"Yes, of course."
"I cannot tell you everything, but I will say that the reason I am here is to collect an important letter."
"From that night bird?" she queried shrewdly.
St. Briac grinned. "You are too bright for your own good. Yes, that is the messenger. This could be very important, and it is especially crucial that Chauverge not suspect."
"Why don't I go back now. I will make certain that he is not lurking in the courtyard so that you can receive your letter in complete safety." A sudden smile lit her face. "I know! I will make the same bird call or at least a reasonable imitation to let you know Chauverge is gone."
He had to laugh gently at her excitement. "A brilliant plan, miette." Aimée was already turning, eager to play this more active roll in the night's adventure, but St. Briac reached out and captured her waist with both hands. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but first let me say good night and thank you. You've helped more than you know. Mille mercis."
Chapter 20
May 24, 1526
Aimée was perched on the slope of a lush meadow that curved outward from Blois to melt into woodlands. Heedless of her gown of soft white batiste, she tucked her bare feet more securely beneath her derriere and selected another lapful of wild flowers. The garland was almost finished. Woven of violets, oxe-eye daisies, and tiny buttercups, it would contrast charmingly with her tumbled black curls. Aimée pushed her sleeves higher in defense against the May sunshine and sighed, wondering how long she had been here. Would the afternoon be nearly over when she returned to the chateau?
The joy which she had pressed to her heart day and night like a tender, secret poem was fading away, as were the early buttercups that drooped nearby. Last week they had all been fresh, their faces turned toward the sun.
Where was St. Briac? It was silly, she knew, to make so much of their little scene in the garden. He had trusted her enough to confide at least a portion of something important. He had smiled at her as an equal, had been grateful for her help, had even said "Mille mercis" in a tone that still warmed her. That next morning she had fairly danced out of bed, dressing with care before setting off across the courtyard in search of him. Aimée couldn't recall feeling happier in all her life. It wouldn't be hard to convince the Dagonneaux that she positively adored St. Briac. She could scarcely wait to see him, put her hand in his tanned fingers that would reach out to her, hear his laughter, smile up into his blue-green eyes that crinkled so irresistibly at the corners. She hungered for him, and Blanche and Cecile-Anne would certainly be dazzled when they watched the seigneur de St. Briac with his lady love.
But he was gone. Adding to her despair was Ghislaine Pepin, who had met her in the courtyard to deliver the news. The duchesse was perfectly kind as she explained that Thomas had gone hunting for a few days with Florange and some other courtiers, to Fontainebleu, she thought. Yes, it was a spur of the moment decision, Florange's idea, it seemed.
Aimée suffered through nearly a week alone, her magical elation drying up like those early buttercups at her feet. She tried to make excuses to herself for the dull ache in her breast that worsened each day, for the poignantly real dreams of St. Briac that haunted her fitful slumber. The problem, she decided, was a lack of friends. No one except the faithful Suzette showed her any kindness. Once or twice the duchesse de Roanne had begun tentative conversations, but the mere proximity of the woman made Aimée freeze with suspicion. Chauverge hovered about like an evil reptile, sending shivers of revulsion down her spine, and Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau had begun to sneer knowingly in Aimée's direction whenever the three were in the same room together. They could sense her weakness, she knew, and their increasingly superior airs made her despise them. How could St. Briac have left her alone this way?
If only there were one friendly face to greet her when she returned to the chateau: Marguerite d'Angouleme, Florange, Bonnivet, or even the king. Fastening the ends of the flower chain together, Aimée settled the finished garland among her curls and sighed. Suddenly a memory appeared in her mind: Marie Lissieu, the fruit peddler turned court laundress. Caught up in her own problems, she had nearly forgotten that poor old woman, who must be even more in need of friendship than she. Standing, Aimée shook the grass and flowers from her skirts and laughed when she realized that one foot had fallen asleep. It wasn't such a bad day after all.
Aimée arrived at the servants' wing out of breath and clutching a nosegay of violets. The head laundress directed her to a large room where several women were bent over wooden wash tubs.
"Marie? It's Aimée de Fleurance."
