Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  Geneviève clung tenaciously as her horse sidled haphazardly, jerking her long head up and down as if to pull the reins from Geneviève’s hands, nervous at the feel of a diffident rider upon her back. As she found herself about to tumble to the ground once more, Geneviève shifted her hips beneath herself, her teeth grinding with the effort, and found a modicum of balance.

  “I am obviously not so experienced as you in riding playful beasts.” Geneviève pulled left on the reins, and her horse came alongside Jecelyn. She found herself received in her enemy’s world, and with such acceptance came a return of her natural fortitude. “I do believe I have the hang of it now,” she said with an innocent batting of her eyes.

  Ignoring Arabelle’s snicker, Jecelyn’s thin red lips cut a swath across her pale face. “Make sure you keep in that saddle, Gene-viève. Rest assured, if you fall, you will be left behind. The king waits for no one. Do I not speak the truth, Arabelle?”

  With a cluck of her tongue and a snap of her rein, she cantered off, caring not about any response.

  Arabelle shrugged one shoulder at Geneviève. “Unfortunately, she is correct. When the king is on progress, he is a determined traveler. The duchesse will not look kindly upon you if you cannot keep up.”

  Urging her sorrel mare forward, the creature’s blond mane flapping with each step, Arabelle led Geneviève’s horse, who followed instinctively.

  “Why does she dislike me so?” Geneviève asked with a jut of her chin toward Jecelyn’s back.

  “You are a new beauty at court,” Arabelle said as if the few words sufficed.

  Geneviève shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Beauty comes and goes at court as readily as the wind. You are far more beautiful than either she or I. There must be more to it.”

  Arabelle’s fair face bloomed beneath her jaunty mauve riding hat. “Merci, Geneviève, but perhaps your beauty, like hers, is so unique, so … exotic. It threatens her more.”

  Another three horn blasts rent the air and Arabelle spurred the horses on faster, rushing past the long row of wagons, carts, and carriages lining the lane around the palace.

  “There is no more time for this now. We leave!”

  Geneviève held on as they rushed forward, not slowing their pace until they could see the standard-bearer who would lead the enormous contingent onward, the gold fleurs-de-lis bright upon the blue background of the banner, the gold tasseled ends dancing in the breeze.

  A few short lengths behind the herald, the stately form of the king—resplendent in a royal blue velvet riding costume—sat upon his enormous stallion, his gentilshommes de la chambre fanning out behind him like the gaggle that followed the lead goose.

  In their wake, the queen’s carriage marked her place, though she would remain hidden and protected from the harshness of nature for the duration of the journey. Figuring prominently between husband and wife—literally, as she did figuratively—rode the duchesse d’Étampes, surrounded by the colorful petals of her entourage, the dashing cavaliers who forever flocked to her side, and the king’s merry band of ladies.

  As Arabelle and Geneviève took their place with these chirping ladies, Geneviève turned in her saddle, gaze following the never-ending line of travelers behind them. As far as the dusty brown trail weaved through the yellow-green countryside, so did the line of people, horses, and wagons.

  With each progress—the movement of the court through the kingdom during times of good weather—the king brought his entire household with him. His family, his advisers and courtiers, and every attendant and servant required to keep him, and them, happy … confessors and carvers, secretaries and surgeons, barbers and bread carriers, sumpters and spit-turners, and everyone in between. All fed, clothed, and housed at the expense of the king and those he taxed.

  François brought with him not only the people he held most dear, but his most cherished possessions as well. Carts piled high with trunks and chests filled with every necessity, took their place in line; from the most inexpensive trinket to invaluable artwork, all were packed and guarded with the greatest of care. Behind them were the animals attached to the court. Those required for food—the oxen, sheep, cows, and chickens—and the king’s pets—his dogs and birds, and his lynx.

  It took more than a hundred men to coordinate the move, to arrange the transport of what was tantamount to a small-sized village, and close to twenty thousand horses to pull or carry. In charge were the fourrière—the animal keepers—and the maréchaux des logis, who supervised transportation of furniture, allocated lodgings, and issued lodging permits. Under the reign of François I the court had grown to nearly ten thousand, and with each progress, regional courtiers came and went, taking the opportunity to look in on their properties, and any lonely wives left behind.

