Aimée was seeing Paris from a different perspective. She chose to concentrate on the gothic rooftops, the turrets hanging at angles to the city walls, the pointed gables, and the clustered towers of the Louvre Palace that came into view as they made progress toward the Seine. It was true that many of the houses were disgusting, but occasionally they came into a passage lined with carved and painted house fronts, their projected stories nearly meeting above the travelers. She found it exciting to be among crowds of people again after the tranquility of Chateau du Soleil. Horses and coaches and even herds of swine with their inevitable abbot thronged the streets. Beggars cried for food, children chased through mud puddles, and a chicken came flying toward Honorine's face.
"What a horrid place," she cried, flailing at the unfortunate bird.
"Well said," murmured St. Briac wryly. "Don't forget that you ladies wanted to come to Paris. Now you'll have to hold your breath and endure for a while, Honorine." He paused, wrinkling his nose as they passed a boucherie with a large pile of offal outside its door. "Is it any wonder the king spends so little time in his capital city?"
They were turning onto the rue de la Huchette, not far from the banks of the Seine and the Ile de la Cite. Suddenly Aimée pointed above the rooftops, her green eyes sparkling.
"Regardez! Is that the cathedral of Notre Dame?"
An airy spire rose into the air above the maze that was Paris. "Yes, that's it," said St. Briac. "Look to your left and you'll see Sainte Chapelle. Just north of it is the Conciergerie."
This was a reminder of their purpose in Paris, and the little band fell silent until they reached Le Chien Rouge, a small but relatively clean-looking auberge bracketed between the many eating houses that lined the rue de la Huchette.
"My sister has a nice house on the Right Bank," St. Briac remarked as they dismounted, "but with Chauverge sniffing around, there was no question of us staying there. I thought it would be best to choose one of the last places he might suspect."
Once again St. Briac managed to obtain a corner room, while Honorine occupied the chamber next to them and Gaspard shared quarters with Pierre farther down the corridor. Thomas had sent his groom back to Chateau du Soleil to inform Tante Fanchette that Aimée was safe and would return in due time in the company of her husband.
No sooner had all three doors shut than Honorine's flew open and she burst in on St. Briac and Aimée.
"There's a rat in my room," she screamed. "He ran under the bed when I came in."
"How shocking," St. Briac murmured. "Why don't you leave your door open for a bit, and perhaps he'll run out."
Honorine looked as if she might burst into tears, and her sister took pity on her. "I'm not terribly impressed with these conditions, either. Let's see if we can't persuade the innkeeper to let us wash our bedding and borrow a broom."
The two girls set to work. Later, after the blankets had been strung outside the windows to dry, St. Briac and Aimée set off to procure some supper for them all. He'd decided it would be safest if they kept their number to a minimum when venturing out, in case Chauverge happened to spot them, and he was particularly determined that Honorine not be seen with him, Aimée, or Gaspard until Teverant's escape had been effected.
They walked south to an outdoor market. On the way, St. Briac pointed out the University of Paris, also known as the Sorbonne, where he had been a student more than a dozen years before. This was a detail of her husband's life Aimée hadn't been aware of, and she wondered what other surprises there were in his past.
Finally, their arms laden with two crusty baguettes, a generous wedge of cheese, and some pears and apples, they returned to the rue de la Huchette. There St. Briac purchased a capon au gros sel and a small cask of Burgundy wine at an eating house. The capon was fished out of the ever-ready pot, where it had been boiling with a mass of other capons.
"A far cry from the suppers at court," remarked St. Briac, "but when one is hungry, nothing smells better than one of these."
The innkeeper grudgingly lent them bowls and cups, and all five crowded into the corner room to eat. Afterward, sipping more of the dark wine, they discussed plans.
It would be up to Gaspard and Pierre to venture forth, in disguise, of course, and learn whatever they could at the Conciergerie plus, crucially, the whereabouts of Chauverge. St. Briac knew he would have to spend most of his time at the auberge, for his face and size were too recognizable. Aimée shared his frustration and begged to take part in the skullduggery, clad in her boy's garb.
