Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  “The baron is new to court,” Geneviève explained, hoping to jog the lad’s memory with more information, though she had very little to give. “Tall and young, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes.”

  The boy did stop then, his gaze scanning the vast room. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Perhaps you might ask at the stables. The lads there know every man by their horse.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” Geneviève sent him on his way. “Merci.”

  For a few moments more, she searched the sea of faces, but found neither Baron Pitou, the duc de Ventadour, nor any of the men she had met. She left the room as swiftly as she had entered, making for the stables, stopping in her rooms long enough to gather her cloak and throw it about her shoulders. In a determined rush, she found her way through the maze of the palace’s first floor and out to the stables.

  The smell of wet horse clung to her nostrils and she held her hand against her nose in a vain attempt to hinder its assault.

  “Excuse me, young man?” From the door of the vast wooden outbuilding she called to the first squire she glimpsed within, unable to push herself across the boundary and farther into the odorous, airless interior.

  “Has Baron Pitou come for his horse today?”

  “Who, mam’selle?” The rugged man wiped the dirt and sweat from his face with a ragged cloth.

  Geneviève repeated the name and his description as well, but once more she received an unsatisfactory and surprising response.

  “I know of no such gentleman. And if he is in residence, he did not come by horse.”

  With a silent, frustrated curtsy of thanks, Geneviève turned away disappointed.

  “Try at the laundry,” he called after her. “The maids there might help. They clean all the rooms. Perhaps they would know of your gentleman.”

  Geneviève waved her thanks, enthusiasm once more ignited by possibility.

  Back in the castle, Geneviève begged directions, running the distance of the ground floor to the opposite end. But in the cavernous, steamy chamber, she found no satisfaction. Blazing a crooked path through the rows of women bent over the pools of hot water and scrubbing boards, beneath the tents of drying sheets, she queried them all. But not a one of them had heard of Baron Pitou, cleaned his rooms, nor changed the linens on his bed. It was as if he never existed.

  Downtrodden, Geneviève began the trek back to the far wing of the castle and her rooms, refusing to give up the search, peeking into every open door, no matter how intrusive or discourteous her behavior may be.

  The colors flashed by—greens, yellows, and blues blurring in her peripheral vision like a fleeting landscape glimpsed from an open carriage window—so vibrant they stopped her in her tracks, and she sidled back, tipping to the right to peek in the open portal.

  Wearing a slate-colored smock, the artist caressed the canvas with his brush, the scene he rendered so vivid Geneviève thought to jump in and run across the beckoning meadow.

  “Come in, mademoiselle. I would not mind.”

  His greeting startled Geneviève; she lowered her head, chagrined like the child caught filching another’s toy, but she did not retreat.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.” She stepped across the threshold. Though small, as petite as her own, the room was elegantly appointed with polished mahogany furniture upholstered in auburn velvet, clean rushes upon the stone floor, a warm fire dancing in the small grate, and everywhere paintings lay propped against every available space.

  He turned, and his lopsided smile came as warm as any welcome could be. His long, thin face, topped by a dashing chapeau and punctuated by a prominent, arched nose, was much younger than she expected, unattractive yet affable.

  “Good day to you, mademoiselle …?”

  “Gravois, Geneviève Gravois.” She dipped a fine curtsy.

  “Mademoiselle Gravois.” He bowed low, his brush waving the air with a graceful flourish. “I am Lodovico Rinaldi Ribbati, molto lieto. It is so very nice to make your acquaintance.”

  “And you, Signor Ribbati.”

  “Ack, no, no!” The young man turned his twinkling, deep brown gaze back to his work with a shake of his shaggy-haired head. “Call me Lodovico, per favore. I hear ‘Signor Ribbati’ and I think my father is here. It makes me want to run away.” He laughed and leaned toward her. “He is not a very nice man.”

  Geneviève smiled with delight at his candid chicanery. “Perhaps you should paint him unbecomingly then.”

