Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  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.

  2

  My alliance is well begun,

  But I do not know how it goes.

  —Clément Marot (1496–1544)

  1539

  The quiet of the small château grew more oppressive than ever, as if the old woman’s illness chased all noise from its walls, all life from its grounds. Though the cook prepared a meal few would eat and the kitchen-hand plucked the egg from beneath the chicken, the muffled sound was no more than that heard by a babe in the womb.

  Geneviève stood on the precipice of rebirth; she knew the moment had come, and her aunt’s dying would neither hinder nor hasten it. She sat on the floor in the middle of the chaos that had become her chamber; worn brown leather trunks—both packed and unpacked—formed a parapet around her. Little consideration went into what she would take, for she would bring everything, leaving nothing behind. She would never come back to this place.

  Pushing back the tangle of pale yellow curls falling in her eyes, she gazed at the sage walls and satin bedclothes of the same hue. She had lived all her life within these walls and she would miss them not at all. She would spare neither an ounce of sentiment at the separation nor an iota of remorse at its lack.

  Geneviève’s violet gaze fell upon the new gowns that would accompany her; the brocade was sumptuous, the velvet rich and plush. The tight-fitting bodices emphasized her long, narrow torso, and the low, square necklines revealed more of her creamy skin. Yet she found little joy in them, thrilled more by the short bow that fit so perfectly—felt so natural—in her hands and the dagger with its sparkling, jeweled hilt.

  Crumbling the flounce of her simple traveling gown in her hands, she rose to her knees and waddled over to the bed. There she picked up the miniature portraits, holding one in each palm of her long, thin hands, and stared at them as she had for so many hours, so many days before this. She did not know their names, for it was hammered into her that such knowledge could kill her, but she knew them by the swell in her heart as she looked upon them.

  The hint of a smile brushed her lips—one corner of her mouth rising as if with a gentle tug of an invisible string—at the sight of her mother’s rosy cheeks, and the amber of her eyes. At the sight of her dashing father—his proud bearing, his long but pleasant face—a yearning for something she could neither describe nor name churned in her depths.

  She lay the pictures back down on the quilt with great care, as if she would injure her parents were she not cautious with their likenesses. She picked up another, that of the king—her king—King Henry VIII. His unswerving gaze held hers, spoke to her, and the curved lips reminded her of her own. Countless were the times she had gazed at her mouth in the looking glass, pretending she had inherited the distinctive feature from him.

  Yes, she would pack it all—the miniatures of her parents, the weapons, the gowns and ribbons and jewels. All of it would come with her. Everything save his picture and his letters. Those she must surrender, leaving no tangible connection between them.

  The bundle of parchment sat in her lap, wrapped in a robin’s-egg blue ribbon. Some of the sheets had begun to darken and brown, for they were close to twenty years old. So many had worn spots; creases folded and unfolded time and again were wearing thin. How many times had she sat in this very spot, poring over the words of encouragement from King Henry VIII? How many times she had cried over them, laughed over them, she could not recall. She knew only that she heard the sound of their words in her head more often than that of her own voice.

  She gathered them to her, the missives and the miniature, and made her way to sit before the low fire smoldering in the grate. For a moment her hand hesitated, forward motion halted but with the slightest of quivers. Reaching for inner fortitude, she quelled the fear, dampened and extinguished the emotion, as taught.

  She untied the satin ribbon and began to place each piece of parchment on the burning embers, one by one. With each wad of material, the flames rose higher and she felt the heat caress her skin. As the blaze devoured them, Geneviève recalled their words, knowing every phrase, every sentiment, as well as she knew her name. She had clung to his words of encouragement and devotion through the long, lonely years. She had dedicated herself to her lessons as he urged her to do. And she had basked in his approval when the next letter came.

  “What are you doing, mam’selle?”

  Geneviève turned in surprise to the apron-clad girl standing in her chamber. So immersed in her task was she, she had not heard the servant enter nor approach.

  “You startled me, Carine,” she reproached her maid.

  “I knocked on the door, mam’selle, twice, but received no reply. I thought the chamber empty.” The petite brunette zigzagged through the cluttered room and squatted beside her mistress. “What are you doing?” she asked again.

  Geneviève held the last letter in her hand and placed it with great gentleness upon the waning fire. “Just cleaning up.”

