Because they were far from Paris, the shock of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre was not strongly felt among those who made Archambault their home. Life swiftly returned to normal with the return of the de Saville family, and the preparations began for the marriage of Adam de Marisco and Skye O’Malley. Originally it had been planned that the celebration be a small, intimate family one; but now with the Queen’s promise to attend that was all changed. It would be a grand fête.
As August dissolved into September Skye counted the days eagerly until her marriage, and until her children were with her once again. The wedding was set for the twenty-ninth of September, the feast day of St. Michael, and Skye’s children arrived on the twentieth, tumbling excitedly from the coach that had brought them from Nantes, where Skye’s ship had docked. They were all there, even her eldest son, Ewan, who had left his holding in Ireland to be with his mother on her wedding day.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” he told her with a grin. “My uncles, Shamus and Conn O’Malley, are holding Ballyhennessey for me.”
“Where is your wife?” she demanded.
“Gwyn and I decided to wait until you could be with us before getting married. She’s still very young, Mother. Are you anxious to be a grandparent?” he teased.
“Are you so sure you can be a father, Ewan?” she countered.
He chuckled, and then blushed as his brother, Murrough, said, “He’s spawned two bastards already, Mother!”
“Ewan!” Skye was mortified, but Adam and the de Saville men laughed heartily with obvious approval of Ewan’s accomplishments.
“Sacré bleu,” the comte said, wiping his eyes, “these are fine new grandsons you give me, Skye!” He peered at Ewan through kindly, nearsighted eyes. “So you like the ladies, eh lad? I, of course, am too old for such games, but my sons can, I am sure, tell you the nicest girls on the estate.”
“Beau-père,” Skye scolded, “you must not encourage him in this behavior.”
“Why not, chérie? He is a man full grown! Be proud of him!”
Skye looked helplessly to Gaby, who raised her eyes heavenward in sympathy, but said nothing. Nonetheless the de Savilles welcomed all of Skye’s children as if they were blood kin; and the children who had never had any real grandparents warmed to the French couple. The comte and comtesse loved children, and indeed their two sons and their daughter lived at Archambault along with their spouses and children. Isabeau and Clarice and their families were within just a few miles, and consequently the château was always filled with family. For Skye’s children, who had had so little family life, the great change was wonderful. Ewan and Murrough quickly made friends with Henri and Jean St. Justine, who were close to them in age; and together the four young men spent their days riding and hunting and, Skye suspected from the occasional self-satisfied smirk on her sons’ faces, wenching as well. Catherine-Henriette St. Justine was just a year younger than Willow, and the fact that the eleven-year-old had attended a ball at the Louvre made her an object of much admiration to Willow, who had still not been allowed up to the Tudor court. Robin’s new friend was Charles Sancerre, and little Deirdre Burke, who was going to be five in January, was placed in the château nursery with five-year-old Antoinette de Saville. There was even a little boy his age for Padraic to play with, Michel Sancerre.
Skye marveled over her children. The older ones were, of course, happy to see their mother again, but the two Burke babies did not remember her and were cautious in their approach. Deirdre, however, remembered Adam, who had been with her a great deal of the time that Skye was away. She was quite determined that he was her “Papa,” and Padraic Burke, who followed his older sister’s lead in everything, therefore called him papa, too.
“Let them,” Adam said quietly when she attempted to correct them. “In time they will understand about Niall, but for now they need a father.”
To Skye’s great surprise, her four older children took to calling Adam “Father” also. Robin had never called anyone but Geoffrey father before, and her O’Flaherty sons, who could not remember Dom, had in their Irish pride not been able to call either Geoffrey or Niall by that title. Willow had called Niall “Papa,” but even she succumbed to Adam de Marisco’s charm.
“What magic is this you weave about my children?” she teased him.
“No magic, sweetheart, it is simply that we need each other.”
“Oh, Adam!” she said feelingly. “I am so glad that you do!” and she kissed him with love upon his mouth.
