You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  Barely a half hour had elapsed when St. Briac left the chambers of the duchesse de Roanne, bound for his own. Ghislaine had made him smile with her lecture about his responsibilities as a husband, but at least that was better than every man's nightmare: a jealous, vindictive ex-mistress. It would seem that the situation between Ghislaine and Marcel had improved dramatically, and now she was determined that everyone else she cared for should also know romance in marriage.

  It seemed doubtful that Aimée would have come upstairs yet. Women together had a tendency to stretch conversations to unheard-of lengths. Opening the door to their chamber, St. Briac was surprised to find that the candles had been doused and that Gaspard had retired to his new, separate room. A moonbeam slanted across the bed to lend added glow to a pale shoulder and the spill of Aimée's ebony tresses.

  St. Briac slowly crossed the tiled floor and stared down at his sleeping wife. Her thick eyelashes made dark crescents against the delicate bones of her cheeks. She seemed to pout slightly in her sleep, her lower lip outthrust in a way he found highly appealing, while one tiny hand was clenched into a fist beneath her chin.

  Rounding the bed, St. Briac stripped quickly and slid between the covers. Enough of this foolishness, he thought. Time to make up before we let a simple misunderstanding escalate into a real quarrel. Already he could smell her faint violet essence; his fingertips ached to touch her.

  "Miette," St. Briac said tenderly while reaching out to curve one hand over her hip.

  "Keep your distance!" Whirling in his direction, Aimée felt a twinge of satisfaction at the sight of his stunned expression. "You are worse than the lowest animal. How dare you insult me by going to your mistress after we have only been married a few days? Of course, I realize that it's all a farce, that you are only acting a part when you pretend to be my husband. Well, that's how it shall be from now on, but there is no need for us to pretend when we're alone, is there? I'll be damned, monseigneur, if I'll let you touch me when your body is still warm with her scent!"

  In the moonlight, St. Briac lifted a bronzed hand and pressed taut fingers to his brow for a long minute. It was almost impossible for him to believe what had just happened, the words that had assailed him from the mouth he'd been yearning to kiss. He wasn't certain which of the several instinctive reactions he was feeling would be appropriate. The strongest was an urge to slap Aimée across the face.

  "I see," he managed to reply politely. "In that case, madame, I will bid you good night."

  Aimée found herself presented with a dark, long back, one that she loved to snuggle against but now was forbidden to touch. At first she felt deflated. St. Briac's words and reaction had not been even close to her expectations. He'd acted as if she were the one at fault. Not only that, he'd stopped the fight between them without her permission.

  Aimée sighed loudly and flipped back onto her side, away from her husband. Rage boiled inside her, followed by an uncontrollable urge to weep. Pressing her face into the down-filled pillow, Aimée swallowed sobs and waited for St. Briac to relent and take her in his arms. Longing for him, for his caring and tenderness and teasing, became a pain that consumed her. Still Thomas did not turn in her direction, and Aimée could not bring herself to reach out to him.

  Chapter 26

  Amboise, France

  July 1, 1526

  July broke softly, caressing the Loire valley with breezes reminiscent of spring. It was a day to ride Mignonne and frolic in the woods, but Aimée found herself instead seated next to Marguerite d'Angouleme on a gallery overlooking one of the courtyards of the great chateau of Amboise. The king, bored with hunting and masquerades, had proposed an impromptu tournament, and within a day it was arranged. Tapestries hung from hooks along the galleries, lists had been drawn, and brightly colored tents were erected for the chevaliers' convenience.

  Everyone looked splendid and seemed to be having a wonderful time, despite the fact that the afternoon was waning and they had watched more jousts than Aimée could count. Francois wore armor himself; a suit too magnificent to be risked in conflict, it was saved for parades and events like this. Casting a sidelong glance past her friend, Aimée had to admire the figure of the king. His armor was black steel elaborately inlaid with gold, with a medallion on the chest and a scallop shell collar that were the emblems of the knightly order of Saint Michael. A helmet shaped like the upturned head of a lion reposed near Francois's feet, and his face looked more dashing and dynamic than ever to Aiméee as he watched the current match between two opposing sides of three knights each, his hazel eyes alight with enjoyment.

