Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  Nearly an hour passed before the dogs slowed their pace, before they lowered their noses to the ground, picking up the scent of the boar. The riders slowed but the excitement built; the prey was near at hand. As Geneviève intently searched the forest, she found a few of the couples who had left the crowd. Hiding under trees, bent behind shrubbery, they clenched each other in the throes of passion—a man here with one woman, his wife there with a different man, their carnality furtive and extreme, as if the greater possibility of discovery intensified their pleasure. Now she understood the lewd tapestries so prevalent at every palace.

  “They have other conquests in mind than the thrill of the chase,” Sebastien bellowed.

  Geneviève blushed, not at the wanton acts, but at her own naïveté.

  “I can s—”

  Four horn blasts from the left put all other thoughts aside. Riders yanked upon their reins, spinning their horses to the sound. Geneviève’s horse leaped to the front behind the king, spurred on by her mistress’s heels and the exhilaration coursing through her body. The prickly brown animal stood far ahead, halfway up a low, grass-covered rise on the horizon, his blackness a blemish on the speckled yellow and purple meadow. Its flat, ugly snout rustled in the ground beside its cloven feet.

  “Magnificent!”

  Geneviève heard the king yell at the massive size of the beast. Even from this distance, they could see the grotesque proportions of the animal. In all her years of hunting, Geneviève had never seen one quite so large. She turned to smile at Sebastien, galloping upon her heels. They brought up their horses a safe distance from the beast, before their movement and sound spooked him away. It reared its head, snout twitching at the new scent in the air, revealing huge tusks curling up over its top lip. From here, the spear-armed men would approach the prey on foot, following behind the hounds.

  “He is mine!” The cry came from a small grove of evergreen trees on the right. From their camouflage, a group of riders shot forward, the Dauphin and Diane at the lead.

  “He’s mine!” Henri cried again, cutting off the pursuit, his enormous gray charger veering in front of his father’s mount.

  The king checked his descent from the saddle, no one but the few nearby catching the slight gesture. With a jut of his chin, he sent the mastiffs forward. The black hairy beast upon the hill froze for a fraction too long, beginning his ungraceful gallop as the horde of hounds bore down on him.

  The dogs reached him with triumphant, horrifying yelps, sinking their teeth into his neck and hindquarters, pulling him down to the ground. The beast struggled for freedom, stunted legs waggling in the air as he tried to right himself and flee, blood running like a river of scarlet from his wounds, the smell dank and primal in the air. The mania of the kill shone in the hounds’ eyes, but they knew their duty, knew no meat would reach their bellies did they not hold the beast for the master to kill.

  Henri slid from his horse before it came to a stop, a long-shafted, short-bladed spear glinting in his hand. The other riders circled closer to watch, no one more attentive than the king himself. The Dauphin swaggered up to the beast, mounting the small hill like a victorious warrior. No more than a few steps away from the animal, he raised his spear and …

  The beast screeched with one last push of ferocious strength, flinging off the dog at its neck, rising to its feet with the others upon its tail. Blood dripped from the open gash at its throat. Black, dying eyes found Henri; the Dauphin’s feet were manacled to the ground with surprise. The boar lowered its tusks and launched. The Dauphin’s body jerked back, his feet failing to follow, and fell to the grass, the jolt knocking the spear out of his hand. The king bellowed. Diane screamed. Men launched their spears, but they were too far away. The cumbersome close-range weapons hit the ground feebly. Defenseless, Henri struggled to stand, but there was no time. The beast was upon him.

  The boar jerked back, propelled by the force of the arrow as the barbed tip struck him below the right eye and sunk in. With one last twitch, it expired, no more a threat to the heir of the French throne.

  Every eye, every gaze, every incredulous expression spun round.

  With calm certitude, Geneviève lowered her empty bow to her side. Cold, violet eyes found the king’s and she dropped him a curtsy.

  She stood beside the king, who stood beneath the center of the pristine white canopy, its gold-tasseled ends waving in the late afternoon breeze, the slanting rays of the sun casting long shadows beyond. Within minutes of the beast’s death, a contingent of servants and carts had appeared as if by magic. A cold banquet of meats, fruits, and salads was spread out on the hastily erected tables. Courtiers jostled each other for food, wine, and a better position, all straining to get closer to the woman who had saved the life of the Dauphin.