Then, three days before the wedding, as the dressmaker worked on the final fitting of Skye’s gown, the kneeling woman remarked, her mouth full of pins, “Madame, you have fattened again! You must be very happy indeed, for most brides lose weight before the wedding. I shall have to alter the waist again.”
Skye stood very quietly as the woman did her job, but Gaby had seen how she had paled at the dressmaker’s words. When the woman had made her adjustments and taken the gown away, Mignon helped her mistress into a comfortable chamber robe and departed on an errand. Gaby de Saville looked at Skye, and asked, “What is it, ma fille? Why are you so worried?”
Skye looked up at the lovely woman who was to be her mother-in-law, and said brokenly, “I am pregnant, Gaby. There is no mistake. I am pregnant. Dear God, what am I to do?!”
For a moment a stricken look crossed the Comtesse de Cher’s face, and her hand moved instinctively to her mouth to stifle her cry of distress. Then seeing Skye’s anguish, Gaby de Saville pulled herself together, and spoke firmly. “It is, of course, Navarre’s child. Curse him! Why could he not leave you alone?”
“Once, Gaby,” Skye said, her voice shaking. “He only took me once. How could this have happened!”
“Once, ma fille, is often quite enough,” the comtesse remarked.
“How can I marry Adam now, Gaby? How can I marry the man I love while carrying another man’s bastard? Dear Heaven, has not Adam suffered enough? I cannot make him accept someone else’s child as his own. Oh, Gaby! What am I to do?!”
“You have no choice, ma fille. Adam must be told.”
“No!”
“Yes! Listen to me, Skye. I know my son, and I believe that I know you, despite our short acquaintance. You and Adam love one another. You have traveled a rocky road to be together, and you, Skye, have made my son happier than I have ever seen him in his life. He was half a man, a shadow figure. It is you who have made him whole, and if you leave him I dread to think what he will do.
“We will tell Adam the truth of this matter. Surely you do not think that he will desert you, or blame you. If I know Adam his first thought will be of you, and what you have suffered at Navarre’s hand. His second will be of revenge, and together we must keep him from that folly. I know an old witch woman in the forest who with potions can help you rid yourself of this unwanted child; or if you cannot do that, have the babe and we will find a peasant woman to raise it.”
“I cannot destroy an unborn child, Gaby. It is not in my nature to do so. I know that Adam will forgive me, but it seems so unfair to ask him. If he decides to repudiate me I will understand,” she said, and a large tear rolled down her cheek.
“Fetch M’sieur Adam,” Gaby commanded Mignon as she reentered the room.
The tiring woman turned around and hurried out while the two women sat in silence awaiting Adam de Marisco. Gaby noticed how terribly overwrought Skye was, twisting and shredding her cambric and lace handkerchief as they waited. “It is going to be all right, ma fille,” she said. “I promise you that everything is going to be all right.”
Entering the bedchamber, Adam heard his mother’s words. He rushed to Skye’s side and knelt, looking up into her face. “What is it, little girl?” he begged her. “What is the matter?”
Skye, however, could only look mutely at him as the tears began to trickle down her face. Before her son could go mad with worry Gaby de Saville quickly explained Skye’s predicament to Adam.
“Dammit!” the lord of Lundy explode
d at his mother. “You let her bear this cross all alone, and after what she has been through in Morocco? I thought you had better sense, maman!”
“Don’t speak to your mother that way, Adam de Marisco!” Skye sobbed. “She has been wonderful to me!”
“I’ll kill him!” Adam roared.
“Which is precisely why I did not share my knowledge with you, you great fool!” Gaby snapped. “A lot of good you would do us all, Skye included, killing the heir to France. Do you think that there is a place in this world where you might hide if you committed such a heinous crime? It is appalling that Skye is enceinte, but the chances of that happening were so slim that neither she nor I even considered it after the attack on her. It is too late now to worry over it.”
“I will understand if you do not wish to wed with me, Adam,” Skye whispered.