  Lodovico laughed. “Oh, I have, mademoiselle, many times.”

  His dexterous movements upon his canvas continued unabated as they spoke and Geneviève looked on in wonder at such a gift; it was as if he possessed two brains, each able to function on a different task.

  “They are very happy to be there,” Geneviève said, her eye on the two figures in the background of the resplendent meadow. “I can feel their joy.”

  He turned with a frown and whined, “You can?”

  Geneviève swallowed, floundering at his response, thinking she had complimented him. “Uh, oui, but … but I like it. It is quite beautiful. But perhaps you endeavor to paint as the other Mannerists do?” she asked, pale brows high upon her crinkled forehead.

  It was Lodovico’s turn to be surprised, pleasantly so. “Yes, I do. You know of art then.” But with a frown, his displeasure returned. “But I’m quite inept at it. It appears I am unable to keep my heart out of my hand.”

  He waved his brush-brandishing appendage as if angry with it.

  “Yes, and those lucky enough to look upon your work feel all that is in your heart. It is a wonderful thing,” Geneviève assured him, stepping past the young artist to study the other canvases lined up along the wall, drinking in their colors, wandering to the places they took her.

  “Mille grazie, Geneviève, but the king has brought me here as a disciple of da Vinci’s, and I am afraid I am failing him miserably. He looks for Titian and I give him Brandoni.”

  Geneviève looked over her shoulder. “Brandoni? I do not think I know of him.”

  “Precisely.” Lodovico stabbed the air with his brush, saffron paint dripping onto the floor. His thin, bony shoulders slumped. “King François is certain to replace me and send me back, back to that father of mine.”

  Now, more than ever before, the French court studied Italian literature and art. François recruited these artists as tenaciously as a general fills his army. Geneviève bit her lips, stifling her smile, and returned to her new acquaintance’s side.

  “The king has Rosso and Primaticcio to give him art showing him the true construct of man. He will need you to show him man’s soul.”

  Lodovico’s smile brightened his face as if kissed by a ray of sun streaming through a crack in dark and thunderous clouds. “It would take a special talent to paint a man’s soul,” he whispered with revelation.

  “Indeed it would.” Geneviève nodded.

  He turned back to his work then, and plied his brush with renewed vigor.

  “How come you to be at court, Geneviève? I don’t believe I have seen you here before.”

  Geneviève told him her story; it tasted more real on her tongue every time she repeated it.

  “Ah, that explains why a beautiful lady with your knowledge of art would not have been at the king’s salon. Your aunt has taught you well. And what of literature? Do you know as much there?”

  Geneviève gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I love books and have read a great deal. I’m not sure if that makes me knowledgeable, though some may claim it does. I have read the classics, of course—Horace, Ausonis, and the like. And I am very partial to Rabelais’s Pantagruel of late.” She laughed inwardly at her own jest.

  “Then you must come when next the king calls us to his chambers. You would enjoy the evening immensely, I am sure.”

  Geneviève hedged. “I am certain my duties will keep me far too busy for such entertainments.”

  “Oh no, Madame la Duchesse always attends such evenings, and her ladies with her.” />
  Geneviève remained evasive.

  “Rabelais is often there, as are Saint-Gelais and Marot.” His voice teased her with such names, like a sleeping mouse taunted a hungry cat.

  Try as she might to remain blasé, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a circle of wonder.

  Lodovico knew he had her on the hook. “They read from their own works upon occasion. As does the king.”

  “The king?” Geneviève balked. “The king writes poetry?”

  “Prolifically,” Lodovico declared. “He would warmly welcome an erudite mind such as yours, especially one accompanied by such a face. You would make a marvelous addition to his merry band of ladies.”

  Geneviève’s expression soured more than a little.

  “Oh, do not be misled. I do not mean it in a vulgar manner, though it may sound so.”

