All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “I will speak to my husband,” Skye said. “You do see that we have no choice in this, mon père? It is either Nicolas St. Adrian or France.”

  The priest nodded. “Nonetheless the final decision must rest with the duc.”

  “Very well,” Skye said, and together she and Père Henri made their way to the duc’s bedchamber.

  Fabron de Beaumont lay pale, his dark eyes closed, tucked carefully into his own dark-red-velvet-draped bed. The white linen sheets with their embroidered lace borders were folded neatly back over the light wool coverlet. He was clean and fresh, for Skye had insisted that he be kept that way. Hearing them enter the room, he opened his eyes, and at the sight of Skye they filled with undisguised love. Since his return to consciousness he had shown puppylike devotion to her, and she had been unable to deny him her affection, an affection for which he was obviously and childishly grateful.

  She bent and kissed him. “Good afternoon, mon mari. Père Henri and I have come to discuss something with you that is of great importance to your family.”

  He nodded, and gestured with a weak arm that she sit by his side, which Skye did. Père Henri stood by her in the duc’s view.

  “Fabron, the French want the duchy,” Skye said quietly.

  His dark eyes flashed, and he made frustrated noises in the back of his throat.

  She put a gentling hand on his arm. “I know,” she said. “It must not happen, and if it is at all possible we will prevent it, but we need your permission.” He nodded, and she continued, “I am not with child, and it is very likely now that you will never be able to give me a child. I need not discuss Garnier with you. His problem is obvious, and poor Edmond is unsuitable. You have only one choice—your half-brother, Nicolas St. Adrian.”

  Fabron de Beaumont’s eyes flashed angrily, and he shook his head vehemently in the negative, but Skye was not deterred.

  “You have no alternative, Fabron,” she said patiently. “You either turn the duchy over to your half-brother, or you turn it over to the French. In these last days while you have been ill I have spent much time reading the history of your family. It is a proud history, a noble and a very long history. Beaumont de Jaspre has been in existence and ruled by your family since 770. Nicolas St. Adrian is, for all the circumstances of his birth, a de Beaumont. He cannot be blamed for the plain fact that your father, a married man, seduced his young and inexperienced mother. Emilie St. Adrian was of good family, as good as your own.

  “I cannot fight the French, Fabron. Despite the fact that Queen Elizabeth sent me to you as a bride, there will be no help from England. You and I both know that I was sent in exchange for your opening your ports to English vessels. It was a marriage of convenience. Had I your child, or the hope of your child, I should fight the French with my last breath, but if you do not name your half-brother your heir, and ask him to come to you immediately, the French will have your lands before the year is out. That is the plain truth, and Père Henri will tell you I do not exaggerate. He was with me and Edmond when we were forced to listen to the arrogant demands of the French envoy. We have detained that envoy until Nicolas St. Adrian can reach us. He is our only hope, Fabron. You must agree!

  “If you do not you will put us all at the mercy of France—myself, your unfortunate son, and Edmond. What will happen to me, Fabron, if a French overlord arrives? Who will care for poor little Garnier? Will Edmond be forced to make his own way? As what? Perhaps both he and Garnier can find employment with a traveling fair. My beauty will, of course, guarantee me a protector, and perhaps I can take care of them. Unless, of course, my protector is jealous or not generous enough to support the others.”

  “Ma fille!” chided a shocked Père Henri, “you are too harsh.”

  “No, mon père, I am truthful. You look at me and see a beautiful woman, but you do not know that fate has often dealt harshly with me, and I have survived because I look at life honestly. I have never fooled myself, and I will not fool my husband. We are lost if he cannot overcome his stubborn pride, and agree to make his half-brother his heir.” She reached out and gently smoothed the duc’s brow. “I am sorry, Fabron,” she said, “but you must agree, and despite the weakness in your hand you must sign the document making Baron St. Adrian your heir.”

  He sighed deeply, and she could swear that she saw tears lurking deep within his dark eyes, but then he nodded resignedly.

