac."

  He looked over at her, lounging confidently on his bed, and bit back a smi
le. Pious! Hell itself would freeze before she could convince him, but Francois might be more gullible. "I suppose you will wear that ridiculous gable-hooded headdress for effect."

  Aimée giggled, her green eyes twinkling. "That's a good idea. I shall have to unearth the thing from the depths of my chest at once."

  Running a hand through his ruffled hair, St. Briac walked back to the bed and sighed in capitulation. Aimée held her breath, watching his dark hand reach out to trace the edge of her neckline from throat to the first swell of one breast. If only he wouldn't touch her, everything would be so much easier. Somehow she lifted her eyes and found his turquoise gaze almost brooding as he towered over her.

  "I suppose I shall have to agree to this madness," he murmured at length. "At least you are beautiful, miette. If all else fails in Paris, you can always become a courtesan, and then I'll be certain of repayment of this loan."

  Hot blood rushed to Aimée's cheeks, but she couldn't move. Instinct told her that he was about to join her on the bed, and she hadn't the willpower to resist the prospect of one of his intoxicating kisses or the bliss of his embrace. This might be the last time.

  "Monseigneur!" There was a sharp knock at the door, and then Gaspard burst in, breathless. "You must come with me at once. The king requests your presence in his study."

  "What's wrong? You behave as if we are under attack."

  "Something like that," Gaspard muttered. "I haven't time to explain, and the rumors I've heard may be wrong. You'd better come quickly and find out for yourself." He turned to Aimée, who had risen from the bed and was looking on in confusion. "Mademoiselle de Fleurance, I think it would be wise for you to remain here. You may be needed as well."