Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  “Wait here, ma chérie. I will fetch and fill your goblet.” Raymond left her with a soft kiss on her cheek and Geneviève skittered at the unfamiliar sensation. Raymond laughed, mistaking her innocence for coquetry, and rushed away, no doubt in a hurry to return.

  “Again, Eliodoro, you were too loud.”

  Geneviève turned to the annoyed whisper at her back and found she stood but a few feet away from the musical brothers, who, like her, had made their debut this night.

  “You know not of what you speak, Giuseppe.” A hair’s breadth shorter and darker of skin, the wavy-haired brother turned away with a look of annoyance.

  “Look, see it there, the mezzo piano.” Giuseppe pointed to the note-covered parchment, shaking the sheaves in his brother’s face with a crisp rattle. “It is the mark for softness.”

  They bickered as siblings were wont to do throughout time, throwing each other into an unbecoming light, and yet Geneviève would have given anything for a sibling, for a bothersome younger sister with whom to bicker. Her aloneness had been so complete, sibling arguments would have been much preferred to the encompassing silence from which she never found escape.

  Eliodoro gave Giuseppe a scathing look. “I may be younger than you, but I am not a child. Of course I know what it means. I read this language better than you could ever hope to.”

  “Blasphemy,” the older brother roared, pale face turning red. “I am … you are …” He sputtered with anger, spittle flying from his mouth. “I … you …” His eyes bulged. “Mother always loved me best!”

  Geneviève threw a hand upon her mouth before the bubbling burst of laughter escaped, her shoulders bobbing in silent mirth.

  “Come, you two, desist with your bickering. They are serving us now, and it is a glorious meal indeed.” The raven-haired, dap-perly dressed hautbois player rushed by them, a nod and devilish smile for Geneviève as he sashayed past her as well.

  Though not an expert on courtly love, she was quite sure from his gait and demeanor that neither she, nor any other lady at court, would be his type of lover. Geneviève cared little of such preferences and smiled back, further entertained by his adroit and effective handling of the brothers and their sibling squabble.

  “Did he mention food?” Eliodoro spun round to follow the way of the passing musician.

  “I believe he did.” Giuseppe dropped the sheets of music onto the top of the spinet, they and the argument forgotten at the mention of victuals, tossed aside like gnawed bones.

  The brothers sauntered away, a cohesive unit bound by their appetites. As they passed from her sight, Geneviève at last allowed voice to her soft laughter, enchanted by the small vignette performed as if for her amusement alone.

  “I have gone to heaven and glimpsed my first angel.”

  Geneviève twirled round. Raymond stood frozen, a goblet in each hand, a worshipful expression upon his handsome countenance.

  “You are magnificent when you smile.” He approached and handed her the cool chalice full of burgundy wine. “You should endeavor to wear one more often.”

  Geneviève accepted the refreshment, feeling the moist condensation forming upon it, smelling the ripeness of the fruity beverage within. She lowered her head bashfully to sip at the full-flavored liquid.

  “If tonight is any indication,” she said, summoning the courage to look at him over the rim, “I am quite sure there will be plenty of occasions to smile.”

  “My only hope, then, is to share them with you.” Raymond clinked his goblet upon hers, and gestured to the door. “Come, let us take a stroll. I’m in need of fresh air.”

  Geneviève followed, grateful as well to escape the warm, stuffy atmosphere of the great hall. Stepping through the glass and iron framework of the door, the coolness rushed to greet them, the brash sound of riotous reveling dying away, replaced with the season’s first cricket songs, the low hoot of an owl as accompaniment. He led her to the stone railing of the small patio abutting the building and overlooking the vast courtyard a few steps below.

  “Tell me, Geneviève, what do you think of king and court?” Raymond leaned over the balustrade, resting his forearms upon its hard surface. “It must be quite a change from the quiet life you’ve always known?”

  Geneviève rested her back against the railing, looking up at the palace looming into the star-studded night sky, stone behemoth pale in the twilight. “Indeed it is. It is everything I had ever imagined, and so much more than my aunt had told me,” she said, her excitement undeniable. It may have been François’s court, the man upon whom all her animosity fell, but it was a resplendent and glorious court, and her eagerness to be a part of it was genuine.