  “You agree?” The priest leaned forward, and said, “You will agree to allow your half-brother, Nicolas St. Adrian, to come to Beaumont de Jaspre as your heir?”

  Fabron de Beaumont nodded his head decisively in the affirmative.

  “Very well, my son,” he said. “I will send for Nicolas St. Adrian as soon as I can have the scribe draw up the papers. It will be immediately!”

  Fabron de Beaumont sighed again, and his sad, dark eyes closed wearily. Skye arose, and kissing him gently once more, she stole from the room with Père Henri.

  “You must send one of your priests,” she said thoughtfully. “I do not think the French will suspect that we send to the bastard line of the family for aid, but it is wise never to underestimate one’s enemy. If Edmond should go, his absence would be noted.

  “We must send to the Pope also. Catherine de Medici is a devout woman for all she is an ambitious one, and her son will listen to her. The French have too much trouble in the west now to argue with the Pope. If the Holy Father will confirm Nicolas St. Adrian’s rights to the duchy of Beaumont de Jaspre then France dare not dispute the claim, and Beaumont de Jaspre is safe. Be sure our messenger to Rome carries rich gifts. I will send him in my own ship with Captain Kelly.”

  “Madame,” Père Henri said, his tone suddenly a very respectful one, “I am astounded at your foresight.”

  Skye laughed. “I play the game well, mon père, do I not?” she said. “You cannot live at a Tudor court and survive without learning to be the perfect courtier. No one ever expects a woman to be responsible, but I have had the responsibility for not only myself and my children, but for vast estates and several great fortunes, beginning when I was sixteen. It is simply a matter of organization.”

  “No,” the priest said quietly. “Not all women could do what you do, madame.”

  Skye laughed again. “I am not like all women,” she said.

  Before nightfall the messenger had been dispatched to the Pope in Rome, sailing aboard Seagull in Captain Kelly’s care. He carried with him a letter from Madame la Duchesse de Beaumont de Jaspre, and one from Père Henri. He would also bring to the prelate in Rome a pair of magnificent golden candlesticks adorned with silver gilt vines and leaves and enameled pink and white flowers. The base of each candlestick was studded with rubies and diamonds. Skye smiled to herself as she personally packed these treasures in red velvet cloth bags, and then into a carved ivory box. The Dowager Queen of France was in her heart a merchant’s daughter, and known for her parsimony. If Catherine de Medici thought to present her own case to the Holy Father, she would not send anything to compare with Skye’s gift to the papacy.

  The following morning the other messenger, this one a young priest from a wealthy Beaumont family who knew how to ride a horse well and handle a sword if necessary, left for the castle of Nicolas St. Adrian in Poitou. They had but to wait.

  To Skye’s enormous surprise both her messengers returned within less than a month’s time. The one who had gone to Rome had had an incredible piece of luck. As he and Bran Kelly had waited at the Pope’s court with hundreds of other supplicants who sought to catch the Holy Father’s attention, the Pope had passed through the room and heard Bran’s voice. He had stopped and, looking at Bran, said, “My son, you have the sound of Ireland in your voice. I once had a secretary from that land. Am I correct?”

  Stunned at being addressed by the Pope himself, Bran could only nod. The Pope smiled. In a court filled with the world-weary he was touched by the big Irishman’s awe. “Have this young man brought to me immediately,” the Pope said. “I would speak
with him.” Bran and his fellow messenger, Père Claude, were hurried into the Pope’s private chambers where the prelate graciously held out his hand so they might kiss his ring of office. The formalities over, he sat, and asked, “Now what may I do for you, my Irish friend?”

  In his slow and careful French Bran Kelly explained his mission. His mistress, Irish like himself, had been but recently wed with Fabron, Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. Regretfully the duc had suffered an apoplectic fit shortly after the marriage. Now France was demanding that the duchy be turned over to them. The duc, however, chose to bestow his lands and his title upon his noble bastard half-brother, Baron Nicolas St. Adrian, a good and righteous man. He had sent Père Claude and Bran Kelly to ask that the Pope confirm that claim. Here Père Claude proffered the carved ivory box, which was eagerly taken up by one of the Pope’s secretaries.