  The very picture of the reluctant hero, Geneviève longed to be any place but at this hub of commotion. Her ghostly smile and skittering gaze gave every indication of impending flight. The close proximity of the grateful king, the duchess, the Dauphin, and Diane kept her rooted to the spot. She berated herself silently for her rash actions, but they had been as instinctive as taking a breath. She prayed her true liege would not be angered by her impetuosity; Henri was a much greater friend to England than was his father. It was her only hope of salvation. How easy her life would have been if it had been the king the beast bore down upon; how easy she would have found it to keep the bow from her hand.

  From beyond the crowd gathered round her, she glimpsed the smiles of Sebastien, Arabelle, and Albret as they looked on joyfully, vicariously enjoying her triumph. How tragic it was that Geneviève took solace in Sebastien’s possessive pride and Ara-belle’s hopeful friendship.

  “Mademoiselle Gravois, I wish you to take this as token of my gratitude.” Henri cocked his head at a servant, who brought forth the cloven hoof of the slain beast, gloved hand drenched with the fresh dripping blood, and bowed before her as he offered it up.

  The Dauphin had been the first to react to Geneviève’s swift kill. With a horrendous roar at the dead beast, perhaps in anger that it dared threaten him, or perhaps in humiliation, Henri whipped out his jeweled dagger and slashed off the front right foot, blade grinding into bone, holding the trophy up over the beast as if to taunt it, though it be demised.

  “No, Your Highness.” Geneviève curtsied as she raised her hands in supplication. “Your courage has earned the prize. I would never have dared bring myself so close to such a ferocious beast.” She played the part of a skittish female, realizing the embarrassment she may have caused the sullen young man by saving him. She plied her compliment with the same skill as her arrow, and Henri bowed with a small if genuine smile, waving at the groomsman to remove with the foot.

  François banged the handle of his dagger against his golden jeweled chalice, and every mouth shut in anticipation. Raising his goblet toward Geneviève, he looked to Anne first.

  “With your permission, madame, I wish to welcome Mademoiselle Gravois to ma petite bande.”

  No one dared raise their chalice until the duchesse gave a sign of agreement, for she alone approved the members of the exclusive sorority. Such accord came readily, eagerly in fact, and with a nod to her lover, Anne raised her own chalice at her lady-in-waiting.

  “You have stolen my very own thoughts, Your Majesty.” She smiled at Geneviève with genuine warmth. “You have saved the king’s son. You have my thanks and those of a grateful nation.”

  “To Mademoiselle Gravois!” the king cheered.

  “To Mademoiselle Gravois!” rang the rousing chorus of courtiers.

  Geneviève smiled at the accolades, wishing more than anything to crawl into the nearest hole and hide.

  14

  Women are never stronger than when they arm themselves with their weaknesses.

  —Madame Marie du Deffand (1697–1780)

  “Is it true?” Anne slapp ed her hand upon the table and the ang ry soun d escaped out the open wings of the butterfly-style windows, echoing down
the long loggias and out into the dreary gray and humid morning. Dogs barked in the distance as if sensing some looming danger. “Are you having an affair with that awful leach Narbonne? I won’t have it, do you hear me?”

  Geneviève cringed with embarrassment, knowing every curious and intrusive gaze in the room stared as the duchesse chastised her like an errant child. The chatter wasted away to whispers as the hangers-on listened to the titillating conversation. The fame brought about by Geneviève’s damnably stupid if arguably admirable actions of the previous week had begun to subside, and here she was yet again, bringing further undue notice to herself, and this the worse of its kind. Of all days for this harangue to happen, on the first damp day in a fortnight, when bored courtiers looking for amusement filled Anne’s audience chamber to overflowing. How hungrily they drank of it at her expense.

  Geneviève bowed low in a curtsy, but would not hang her head. “No, madame, I assure you, there is nothing but the thinnest of acquaintance between the gentleman and myself.”

  Anne chaffed with cutting laughter, bounding to her feet, tipping her chair precariously backward as she took two quick menacing steps toward her attendant. “The man is no gentleman, Geneviève, I can assure you. He is a goatish and conniving cad of the worst kind. What is more, he is her agent and always has been.”

  There was no need to ask to whom Anne referred; there was but one woman in the kingdom she would speak of with such contempt, her voice rising to a painful shrill.

  “I swear to you.” Geneviève rose up to full height and took two steps closer, so that Anne might better see her truthfulness. “Yes, I danced with him, supped with him, but once, no more. He is nothing to me.”

  Anne hesitated in her rage, the cutting edge of Geneviève’s voice halting her tongue, casting a look of doubt across her delicate features. The mistress studied the maid; the room held their collective breath.

