St. Briac had to laugh. Taking her cue, he let the subject rest.
The chateau loomed ahead of them. It was the most romantic castle Aimée had ever seen. Built of white stones and topped with lacy pinnacles, soaring rooftops, and lofty chimneys, it seemed to exemplify the Renaissance. Terraced gardens led downward toward the Loire, laid out with flower beds and trees that bore oranges, bon chretian pears, and peaches. Behind and off to the sides almost as far as the eye could see spread thousands of rows of grapevines, curling about their trellises. All this beauty was set against a background of the dark and mysterious forest of Chinon.
St. Briac's arm encircled Aimée's waist as they climbed the steps from one of the garden tiers that would bring them into the open courtyard of the chateau. Once the dwelling had been closed off in the defensive, medieval tradition, but Thomas had razed the north wing to provide a view of the Loire and the entry of sunlight into the chateau. The several machicolated towers were only for decoration now; no one attacked Chateau du Soleil anymore.
Aimée had felt at home instantly. Seeing St. Briac with his family, at work in the vineyards, and mingling with the people of the village that lay below and off to one side of the chateau, she knew what he had meant back at Nieuil when he said that all he needed was this. His friendship with the king was important to him, and court life was diverting, but this was the center of St. Briac's life. And now Aimée could share it with him.
They went in through the doorway to the east wing, passing under the sun that had been carved into the white stone. Behind the gallery was the great hall, where Fanchette came to meet them now.
"Thomas, Aimée, at last. We thought you would never arrive. Look who is here."
Seated in a carved chair near the fireplace, the fair-haired and flawlessly beautiful Honorine de Fleurance smiled at them in greeting.
Chapter 30
August 16-31, 1526
One of the best surprises Aimée had received upon arriving at Chateau du Soleil had been Marie Lissieu. After their marriage, St. Briac had quietly arranged for the old woman to be sent to his home to be near Aimée. Aimée saw this unselfish gesture as another expression of the love he had not yet been able to voice, just as his earlier gift of her horse, Mignonne, had been. He still harbored no fondness for Marie but allowed his wife her own point of view. He had given Aimée what she wanted before she even asked.
In early August, Suzette and her squire, Paul, had been married. Paul was now Aimée's squire, courtesy of another generous man, Francois I. The newlyweds had traveled back to Nieuil to visit relatives, and Marie Lissieu was playing maid until Suzette's return.
The night of Honorine's surprise appearance, the old woman scurried about their bedchamber, seeing to Aimée's bath and clothing. St. Briac occupied a massive carved chair near the window, a book open in his lap as he pretended to read while his irritation grew. Finally, as if sensing the hostility from a corner of the chamber, Marie declared that she was finished and bade them good night. In the doorway she collided with Gaspard LeFait.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?"
Gaspard drew himself up, eying the woman with disdain. In spite of her clean clothes and neat hair, Marie still retained vestiges of the person St. Briac had called a hag. "Pardon me, madame."
Marie sniffed and edged past him. Shutting the door, the manservant sought St. Briac and exclaimed, "How can you tolerate that woman's presence?"
"Aimée likes her." He shrugged. "There's no accounting for tastes. She likes me as well."
"I've a letter for you, monseigneur. It looks important." Gaspard raised his thick gray eyebrows meaningfully.
St. Briac accepted the folded piece of parchment and then lay a finger over his lips and lifted it to point toward the etuve, where Aimée was having a bath. Opening the letter, he scanned it, his brow gathering.
"Gaspard," he said softly, "you'll have to go to Paris on an errand for me. Teverant's been imprisoned. Learn what you can, and if there's any danger of him being executed, I must know immediately."
"Oui, monseigneur. I'll leave at dawn."
When his valet had gone, St. Briac leaned back in the chair and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Chauverge's absence from court had seemed to bode well for the fate of Georges Teverant, but now it appeared that Louise de Savoy was a worse threat on her own. Francois knew enough to distrust Chauverge, but how could he suspect his own mother? Complicating the matter were all the problems of real consequence that the king was dealing with these days. Louise could have put a paper before him, asking him to sign it, and a preoccupied Francois might have done so without so much as a glance.