The old woman raised her head in surprise. "Mam'selle?" She had undergone a change, but it was not as wondrous as Aimée might have wished. Gray hair was knotted tightly at her neck, and she wore a dress that was clean though yellowed and worn from dozens of scrubbings. The lice were gone, but the poor woman still looked pale and starved.
"I brought you these." Aimée held out the violets. "Come and sit down. We'll have a nice chat."
"Merci, mam'selle. But my work—"
"It's all right. Aren't I a friend of the king? My needs come before those of a few soiled shirts." Her tone was light and teasing, but she added, "Truly, you must not worry."
They went into the corridor, its walls of white stone pierced by tiny windows through which streamed buttery sunlight, and sat together on a carved bench. Marie Lissieu stared at the cluster of violets that only served to emphasize her bony, emaciated hands.
"I must apologize for not coming to see you earlier," Aimée was saying. "I know how you must feel, living in a new place, among strangers. Is everything going well? Are you getting enough to eat?"
"You're so kind, mam'selle, to visit me this way after what happened. I couldn't believe it when I found out that you arranged for me to work here in the king's own household." Tears spilled over cheeks that were dry as parchment.
"You mustn't cry. It was nothing. Anyone would have done as much." Aimée embraced the withered, sharp-boned woman.
"Not anyone I ever knew," Marie sobbed. "Our Lord must have sent you to be my salvation. He forgives even a sinner like me."
Before Aimée could summon a reply, Marie went limp in her arms. The old woman collapsed across the bench, her mouth slack, her spindly arms hanging toward the stone floor like those of a corpse.
"Name of God!" Aimée breathed fearfully. She sprang up and had started in search of help, when the formidable head laundress appeared.
"What is it now!" the woman demanded, pushing past Aimée. "This lazy hag. She's good for nothing!"
"No, something is wrong. Madame Lissieu has fainted. She may be dying for all we know. We must get help!"
"Madame Lissieu?" mimicked the head laundress. "Madame Worthless, as far as I can see."
Angry now, Aimée was about to reply, when another voice spoke from the end of the corridor. "What is happening?"
It was Chauverge, puffed up with authority. He strode over to Aimée and the burly head laundress, who was explaining that Marie never had done her job properly since the day she arrived. There was no place at court for such sloth.
"No!" cried Aimée. "That's not fair. The woman isn't well; you can see that plainly. She needs a physician, some rest, and good food. Please, we must help her!"
"You must be mad," Chauverge muttered coldly. "A physician for the most common of servants, one who didn't even earn her place here?" He gave Aimée a look that sent chills down her spine. "The old crone is obviously useless. She belongs back in the streets whence she came."
"I couldn't agree more," the head laundress barked triumphantly.
"How can you be so cruel?" Aimée was too distraught to ask how Chauverge knew where Marie had come from. "What gives you the right?"
"Louise de Savoy has given me authority to speak for her in her absence," Chauverge condescended to inform her.
Before Aimée could argue, another voice broke in. "Fortunately, my dear Chauverge, the king has given me th
e authority to speak for him in his absence."
They all whirled around to discover the seigneur de St. Briac, filling the arch at the end of the hall. For an instant Aimée couldn't speak or move. She devoured the sight of him: the boots and fawn breeches that skimmed his long, taut legs; the soft fawn doublet under which he wore a white shirt, its pleated fraise snowy against his golden-brown neck and bearded chin; and his masculine face, steely with anger. Even from a distance Aimée saw the splendid turquoise of his eyes and the way his crisp hair had been tousled by the wind. Then she was running into his arms.
St. Briac caught her up against his chest. It was heaven to feel the petite softness of her body and glimpse the joy that he could swear was genuine in her green eyes and blinding smile. While away St. Briac had suspected that he was missing the minx, and now he had to admit that his fears had been well founded.
"Miette," he said softly, smiling against her hair.
"Oh, Thomas, I am so glad to see you." Standing on tiptoe, Aimée could only reach his jaw, and so she pressed excited kisses over it. "They mean to cast Marie into the street. She is ill; she needs help!" Even as she spoke, she remembered St. Briac's contempt for the old woman whose poisoned pear nearly had killed her. It seemed impossible that he could step forward to help Marie.
