With a pointy-fingered hand, she gestured at the chair opposite her and Anne flung herself into it.
The woman took both of the duchesse’s hands in hers, and for a few minutes everyone in the room held their breath, save the seer herself. Her eyes closed, her head rolled in small circles on her shoulders. When her lids fluttered open, the expression of perplexity shone in their hesitant gaze.
“What is it?” Anne hissed at her, but the woman gave no reply.
She reached down into her bag and withdrew a deck of tarot cards, dealing them out in a cross pattern upon the table. Silence reigned save for a strange tap, tap, tapping. The curls piled atop Anne’s head quivered as her foot twitched against the floor, drubbing out the strange, tense rhythm.
Three times the mystic dealt the cards and three times she pushed them together in a pile.
“There is a new threat, but, for now, I can see no more.” Her tinny squeal offered no apology but her gaze scurried away.
“There is nothing new about the threat of La Sénéchale, or her hatred of me.” Anne rose slowly from her chair, once more a regal and controlled mistress. She leaned forward, fisted knuckles braced upon the table for balance. “I had hope. I expected you to tell me the method of my triumph over her or at the least that she would soon expire on her own. She is ancient.”
Madame Arceneau gathered her possessions, and with great care returned them to their place in the weathered valise. “I can only tell you what I see in this moment, Duchesse. There is no telling what I may yet see. You know this to be true.”
“I know you have failed me, seer.” Anne straightened, spun to the windows, and thrust the curtains open. A glimmer of a sickening smile appeared on her lips as she watched the grimace of pain flash across the mystic’s face, as she turned her delicate eyes from the brilliance of the streaming sun. “Take thee to your potions and prestidigitations and find me an answer. Reveal how I am to triumph over this salope or you will discover yourself back in the hovel where I found you.”
The ethereal woman, her eyes closed, gave an imperceptible nod at the threat, hearing no truth in its warning. She rose from her chair, took up her satchel, and made for the door, passing close to Geneviève as she did.
Though she had no conscious intention, Geneviève took a quick step away, as if she feared the mere possibility of physical contact with the mystic. Like lightning through a storm-ravaged sky, the possibility that the soothsayer knew Geneviève’s true purpose at court flashed in her mind, but she dismissed it as no more than a passing shower.
12
With time all things are revealed.
—François Rabelais (c. 1494–1553)
“Come, Geneviève, we are to play lansqu enet.”
As they entered the king’s audience chamber, the small group veered to the left, heading toward the expanse of gaming tables spread out before one of the room’s mammoth fireplaces; within its gaping maw, a small fire smoldered, chasing away a late-season chill with its modest flames.
“Yes, join us, Geneviève,” the petite Lisette echoed Arabelle’s invitation, scampering quickly ahead on tiny slippered feet with obvious relish. She who looked the most sedate, in truth was the most precocious. But Geneviève stopped with unexpected abruptness, forcing Arabelle to skip spryly aside to avoid collision. “No, thank you. Cards are not a favored pastime of mine.” Perhaps her dismissal was far too brusque; the hurt of it gazed at her from Arabelle’s downcast eyes. Geneviève had grown reliant on and comfortable with the other woman’s company and her kindness; Arabelle had been Geneviève’s first true acquaintance when she had first arrived at court. Finding such comfort in another’s companionship disturbed her. She needed to withdraw, to raise her inner defenses, as much as was possible when cohabiting with thousands of people.
“I am content to enjoy the music,” Geneviève explained, heading toward the opposite end of the room and the small gathering of musicians.
She circled about the large expanse of the king’s audience chamber, unsure what to do with herself, stewing in the juices of her own discontent. Lodovico had not yet arrived to amuse her, a message had not yet come to appease her, and tonight the feuding brothers worked together without conflict, the strains of instruments and voices working in perfect concert. She felt Arabelle’s concerned gaze dogging her every step, refused to see the confusion and concern within it, and busied herself with a study of the room. Rich, bright tapestries and gloomy, pious paintings covered walls of gilded navy and maroon. Wood and leather heels clicked upon square and diamond patterns of inlaid tile of blue and white, yellow and black.
