“Goodness, she is a sweet poppet, isn’t she?” Henry’s voice eased with tenderness.
“She is that, Sire,” Montlhéry responded.
“How old is she?”
“A bit more than two.”
Henry stared at the child, the pixie nose that spoke of her English heritage, the exquisitely shaped mouth of her French blood, the rosy cheeks, and the pale yellow ringlets.
Henry squinted. “Her eyes. Are her eyes ... violet?”
The woman smiled with pride, a smile edged sharply with bitterness. “They are, Sire, like those of her grand-mère.”
“Do you know what I have learned in my few years as king, madame?” Henry straightened, his gaze anchored on the child at their feet.
“No, Your Majesty, but I long for you to tell me.”
“I have learned that weapons take on all forms. I have learned that beauty can be such a weapon.”
The woman stared down at the child, a different light glinting in her eye. Where she had looked at the girl as a burden, she now gazed upon her as a blessing.
Henry began to pace, his slipper-shod feet plucking out a soft rhythm as he trod a circle around the woman and the child in the otherwise silent chamber, his hands once more clasped together, the steepled index fingers tapping lightly upon pursed lips.
“With your help, madame, I will make her my most powerful weapon.”
Madame de Montlhéry lowered her head of fading blond curls, and made her pledge. “I am yours to command, Your Highness, as always.”
Henry stopped before her, smiling with satisfaction. “Take her to your home, madame. Raise her as a proper French woman and as your niece, but teach her to honor me above all, above God. Teach her not only to read and write, but languages as well, especially Italian.” Henry grew more and more inspired, moving again, spurred by dawning insights, striding to his chair and back again. The light behind his eyes glowed as his thoughts coalesced. “Teach her to cipher, and to shoot.”
Montlhéry’s head tilted. “To cipher and ... and shoot?”
“Yes, my dear, to cipher and shoot.” Henry jumped to stand before her, grabbing the woman by her shoulders and leaning in, bringing his face within inches of her own. “We will make her the greatest spy there ever was, madame—not a person who became one in adulthood, but one reared as a spy. Is it not brilliant?”
“B ... brilliant, oui,” Madame de Montlhéry responded, but with little confidence. She stared at the king with ill-disguised confusion.
“And most important of all, madame”—he lowered his voice to a scheming whisper, conspirators bent over their cauldron of plans—“we must teach her to kill.”
The heavy, dreadful words hung in the air between them; the silence hummed with their evil intent.
The child stared up at them, comprehending little of what passed between them, mesmerized by it all nonetheless.
“Can you do this for me, Elaine? Can you?”
She swayed at the sound of her name upon his lips. How well she remembered him speaking it as he saved her from the marauding French soldiers who violated her beside the lifeless body of her dead English husband; and months later, as he took her in the night with tenderness and passion.
“Certes, oui, Henry. For you I can do anything.”
He pulled her hard against him for a quick moment, only to thrust her back. Eager, he lowered himself again to the child. The small girl stared at the man before her, stepping out of the shadow of the woman, as if longing to bask in the magnetic man’s light.
“What is her name?”
Elaine drew in a long draught of air, desperate to gain control, to breathe normally once more. “Geneviève, Geneviève de Hainaut.”
“No, she cannot carry her father’s name.” He spoke with a soothing tone of comfort and kindness, knowing the child would understand this better than any words. With care he reached out a hand to Geneviève, watching for any sign that she might pull away from him.
“Come to me, child,” he cajoled, his voice as seductive as if he coaxed a lover to his bed. Their eyes met and he felt the thrill of capture. “You are mine now, and always will be.”
The tiny bud-shaped mouth twitched with the slightest of smiles and Geneviève took a step forward, and then another. Henry reached out both hands to take her in his arms, and she surrendered as though capitulating to a beloved parent.
Looking up at the woman he had once known as a lover, Henry beamed, victorious. “Let her be known as Gravois, Geneviève Gravois, for it is indeed from out of the grave I have pulled her.”
Elaine curtsied low, knowing she had secured the protection and loyalty of this king forever, yet feeling a tear of heartbreak and jealousy, as if she had lost him as well, lost him eternally to this child.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
As Henry rose, child firmly in his embrace, curled around his powerful form with head resting upon his shoulder, a squire rushed in, stopping short at the sight before him.
“Yes, what is it?” Henry demanded of the silent page.
“The French king, Your Highness. He is here and wishes to see you.”
“Of course. Give me but a moment and send him in.” Henry nodded with complete composure and turned to Elaine. “Quickly, madame, behind the screen.”