  Geneviève stole a moment to look back at the château as it fell away in the distance. It had been her home for such a short time, less than a fortnight, and yet it had served her well. The kitchen coffers echoed now with emptiness, the castle’s latrines overflowed. The skeleton staff remaining would clean and scrub, refresh and replenish, preparing for the court’s return, whether it be in two months or two years.

  As a youth, François had traveled more extensively, though such nomadism was not a result of feudal survival but a desire to keep more apprised of his realm’s condition; it had also afforded the sportsman ample opportunities to hunt in a variety of regions. Times of royal progresses were dictated by the seasons, with little movement taking place during the harshness of winter or in the thaw of early spring, when the roads were little better than quagmires.

  The sun was a glowing orb, midway into its day’s ascent, and the château was no more than a fading memory on the retreating horizon, and yet Geneviève’s legs ached with the effort to maintain her posture upon the sidesaddle.

  “We are for Blois, oui?” she asked Arabelle, her stalwart companion. Arabelle stayed close to Geneviève’s side, though the social occasion of a progress might tempt her to go elsewhere, as if ever ready for her new friend to tumble to the dusty road.

  “Blois, yes,” Arabelle answered.

  “Château de Blois.” Geneviève mused on her childhood lessons. “The home of the king’s first wife, Claude. That is what, two days hence?”

  Arabelle looked upon her friend with pity. Geneviève’s discomfort was plain on her face and in the tight set of her jaw. “Four, most likely.”

  “Four?” Geneviève’s eyes bulged.

  Arabelle did her best not to smile, nodding silently in sympathy as she watched Geneviève’s shoulders slump, reaching out as her friend slipped in the saddle and scrambled to right herself once more.

  Hearty male laughter played a duet with husky feminine mirth, and Geneviève tossed a quick look over her shoulder. By the Dauphin’s side, rode the regal Diane de Poitiers … astride.

  Geneviève stared with ill-concealed envy at the woman’s comfortable position upon her horse—one leg braced on each side of the saddle—not bothering to conceal her jealousy, in spite of Ara-belle’s laughter.

  “There are few women who dare defy convention as does Madame de Poitiers,” Arabelle said with a hint of grudging respect.

  “After making a thirteen-year-old child her lover, there is little left in her reputation to be defiled.” Jecelyn had joined them, though why she chose their company was beyond Geneviève’s ken. Beside her rode a fiery redhead, freckles visible beneath her mask.

  Many of the women had donned the nondescript masks as the journey began, those once worn by every female courtier and noblewoman as they traveled through the countryside, believing their anonymity brought them a modicum of safety. These days most women offhandedly dismissed the danger, opting instead for comfort.

  “Mademoiselle Gravois?” The redhead beckoned with the smoothness of cream and the warmth of the summer sun. “I have been longing to make your acquaintance.”

  Geneviève did her best to make an obeisance as she jumbled along.

  “Geneviè
ve, this is the marquise de Moissons,” Arabelle politely interceded.

  “Enchanté, Marquise,” Geneviève said.

  “Oh, please, call me Solange. And if I may, Geneviève?”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Geneviève replied. There was nothing disagreeable about this woman, and yet she had come with Jece-lyn. Geneviève felt a tingle of trepidation in her legs, as if she had sat overlong in one position.

  “Solange is the king’s cousin. They grew up together,” Arabelle explained. “She is a longtime member of the king’s favorite group of ladies.”

  Solange laughed. “And now you have revealed my age, though I wear this mask to hide it.”

  The other women laughed with her.

  “Yet you are as youthful as ever,” Arabelle assured her.

  “Which cannot be said for La Sénéschale, no matter how much gold she drinks,” Jecelyn sniggered.

  “Gold?” Geneviève and Arabelle chorused dubiously.

