Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  Down the two stairs and along the winding corridors, the women trudged through the crowds.

  “Do not worry about finding your way at first. Learning each palace can be a daunting task,” Arabelle told her as they came to a halt before a door along the outside of the ground floor corridor. “It will be my pleasure to escort you until you are comfortable on your own.”

  Geneviève gave her the ghost of a smile that felt the most comfortable upon her lips.

  “Oh, mademoiselle, there you are!” The excited squeal found them the instant they set foot into Geneviève’s chamber. Carine rushed forward, bobbing her curtsy midflight, and pulled her mistress farther into the room. “Is this not the loveliest chamber?”

  Geneviève staggered forward on her maid’s arm, indeed pleased by what she found. All cherrywoods and maroon upholstery, her accommodations flaunted a serious sophistication suited to her. Her chirping maid preened at her accomplishments, for everywhere Geneviève looked, the room spoke of cozy familiarity. One trunk remained at the foot of her bed, the keeper of undergarments and special possessions. All others were gone, their con-tents—her gowns—no doubt hung tidily in the large garderobe standing sentinel in the corner. Upon the dainty vanity before the single wall-length window, her cosmetics had taken their place beside her brushes and trinket boxes, and upon her bedside table stood her miniatures of her parents and King François, and her book—the book—as well. Geneviève felt a profound sense of relief at seeing it there.

  “You would not believe what a wonderful time I have been having. There are so many people here, so many servants, and they are all quite friendly and helpful. There is a handsome young scullion who was here, and he brought me the tiniest but sweetest of tarts and a mug of ale, without my having to ask at all.” Carine stopped her twittering tirade when she ran out of breath, but her delighted smile continued unabated.

  “Hush, Carine, hush yourself,” Geneviève chided gently, flicking an embarrassed glance between her servant and her guest. But Arabelle laughed a lovely giggle.

  “Have not a worry, Geneviève. She has the right of it. It is most exciting to come to court. I cannot imagine how much more it would be for having lived forever in the country.”

  “Merci, Arabelle, you are most understanding.”

  “I have chosen your wardrobe for the evening, mademoiselle.” Carine had found her breath once again. “I hope you find them pleasing.”

  Geneviève stepped over to the raised bed and found her lavender gown trimmed with ribbon and encrusted with bits of amethyst, and the matching headdress, laid out upon the covers; beneath them, the matching shoes, their thick ribbons tied in large, beautiful bows.

  “It is perfect, Carine. Well done.” Geneviève offered the excited girl a deserved morsel of encouragement.

  Behind them Arabelle poked through Geneviève’s things—curious, not intrusive—as if through the touch she might learn more about her new companion.

  “It is a shame you did not arrive a few hours earlier. It was a rousing hunt today to be sure. Do you hunt?” she asked.

  Geneviève almost laughed. If this woman knew her truth, how confounded would her delicate sensibilities have been. “Oh, I do. I enjoy it very much.”

  “Then I cannot wait to partake of it with you by my side. What fun it shall be. Hopefully it will not be as long or as tiring as today’s. I swear we had to chase that stag for hours, but the king was most determined to bag this particular one, having spotted him weeks ago when we arrived.” Arabelle covered an indecorous yawn with the back of her hand. “Pray forgive me. I fear I am more tired than I thought. As you both must be after your long journey.”

  With a nod and a glance to Carine, whose own eyelids looked heavy despite her zest, Geneviève agreed. “It has been a long day.”

  “And it is far from over,” Arabelle said as she stepped toward the door. “Let us all take a few minutes’ rest. I shall return in an hour to escort you back to Madame’s chamber where we will make her ready for tonight’s banquet.”

  “Merci, Arabelle, you are most kind.” Geneviève dipped as the young woman retreated, and flopped upon the bed once the door closed behind her. Already she felt exhausted by the stress of her charade, though in truth she had spoken not a single falsehood.