  “My aunt did teach me well, sir, and she taught me to guard myself.” She had felt an instant camaraderie with this young artist—an intuitive, though questionable, reaction. “The reputation of François and his court was part of my education. There are so many pitfalls for a young, inexperienced woman in a life such as this.”

  Lodovico put down his brush and palette, and took Geneviève’s hand in his paint-spattered one, though she gave it with great reluctance.

  “Like you, I heard the stories of a young, hedonistic king, and I have no doubt they are true.” His unwavering gaze pierced her. He would give her his testimony for the sake of François as well as their budding friendship. “But you must understand. For one man he has lived two separate lifetimes. There was the life that came before … before Queen Claude died, before the war, and before the loss of his beloved son and daughters. Then, he lived for mindless pleasure, when egotistical conquest was his main pursuit. Grief, captivity, a distasteful marriage—you can concede such tragedies may change a man.”

  There was no denying the passion of Lodovico’s admiration and conviction, or the truth of his recitation. Less than four years ago, the death of the king’s daughter Madeleine had come within months of his son’s, the Dauphin François, children he cherished like little else in his life. His existence was wrought with disappointment, in denial of its initial promise. As news of François’s hardships reached their ears, Geneviève and her aunt had become convinced the man received everything he deserved.

  “To be sure, a man of heart would change with such suffering.” She had only to look at her own soul to know how disaster altered life. But she believed not at all that François was a man of heart.

  “Do not think me naïve nor blind. Much of the court remains bent on the steadfast pursuit of pleasure, but life close to the king is as changed as he. You do believe me, don’t you?”

  Geneviève found a smile to reassure him. “I think you are a kind man who would not put a new friend in harm’s way.”

  Lodovico heaved a sigh of palpable relief. “Then you will join us one evening?”

  “It will be my pleasure.” An evening of intellectual conversation with such masters as Marot and Rabelais would be a thrill, as it would to be again in the company of Lodovico, and Geneviève didn’t bother to pretend otherwise. She felt nothing of conquest or duplicity from him, nothing more than an offer of true friendship. Wearing heavy layers of deceit, she could see others with startling nakedness.

  “I will leave you to your work then, with the promise of another pleasant encounter.” Geneviève curtsied.

  “I look forward to it with great joy.” He bowed, picking up his tools as she retreated from his chamber.

  Geneviève pondered the man’s obdurate opinion. He was not a stupid man; she was sure he believed wholeheartedly in François’s reform, and perhaps he was correct. Yet change though he might, a murderer could never wash the blood off his hands; such a stain would last forever.

  8

  It’s good fishing in troubled waters.

  —Peter de Blois (1130–1203)

  His morning ablutions and dressing done, performed as always in the presence of his many courtiers and distinguished guests, his shirt presented to him by the most honored among them, the king crossed the salon from bedchamber to council chamber, eager at last to begin the day

  Yesterday’s rain had evaporated and the warm sun of May set the world to tingling; he avowed he could see the lavender and yellow primrose grow, the splendid aromas bursting into the air like an assault on the senses. An afternoon in such redolence would be sweeter with a morning well spent.

  The conseil étroit consisted of no more than thirty or forty men at one time; François’s inner council, they were privy to all matters of his reign, unlike the grand conseil, the large judicial body governing the nation. With these men—these chancellors, marshals, admirals, and the grand master—François decided on matters of state and finance, making the crucial decisions with their guidance and input. The final pronouncement was his alone to make, having established a strong authoritarian rule from the onset of his reign. As his predecessor had begun, a greater centralized nation existed in France than at any time before.

  All rose as the king entered the chamber; others followed him, taking their places either at the long table dominating the room, or along the wall if their rank did not allow the privilege to sit. Swords clanked in scabbards hanging jauntily from waists, and the room filled with the noise of armed and medaled men settling down.

  François looked with a bright smile upon the rows of men attending him. “The duchesse d’Étampes and I are pleased to announce the continued success of the Collège de France.”

  As he expected, a rousing cheer followed his pronouncement.