  Aimée wished she could absorb some of that pleasure. It was hard for her even to work up enthusiasm over the prospect of seeing St. Briac joust for the first time. He and Bonnivet would be next in a solo match planned to demonstrate the skills of the two knights Francois valued most. Florange may have been as good, but he lacked the height and power of his friends.

  Servants appeared with trays of cheeses from Brie and Montreuil as well as herring and an assortment of fruits. Aimée took a small wedge of Brie and a goblet of wine, which she sipped pensively. Her gallery and the ones above were crowded with members of the court. Aimée imagined that close to five hundred had flocked to join their monarch at Amboise. Even the young prince and two young princesses—all that remained of the king's family now that his older sons were in Spain and his wife and first two daughters had died—were here to join their father at last. Aimée was especially charmed by little Marguerite, who had just turned three. Her heart ached that such a sweet and loving child should be without a mother and have a father she scarcely knew.

  Nearly oblivious to the chaos on the field before her, Aimée gazed around the chateau where Francois had grown to manhood. Spread over the rocky spur that divided the valleys of the Loire and the Amasse, the castle was a vast grouping of buildings that dominated the charming village below. It was supported by thick walls and flanked by two huge, squat towers, the Minimes and the Hurtault. The Minimes tower was a wonder conceived, of course, by Francois. The spiral ramp that wound upward through it was massive enough to accommodate not only horses but coaches as well. In the chateau itself there were elegant royal living quarters that boasted buttresses embellished with niches and dormer windows bristling with pinnacles. An enchanting gothic gem of a chapel called St. Hubert adjoined the queen's apartments and had been used daily by Claude, according to Marguerite. Gardens comprised of embroidered square flower beds were divided by paths that led northward to a fountain sheltered by framing. Exotic birds filled the aviary and three lions roamed almost at will by the moats. St. Briac had shown Aimée the armory that contained the battle-ax of Clovis, the dagger of Charlemagne, and the armor of Jeanne d'Arc. Nearby was Manoir du Cloux, the chateau where Leonardo da Vinci had lived at the king's invitation during his last years.

  It should have been a wonderful place to be a new wife in love, but Aimée was consumed with love while her husband continued to maintain a careful distance. How she regretted the hot-tempered words she had spoken in their bed at Chambord. Would he never forgive them? Worse, did he want to?

  Suddenly Bonnivet strode toward them down the gallery, clad in full armor and holding his helm in the crook of his arm. There was a lull in the courtyard as St. Briac's match was prepared. Aimée stared at her husband's friendly opponent, confused and then alarmed.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Bonnivet pushed back disheveled fair hair and perched on the gallery's stone baluster. "Not quite."

  By now Francois was leaning forward, waiting for an explanation. Bonnivet wrinkled his aquiline nose, trying to decide how to begin. His nature was so genuinely merry that he dreaded the prospect of an argument.

  "I won't be jousting with St. Briac," he said carefully.

  "Ah, I see." The king lifted chestnut brows. "I would appreciate more information, Bonnivet. I don't intend to wring every word from you. Explain!"

  The massive knight suddenly looked uncomfortab
ly warm. "You will no doubt recall, sire, that last evening Chauverge demanded the right to oppose St. Briac."

  "I do, and I also recall that I said his height and strength were no match for St. Briac's. Thomas agreed, and that was the end of it."

  "Not quite," Bonnivet repeated uneasily. "He's been badgering us all through the tournament. We finally decided that if he is so determined to inflict pain on his own body, he should have that privilege."

  Francois collapsed against the back of his high, carved chair with an explosive sigh. "How entertaining for the rest of us!"

  "I couldn't help thinking, sire, that it might teach that viper a lesson. Perhaps he'll learn not to tamper with Thomas in the future."

  "Considering the fact that this has been going on for a score of years, I'd say that is highly unlikely."

  Bonnivet could see nothing else to do but shrug, attempt a charming smile, and try unsuccessfully to make himself look small as he stole away to the nearest empty chair at the far end of the gallery. The king was still grumbling to himself when Chauverge rode onto the field.