"No!" St. Briac turned on her and uttered the word in a tone that would brook no argument. "And do not ask again."
"Oh, all right." Aimée pretended to pout and then gave him a mischievous smile. "I suppose my time would be better spent keeping you entertained in our room."
"An ingenious plan. What an inventive wife I have."
Over the next thirty-six hours Gaspard discovered that Chauverge had taken rooms not far from the Louvre on the Right Bank. The manservant spent a full day haunting the streets and talking to friends. Finally, by chance, he happened to glimpse Chauverge inside a hired coach. Because the traffic was so snarled, he had no trouble following on foot. After the chevalier had disappeared into a prosperous auberge, Gaspard went in to confirm from the innkeeper that Chauverge was lodging there.
Pierre meanwhile concentrated on the fate of Georges Teverant. He made friends with one of the guards at the prison and learned that the execution was set for noon on the twenty-fifth. He also managed to discover in which cell Teverant was being held. The guard, after a mug of ale, went so far as to take Pierre to view the prisoner. Later, the young groom reported that Teverant appeared thin but coherent. Best of all, Pierre was able to draw a map showing the quickest way to the condemned man's cell.
Because an execution usually brought out half of Paris in a macabre mood of celebration, St. Briac had decided that the morning of the twenty-fifth would be the best time to rescue Teverant. There would be such chaos in the streets that there would be little problem getting him away.
St. Briac spent hour after hour in their room at the auberge, poring over papers he had spread on a small table. An inkhorn and several swan quills enabled him to cover sheets of parchment with notes, times, and other details pertaining to Teverant's escape. Aimée was usually at his side, studying the map of the Conciergerie with him and discussing their plans over and over. Long conversations were held with Honorine about her role in the drama. St. Briac rehearsed with her patiently, for it was his one worry that she would panic and ruin everything.
Finally, Aimée lay by her husband's side in the lumpy bed on what would be their last night at the auberge. Both of them were too tense to make love. She studied his chiseled profile in the violet shadows, noting the intensity of his eyes as they stared at the ceiling. Within a few hours all their painstaking plans would become reality. Aimée closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that justice would be served.
Chapter 33
September 25, 1526
Honorine stood outside the carved door that separated her from the chevalier de Chauverge. She carried a basket filled with warm, crusty rolls and oranges. Her heart pounding with trepidation, she raised a pretty hand to the door but could not bring herself to knock. The innkeeper of this prosperous, well-kept auberge had assured Honorine that Chauverge was still abed, and so there was no need for fear on that score. Pierre waited outside in case she needed to be rescued. At that moment St. Briac and Aimée had probably already left Le Chien Rouge to carry out their part of the plan. The rest was up to her, and Honorine was terrified that she would botch it.
St. Briac had rehearsed with her over and over again; she knew every word by heart. But what if Chauverge did not play his role as they'd anticipated? A vision of St. Briac as he had appeared at dawn came back to haunt her. "You'll be fine," he'd said firmly. "If all else fails, use your wits, ma soeur. They won't fail you." Being called sister by a man who had every reason to bear her a grudge had fill
ed Honorine with love and gratitude. She was determined not to disappoint him.
Her hand moved and knocked. An instant later, a nervous-looking manservant threw open the door.
"Bonjour, messieurs!" Honorine cried cheerfully. "I hope I'm not too early." Beyond the manservant, she could see Chauverge seated beside a table with a basin on it. He wore breeches but was bare-chested with a towel draped around his neck. From the look of the razor held aloft by the valet, it appeared he'd been shaving Chauverge's neck. "Oh dear, I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all," cried the chevalier, standing. "We've finished. Jean, you may leave us."
When the servant had gone, Chauverge threw off his towel and came forward to greet Honorine. "What a delightful surprise. What brings you to Paris? And how did you find me, my beauty?"