Still holding Aimée close with one arm about her waist, St. Briac walked toward the others. "What is going on here? Does Mademoiselle de Fleurance speak the truth?"
Chauverge managed a snide smile. "The head laundress has told me that this hag has been worthless since the day she came here. Any fool could see what must be done."
"Perhaps." St. Briac stepped away from Aimée and bent over Marie Lissieu's prostrate body. He winced instinctively and then turned to stare hard at Chauverge. "Obviously you must mean that the woman needs help." He cast a brief, insincere smile toward the head laundress. "Don't worry, I'll see to it that Madame Lissieu gets the proper attention. Lots of rest and good food should do her a world of good."
Aimée stared in wonderment as St. Briac lifted the old woman easily in his arms and carried her off toward the door. He was almost out of sight when she gave the remaining pair a happily victorious grin and then lifted her skirts and ran to catch up.
* * *
"Oh, monseigneur, how can I ever thank you?" Aimée couldn't bring herself to let go of his arm as they closed the door on a sleeping Marie Lissieu. "You were wonderful."
"I owed you that much after the other night." He paused to look down at her. "Again, a thousand thanks. You were a tremendous help."
The dejection Aimée had felt in the meadow seemed part of another lifetime. Glowing from his praise, she thought again of the old woman who now lay tucked into bed in a remote chamber of the Louis XII wing. St. Briac had even found a serving girl to keep an eye on Marie and bring her plates of nourishing food until she grew strong.
St. Briac led the way through the arch that opened onto the courtyard, slipping a hand over the small one that held fast to his forearm. "I'm sorry I had to leave without telling you good-bye. The decision to go hunting was made too impulsively. Has anything else been amiss in my absence?"
She longed to give vent to the tears that made her heart ache, to tell him all she had felt during the past week, but pride erected a familiar barrier. "No, I've been fine. A trifle lonely perhaps."
"I expected you to keep busy hatching new plots for your liberation." His sarcasm was a reflex. This warm intimacy between himself and Aimée was flourishing too quickly.
"I thought you had ordered me to put away my schemes until Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau had been forced to retreat," she replied coolly.
St. Briac tilted his head back and wrinkled his nose at the wide blue sky. "Ah, this conversation takes me back to the battlefield at Pavia. Nothing like a good fight to make one's blood start flowing."
Her tone matched his for irony. "Let us hope that this battle finds you on the winning side, monseigneur."
"And which side will you be on?"
"Your tongue is sharp."
"No sharper than yours. Will I need my armor?"
For an instant Aimée thought of him kneeling on the battlefield at Melegano in full armor, removing his helm to be knighted by the king. He must have looked magnificent. "No doubt you would make an impressive figure, monseigneur, and perhaps could frighten the Dagonneaux away clad thusly, but in my opinion it is much too hot for armor."
"You're probably right." St. Briac rubbed his jaw, pretending to give the matter serious thought. "Besides, with my luck, Cecile-Anne would find my lance irresistibly attractive."
Aimée glanced up, wondering if he had intended his words to have a double meaning. Turquoise eyes sparkled merrily back at her, and she giggled. "Wicked man. You'll corrupt me."
"An intriguing prospect, mademoiselle." St. Briac stared at her for a long minute, thinking that she looked utterly delicious with that garland of flowers woven through her curls. Aimée's skin was peach-gold against the white of her gown, and now he noticed a faint dusting of freckles across the delicate bridge of her nose. "You've been out in the sun."
She flushed self-consciously, pushing her sleeves down to cover her wrists. "I plead guilty, monseigneur. Parbleu. If Maman could see me."
"You look charming. Like a fairy who frolics among the wild flowers."
"You sound suspiciously poetic, which makes me think you are insincere."
St. Briac put a dark, tapering finger under her chin, tipping it up until she was forced to meet his eyes. "In truth, I fear that I am often too candid for my own good when you are near."
Afraid to reply in kind, Aimée tried to avert her gaze, only to see Blanche and Cecile-Anne standing on the second balcony of the grand staircase. "Don't look now," she whispered, relieved to have the diversion, "but we are being watched."