Elaine needed no further prodding; fear had gripped her at the thought of François I finding her in the chamber of Henry VIII. She scampered to the screen and its hidden chamber pot, her heels clicking out a frightened percussion. No sooner had the clacking faded away, than it was replaced by the clanging of armor and swords. Into the room François swept, contingent of fellows, as always, in his shadow.
“Majesté.” He rushed to Henry’s side, no smile of greeting in his eyes or upon his lips, purposeful with sincere concern. “Comment allez-vous? Are you all right? We could see the blaze from our camp. I came as soon as I could.”
“Have no fear, I am quite well. Many thanks.”
François shrugged off his gratitude. “What has happened here? Do you know?”
“I am looking into it, but already I have been assured it was nothing more than an accident—an overturned andiron, it would seem.”
“How dreadful. Have many perished?”
Henry chose his words with great care. “Four are dead, and many more injured.”
Henry hefted the child, slipping in his arms, a little higher. Though she grew heavier, she appeared wide awake, watching and listening to the two men with great intent. Henry smiled at her and her attentiveness.
“I have brought my physician and my surgeons.” François gestured toward the group behind him. “They are at your disposal.”
“Quite generous of you, but there is no need. My people have everything under control, I assure you.”
The penetrating eyes of the French king scanned his rival’s face with blatant suspicion. In the moment of any catastrophe, a helping hand should be accepted with grace.
Henry recognized the mask of displeasure but cared little. His goal was to keep François from learning much, not to acknowledge his magnanimity.
“But I am deeply grateful, nonetheless,” Henry placated. “And I will alert you at once should the need for aid arise. You have my solemn promise.”
“Très bien. As you wish, of course. You will keep me apprised of the situation, I am sure.” François gave a small bow of acquiescence. For the first time, he noticed the child cleaving comfortably to the king’s shoulder. “And who is this beauty?”
“This? This is my cousin’s child. She seems to have wandered from her family in the ruckus,” Henry said.
As if she knew they spoke of her, the little girl plucked her head off her pillow and looked the French king in the eye. François laughed at her charm.
“You will take good care of her, yes?” François gently patted the little girl’s slipper-clad foot.
“Rest assured, Your Majesty. It is my greatest mission.”
“Bon, bon,” François nodded.
“We will talk soon, Henry.”
“Of course, François.”
With another bow, the Frenchman turned, and with a gesture to his compatriots, began to exit the makeshift castle.
As the king and the child watched the group quit the chamber, Henry pulled Geneviève closer; the little girl squirmed at the intensity of his grasp.
Leaning down, his mustache prickling her soft, tender skin, Henry whispered in her ear.
“That is the man who killed your parents.”
The creature writhed on the cot, her whimpers accompanied by the shushing sound of ragged skin rubbing against rough muslin sheets. The physician and his assistant worked upon her wounds, but there was little effort in their ministrations. The burns covered more than half her body and most of her face, the flesh raging red, raw, and moist.
“Has no one come looking for her?” the physician asked.
“Not a one.” The woman beside him shook her wimple-clad head.
“Perhaps there is no one,” he clucked pitifully. “Perhaps she had made her way to the tent for the night. Such carousing as took place, who knows who ended up where.”
“A paramour?” the woman suggested.
“Perhaps. In any case, she won’t last long now. Continue the acanthus and thorn apple until her time comes, which, God willing, should be soon. The least we can do for the poor wretch is keep the worst of her pain at bay.”
The physician stepped away, off to administer to someone with a chance of survival, and the woman reached for the crushed herbs and warm water on the small table by the bedside. In the dim light of the tent, she mixed the minced dried leaves with the liquid, stirring as she crooned to her patient.
“This will help you, my dear. I swear it will, you’ll see.” With the tip of the small wooden spoon, she drizzled the concoction into the wounded woman’s mouth whenever she opened it to moan and croon.
“I wish I knew what you were trying to say,” the caretaker told her patient, gaze pitiful upon the festering flesh. “I wish I could hold you, but it would only bring you more pain.”
She stayed with her patient for a bit longer, stroking the small spot upon the woman’s head that remained unscathed, until the dying creature began to drift off to sleep.
“Gen ... gen ... viève ...” Gnarled lips mouthed the words. In her haze-filled mind, the wounded woman reached out her hand to the handsome man and the beautiful, golden-haired child, but neither heard her cry, neither took her hand.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2012 by Donna Russo Morin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7814-2
The King's Agent Page 42