  Allowing Carine to strip her down to her chemise and to draw the heavy velvet curtains closed, Geneviève lay upon her bed as the maid tiptoed from the chamber. Staring at the maroon and gold canopy hanging overhead, she rubbed her flat stomach as if to quell the fluttering beneath her young skin. So far, so good, she thought, and closed her eyes.

  4

  The king of gentlemen,

  and the gentleman King.

  —Frederic V. Grunfeld, The French Kings

  The flock of ladies stepped back and gazed upon their handiwork, each with a critical eye for the smallest detail.

  “I think she needs another strand of pearls,” Sybille clucked as she walked a circle around her cousin, squinting with a critical eye.

  Béatrice sucked her teeth with impatience. “No, dear, it will be too much. Her beauty is more than any adornment could add.”

  Geneviève followed Arabelle’s lead, fetching whatever accessory Madame de Laval requested, returning them as Madame d’Azelleures instructed. Jecelyn primped the duchesse’s hair, showing no response to the menial requests, her haughty demeanor denouncing them as beneath her. Monique and Lisette now among them—one tall and thin, one short and plump, both plain but pleasant—tidied up the chaos such bustle left behind.

  Anne stood as impassively under the scrutiny as she had during the long tedium of the dressing, as the layers of clothing—shift, underskirt, hose, gown—encased her body. Certain in her splendor, she trusted her maids of honor had done their due diligence. Upon her resplendent gown, alternating stripes of emerald satin sat beside those of cream velvet on the full, heavy skirt. The huge, puffed upper sleeves of the emerald satin and the more fitted cream velvet of the lower arms flanked the jewel-encrusted green bodice. The same pearls and emeralds adorning her neck and ears sparkled from her matching crescent-shaped headdress. Below the few exposed inches of her rich chestnut hair, her exquisite eyes—huge within the small, delicate face—shone with the same brilliance as the jewels gilding her gown.

  “Is she not the loveliest you have ever seen?” Arabelle whispered to Geneviève.

  There was no denying the beauty of the woman’s features—the sensual mouth and the creamy skin. If her foothold as one of the land’s most beautiful women was not set in stone by the splendor of her face, her figure was equal evidence. With a tiny waist—smaller for the tightly laced stays she wore—and her full, firm breasts, her king and lover often boasted that her body was no less perfect than that of Venus herself. She was a knight’s daughter, and the lofty bloodline revealed itself in every bit of her aspect.

  “She is a beauty to behold,” Geneviève responded with no need for subterfuge, but unlike Arabelle, she found no fulfillment in decorating her enemy’s lover.

  Arabelle’s reply never left her lips as the door burst open and a bear of a man filled the space, arms thrown as wide as his full-lipped smile.

  “I have come to take you to dine.” His booming voice thundered with conviviality.

  This man required no heraldic announcement; so noble and majestic did he appear, he would be known as king had he worn rags and worked in the fields. Geneviève recognized him in an instant. Though his trim beard boasted more gray than brown hairs and his long nose hung lower than in her miniature, she knew him unequivocally. This was King François in the flesh.

  No matter how she had steeled herself for this moment, she was not prepared. All at once, the fuming anger bred into her blood every day of her life assaulted her like the blow of a sword. Upon its heels, fear tread, but it was not as strong by half. The wave of emotion was like a tidal force; she quivered with it and the urge to wrap her hands around his thick neck and squeeze—until all life ran from his
body—overwhelmed her. She spun from it and him, pretending to busy herself with discarded gewgaws. A light touch upon her arm broke through the haze of murderous fury. Gen-eviève looked up from the delicate hand and into Arabelle’s kind face.

  “Be not afraid,” she whispered with a small, generous smile. “Our benevolent king is not to be feared. And it is most likely he may not notice you, though not unkindly meant. When he sees her, he sees little else.”

  Bracing herself with a grind of her teeth, Geneviève turned to face the man who haunted her dreams and gave birth to her nightmares.

  He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen, standing a head taller than the average Frenchman. Named for the Italian hermit who had prophesized his royal destiny, the king’s stature and bearing proclaimed forthrightly the fulfillment of that divination.