  “And the king, what think you of him?” Raymond rose, turned, and took a step closer. He stood no more than a few inches from her now, and she felt his thigh brush against the skirt of her gown, felt his intense scrutiny on her face, and smelled the wine-dipped sweetness of his breath.

  She stole a glimpse of him, strikingly beautiful in the diffused light of the torches scattered about the courtyard. Titillated by his nearness, a quiver stirring in her belly, she guarded her words and their meaning with utmost care. “Why, he is the very picture of generosity and munificence. Truly the greatest king the world has ever known.”

  Resting her hip against the railing, she dared to face him, a test of her resolve in her quest as well as in her womanhood. She smiled her small grin, tempered as it was with a morsel of courage.

  Raymond threw back his head and laughed, a spring breeze picking up his golden waves and sending them out behind him. With one hand, he grabbed his goblet and tossed it back, draining it of the remaining wine. The other he placed upon her waist and gently rubbed at the curve he found there.

  “You are a true courtier, Geneviève. You have been taught well.”

  His face lowered, filling her vision, blocking out all other sights. A sudden humming filled her ears. Her lips parted, surprised at his forward gesture, incited by more than a speck of desire. Geneviève wanted his kiss, had thought about one such as this through many a lonely night. It was her due; was not the mercenary allowed the spoils of war? Enveloped in the cool air, she felt the warmth rise up her body and blaze upon her cheeks.

  Raymond’s lips grew closer, full and moist, creeping toward her with agonizing slowness, until at last, mercifully, touching hers with the softness of the wafting breeze. Closing her eyes, Gene-viève languished in the feeling, allowing the tip of his tongue to explore the edges of her mouth. Daringly she leaned closer, feeling the tips of her breasts brush against his hard chest. Her head swam with the pleasure of it.

  Geneviève heard the low, feral groan from the back of his throat.

  With swaggering abruptness, he flung the goblet from his hand; it clanked upon the stones of the courtyard with a harsh clang. With both arms he pulled her roughly to him, smashing their bodies together. His lips became demanding, crushing hers. With little grace, he shoved his tongue into her mouth, forcing it farther and farther open, as if to gag her.

  Geneviève brought her hands up to his chest, no more thoughts for the pleasure of its hardness, and tried to push him away, but the effort was futile. She opened her eyes, cringing at the evil, mocking intent so clear on his features, the handsome swain now a gargoyle. With ill-disguised brutality, he grabbed at her breasts, pulling upon her neckline, tugging it farther and farther down until the air scathed her skin.

  The arm swung round as if released by a catapult. Her hand, fisted and tight, connected with his face. The sound of crashing bone and flesh rang out, eerie in the stillness of the night.

  “Salope!” he roared, thrusting her away, bending at the waist as he held his throbbing face in his hand. “You bitch! What are you doing?”

  It had been no gentle rebuff, no lady’s slap of propriety. She had struck him as a soldier would strike down his enemy, weaponless combatants facing each other with bare fists upon the battlefield.

  Geneviève looked down at the
end of her arm, at the balled fist and the knuckles white with rage, a fury threatening to overwhelm her. Geneviève was frightened, not of him, but of herself.

  “I … you …” she sputtered, releasing the clench with a shake of her hand, feeling the pain upon her skin and knuckles for the first time. “You had no right—”

  “Tais toi!” he barked. “Leave me be. There is not enough money in the world for such abuse.”

  Mouth agape in horror, chest heaving with ragged breath, Gene-viève watched him stalk away, unsure if she should follow, if she should try once more to make amends. But, in truth, she could not imagine what she might say. True, he had no right to abuse her, to take such liberties so soon in their acquaintance. She had accepted his kiss, but that was not …

  Her thoughts trailed away, brushed aside like an annoying insect as his words came back to her.

  There is not enough money in the world for such abuse.