  The heralds announced the contest with silvery trumpet blasts, but Aimée scarcely heard them. She did, however, see Chauverge all too clearly as he paused before them, visor raised and lance lowered in pseudo-respect. She knew she should be relieved that St. Briac would face such a weakling, but there was something so malevolent in those glittering eyes that she felt a stab of fear. Chauverge was so filled with hate, he would do anything to dispatch his rival.

  Across the courtyard, St. Briac emerged from his tent as nonchalantly as if he'd been called to supper. The sight of him made Aimée forget all else. It was the first time she had seen him in armor; he looked utterly splendid. St. Briac's armor was a paler steel than the king's, inlaid with etched silver and marked with the same medallion of the order of St. Michael on the chest and the collar. Gentle winds from the Loire ruffled the dark hair back from his brow as he looked down to draw on his gauntlets.

  Aimée studied her husband's sculpted countenance, watching as he glanced upward, eyes crinkling, to regard the cloudless blue sky. His squire had brought Sebastien and Thomas paused for the briefest moment to exchange a greeting with his strong black steed. Then, after donning his helm, he swung onto Sebastien as if the armor had no weight at all. He took up his shield, the device on which was an inlaid sun of beaten gold, and his lance and then rode calmly in the direction of the gallery where Aimée sat.

  The king greeted St. Briac with grudging good humor. "Endeavor to allow the man to remain on his horse long enough to make this worthwhile."

  "This will be my first joust with Chauverge, sire. We may all be surprised by his skill."

  "I do so hope that is the case."

  St. Briac laughed softly in response and then turned his attention to Aimée. Sunlight blazed on the lifted visor of his helm, making it nearly impossible to read his eyes. As his lady, Aimée knew that she must demonstrate her favor, and so she stood, went to the rail, curtsied, and gracefully extended her fingertips. Sebastien stepped forward so that his master might reach up to her. The steel gauntlet made St. Briac's hand seem bigger and stronger than ever as it enveloped hers; somehow that reassured Aimée. In this situation, how could evil win out over physical power?

  "Do be careful, Thomas," she heard herself say in a tone that was transparently anxious.

  St. Briac regarded her for a moment and then spoke lightly. "'Twill be child's play, miette, but it is reassuring to know that you care."

  Aimée hoped he didn't see her blush as he released her hand, saluted the king, and rode off to his place at the north end of the lists. When both men were in position, another shrill trumpet blast rent the air; then they were charging full gallop toward one another. Lances struck shields, and the two horses were thrown back on their haunches, muscles bunching, by the jolting impact.

  "Thomas is being kind," the king muttered to no one in particular.

  St. Briac and Chauverge rode back to their opposite positions, took fresh lances from their squires, and waited for the next clarion signal. When it came, the great steeds thundered toward each other, but just before the moment of impact, Chauverge shifted his horse slightly to the left, toward the barrier, and at the same time raised his lance, aiming it at St. Briac's helm rather than his shield. Aimée heard her own silent scream in her mind, but she needn't have feared. Sebastien and his master possessed not only strength but wits. They instantly moved to counteract Chauverge's maneuver, and St. Briac lifted his shield to take the force of the lance.

  Watching him wheel around and return to his starting place for a third run, Aimée imagined she could see his angry features. Surely she recognized the hard, stubborn set of his shoulders within the suit of armor. Still, her fear was real now. Chauverge knew that he was outmatched and intended to use his wiles not only to win but to injure or even kill his rival. Her heart pounding, Aimée leaned forward to look at the king, but he had leaned forward himself, staring intently as he waited for the third run to begin. She closed her eyes and said a prayer as the trumpets sounded again.

  Sebastien charged like a bolt of lightning, much harder than before. St. Briac seemed a statue of steel and silver in the saddle, his lance never wavering. It was over in an instant. Suspicious that his opponent might employ a trick similar to his own, Chauverge moved his shield slightly upward, but St. Briac aimed straight at his chest. The blow sent the smaller man flying into the air like a rag doll, his lance and horse scattering in wild disarray. Sebastien recovered with dignity from his efforts and stepped daintily over the vanquished knight.