  There was a deep and very significant silence when the contents of the box were disclosed. A sensual smile upon his lips, the Pope fingered the workmanship on the candlesticks. He was thinking that Catherine de Medici was far too sure of herself. She believed the Pope to be in her pocket by virtue of their shared nationality. He turned to his chief secretary, and asked in a low voice, “Where is this Beaumont de Jaspre?”

  “It is a very small holding on the Mediterranean Sea between the Languedoc and Provence,” the secretary said. “The Beaumonts have ruled there since the days of Charlemagne. Although they recognize France as their overlord, they have always been an independent holding.”

  The Pope nodded. So Catherine de Medici wanted this tiny duchy, and the duc was certainly in a difficult position. Without the Pope’s approval of the validity of Nicolas St. Adrian’s claim, France would, he knew, take the lands by force. Perhaps it was better for now that France not have the duchy. Perhaps it was better that France’s Dowager Queen be reminded that the papacy was not her personal toy, to be used at her convenience.

  The Pope smiled at the two kneeling men from Beaumont de Jaspre. “I will confirm the rights of Nicolas St. Adrian’s claim to Beaumont de Jaspre, as this is what your duc desires,” he said. “Cavelli!” he looked to his chief secretary. “You will draw up the papers; three copies. One for the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre, one for Queen Catherine of France, and one for us. You will see it is done today. These men must get back to their master. Time is obviously most important here.”

  “Holy Father, how can we thank you,” Père Claude said. “My master and his people will ever be in your debt.”

  The Pope smiled again, fingering the candlesticks lovingly. It was little enough to do for such munificence.

  “We will be happy to take the papal messenger with us as far as Beaumont de Jaspre, Holy Father,” Bran Kelly said, “and we will supply him with a fine horse and a purse to continue his journey to France.”

  The Pope was pleased. This would save him the expense of the man’s trip, and the French would have to send him back at their own expense. “Thank you, my son,” he said. “Now let me bless you.” Bran Kelly lowered his head, hiding a smile as he did so. These Italians were so predictably greedy. By making his offer to pay for the papal messenger he had assured that the man would be dispatched today, and, as the Pope had said, time was important.

  They arrived back in Beaumont de Jaspre just three weeks after they had left, and the papal messenger was on his way to Catherine de Medici the following day.

  Several days later, Skye’s second messenger returned from Poitou bringing with him, to everyone’s surprise, Nicolas St. Adrian. They had expected their messenger to bring an answer from the gentleman, but certainly not the man himself.

  Skye was caught unawares as Edmond hurried into her chambers, his short little legs pumping in their haste. “He is here, chérie! The bastard himself! By God! He did not waste much time, did he? He’s come with the messenger—no escort, no retinue. It would appear that the heir is most eager.”

  “God’s foot, Edmond! Could that silly priest have not at least sent a messenger ahead to warn us? Daisy! The sea-green silk gown! Damn, my hair is a disgrace in this heat!” She smiled at Edmond. “Well, my friend, what is he like? Is he a de Beaumont in face and form?”

  “Chérie, I am not sure Uncle Fabron is going to approve. The bastard is a tall man, and his limbs are well formed and pleasing to the eye. His skin is fair, his eyes … his eyes, chérie, are green, the green of a forest pond, sometimes dark, sometimes light, depending upon the sunlight. His hair is the rich red-brown of my horse’s hide. As to his features, they are strong. The shape of his face is an oval, his forehead is high and his nose is definitely the de Beaumont nose; but his eyes are not ours, and neither are his high cheekbones or narrow chin. It is a very sculpted face of angles and planes. All in all, I would say he is a very handsome man, and he looks like a strong one, too. I do not think that this new blood is going to hurt our family.”

  “Have you spoken with him?” Daisy was helping her into the bodice of the sea-green gown. Edmond de Beaumont let his eyes roll suggestively as he leered teasingly at her dishabille, and Skye swatted at him with affection.