  A puzzle lay in the midst of this moment; it hovered on the hazy edges of her thoughts, but the truth eluded her. Her head screamed with the fullness of the night … the food, the drink, the king, the dancing, and now this. A tidal wave of crushing emotion surged against her. She had but one thought—to return to her room and the sanctuary she would find there.

  5

  Such sickly plant may bloom awhile,

  Beneath the sun of royal smile.

  —John Thomas Mott, The Last Days of Francis the First, and Other Poems

  Geneviève thought herself lost—the faces she passed, the winding corridors she tread—none looked familiar. She rushed and hurried through the dark and deceitful path of an impenetrable forest, stone walls looming over her like colossal trees, and she feared she would flounder forever through the blackness. She turned yet another dimly lit corner, one she was certain she had trod before, and there, standing with a group of other white-capped girls, stood Carine. Never had Geneviève been so thankful for the sight of anyone.

  Catching herself, she bit down hard on her relief, rubbing her face as if to wash it clean of emotional residue. She raised her chin, slowing her pace to one befitting a lady of her stature. As the bevy of maids bobbed, she gave them a curt nod and grabbed with veiled desperation for the door Carine held open for her.

  Before the portal closed behind her, before the ease of escape found her, Carine rode in on her wake.

  “Ça va, mademoiselle? How are you?” she asked, a lilting, singsong greeting. “Have you had the most splendid night? We all heard of the incredible entertainments. We peeked in at one … mon Dieu, what have you done to your hand?” Carine hurried across the last few inches separating them, taking Geneviève’s right hand in hers.

  Perched on the far side of her bed, bracing herself against its softness, Geneviève looked down at the hand she had used upon the baron’s face. With unearthly stillness, she studied the raw knuckles, the drops of drying blood where the pale skin had split.

  “Silly me,” she said, not one iota of silliness in her voice. “I scraped them upon the wall as I danced. It was all in great fun, I assure you.”

  Carine graced her with a glance of ill-disguised confusion, fetching a cloth from beneath the ewer and basin. With a tender touch, she patted the offensive gashes. Geneviève closed her eyes at the coolness upon her abraded skin.

  “I will fetch some camphor from the infirmary. I will return in a trice.” Carine made to rush from the room, intent on her mission, but Geneviève called her back.

  “Not tonight, Carine, but many thanks. I will keep it wrapped in this cloth. What I need most is some rest.”

  Her appeal so genuine, Carine at once capitulated.

  “Of course, mademoiselle. Let me help you.”

  The woman began the process of removing her mistress’s gown. Detaching the sleeves from the stomacher, Carine took extra care as she guided the heavy material over the chafed hand. Untying the laces came next, Carine at Geneviève’s back; the slipping of satin ribbons through eyelets broke the silence. The laces removed, Geneviève turned round to allow Carine to remove the bodice.

  The paper fluttered out from between bodice and shift, swirling to the ground like a leaf falling from a tree.

  “What is this, mademoiselle?” Carine bent down and retrieved a small, folded square of parchment. “Did it fall from your gown?”

  “Give me that.” Geneviève snatched it from her maid’s hand, cupping it protectively in her palm. A million fabrications came to mind, but all sounded hollow. She chose the silence of a lady, one exempt from explanations.

  Carine said nothing more of it, but the smile on her face spoke volumes. Her own romantic fantasies supplied an explanation in the place of hidden truth.

  Stepping out of the heavy skirt, Geneviève dismissed her curious attendant.

  “Merci, Carine. You may leave me now.”

  “But … but, mam’selle,” Carine began to argue. “I have n—”

  “Have no fear, I can finish myself.” Geneviève donned a congenial mask. “I believe I can hear your new friends outside. Go on, enjoy yourself a little more.”

  Turning the girl away gently but insistently by the shoulders, Geneviève rushed her from the room. “But not too late, mind you. I expect you to attend me bright and early to start our first day.”

  “Of course, mademoiselle.” Carine allowed herself to be hurried along, confusion scrunching her youthful face. She peered at her mistress, brow furrowed beneath her cap, as the door closed in her face.