  “Indeed.” Solange leaned toward them. “It is rumored she has gold melted and drinks it regularly to retain her youthful appearance.”

  Geneviève’s eyes snaked sideways to get a better look at the infamous beauty. Diane’s thick blond hair swirled in a high pile upon her head, perched upon a long, elegant neck. Her blue eyes shone with intelligence and humor. Though sturdy of build, there was a regal stature about the woman, as if she could joust with a king and bed him with equal proficiency. Again, the flirtatious laughter with which Madame de Poitiers awarded her lover hovered toward them upon a playful breeze.

  “She is certainly making up for all those years with that ancient husband of hers,” Jecelyn said without looking back at the couple.

  Geneviève turned back round, head bobbing ungracefully as her horse ambled along the rutted road. “Was he much older than she?”

  “Much?” Jecelyn’s black eyes bulged, incredulous. “Forty years! I cannot imagine the fortitude she must have mustered to bear him not one but two daughters.”

  Geneviève pictured shriveled, age-spotted hands upon her own youthful ivory skin and shuddered.

  * * *

  “Leave me to my misery,” Geneviève groaned as Arabelle pushed her out the low door of the inn and into the brightly lit town square. Much of the village population had come out to see the royal entourage off, but whether it was to bid them a fond farewell or cheer them away, it was difficult to discern. “I cannot go on. I will spend my days here in this small burg. I will wither away like the untended roses of my aunt’s garden.”

  She had never felt so weary. Three days in the blasted contraption of a sidesaddle and her body ached. Three long days of new acquaintances and endless conversations, and she had naught to show for it—not a speck of worthy information—nothing save an ache in her body that ran deep to the bone.

  “Come along, Geney.” Arabelle urged her as she would a child she must force to do a chore, with a touch of a mother’s indulgent impatience, using the insufferable nickname Geneviève had not the strength to reprimand her for.

  They approached their horses, and once more Arabelle lofted onto her mount, as if she were the most graceful of dancers and the horse’s back was no more than a foot high. Geneviève stood beside her horse with an expression of contempt for both animal and friend. She knew she must lift her leg to begin the climb, but no matter how her brain goaded her limb on, it refused to capitulate.

  “Yipe!” The high-pitched squeal escaped her flapping lips without thought as strong hands encircled her waist and tossed her up into the saddle with the ease of a petal on the breeze. Gene-viève grabbed the pommel to keep herself from sliding off, but she needn’t have bothered—the hands held her firmly in place. She followed the powerful yet graceful fingers, up the thick arms encased in leather, to a face alive with mischief.

  “At your service, mam’selle.” The gallant smiled, revealing rows of perfect white teeth and a set of dimples the likes of which Geneviève had never seen.

  “I … um … merci.” Geneviève could not decide if she was thankful for his assistance or insulted by his unsolicited familiarity. She could not deny how grateful she was to be upon her horse without the least bit of exertion, nor could she refute the power of that smile.

  Humbly doffing his toque to his waist, he bowed. “Sebastien du Lac.”

  There was something modest in both posture and tone and Geneviève dismissed her apprehension willingly.

  “Geneviève Gravois, monsieur. I am grateful for your assistance. It would seem I am not the equestrian I thought myself to be.” There was little need to be falsely self-effacing; she had indeed been humbled by the last few days of travel. All those years upon a horse, riding beside men, hunting with equal if not better accuracy, had given her an arrogance that, though not apparent, was no less a part of her.

  Sebastien smiled at her honesty. “There is nothing weak about needing some assistance now and again.” He bowed once more as Arabelle drew her horse up beside them, her gaze mesmerized by his handsome countenance. “May I ride with you ladies for a while?”

  “It would be our greatest pleasure,” Arabelle assured him, and Geneviève did not doubt her sincerity for a moment. His beauty was indeed potent—a day would pass more swiftly with such a view—but the fear of falling upon her face in the dust before such an Adonis was an unsettling prospect.