So far, so good. Honorine made her little speech about being bored at her sister's house and missing him. "I came to Paris to see you, m'sieur," she assured him with her most charming smile. "My own lodgings are nearby, and my maid happened to see you leave here yesterday, so I could hardly wait to come myself. I've brought petit dejeuner." Setting the basket on the chest, she plucked out a roll for his inspection. "Freshly baked. And don't the oranges look heavenly?"
"Not nearly so heavenly as you, mademoiselle." He caught her shoulders and bent his head. Honorine suffered the briefest of kisses before drawing lightly away and laughing.
"Not so fast, m'sieur. You take a girl's breath away."
Chauverge puffed out his thin chest and smiled. "I've missed you, too, my sweet, and am delighted to see you, of course, but I cannot tarry long. Today, as you may already know, Georges Teverant will be executed. I must be away to the Conciergerie before long."
"Have you not time to share a roll and an orange with a maiden who has journeyed so far to be with you?"
"Well, perhaps. To be frank, I would like to share much more than that with you, mademoiselle." He gave her his version of a rakish smile.
Honorine reached quickly into the basket and began munching on a roll.
"Why don't you come over here and sit down beside me, my beauty?" He made no effort to finish dressing but lounged back on his large pillared bed. When Honorine complied, perching nervously on the edge, Chauverge leaned forward and peered over her shoulder. Her gown was cut low to reveal a tempting display of creamy bosom. Saliva filled his mouth at the sight.
"Aren't you hungry, m'sieur?" Honorine inquired after a moment.
"Mais, oui!" He chuckled in a way that made her concentrate all her attention on the roll, which was growing smaller by the moment. "Tell me something, Honorine, what news is there of the seigneur de St. Briac? Is he in Paris, too?"
"Oh, no, at least I don't think so." Again she recited a prepared speech. "I came upon him at an auberge in—" Suddenly the name of the town St. Briac had given her was blocked from her memory. "—Illiers," she supplied helplessly. "He had taken a terrible fall from his horse and was confined to bed. Heaven knows when he'll be able to travel."
"That's odd. I stayed at that auberge myself during my journey here, but I must have arrived after St. Briac, since he had a day's head start. He was not there. In fact, the innkeeper told me he'd left that morning."
"Well, perhaps I'm confused about the village. I may have it wrong." Panic had crept into Honorine's voice, and Chauverge heard it.
"In any case, there's nothing he can do to upset my plans now. I must be off to the Conciergerie to keep an eye on the condemned man, but first let us explore the reason for your visit." His thin lips curved upward. It had been so long since he had had a woman, particularly one as fair and pure as this one. "You know, my sweet, you can stay right here and wait for me. When this day's business is done, we will leave together to join the court at Fontainebleau and begin our wondrous future."
Honorine wanted to scream or strike out when she felt hands like claws dig into her shoulders, pulling her back onto the bed. There was nothing she could say or do to stop this horror. It was, after all, her duty to keep Chauverge occupied as long as possible. St. Briac had said specifically that she was not to allow him to touch her, but what choice did she have?
Chauverge was kissing her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He tasted awful. Her upper lip was being pressed so hard against her teeth that she gave a small, involuntary cry of pain.
"I'm sorry if I am too ardent," he said in a passion-muffled tone, moving to slide his wet mouth down her neck. "You are so beautiful, and I've waited so long."
"But m'sieur, this is not right. That is—we are not married!"
"A lady concerned about such minor points would not have arrived alone at my bedchamber at an hour when I was likely to be asleep." Chauverge chuckled. He began to knead one of her breasts; it seemed that his loins might burst.
"But I only came to bring you the food."
"Hush! I have no appetite for anything but you." In his eagerness to open her bodice, he tore some of the lace but ignored it as Honorine's breasts spilled free of their confines. Chauverge made a low, grunting sound of approval and then began kissing them and finally fastened voraciously on one pink nipple.