  “Why did you not call for me?” Carine’s pert nose scrunched with concern; she was anxious to please her new mistress. She had heard the stories of ladies’ maids come and gone, year after year, leaving the château and the town itself. No one could tell her if Geneviève’s own contrariness sent them packing, one after the other, or if they had been dismissed. It seemed the young beauty was an enigma, though she herself had found a youthful lady of no ill temper. In reality, Carine had not yet interpreted the true nature of her mistress’s temperament at all.

  Geneviève turned back to her task. “This I had to do for myself.”

  All that remained in her lap was the small miniat
ure of the redheaded king. She kept it covered, cupped in the palm of her hand. Her eyes fluttered closed; she heaved a deep breath, and tossed it in.

  It fell upon the flames, sparks flying as the combustible paint caught fire. The two women watched in silence as the corners of the small canvas curled up, blackened, and turned to ash.

  Her befuddled gaze volleying between the fire and her mistress, Carine squirmed in the silence. “Your aunt asks for you.”

  Geneviève nodded without turning from the grate. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  She jumped to her feet, reverie broken, and studied the cluttered room. “Could you finish this, Carine?”

  “Of course, mam’selle.” The maid began gathering and folding the few items remaining, thankful to be put to work.

  “Are your own things ready?” Geneviève asked.

  “Oh yes, I’ve been ready for hours.” There was no mistaking the eagerness in the young girl’s voice.

  Geneviève’s rosebud mouth twitched in a slight gesture of a smile. “Then I will pay my last visit and join you in the foyer. Is an hour long enough to finish the packing and have everything into the carriage?”

  “Leave it to me,” Carine replied with conviction. “All will be ready.”

  With a curt nod, so like that of the aunt who had raised her, Geneviève left her maid to her chores. At the door she faltered, throwing back one last look at the fire and its glowing ashes.

  Picture and letters may be gone, but the bond—the allegiance bordering on fanatical—remained. It was time.

  Knocking with one knuckle, Geneviève entered the dark, cavernous room. Diffused light from gaps in the curtain were too feeble to reach the high vaulted ceiling or the far corners of the large and stately room. The cherrywood panels and deep maroon wall and bed coverings brought more gloom upon the somber chamber. The silence hummed and Geneviève tiptoed into it, having no care to disturb it.

  As she neared the bed, she spied the small mound of her aunt beneath the heavy covers and the large form of the black-gowned physician propped in the chair beside her. The bitter scent of illness mingled with the aroma of herbs in the stifling room in dire need of an airing out. Surely, a tiny bit of fresh spring air would do the dying woman no harm, Geneviève thought as she neared her aunt, but she kept such thoughts to herself. She gave the doctor a nod and he returned her solemn greeting with a silent, seated bow.

  Geneviève approached the bedside and leaned forward, thighs brushing against the hard mattress upon which her aunt lay. The woman’s sharp features were hidden in the dimness, but as Gene-viève’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, the familiar pointy nose and jutting chin became visible. Though death marched near, there was little softness to the bony face, as if the woman greeted it with the same stony demeanor in which she had spent her life. Thin gray strands of hair lay on the pillow and thin, papery lids lay closed over her eyes.

  Lengthy minutes ticked by but the woman remained motionless. Believing her asleep, Geneviève began to creep backward to the door.

  “Leave us, monsieur.” The warbled voice both startled and commanded.

  The large man rose from his chair and left the room without a word, passing Geneviève, rooted to her place. It had been a test, yet another; she should have known. Her whole life had been a test, one administered by this woman with a cold, stern hand.

  “Are you ready? Has everything been taken care of?”

  “Oui¸ ma tante. It is all prepared as instructed.”

  “Bon, bon. As it should be.”

  With tremendous effort, the feeble woman lifted her head off her pillow, thin arms pushing at the mattress as she tried to raise herself up. Geneviève rushed over, taking her aunt by the shoulders and boosting the frail woman up, pulling the pillows into a heap to support her. With a sideward glance that was neither grateful nor pleased, Elaine acknowledged her niece’s assistance.

  Geneviève felt her teeth grind, then released the reaction. All her life, she had tried so hard to please this woman. From her earliest memories, she had done everything asked of her. No matter how difficult, no matter how heinous, she had done it all in the hopes of eliciting some affection, any sign of tenderness, from the only mother she had ever known. But even now, as they were about to part for what may well be the last time, there was no offer of affection, not a morsel of sentiment extended from the woman who had raised her.

  “In the table, there.” Elaine pointed one bony finger at the cre-denza along the mullioned windows. “Open the top drawer and bring me what you find.”

  Geneviève did as instructed, retrieving a large velvet pouch, and placed it upon her aunt’s lap.