“Woman,” he shouted, “what damned-fool nonsense is that?! Of course I want to marry you! I have wanted to marry you for six long years! I’ve lain awake more nights than I care to remember aching for you, and cursing myself for my stupidity in letting you escape me! I could kill Henri of Navarre for raping you, but that child you are carrying is half yours, and I will raise it up as my own! We will have no foolishness about farming it out to some stupid peasant, Skye. Now stop your damned weeping, little girl, and come here and kiss me!” He stood up, pulling her with him, and his mouth tenderly took hers.
“Oh, Adam,” she said against the warm pressure of his mouth, “I do love you so very much, but everyone in your family will know that the baby isn’t yours. I cannot shame you like that.”
“Non, non!” Gaby injected. “When Athenais broke her betrothal with Adam and spread her vicious lies, my de Saville children were too young to either understand or remember. Only Adam’s sisters, his full sisters, know the truth, along with Antoine. I will tell them of your plight, ma fille, and they will understand and keep silent. They love you as much as I do for the happiness you have brought their brother.”
“You see,” he murmured down at her. “You cannot escape me this time, little girl. You are meant to be my wife.”
Great happiness flooded her being, and she suddenly smiled up at him with a smile of pure radiance. “I had best watch my diet for the next few days,” she said, “lest I grow out of my gown again.”
The gown, however, was pure perfection when Skye wore it on her wedding day. The bride was a vision of loveliness in apple-green silk, the low bodice embroidered with gold thread and tiny pearls that matched the panel of her slightly darker velvet underskirt. The leg-of-mutton sleeves were held by many tiny gold ribbons, the wristbands turned back to form a cuff with a gold lace ruff just above her slender hands. The bodice had a long wasp waist that ended in a pronounced downward peak. The bell-shaped skirt of the overgown separated in front to reveal the elegant skirt of the undergown; the shape of the entire dress being dictated by a cartwheel verdingale with a padded hip bolster. Beneath this all were silken undergarments, outrageous pale-green silk stockings embroidered with grape vines, and delicate silk slippers sewn with pearls.
Mignon had done her hair with pale-gold silk roses, and Skye wore with them tiny gold chains studded with small diamonds. About her neck she had chosen to wear creamy white pearls. With unusual foresight Willow had carried her mother’s jewel cases from England, and Skye was able to put away the pieces that Nicolas had given her, knowing that Adam would be a lot happier if he saw she did not wear the duc’s gift on their wedding day. The groom himself was attired in a magnificent bronze-colored velvet suit decorated with gold embroidery and creamy lace.
Because the ceremony had grown from a simple family celebration into a neighborhood fête by virtue of Catherine de Medici’s appearance, it could not be held in the château’s chapel. Instead, the village church was swept and cleaned and then decorated with roses and all manner of late flowers. The Queen had arrived the night before, and was housed in a suite of apartments that Gaby was sure would not be fine enough; but Catherine assured the comtesse otherwise.
The wedding party walked from the château upon its little hill above the Cher River to the church of Archambault down in the village. All the villagers had dressed in their finest, and even decorated their cottages in honor of the couple. Not knowing Adam’s history, they nodded approvingly at the bride’s six children, murmuring that the comte and comtesse were sure to have more grandchildren before it was all over.
As she knelt by Adam’s side during their nuptial mass, Skye had the strangest feeling that behind her stood unseen guests—the ghosts of her former husbands—and in her mind’s eye they were all smiling with their approval. Dom, of course, was not there, but she could see Khalid el Bey, and Geoffrey Southwood, the angel Earl of Lynmouth, and Niall Burke, and—yes!—even Fabron de Beaumont, that poor tortured soul whose wife she had been but briefly. Then as Adam placed the heavy gold ring on her finger, they were gone, and if Skye felt a moment of sadness for what had been, her heart was too quickly refilled with gladness for what was to be.