“Vergikios arrived this morning. I have asked him to join us this evening.” The king trilled like a schoolboy who chattered of his first crush.
“Have all the crates been constructed?” Anne asked with little more than dutiful interest. The couple strolled about the room as if ambling about a garden, each with a jeweled goblet in hand, a long trail of courtiers following close behind like the wake of a slow-moving boat. Geneviève joined their ranks as the parade passed by. She caught sight of the cavalcade as it crossed in front of a gilt-framed looking glass. In the cloudy reflection, she looked into her own eyes, but saw no one familiar.
François failed to notice his mistress’s lukewarm demeanor. “There are only a hundred so far. I’m sure we will need another hundred before the deed is done. Vergikios will oversee the actual packing.”
Angelos Vergikios, a Cretan scribe, had come on the recommendation of Georges de Selve, the French ambassador to Venice. François had talked of little else but Vergikios and books for the past few days. Anne was grateful for the king’s obsession; it had diverted his attention from the nasty rumor of her infidelity and the smoldering choler it had caused between them. But after hours of sermons on the topic, all began to show signs of weariness. Now that the man had arrived, now that the work on the reorganization of the king’s library and its proposed move to Fontainebleau had begun, all were sure there were many more hours of nothing more than the talk of books.
Little remained at the Château de Blois to entice the king to live within its majestic walls; it had been the home of his first wife, Claude, and here she had given birth. The ghosts lurking in the halls kept him at bay for more and more months at a time. Yet one thing remained that the king held dear … the magnificent library. He could not bear to be parted from it any longer, and he had brought his court with him as he supervised the packing and relocation of the thousands of tomes to Fontainebleau.
“So many, Father?” the pale Marguerite twittered from behind the couple. She shared François’s passion for books. After the loss of so many children, the king kept this, his youngest child, close and protected, and she had absorbed his great love of the written word with little other activity to occupy her.
“Indeed, ma petite.” François smiled back at his daughter.
Anne uh-hummed a response, but it was enough to encourage the king to further discourse.
“They are all to be wrapped in the purest linen to prevent any damage and absorption of moisture. We have instructed that covers be erected on all the carts to be sure.”
“You’ve certainly thought of everything, Majesté. Very impressive.”
François smiled at his lover’s praise. “These are the world’s greatest words, ma chérie. They are the keys to humanity’s enlightenment. They must be protected.”
Anne caressed the arm she held close. “They will—”
“Stop!”
The roar reverberated through the cavernous room. Clanking armor beat time with furious footsteps. Bodies scattered. Women screeched in fright. Men called out in warning. Geneviève spun round as did those nearby.
A raggedly dressed man tore through the room. Sharp halberds chased him down, wielded by soldiers intent on pursuit.
“Your Majesty, please, Your Majesty!” The man’s ravaged cry cut a swath through the crowd surrounding François. Men rushed to the king’s side, Montmorency an
d Chabot among them.
The king pulled upon Anne’s arm and yanked her behind him. Throwing wide his long, thick arms, he shielded three other women, Geneviève included.
“Hear me, Your Highness, please.”
A distance yet away, the man threw himself to the floor, sliding across the smooth, glossy tile.
One massive soldier, legs longer than the fleeing miscreant was tall, overtook his target. With a propelling grunt, he jumped over the man as he fell to the ground. With dancer-like grace, the warrior jolted to his feet before his king, spun on his heel, and raised his lance. The crowd gasped as the deadly point stopped inches from the prostrate man’s heart. In a fractured second, three more spears rose, ready to skewer the man’s back.
“I know you.” The king’s enraged whisper broke the stunned silence; his brow furrowed with a devious squint of his long, slanted eyes.
Geneviève rose on tiptoes to peer over François’s shoulder. The man’s fear-ravaged face broke apart; his sobs shook his slight body.