  The dark, smooth cap of chin-length hair fell across his face as he lowered his lips to Anne’s cheek, his watery-milk complexion flushing like a schoolboy, his almond-shaped amber eyes filling with an undeniable tenderness.

  “Are you ready, chérie Hely? Are you as excited as I?” François stepped out of the embrace and raised his arm parallel to the floor, calling Anne by the most informal of nicknames as only her intimates dare.

  Resting her hand upon his, Anne smiled up at him. “Very excited, my liege. I have been thinking of nothing else for hours.”

  Their words sent a twittering among the other ladies in the chamber.

  “The Italian musicians have arrived,” Arabelle explained. “Tonight will be their first night. It is sure to be a magnificent evening. You have come just in time.”

  Behind the grandiose couple, the ladies followed, joined outside the door by some of the king’s gentilshommes de la chambre; some were friends, some advisers, a few were both. The Cardinal de Tournon wore his red cassock and four-cornered cap as dashingly as the Admirals Philippe de Chabot and Claude d’Annebault wore their bejeweled and embroidered doublets and trunk hose, decorative swords clanging at their hips.

  For all the courtiers’ splendor, the king commanded the stage. His velvet navy blue doublet, encrusted with rubies and sapphires, was perfectly tailored to his large physique; though his abdomen had grown thick with the passing years, the muscular, powerful athlete he remained was very much in evidence. The slashed balloon sleeves revealed the rich red silk shirt beneath and added to the vast width of his broad shoulders. The velvet navy toque, ostrich plumed and jeweled, he wore tilted to one side. Below the navy trunk hose, thick, tree-trunk-like thighs tapered to oddly thin calves covered in the finest red silk stockings.

  “Most of the stories aren’t true, you know.” Geneviève’s scrutiny did not go unnoticed, and Arabelle refused to let it continue without remark. “The scabrous tales of his wicked behav-ior—they are no more than deliberate inventions of the writers from the House of Bourbon, all of whom had served the treacherous duc.”

  Geneviève would not tell this devoted subject that her opinion arose from knowledge of the king’s true brutal nature, that she had felt the sting of it herself. What concerned her most was that a glimmer of it had shown in her expression. She must gather herself, at once and for good.

  “You misread me, I think, Arabelle,” she said in her most gracious voice. “I look upon our king with great deference. All my life I have heard of him. It is so very awe inspiring to see him in the flesh.”

  Arabelle glowed with reverent fidelity, and perhaps more than a bit of feminine infatuation. “Once you come to know him, not only as king, but as a man, you will see how truly magnificent he is.”

  The king chortled with delight at a courtier’s comment, the sound expanding as it echoed off the palace’s stone walls. Everywhere the signs and symptoms of François’s all-encompassing renovation work spewed into their path, but he stepped unmindful around piles of stone and wood.

  As they neared the great hall, enticing aromas of roasted meats and freshly baked breads assaulted their senses, reaching out to them, as did rousing conversation punctuated by bursts of provocative laughter.

  At the end of the corridor, the queen and her cortege awaited. Releasing Anne’s hand with noticeable reluctance, the king approached the queen and took hers.

  Indistinguishable as the queen consort of the land, the small, pale redhead curtsied, no more than a shadow of a smile on her pouty, prim lips. Her simple gown of mauve silk, modestly sprinkled with encrusted jewels along the neckline and matching headdress, did little to foster a majestic mien. Not a word or gesture passed between them that spoke of the synergy of a husband and his wife; indeed, there was little of a marital relationship binding them. Eleanor, the king’s second wife, was the sister of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, one of François’s greatest rivals.

  Twenty years ago, as each young man came into his ruling maturity, Charles had won the bid for Holy Roman Emperor, a seat both had clamored for with the same fanaticism. His deeper purse and beneficial family connections had snatched the prize from François’s eager grasp. The bitter emptiness in the Frenchman’s hand had never stopped burning his skin and he scratched at it like a perpetual itch.