  “The curriculum is stupendously diverse and vast.” He leaned forward, gaze intense, one long finger pointing out to punctuate the air. “We cannot make informed decisions unless we are completely informed, and it must be information without prejudice.”

  Not a man among them doubted he referred to the narrow religious views expounded at the Sorbonne. While men like Chabot and Du Bellay reveled in the king’s decree, others—most notably Montmorency and the king’s son Henri—swallowed back their displeasure.

  “The readers are scholars from around the world,” François continued with enthusiasm. “Italy, of course, but also Spain. England as well. Politics shall have no place in education.”

  More than a few men looked sideways at their neighbors, surreptitiously suspicious of such forward thinking, unsure if this was a wise course. But not a one spoke his reluctance aloud.

  “We must also continue to strengthen our nation’s language. I have spoken to Ronsard and Du Bellay. Their work continues and must be supported.” François tapped the table as if plucking out a merry tune, inordinately pleased with himself and the events.

  The small group of writers referred to as La Pléiade included Pierre de Ronsard and Joachim du Bellay, a prestigious assemblage committed to enriching the French vernacular and to developing French literature, replacing Latin with the king’s language, one derived from the old langue d’oil of the Île-de-France and northern provinces.

  As the king made his pronouncements, the majority agreed with sycophantic uniformity. These great noblemen searched for their personal power, adrift in a world no longer ordered by the feudal construct. Unable to secure their rank by warring amongst themselves, they were reduced to currying favor and blindly supporting the king for advancement. It made for far less acrimonious council meetings but a weak, disenfranchised aristocracy.

  As the discussion of the new college and literature subsided, Montmorency cleared his throat, the braying of a donkey amidst the dulcet bleating of sheep.

  “I am afraid we must discuss the events of two nights past.”

  Any affability in the room evaporated, doused as decidedly as a drenched fire, taking with it François’s smile and geniality. Another church had been desecrated, more statues defiled, as Protestants demonstrated their disgust with the Catholics.

  François glared at Monty; men close enough noted the twit
ch of the king’s jaw muscles beneath his stubble-covered skin. “The authorities have dealt with the offenders. There is no need to discuss the matter more.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles and his arms across his barrel chest.

  “I respectfully disagree,” Monty replied stubbornly. “Yes, the gendarmerie squelched this particular upheaval, but there is certain to be another, and another.”

  Admiral Chabot harrumphed. “You are quick to predict such dire events.”

  “It is no prediction,” Monty countered querulously. “It’s been happening for years and will continue to happen until we enact laws to stop it once and for all. And when the Catholics take it upon themselves to act where we do not, what then?”

  “The constable is right,” the Dauphin spoke out, shocking many with his contribution. Since the death of his brother, Henri had taken his place at his father’s council table, and while it appeared to many that François tried to heal the long-standing fissure between him and his son, Henri seemed unready or unwilling to forgive. A father’s contrition could come too late for absolution, and affection could be merely an affectation of political necessity. On every issue they argued, though the Dauphin preferred to keep his opinions to himself in public, while furthering his own agendas behind the scenes. “It is our duty to set boundaries.”

  “They must learn to co-exist by themselves,” François interjected, ignoring his son’s annoyed expression. “Do we oversee every minor argument among our children?”

  “This is no minor argument, Your Majesty. The Calvinists are bent on violence.”

  “It is the hedonism and greedy lifestyle of the men of the church which encourages their anger and their loathing.” Chabot snapped like a guard dog at the end of his leash.

  Monty spared him but a sidelong look and continued his plea to the king.

  “The behavior of the heretics cannot be allowed to continue unabated.” He slapped his open palm upon the tabletop, more and more of late the voice of dissension among the king’s men. Some wondered if his growing allegiance with the Dauphin and his mistress was not fraying his bond with his king and childhood friend. Others surmised Montmorency’s animosity toward the duchesse d’Étampes formented his falling from favor.