"Thomas," Aimée called gaily from her bath, "come and talk to me."
St. Briac shook his head as if to send worry spinning away. There was no point brooding about Georges Teverant until Gaspard returned with the news. Something probably would have to be done, but not tonight. The sound of his wife's voice always made him smile, and even now he was powerless to resist her magic. Shedding his clothes, St. Briac went into the etuve.
"Talk to you, miette?" he greeted her. "I'll do better than that."
Aimée laughed with delight at the sight of his magnificent naked body. The large cuve had plenty of room for both of them. She drew up her knees as he settled into the hot water and lifted his brows at her.
"I fear I'll smell of violets after this."
"It won't be the first time, mon ange," she countered sweetly.
With a devilish grin he reached into the water for the soap, touching her intimately in the process. Aimée pretended to be shocked. "Bathing is a very serious matter, Thomas. Possibly even more serious than tasting wine. I must demand that you show the proper respect for cleansing your body."
Laughter rose from deep in his chest. "I'd rather not."
Aimée's long ebony curls were pinned up, and she leaned back now, her neck against the rim of the cuve. One graceful leg came up to push at St. Briac's chest. "What do you think of Honorine?"
He caught her slim foot in his hand and began to nibble on her toes. "I'm not sure. She's not at all like you, is she?"
"Absolutely not. Stop that. It tickles." Reclaiming her foot, Aimée persisted. "Did you notice her watching us all evening? That, combined with her speeches about how much I have hurt our parents with my behavior, makes me very uneasy."
"I'm certain that it was I who fascinated Honorine, miette. No doubt she is consumed by lust."
"I wouldn't joke about that if I were you," Aimée scolded. "You may well be right. I saw the way she fawned over you that first night at Nieuil, and I cannot believe that Honorine has come here out of sisterly love. I know her too well."
St. Briac was soaping his body, one eye on his wife. "Perhaps you are overreacting, Aimée. All Honorine may want is an entree into the court of Francois."
"I don't like her pleasant demeanor, though. She must resent me for taking her place when she had the chance to join the court in April. Now I've not only done all that she might have done, but I'm married to the seigneur de St. Briac."
"Yes, you are," he replied agreeably, his fingers caressing the slender curves of her legs under the water.
"Don't you see, Honorine must be filled with jealousy, probably even hatred."
"Should I try to reassure her?" St. Briac inquired innocently.
"You are too outrageous, Thomas. I don't know why I even try to carry on a conversation with you."
By now his hands were cupping her wet breasts, and he felt the nipples pucker against his palms. "Neither do I," he smiled. They slid together, legs intertwined, and kissed. St. Briac's mouth dipped down to find the rosy peak of Aimée's breast, and under the water she felt him harden fully against her thigh.
Later, in the huge four-poster bed with its draped hangings of dark blue velvet that contrasted so strikingly with the white stone walls, Aimée cuddled against her husband's chest and released a sigh of contentment.
"Oh, well, it will all work out som
ehow. I'm going to share petit dejeuner with Honorine tomorrow morning, so perhaps we can clear the air then. Why don't you take Christophe on some manly errand so she and I can be alone."
"As you wish, miette," he replied. "Should my brother and I clear the air as well?"
"Thomas, you must forget about that. As you said today, you were once fourteen. He can't help it if his emotions have outgrown his age at this moment."
St. Briac sighed. "Consider, Aimée. My brother is lying alone in his bed as we speak, probably entertaining indecent dreams about you. Tonight, each time I touched you, he glared at me as if I were committing an unpardonable sin. How can I forget about it? Will this go on for years?"
"Of course not! Soon Christophe will find a girl his own age to moon over, and then I will seem as elderly as you imagine yourself to be."
He gathered her close. "You are probably right. I'll give him some time. We must both be patient with our siblings I suppose."
Aimée nodded agreement against his neck. She murmured, "Aren't you going to tell me about the letter Gaspard brought you tonight?"