  Later, as Charles’s prisoner for over a year, his country falling apart in his absence, François had little choice but to offer his young sons in exchange for his own freedom, compelled as well as a widower, to marry the emperor’s widowed sister. Charles had been the master, could have shown mercy and asked for other tokens, ones not so dear. But he had not, and what François now felt for him would forever be tainted by lingering resentment.

  Such umbrage had stained the union of Eleanor and François from the onset, as surely as ink stained the scribe’s hand. Eleanor had known it with great surety, as if it had been written long before the day she met him, his mistress standing by his side. From the first, François could not forsake Hely for his wife, could not sleep with Eleanor, and she had soon given up any attempt to compete with the woman touted as the loveliest of the learned, the most learned of the lovely. François needed no children from his second wife, having many already from his first, though few survived. Eleanor was a needless necessity and she acquiesced to the role without rebellion.

  With the king and queen leading the way, the duchesse close behind, the procession turned a corner and the soldiers posted at the archway snapped to attention, their halberds pounding upon the stone floor with one sharp, cohesive crack. Before the sound died away, heralds took up their horns, blasting the arrival of the king.

  Geneviève shrank into her haven of anonymity. Ready to don her persona, prepared to take on all that it entailed; tonight she would do her best to watch and witness, intending for this night to be one of study and speculation.

  Tr y as she might to foster a mien of dispassion, she felt reduced by the grandeur she witnessed. Encompassing nearly the entire wing of the palace, the great hall of the Château Vieux overflowed with courtiers, and the cries of “Votre Majesté” rang up and filled the air of the massive vaulted ceiling, the wind rattling the three-story panes of glass separating the chamber from the courtyard beyond. Rich fabric rustled as every attendant bowed or dipped in obeisance, but the king brought them upright with a free and generous swing of his arm and a call of “Mes amis, bonsoir!”

  Astounded by the breadth of the assemblage and the opulence of the scene, Geneviève leaned toward Arabelle. “It is remarkable that I should be lucky enough to time my arrival with such a lavish event.”

  “Oh, this happens at least once or twice a week.” Arabelle smiled. “The king insists upon it. He believes it is the best way to keep his people happy, to keep them busy and making merry.”

  The king escorted the queen through the maze of furniture and courtiers to the long head table and placed her in one of the two vacant chairs in the center of the banquet, with a shallow bow over her hand. He sat beside her, turning to his companions who filled the table to his right. Chabot and d’Annebault sat in the row, as did the king’s youngest children, his son Charles—the duc d’
Orléans—and daughter Marguerite, both blossoms of young adulthood. On the queen’s side of the table, Constable Montmorency sat after the Dauphin and his wife.

  Two main tables abutted that of the king, perpendicular to his and equally spaced. At one, the duchesse d’Étampes perched herself at the end, nearest to the king, and Arabelle led Geneviève to sit with their mistress, finding a place amidst other courtiers, many of whom looked upon Geneviève with undisguised curiosity.

  At the opposite table sat the Dauphin’s mistress and her own entourage of ladies and gents.

  The king seated and each player to their place, servants flocked through the room, huge silver platters piled with every possible delectable held aloft, the first placed upon the perfumed linens of the king’s table.

  With a hearty laugh encouraging everyone to imbibe, the king dug in to the meat course, crowned by a slab of venison from the very stag caught this day. With the venison came partridge, wild boar, and rabbit, succulent and juicy, exquisitely prepared. Sumptuously gowned and groomed courtiers tore into their food, one hand upon their knives while the other picked the food off their plates and popped each tender morsel into their mouths.

  Geneviève began her meal, so very aware of how different this one was from every other meal in her life. Never before had she eaten in the company of so many others, having taken most of her meals alone or with her aunt. Her life of solitude was finding balance in this greatest of opposite extremes.

  “Monsieur the duc de Nevers,” Arabelle announced to Gene-viève with a nod of indication to the man beside her. “Next to him is the duc de Ventadour, and the marquis de Limoges is on his right.”

  Arabelle introduced her to the many of Anne’s noble league … their names jumbling together. To all and sundry, Geneviève responded in kind, “Enchanté. It is my great pleasure to meet you.”