His white grin seemed to flash in the sunlight. "By two females who suspiciously resemble greyhounds? I know."
There was a sudden stinging where Aimée knew her heart must be. Had St. Briac been acting all this time for their benefit?
"It's time, I think, for you to welcome your future husband home properly," he was saying. "Brace yourself, mademoiselle."
At first she responded with what she hoped was reserve to St. Briac's kiss, but then sensation broke over her in waves that were impossible to deny. Aimée forgot the Dagonneaux, forgot everything except the hard body pressed to the length of her own, the arms that lifted her off the ground, the mouth that captured hers as if by right. She had longed to welcome him in just this fashion. Her hands clung to his broad shoulders, and as their kiss deepened, Aimée was filled with overwhelming joy.
"Monseigneur, do you think this is the proper place for such displays of passion?"
They broke apart to discover Blanche Dagonneau, her daughter in tow, standing inches away.
"Probably not." St. Briac, hot and aching with desire, could not keep the annoyance from his voice. "Aimée, ma cherie, why don't you wait for me in my apartments. I'll join you as soon as I've finished chatting with Madame Dagonneau and her dear daughter."
How dare he? To imply that she was already his bed partner before their marriage like some common strumpet who loitered outside the taverns in Blois! "I, well..." Her cheeks were stained by embarrassment; she could feel the heat suffusing her face. Of course, there was nothing she could do. As much as Aimée yearned to yank a branch from the nearest tree and bash St. Briac over the head with it, the presence of the Dagonneaux forced her to squelch her rage and try to smile.
"Off with you now. That's a good girl," St. Briac was saying in a cheerful voice. Only she could recognize the undertone of mockery.
Sparing barely a nod for Blanche and Cecile-Anne, Aimée stormed off toward the Francois I wing, muttering under her breath. Wait in his apartments, indeed. She'd wait all right, brandishing a deadly weapon!
Chapter 21
May 24-June 1, 1526
Aimée was still simmering with indignation when
she entered St. Briac's apartments. Her fury was such that for a moment she didn't notice Chauverge standing guiltily in front of a towering dresser, its doors wide open.
"Mademoiselle de Fleurance," he gasped. "I thought—I mean—weren't you and the seigneur de St. Briac out in the courtyard?"
"We were interrupted," she informed him sweetly. "Thomas will be along any moment. Was he expecting you?"
The chevalier stuffed something white back into the open cupboard and then closed the doors. "Actually, no. I just stopped by to, ah, apologize in case he felt any of the unpleasantness about that old woman might be my fault. The manservant was unpacking, so I waited, and just now I noticed that the fellow left this dresser cupboard open, and I was closing it as you walked in."
"Indeed?" Aimée arched a finely drawn brow in flawless imitation of her betrothed. "I appreciate your elaborate explanation, monsieur. I'll be certain to pass it along to Thomas when he arrives."
"In that case, I'll just be on my way, mademoiselle."
"Au revoir," she replied, enjoying the sick smile that he pasted on while backing out the door.
Moments later St. Briac appeared. "Did I just see Chauverge come out of here? He hurried off in the other direction at the sight of me."
"He was looking at what appeared to be a piece of parchment in the cupboard of your dresser," Aimée said coldly. "When I came in, he put it back amid effusive excuses about what he was up to."
"Hmm. 'Twould seem I haven't been giving our friend enough credit. He's even more treacherous than I'd guessed." St. Briac's brows knit thoughtfully as he opened the dresser and withdrew folded sheets of parchment. "The letter I received the other evening," he told her absently.
"I don't think he'd opened it yet."
"I pray not." St. Briac lifted the heavy lid of a chest against the far wall and drew out a carved wooden box. Unlocking it, he placed the letter inside and then turned the key and took it from the lock. Aimée watched as he returned the box to its hiding place, thought for a moment, and then withdrew a small doe-skin pouch that appeared to be attached inside the waist of his breeches. The key then was concealed in the pouch. It occurred to Aimée that she should be pleased to be included in what was obviously a secret of some importance to St. Briac, but she wasn't ready to let go of the anger she had been nursing since he'd dismissed her in the courtyard.
You and No Other Page 20