“You do, Your Highness, you do know me.” His voice cracked. “I served in your son’s chambers for a time. Your son François.”
A cloud besmirched the king’s already blotched face. If the man hoped to appeal to a father’s sentimental grief, he had touched the wrong chord.
With one large stride, the king stood before the man, crouched over him like a vulture upon a cliff top. The man scurried to his knees, looking up at François with pleading in his bloodshot eyes.
“Yes, you served him well, if I remember correctly,” the king said bitterly. “And yet you have betrayed me, betrayed him.”
The man put his hands to his ears as if to stave off François’s enraged words, shaking his head in abject denial. Geneviève had never seen a man so pitiable.
“No, Your Majesty, I have not. I d—”
“You allowed an unlawful gathering to take place in your establishment!” François roared.
“I was lied to, I swear. It was said to be a meeting of craftsmen. They—”
The king turned in disgust. “Take him away.” He jerked his head at the soldiers.
“Please, Your Majesty, you cannot take my home. I have six children,” the man begged, reaching out for the king, grabbing a fistful of François’s doublet.
François spun back, yanking his clothing out of the man’s clutch with a fisted hand and kicking out, landing a powerful blow against the man’s chest, sending him flying backward with one ferocious gesture.
“You dare!” the king yelled as the soldiers grabbed the man, forcing him flat against the hard, cold ground, spears and booted feet pinning him to the floor. “For your betrayal I have taken your home.” Spittle flew from François’s thick lips; his body trembled with fury. “Your insolence has now cost you your freedom. Your children can spend the rest of their lives visiting you in prison.”
Face crimson with rage, the king raised one hand, a long finger pointing at the door in silent command.
“No, I beg you!” the man screamed as the halberdiers yanked him away by the scruff of his clothes. His feet pinwheeled as they tried to find footing, but it did him no good. They tossed him out of the room like a rag doll, his cries fading away as they dragged him through the palace.
Silence hung suspended in the wake of the violence.
“Continue,” the king of France ordered, an edge to his voice as he shook off his fury, straightening his velvet and jeweled doublet, brushing his fine clothing as though to rid himself of the man’s taint.
In an instant, music filled the chamber, voices chattered and laughed, cards were dealt, and the courtiers mingled once more, the party resuming as if never interrupted, as if by the magic of the king’s hand nothing untoward had taken place.
Geneviève stood rooted in the abyss of the horrifying events. Here, she thought as she stared at the king, as she watched him smile at Anne and his men, and drink of his wine. Here is the man who killed my parents.
No more than gray dawn light caressed the sky, but she trudged out of the castle, her longbow and arrow-filled quiver upon her back. She cared little that dew stained the hem of her vermillion moiré silk gown as she swept a path in the moist green lawn behind her. Geneviève needed to be away from the castle and all who slept in it. She needed to find release.
The archery butts were abandoned, as she knew they would be; it was far too early in the morning for most courtiers, nor did the sport enjoy as much popularity in France as it did in other countries. Birds twittered and cawed, gathering their breakfast, indifferent to the lone intruder. She felt confident in her solitude.
Geneviève’s step quickened as she strode onto the field and the fresh scent of the earth anointed her nostrils. It had been so long since she felt the bow in her hand, the power of the shot; she trembled with anticipation like the lover an inch away from the juicy lips of her beloved. From beside the mounds of turf, she gathered as many plaster targets as she could hold, and threw them haphazardly over the grassy knoll, returning to the edge of the field, at least two hundred meters away.
Taking the bow stick from her back, she pulled on the strap of the quiver until it sat perfectly placed at her shoulder. Gripping the center of the varnished stave with her right hand, she drew an arrow with her left, coupling its nock to the bow string. She raised her arms to slightly above shoulder height, her string hand brushing her cheek with a feathery touch. Pulling back on the cord with a two-fingered draw, she felt the stave bend, felt the animal-gut string stretch to its limit with a drawn-out creak. In this moment, she and the instrument became one, a lethal weapon.