  Dimly, Aimée heard the wild cheers of the crowd, saw Francois jump to his feet with elation, observed her husband as he dismounted and bent over Chauverge's prostrate figure. She could scarcely breathe, so overcome was she with relief, shock, and a warm glow of pride that washed over her from head to toe.

  The premier medecin rushed out onto the field, joining St. Briac. They conversed for a moment, crouched beside Chauverge. Then Thomas stood and drew off his gauntlets and helm, still staring down at the other knight. Even from a distance Aimée could see the disgust and pity in his expression.

  After returning Sebastien to his squire, St. Briac came bareheaded into the gallery. Her heart in her throat, Aimée watched his approach.

  "Well done, mon ami," cried Francois, rising to embrace his friend. "You taught Chauverge a lesson that he will not soon forget! That is, if he isn't dead."

  St. Briac smiled grimly and raked a hand through his damp hair. "No, I'm afraid he'll live." He paused, his face darkening in remembrance. "The ass."

  "Cheer up, you're the hero of the tourney." The king turned to Aimée. "Come over here, madame. Your stalwart husband deserves a kiss."

  A kiss! They hadn't kissed since Chambord, since before she'd seen him go off with the duchesse de Roanne that fateful night. Everyone was staring at her, and so Aimée tried to smile and make her way to her husband. He towered over her, smelling of horses and male sweat. His face, streaked with dust, had never looked more irresistible. She blushed under his penetrating gaze.

  Looking down at his beautiful wife, St. Briac felt a pain in his chest altogether different from the kind inflicted by a lance. How he missed her, wanted her! Aimée's eyes were so luminous that he longed to drown in them.

  "Don't be shy, you two," Bonnivet prompted jovially.

  Aimée smiled, her face growing hotter by the moment, and then gathered her courage and stood on tiptoe to rest delicate hands on his steel-enclosed shoulders. The thought of their lips touching was so arousing that she almost felt faint.

  "Congratulations, Thomas," Aimée whispered. "You were wonderful."

  Her lips were soft and sweet as they came up to brush his. St. Briac almost groaned aloud. Desire rushed into his loins in a long-suppressed tide as he caught her up against his hard, armor-covered body. The fragrance of her hair and its silky texture in his fingers! His other arm easily encircled her slim back so that his f
ingertips were touching the first blossom of her breast. Aimée's arms were wrapped around his neck, and her mouth opened eagerly under his. They kissed long and hungrily, lost in a world of sensation.

  "You can be shy again now," Francois suggested at length, wryly amused. He'd been a bit worried about these two lately, but obviously his concern had been unwarranted.

  St. Briac was loath to release Aimée, but he did so. She slid from his arms down to the stone floor, her cheeks flaming.

  "Let's go up to my apartments," said the king. "I find I am ravenous, and Thomas no doubt craves a cold mug of ale."

  * * *

  A select group from the court mingled in the royal apartments, all of them eager for a word with St. Briac. He tried to get away for a bath, but no one would let him leave, and so he remained in armor and found solace in frosty ale and a plate of bread, cheese, salmon, and pears.

  Aimée kept her distance. St. Briac had to wonder whether she was more wary of him or of herself after that brief display of shared passion in the gallery. While conversing with Florange, he watched her with one eye as she swept hither and yon, her skirts of coral silk brushing the tiles. She had a word for everyone and gave to mere acquaintances the incandescent smile he rarely saw of late.

  "Thomas?" a gentle, familiar voice spoke beside him.

  "Ghislaine, it's good to see you. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

  "Oh, I've been occupied with Marcel." Her smile was contented. "He leaves tomorrow to go on ahead to our chateau, so I wanted to spend time with him while we had the chance."

  "How romantic."

  "Rather," she agreed softly. "At any rate, I know that you must be tired and hot in that armor, but before you go, I wanted to say that I was so proud of you today. You were magnificent."

  "Strong words, cherie. One might think that you still care."