Honorine thought she must be dying. Dimly, she heard him slobbering and smacking, felt his teeth on her sensitive flesh. However, not until one of Chauverge's hands pushed its way between her thighs and squeezed her most private place did Honorine come to life. Something swollen and disgusting was rubbing against her thigh, and when she realized what it must be, she forgot St. Briac, Aimée, and all their plans.
"Stop that! Loose me!" Like a wild animal, Honorine pushed with all her might and managed to send the man toppling sideways. Instantly, she was off the bed and running across the chamber toward the razor that the manservant had left behind.
"You didn't come here because you missed me, wench," he shouted. "St. Briac sent you, didn't he? I guessed as much from your little story about his riding accident but decided that I should have my pleasure anyway. That damned St. Briac has never fallen from a horse in his life."
"Don't touch me," was all Honorine could say. Tears streamed down her face.
"Give me the razor. You won't use it, and you know it." Chauverge rose from the bed and advanced toward her. "Give it to me and I won't hurt you."
When he clamped a hand around her wrist, Honorine released the razor, sobbing. In the next instant, Chauverge struck her across the face with all his strength, and she fell against the corner of the chest, hitting her head. He stood there, staring at her crumpled form for a moment, wondering whether he could afford to relieve the ache in his loins. No, not this time. If St. Briac was attempting to rescue Georges Teverant this morning, there wasn't a moment to spare.
* * *
Not long after Honorine knocked on Chauverge's door, St. Briac and Aimée drew alongside the Conciergerie in a rickety wagon filled with casks of wine and driven by a dubious-looking Gaspard LeFait. A casual acquaintance would not have recognized any of them. St. Briac wore a matted gray wig and powder in his beard. His clothing consisted of scuffed, spade-shaped black shoes, tan hose, brown breeches, a soiled shirt, and a dingy leather jerkin. He sat slumped over so that he appeared much shorter, and his eyes were those of a dull-witted fellow.
Aimée was clad in the costume of a strumpet. She wore a cheap gown of scarlet silk cut so low that only her nipples were concealed. Fake gems glittered on every finger, and several necklaces were looped around her neck. Her hair was piled into elaborate curls studded with glass jewels, and she reeked of cheap perfume. She had had the most fun of all painting her mouth red and rouging her cheeks until St. Briac had been forced to pull her from the mirror.
Gaspard's role was to be even more apelike than his master. His wig was long and black, as was the fake beard Aimée had glued carefully to his face amid cries of outrage. His clothing was gray and tattered. St. Briac had instructed him to play mute, for he feared that if Gaspard were to open his mouth, all would be ruined.
The Conciergerie once
had been part of the old palace, traded by the French king Charles V for the Louvre nearly two hundred years earlier. Since then it had served as the seat of the Parliament and then as the supreme Court of the kingdom; now it was used as a prison. The magnificent facade of the Conciergerie bordered the north bank of the Ile de la Cite. Their wagon passed first the rectangular Tour de l'Horloge and farther on were three more circular towers with high pointed roofs. St. Briac drew the wagon to a halt in front of the pair that flanked the entrance to the Conciergerie. Immediately several guards clattered down the steps to meet them.
St. Briac was pleased. They still had a long way to go, but at this point all was on schedule. None of these guards appeared particularly intelligent, and there were crowds gathering already on the bridges and the streets in anticipation of the noontime execution.
"Bonjour, messieurs," he greeted the men, his body hunched forward and his speech decidedly that of an ignorant peasant.
"What do you want? What's all this?" one of the guards demanded, gesturing toward the casks of wine that crowded the wagon.
"The chevalier de Chauverge bade us bring you this wine. He said that the king suggested it. Thought you all deserved to celebrate, too. Finally there will be an execution that won't be called off at the last minute."
"About time," agreed one of the guards.
"You say it's for us?" queried their spokesman doubtfully.
"That's right, m'sieur," Aimée spoke up, flashing her most alluring smile. "Enough wine to quench the thirst of every guard who toils within the Conciergerie. Our king and the chevalier de Chauverge are very generous, n'est-ce pas?"
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