"Your hearing is very acute, miette!"
"I only overheard by accident, but I did expect that you would confide in me."
"I cannot. Not because I don't love and trust you but because you have the most unnerving habit of becoming embroiled in any situation that holds even a hint of danger. I appreciate all the help you have given me in the past, but now I want you safe. Keeping you ignorant would appear to be the only way to protect you."
"Oh, unfair," Aimée cried, pushing herself away from him. "What about my concern for your safety?"
"At this point there's no reason for concern. I'm staying right here with you and allowing Gaspard to discover what, if anything, needs to be done. In any event, I can take care of myself, but I wouldn't want to have to worry about taking care of both of us."
"You underestimate me, Thomas. I have taken care of myself ever since leaving Nieuil, haven't I?"
"Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten?" St. Briac said sarcastically.
"All right, you may have helped a bit," Aimée allowed, and then stared at him for a while in the shadows. "This is about Georges Teverant again, isn't it?"
"Perhaps."
Realizing that he would never tell her if she pressed him, Aimée relented. "Keep your little secret, then. I don't mind."
St. Briac rose on an elbow and looked down at his wife. She was lying on her back on her side of the bed, arms folded over her breasts. He had to smile. "I'm not trying to deceive you, my darling. For now, please trust me."
"Well, I'll try."
"Aren't you going to kiss me good night?" He ran his hand over the silken sheet, caressing downward from Aimée's breast to her thigh.
"I shouldn't," she declared, and then turned into her husband's strong embrace.
* * *
In the morning Aimée walked down the wide curving staircase that led into the gallery. She loved that room with its row of windows that opened onto the courtyard and the coffered ceiling painted in blue, red, and gold. Fanchette met her at the doorway to the great hall.
"Your sister's waiting for you, Aimée," she told her.
"Thank you, dear aunt." Aimée turned to her sister. "Have you been up long?" she asked. "I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting."
Honorine gave her a ladylike smile. "I didn't mind. I've been looking around your new home."
"Have you!" Aimée took in her gown of pale blue silk set off by slashings, embroidered sapphires, and lace trimming. Her own garb was vastly more elegant than it had been at Nieuil, but she still could not match her sister and was glad of it.
Servants brought goblets of cider from Normandy and a platter of cheeses, golden apricots, mirabelle plums, and small prune tarts. Honorine selected a sliver of creamy goat cheese and an apricot.
"Where is your handsome husband this morning?" she inquired.
Instantly on guard like a lioness, Aimée still did not betray her tension. "He and Christophe have gone hunting, I believe." She tried to chew a bite of tart.
"I must say, we were all so surprised to hear of your marriage. Maman and Papa were aghast. It might not have been so shocking if the bridegroom had been anyone except the splendid seigneur de St. Briac. However did you manage it?"
"I didn't manage it at all, Honorine. We fell in love. How did the family learn that I had wed?"
"Well, the bishop d'Angouleme came straight to us after he left Chambord. Then we had another visitor, who suggested that I should come to see you. He said he knew your husband and was certain that you had plenty of room."
"Indeed? What was this gentleman's name?"
Honorine blanched. "I, I am not certain. M'sieur—ah, Camaret, I think. He said he knew you both."
Arching delicate brows, Aimée responded, "I've never heard of the man, but of course we are glad that you've come. I was just about to write and extend an invitation to you and our parents."
"It's kind of you to think of them, but I suspect that they are far too upset to see you now."
"I'm not sure I understand. Even though I did not wed Armand Rovicette, I have made a marriage that is far more advantageous from our parents' point of view. I would think they'd be ecstatic. They need not worry about money for the rest of their lives."
"That's true, though I'm certain they have not gotten around to considering that aspect of your marriage. They are still too hurt over what you did to all of us by leaving the way you did." Honorine widened her blue eyes to demonstrate her own lingering pain.
Old feelings rushed over Aimée. Her impulse was to lean forward and slap her sister. Instead, she looked down at her dish and murmured, "I'm sorry to hear that, but perhaps when they learn of my great happiness, they will change their minds."