  Untying the satin cord, Elaine reached in. “These are for you.”

  The first item drawn from the bag was a book, bound in Moroccan leather with gold embossed letters on its spine: Pantagruel, François Rabelais. Geneviève accepted the book and opened it, turning the whisper-thin pages tipped in gold.

  “He is the man’s favorite author, and this the most popular work of the moment. No one will question that you carry it with you always, and you must never let it out of your possession. This book holds the key. Comprenez-vous, oui?”

  “I understand, ma tante, of course I understand.”

  Through the long hours of lessons, of learning the languages and the ciphers, Madame Elaine had been a hard taskmaster, never once responding to the child’s exhaustion, or revulsion. She had watched with implacable neutrality as the woodsman held the small furry animals, as the young girl sobbed while exterminating them. Nor had she praised Geneviève as the young woman endured hours of lectures and mind-altering persuasion, completing each new assignment with ease, as she translated the most complex of ciphers, as she slaughtered and butchered animals without a second thought.

  Elaine reached into the pouch once more. The locket hung on a long golden chain of delicate links that tinkled together as her aunt dropped it into her palm.

  “Open it,” the elderly woman commanded.

  On each side of the open oval locket were the pictures of two faces, at once familiar, undeniably related.

  “Your grand-mère and the woman who raised you. If any should question your lineage and your allegiance, we are the patent of your heritage.”

  Geneviève stared at the small painted faces; the physical likeness was undeniable. She wondered if their temperaments were the same as well, if her father was the same type of person as her aunt.

  It had not taken Geneviève long to understand that the coldness of this woman’s heart ran to her very core; it was not an assumed state adopted in order to coax more work from the child. It was who she was. This woman had found little chore in teaching the child to have an emotionless demeanor, for she owned it completely. As a curious adolescent, Geneviève had tried to find out how Madame Elaine came to be who she was, but no matter how tentatively she broached the questions, no response was ever forthcoming. Geneviève would leave knowing as little about her aunt as when she came.

  “Take the last one out yourself.” Her aunt held the black bag out and Geneviève took it, squaring her shoulders against the shiver. She clasped the small square shape her fingers found and brought it forth.

  She knew the face at once.

  “Who is it, Geneviève?”

  “It is the king, François I.” Geneviève heard it herself, the slightest tinge of distaste in her voice.

  “You cannot react like this, girl.” Old and dying though she may be, the noblewoman could still bark a forceful command.

  Geneviève assessed herself, finding her shoulders and shapely top lip curling upward. With an inward breath, she relaxed both.

  “Who is in the picture, Geneviève?”

  “He is the king,” she repeated, her voice ringing with respect. “François I.”

  “Whose king is he?”

  Thrusting her chin up, Geneviève looked her aunt square in the eye. “He is my king. My one and true king.”

  For a moment the women’s
gazes locked, the teacher’s scouring the student’s. All of a sudden, the old woman broke the connection and her body slithered down the pillows. All strength had left her. Her job done, her life’s work complete, there was nothing remaining to hold her to this world. She would wallow in her illness until death came calling.

  Geneviève waited, hating herself for the expectancy she felt in her heart, for one word of fondness to mark this leave-taking. Her aunt closed her eyes and turned her head toward the windows. Chiding herself for her foolishness, Geneviève turned toward the door.

  “You will tell him, won’t you?” The voice faltered and its vulnerability stopped her, drawing her back.

  “Madame?”

  “Tell Henry, make sure. Tell him I have done my duty well.”

  That the parting words between them would be of King Henry came as no surprise to Geneviève.

  “He will know, ma tante. As do I.”

  On the seat across from her, Carine bubbled with excitement, leaning out of the open window to stare at the pale green meadows of spring as they rushed past.

  “It is all like a dream, is it not, mam’selle? I cannot believe I am leaving. I have never left town in the whole of my life.”

  Geneviève gave her a silent, indulgent look in reply, but her hands, clad in lambskin leather, clenched tighter on her lap. She wouldn’t tell her maid that she had never left this place, either, not in all of the years gone by. There had been many times she had longed to run, when she had learned what lay in her past, when she was told what was planned for her future. No, she couldn’t share her own excitement and fear. But to herself she admitted her misgivings. She feared the future—yes, it was true. And yet there was a need, like an insistent itch, to do what she must, to fulfill her destiny, regardless of its brutality.

  3

  May the height of these great mountains

  Not affright or rebuff us.