As they exited the church to the shouts of congratulations from the assembled guests and the peasants, she laughed with joy as, to the delight of all, Adam de Marisco swept his beautiful wife into a passionate embrace and kissed her soundly. Then, leading the procession, they returned to the château for the marriage feast. It was a beautiful day with a soft, warm wind and a cloudless blue sky. Never could Skye remember such a lovely wedding, and in her heart she believed that it portended a happy future for herself and for Adam.
“Are you as happy as I am, Lady de Marisco?” he asked her, and the smile she flashed him gave him his answer.
On the broad green lawns of the château tables had been placed, the bridal table upon a raised dais where all might see the happy couple, Catherine de Medici, and the Princesse Margot, who had arrived unannounced from Chenonceaux early that morning. Seeing Marguerite de Valois Skye’s heart had leapt into her mouth for fear that Navarre had accompanied his wife; but she relaxed as the princesse scathingly and loudly told her mother, “Monseigneur de Navarre is occupied elsewhere.” Then she had proceeded to attach herself to the Duc de Guise, who was also mysteriously there without his spouse.
The tables were quickly filled by the guests, neighboring nobility from the nearby châteaux. The lower tables were for the people of Archambault village, and its twin village of Saville, from which the family had taken its name. The cellars of the château had yielded up oak casks filled with rich and heady red wine put down three years before and saved for a special occasion. The silver goblets were filled with this brew while below the salt the villagers were delighted with earthenware cups of Archambault’s vin ordinaire.
Comte Antoine rose and, lifting his goblet, said, “Adam de Marisco does not bear my name, nor will he inherit any part of my lands; but this son of my beloved wife is as dear to me as my own two boys. I rejoice with him this day! I rejoice that he has found himself a wife—but not simply a wife; rather a woman who has captured his heart. Long life to both you and your beautiful Skye, my son!”
“Vive! Vive!” shouted the guests, all raising their goblets enthusiastically.
The comte’s toast was followed by many others, and Skye was forced to sit smiling as most of those good wishes called for the newlywed couple to have many children. At one point Adam reached over to take her hand in his, and squeezed it reassuringly. She turned her face to his for a moment, and the warm look in his eyes washed over her, leaving her feeling more loved than she had ever felt in her entire life.
The feast accompanying the toasts was bountiful. As a first course, there were several varieties of pâté and fish freshly caught in the Cher, along with a barrel of oysters brought from the nearby coast and packed in ice. There was goose, and small game birds, duck and capon, as well as beef and lamb. The estate huntsmen had been most active the last few days and on several open fires turned a wild boar, two red stags, and two roe deer. There were cheeses, and hardcooked eggs, and newly baked breads wi
th tubs of butter, some bowls of cress and lettuce, all to be washed down with good Archambault wine. A last course consisted of newly picked apples and pears and grapes from the orchards and vineyards. A beautiful gâteau of several layers topped by a marzipan bride and groom, the sides of the top layer having alternating marzipan shields bearing the de Marisco and the O’Malley coats of arms, was the pièce de résistance of the feast.
Everyone ate until stuffed, and then the villagers danced for the entertainment of the nobility. To the peasants’ delight, Skye and Adam joined the dancers at one point, encouraging the others at the high board to do so, too. Twilight fell, and then night. Torches were lit to brighten the scene and a fat full moon rose to gild the sky. No one wanted to go home, for it was a wonderful party. Finally it seemed that the only way they could get their guests to leave was for the bride and groom to go to bed. Skye was taken off with much ceremony by her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law, and Dame Cecily, who had come with the children.
It was at that moment that Skye missed her faithful Daisy most, but Daisy was back in England expecting a second child. She felt almost shy disrobing before all the other women, but neither Gaby nor her daughters seemed to notice. Dame Cecily, however, gave her an encouraging pat, saying, “I feel certain, dear Skye, that this marriage between you and Adam is one made in Heaven. I did not like it that Queen Elizabeth sent you so far from us the last time.”
“The Queen knows nothing of this marriage yet, dear Dame Cecily,” Skye replied. “Robbie must leave next week for court to bring her word of our nuptials.”
All the Sweet Tomorrows Page 59