"That is possible, I suppose," Honorine replied. "Oh, I almost forgot, Maman and Papa sent you letters." She reached over to pluck two pieces of parchment from a nearby table, both folded and sealed with wax.
"Why didn't you give them to me at once?"
"I forgot. There were other things on my mind."
Aimée was almost too irritated to reply, but she managed a few cool words of parting before taking the letters and retreating to her chamber. She opened the one from her mother first. It held no surprises. Eloise minced no words in telling Aimée just how great a disappointment she was as a daughter. Every wound she had inflicted on her parents and sister was listed. She ended with:
I doubt whether you can ever make amends to us, and no doubt now that you have everything that we do not, you will forget that your family even exists. I can only pray that you will discover some spark of selflessness in your soul and try to help your poor sister. I don't expect you to worry about me or my feelings. You never did in the past!
Your Mother
Anger and guilt swirled together within Aimée. The latter she fought, for she knew Eloise had hoped to fill her with remorse. She told herself that she would rise above her mother's petty efforts at manipulation. She would be gracious and invite her parents to St. Briac, take them to court, and make them proud of her. Smiling to herself, Aimée reached for her father's letter. It pleased her to realize that Thomas's love had strengthened her self-esteem to the point where even her mother could not threaten it more than momentarily. Turning her attention to Gilles's few, plain sentences, Aimée read:
Ma chere fille,
I write this without your mother's knowledge. I had to tell you that I love you as ever and am pleased that you took command of your own future. I was impressed by St. Briac and, in spite of rumors that would suggest otherwise, feel that your life with him will be a happy one.
Do not let your mother upset you, but I do urge caution with Honorine. She is bitter, Aimée, and I worry about her reasons for this visit. You would be wise to find her a husband to turn her attention to.
I miss you, ma petite, and keep you in my prayers.
Papa
Tears stung Aimée's
eyes and splashed onto the parchment.
* * *
August ended in a burst of sultry heat. Aimée found herself beset by a strange illness that would not end. Her appetite had virtually disappeared, replaced by an urge to vomit at the sight of even the most tempting dishes. However, she experienced intermittent cravings for foods that the cook was unable to produce. The heat drove her mad, and she wanted only to sleep. Most alarming from St. Briac's point of view was her occasional lack of interest in lovemaking. On the nights when Aimée would brush her lips over his, say good night, and roll in the opposite direction, he worried that she was falling out of love with him. Could this be the same minx who had not been able to keep her hands off him just a fortnight ago?
Honorine was another problem. She continued to remain aloof from Aimée, brightening only in the presence of St. Briac or even Christophe, who had begun to regard her with the same light in his eyes that he previously had reserved for his sister-in-law.
Aimée hadn't shown the letters from her parents to Thomas. It seemed enough to her that Honorine was staying indefinitely in their home; she didn't want to bother him with the quirks of her family. At times she would ponder her father's warning, but she felt too lethargic to worry for long. So far Honorine had done nothing spiteful, and so it seemed a waste of time and energy to brood about problems that might never materialize. It would have helped if she could have planned to introduce Honorine to the court in the near future, but she couldn't think about such an undertaking now.
Toward the end of August Honorine received a mysterious note, the contents of which she would not disclose. It caused her to leave the chateau for the entire afternoon, and Aimée was still very curious about that. By now, she knew every person in the village; none of them would have any reason to contact Honorine.
On the last day of August, Aimée lay on her bed and tried to ignore the heat. The Loire was an enchanting river, but there were days when its golden haze could be deadly. All through the afternoon, Aimée had dozed on and off, even refusing St. Briac's invitation to accompany him on some errands in the village. She suspected what was wrong but wasn't ready to tell Thomas just yet. A few days ago she had missed her monthly flow for the second time. In July she had decided that the excitement and upheaval in her life had been the cause, but now she believed otherwise. Only Tante Fanchette, watchful as ever, seemed to know what was afoot.
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