  It was not long before other women joined them, more than on any other day. The herald gave his blast and the procession moved. Though the fourth day of a long journey, there was a lightness to the assemblage, and the courtiers’ raucous laughter chased the robins from their nests. They would arrive in Blois this afternoon and the promise of arrival brightened all their spirits. The roads soon became a congested clog of courtiers, a cavalcade stretching out a kilometer or more, forcing all other travelers to give way. In their wake lay veritable devastation as they consumed or confiscated any stored food or goods from the villages and towns along their route.

  They rode on as the village gave way to flat farmland, fuzzy with feathery green carrot fronds and alive with waving, young wheat. Farmland fell away to forest and the stately trees formed the gothic arch of a cathedral over their heads, the sun sneaking through to dapple them with spots of brightness.

  “I am thinking this is your first progress, Mademoiselle Gravois?” Sebastien remained as close as the jostling horses allowed.

  “It is, sir,” Geneviève replied, ignoring Arabelle’s pixie grin from the other side of their escort. “I arrived at court but a short time ago.”

  “You will find it gets easier each time,” he encouraged, one dimple peeking out at her.

  Geneviève felt a stitch in her side, the cost of her efforts to stay astride. “It is hard to imagine at this juncture,” she said testily but shook off her irritability, wanting nothing more than to be distracted from it. “Have you been at court long, monsieur?”

  He nodded and his jet black hair caught the golden morning light. “Two years, mademoiselle, having served in the Garde Écos-saise for the duration.”

  Geneviève’s grip tightened upon the pommel, the bones of her knuckles protruding hard against the now bloodless skin. Of all the positions at court, how ironic that he was a member of the Scottish Guard. Formed in the previous century by Scottish noblemen who came to France to protect King Charles II, these prodigious archers had protected the life of the king of France ever since. They were his bodyguards and they would willingly—gladly—sacrifice their lives to save his.

  “You are a member of les gardes du corps du roi?” she asked, and though she attempted mere curiosity, her voice squeaked with incredulity.

  Sebastien’s gaze flicked away from her tight grasp on the pommel. “It is my great honor, though I am often called upon to guard his favorite, as well. So it would seem that we shall see much of each other.”

  Geneviève gave no reply. She stared at him as if she looked through him.

  “Does that displease you, mademoiselle? Is it me, or soldiers i
n general you do not like?”

  His candor roused Geneviève from her ruminations. “On the contrary, I have great respect for soldiers—warriors of all kinds. You could say I feel empathy for them.” She offered him her half smile innocently. “And I do not know you well enough not to like you. On that score, we shall have to see.”

  She tossed her words at him playfully—recognizing the foreign tongue of an accomplished courtier in her statement—and he accepted them eagerly, both dimples making an appearance.

  Mischief sparkled in his eyes the color of a twilight sky. “You offer a challenge, mademoiselle, and I have yet to meet one I could not conquer.”

  Geneviève smiled coquettishly back at him, unsure where her façade ended and her truth began, the line between role and self already becoming blurry.

  Their party increased in number. The bevy of women attracted by Sebastien’s company, in turn attracted more of his fraternity, and they were soon rife with the protection of many a Garde Écos-saise. It was a merry party indeed that rode behind the king and his favorite, cresting a small rise under a high sun and scuttling puffs of pristine white clouds.

  A young gallant riding at the head of the group, Arabelle by his side, pulled up on his reins, spinning his mount back upon its rear legs.

  “Messieurs. Blois is ahead. To your posts.”

  All eyes scanned the horizon and saw a group of low buildings perched on a distant rise.

  Sebastien sidled his horse beside Geneviève’s palfrey and reached for her hand, loosening her fingers’ rigid clasp upon the pommel with a throaty laugh. Pressing his lips to the smidgen of flesh revealed between glove edge and lace cuff, he captured her in his gaze.

  “I thank you for passing the morning with me, mademoiselle.”

  Though she found little air, Geneviève replied, “And I thank you for your help. I am pleased it put me upon my saddle and our friendship upon its path.”

  “Friends, are we?” He waggled his brows preposterously. “Then may I call you Geneviève?”