Closing one eye, Geneviève aligned the arrow a hair’s breadth above a target. Upon the blank ceramic sphere, she imagined his face, the face of king François. With all the pressure of the taut string and compressed bow, with all the ferocity of her hate, she released.
The arrow flew from her grasp with a strident twang, stave vibrating as it sprang back into shape. Her practiced eye followed the projectile as it arched through the air. Her heart leaped in ecstasy as it struck dead center, shattering the target—and the king’s face—into fragments. Her stomach churned at her delight in hate satisfied.
Arrow after arrow she loaded into her weapon, eyes squinting with steely, deathly determination. With each shot, she fed the beast within, replacing her powerlessness with brutal control. Her body shook with adrenal surges, and yet her aim exhibited inhuman precision. The images of the previous night haunted her: François’s brutality coming upon the heels of his words on enlightenment. Geneviève laughed bitterly at his hypocrisy, frightening the robins hopping in the grass as they scavenged for the day’s first worms. With each shattered disc, she felt an appeasement of her hate, and yet she recognized the hate for the poison it was. She trampled on the part of her that longed for the antidote. Time became meaningless as she emptied her quiver, covered the butt with more targets, and gathered up her arrows, only to fire them off again. Each successive shot came faster; she created a song of twang and thump, twang and thump.
“That is some of the best shooting I have ever seen.”
With no more than a flinch, Geneviève spun round, bow and arrow at the ready, nothing but the tips of her fingers holding off the shot as she turned toward the intruder’s voice.
“Stop!” Sebastien cried, and threw himself to the ground, flattening against the moist earth. “Friend, friend!”
With slow suspicion, Geneviève collapsed the tension on the bowstring as the taut hold of alarm released the grip on her body. Her belligerent stare captured him, held him as securely to the ground as had her arrow.
“I find it hard to fathom that a member of the Garde Écossaise has never been taught not to approach an archer from behind,” she said with impatience.
Sebastien stared at her from the ground; there was no mistaking his hesitancy to move as long as Geneviève held firm to her bow. “You are right, mademoiselle, of that I have been taught. I thought you were empty of arrows. It is my
mistake. My apologies.”
Geneviève dropped the stave to her side, putting the lone arrow back in the quiver, fiddling with the nutmeg-colored fletching on its tip. “Indeed, it is. But I am sorry to have drawn on you nonetheless,” she relented honestly.
Sebastien pushed himself from the ground, wiping dirt and grass from his striped royal blue and moss-colored doublet, and his knees, where his blue stockings were blotched with moisture.
“I must surmise that my amazement at your proficiency chased away all common sense.” He approached her and bowed with a tilt of his peacock-plumed toque. Geneviève curtsied, remembering she had left her crescent hood in her chamber. She raised a hand to her pinned-up hair, fearing what a mess it must be after her exertions.
“You look wonderful. Have no fear,” Sebastien assured her with a charming, dimpled smile. “Tell me, how does a beauty such as you come to shoot like the most skilled of warriors?”
Geneviève shrugged, remembering to smile her courtier’s smile as if it were all a merry jest, dousing the flutter his flattery ignited. “As a child, my only companions, other than my aunt, were the household servants, and I was a bit of a ruffian. I fear the men indulged me. They took me on the hunt with great frequency. Too often, I suppose.”
Sebastien laughed. “I can imagine what a little rapscallion you were.” He leaned toward her, his fathomless blue eyes glimmering with a spark of amusement. “I can see her there, in your eyes.”
Geneviève turned from him, pretending to be the coquet, fearing he would see the true hunter in her depths, and diddled with her stave. He took it from her hands and studied it, running his palms over the smooth, polished surface.
“Belly of horn, the best for compression,” he mused as he rubbed the inner curve of the bow. “Back side of sinew. An impressive weapon, Geneviève.”
“Merci,” she acknowledged with a prideful nod, entranced by his slow caress upon her bow. With a small shake, she turned away, striding to the crest of the archery butt and returning her arrows to their place in the quiver.
Donna Russo Morin Page 14