  “I have not spoken with him, chérie,” he replied to her question. “I felt it was your place to welcome him to Beaumont first. He cannot expect instant greeting, as he has come upon us unannounced.” As Daisy finished fastening the bodice, he handed Skye the skirt to her gown. She pulled it over her head and it fell over the several petticoats that she was wearing.

  “Hurry, Daisy,” Skye instructed her tiring woman. “We should not keep Baron St. Adrian waiting.”

  “He will think it well worth the wait, chérie, when he sees you,” Edmond murmured softly, his eyes sweeping her with admiration.

  The gown was lovely with its softly flowing full skirts and sleeves that came to just below her elbows, full and fashioned as if they were pushed up slightly, leaving her soft forearms bare. The dress’s neckline was very low and scooped and her breasts swelled provocatively with each breath she took. The fitted bodice was embroidered in a swirling pattern of small, sparkling diamantes and pearls. Around her neck Skye fastened several matched strands of creamy pearls to correspond with the pearls in her ears. Daisy then pinned pale-pink camellias to the base of her mistress’s chignon, and Skye was ready.

  She walked to the door between her room and the duc’s and entered her husband’s room. “Your half-brother has arrived, Fabron,” she said. “I am going to greet him now with Edmond. Will you see him tonight?”

  The duc shook his head vigorously in the negative.

  “You will see him?” she pressed.

  Fabron de Beaumont lay very still, feigning sudden sleep.

  Skye was not fooled. “You must eventually see him, monseigneur,” she said quietly. Then she bent and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, Fabron,” she said, and then she was gone.

  Fabron de Beaumont felt the tears slide down his face quite unchecked. His body had betrayed him, but his mind was still clear and quite active.

  Skye and Edmond hurried to the Great Hall of the castle, where they knew Nicolas St. Adrian was awaiting them.

  He was a magnificently handsome man with a broad chest that narrowed V-like into his slim waist. His dress was simple: worn, high leather boots, the short, dark trunk hose showing a shapely thigh above them; a doeskin jerkin over an open-necked white silk shirt. Watching them as they entered the hall, his green eyes never betrayed a thought although his mind was full of them. The dwarf was the nephew. What a pity, for he was certainly well favored despite his height. Nicolas wondered if Edmond de Beaumont resented him, but that he would soon know. They had reached him now, and the duchesse—was she real?!—curtseyed gracefully.

  “Welcome to Beaumont de Jaspre, M’sieur le Baron,” Skye said in her musical voice. “We are most grateful that you have come.”

  Reaching out his hand, he raised her up, and their eyes met for the first time. Her blue-green ones widened just slightly, and he knew that she was feeling the same thing that he was. Never i
n his life had he seen a more beautiful woman than this ravishing creature who now stood before him. In an instant he knew that he wanted her, and knew that she wanted him, too. “Madame,” he said, “it is I who am grateful to you, for I understand from Père Michel that it is you who suggested I be made my half-brother’s heir, despite my unfortunate lack of the Beaumont name.”

  “That oversight was hardly your fault, M’sieur le Baron,” she answered him. “Now may I present to you your nephew, Edmond, who is known as the Petit Sieur de Beaumont.”

  Edmond bowed smartly. “If Skye is glad you are here, Uncle, then I am twice as glad!”

  “You do not wish to be Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre, Edmond?” Nicolas St. Adrian looked closely at the tiny man.

  “No, I most certainly do not!” Edmond was most emphatic. “Look at me, Uncle. I am a dwarf, an accident of nature. Even if there were a girl who would wed with me, what guarantee do I have of producing normal children? Never in the history of this family has there been a dwarf, but I have learned that in my Castilian mother’s family there were several over the years. I cannot marry, and therefore cannot produce another generation for Beaumont de Jaspre. You, however, can, and from what I see, Uncle, you will have no lack of applicants for your hand!”

  Nicolas St. Adrian laughed. He had never found a woman whom he wanted to marry, but perhaps it was his lack of wealth that had prevented him even thinking of such a thing. Now, it occurred to him that he was a very eligible partie!