  Geneviève threw her back against the door, latching it securely. Raising two balled, quivering fists, she pushed them against her lips until their quavering—and her panic—receded, waiting with the patience of the fisherman who longs for the outgoing tide. She allowed the steely control to descend upon her, never forgetting the piece of parchment clenched tight in her hand.

  On steadier legs, Geneviève removed to the bedside table and the small chair beside it. Leaning toward the flames of the triple-branched candelabrum, she unfolded the paper with the tips of her fingers, revealing its message beneath the pale light cast by the long tapers.

  With a gasp of startled discovery, she gaped at the jumble of letters covering the small square. Geneviève jumped up, all action and purpose, snatching her book from the tabletop and the quill and ink pot from the drawer beneath, and rushed to her vanity, thrusting aside the perfume bottles and cosmetics, caring little when a few fell to the floor with a tinkling collision upon the rushes. The sweet, woodsy scent of labdanum burst into the air, released as stopper separated from bottle top. Geneviève noticed its redolence not at all.

  The years of puzzles pranced in her mind as she studied the incoherent text before her. Letters, not numbers; this was a substitution cipher, a polyalphabetic substitution, to be exact. She had solved so many of them, revealing the location of each small treat. But where was the key? She could not solve it without the text pair key.

  Geneviève picked up Pantagruel, the book she had kept by her side through the long journey to the palace. What had her aunt said—what were her exact words? Geneviève rummaged through her memory, tossing aside needless knowledge as though she searched an old trunk.

  The book holds the key.

  That was it; she remembered it now. Geneviève had known then the book would be part of her ciphering, but she believed she would use it with an alphanumeric code. She rubbed the embossed leather as if coaxing the answer from it with her caress. Opening the cover, she turned page after page, searching for a hidden cipher disk or a pairing table, the crinkle of the paper like the tick of a clock in the silent room, but she found nothing helpful. She turned the last page, her vexation and frustration burning in her throat, ready to slam the book closed and throw it against the wall, when she saw the inscription on the inside back cover: All is not seen that may be gleaned.

  It was her aunt’s handwriting, Geneviève recognized it, but the meaning of the encrypted message was as much a mystery as the woman herself. Geneviève reached out a hand
to rub the words, as if to conjure their meaning like a sorceress.

  It was the slightest of bumps, no more than a slight ridge beneath the scrawl and the parchment, barely perceptible by the tips of her fingers. Her hand stilled, as did her breath, yet she quivered with the thrill of discovery. Geneviève extracted the small jeweled dagger from beneath her skirt, and bent close over the book. With the delicacy of a surgeon, her bottom lip between her teeth in a trap of concentration, she inserted the knife tip beneath the edging and worked her way around the rectangle of the cover, until she had pried the flap away.

  Revealing the small piece of parchment, no more than a three-inch square, she sat back, smiling with relieved satisfaction. Across the top edge of the small square was the full alphabet in its proper order; beneath it another complete alphabet, but in an altogether different configuration.

  Geneviève snatched up the message that had tumbled from her bodice, and—

  “Mon Dieu.” She blasphemed aloud, chastising herself with sudden insight. Baron Pitou and his abrasive groping; it was purposeful, yet she had responded like a naïve, sullen child. What must he think of her? Geneviève thumped her elbow on the table and hung her head upon her hand, ruminating bitterly upon her actions.

  All she had been taught had changed; her sensibilities, her self-awareness were not as blind as her rage had been. They had taught her to be a soldier, but one of cold calculation. There had been nothing cold about the outrage she had felt, and yet his offense had not been of so great a magnitude. Her response had been as white-hot as a branding iron, nothing of the dispassionate mien she had been taught. She searched deep inside herself; where did such ire come from? Did it fester within her, seething in her secret places? The possession of it had overwhelmed her; she saw it now in hindsight, its ferociousness blinding her like a mask.

  The knuckles that had crashed into Raymond’s face throbbed; she could only guess at the pain he must be feeling. Geneviève could think no more of this now. She would find the baron tomorrow and make amends. They shared allegiance and she must keep herself in his good graces.