  “Very well, mademoiselle, I believe you.” Anne capitulated with a nod and returned to her seat, her screech subsiding to speech. “But you must learn to be wary of such a man. He is tall, dark, and dashing, but he is a man who only plays at love. His greatest satisfaction comes not from actual lovemaking, but from making you want to want him. Once he knows you do, he will want you no more.”

  Geneviève shook her head. “I do not want him.” She pictured herself convincing the man of her lack of ardor with the pointy tip of her dagger. “It will be my pleasure to set him straight.”

  “Now, now”—Anne clucked her tongue, sensing Geneviève’s smoldering enmity—“I know you are new to the court, but you must learn the ways of a courtier. If displeased by a man, a lady does not whine and harangue, but turns her attentions elsewhere to show she has forgotten that which has displeased her.”

  Anne swept up and twirled across the room, running playful fingers along the shoulder of one handsome courtier who lounged upon her couch. He reached out for the duchesse, who whirled away to caress the cheek of another, who leaned against the marble hearth. The men reacted to her power as if unable to fight it; their eyes grew dreamy and their lips curled flippantly in seductive smiles.

  “Indeed, to grandly, amusingly dismiss him, as if it is your greatest joy to do so, is the most stinging cut of all.”

  “And … and if I should care for someone’s attentions?” Gene-viève bristled at the asking, but it was an undeniable compulsion. Pulled into Anne’s alluring power and the aura it created, Se-bastien’s magnetic eyes flashed in her thoughts.

  “Well then.” Anne continued her dance through the room, the men and women catching her pretend desire as if it were contagious, coming together to dance to their own tune, to flirt and smile as if part of a play. “Then it is all pretty words and charming smiles. It is all flattery and letting him know, without saying so, that you are his for the taking. Reveal—without a word—that he must conquer you, but that his quest will be victorious.”

  Geneviève looked askance at her and the twittering court. “You make no sense.”

  Anne fluttered back and took Geneviève by the hands, forcing her to twirl. “What elsewhere may be folderol, at court makes perfect sense.”

  With amused surrender, Geneviève laughed with the duchesse, her gaiety undeniably genuine. She allowed herself to be swept away as two gentlemen took to their lutes, replacing the make-believe music with lilting, spirited notes. The women pranced together, cutting through the crowded room as they danced.

  “Please, madame,” Geneviève whispered to Anne as they trounced about the room. “Will you tell me from where such slander came?” She was vexed by the thought of the nasty rumor linking her name to Narbonne’s, incensed at the threat it posed to her mission.

  Anne’s green eyes slithered sideways to where Jecelyn stood with two handsome gentilshommes. “Be careful of her. Her heart is as black as her eyes.”

  Geneviève’s jaw clenched as she gritted her teeth. “So it would seem.”

  “I have forgotten the matter. As should you.” Anne recognized a malicious expression such as Geneviève’s. “Have not a care.”

  Keeping one of Geneviève’s hands in hers, Anne grabbed that of another lady, and within minutes a crooked circle formed and they danced a branle around Anne’s furniture, the simple country dance becoming trickier with the added skill required to avoid the settees, cushions, and ottomans scattered about. The courtiers laughed like children on the playground, bounding about with unfettered joy.

  “What have we here?”

  The booming baritone cut above the music and the laughter.

  Women dropped into curtsies, men to their bows, while Anne rushed to François’s side.

  “We are teaching Mademoiselle Gravois to be a courtier.”

  The king found Geneviève in the middle of the playful group, her pale hair a bit askew, bright color on her cheeks from exertion and embarrassment. He smiled with indulgence.

  “If she can play the part as well as she can shoot, then she should have no troubles at all.”

  The room laughed at the king’s jest, but they ceased their music and their dance. The king waved a hand in a beckoning circle.

  “Please don’t stop. It is lovely to see such merriment on such a dreary day.”

  “Play on.” Anne nodded to the lute players without returning to the dancers, remaining by the king’s side. There was no doubt of the weariness upon his aging face. His wide, thin mouth refused the smile he tried to force upon it, and his broad shoulders, always so unyielding to the weight they carried, drooped over his barrel chest.

  His melancholy was palpable, and though the musicians continued to play, they chose a slow, more sedate tune. With a wave of her hand, Anne shooed away the courtiers upon the couch and led the king to it by his giant, paw-like hands.

  “Sit, Majesté, and tell me how it goes.” The duchesse sat beside him, all her attention focused on her liege. “Mulled wine for the king,” she called without taking her gaze from him.

  Jecelyn jumped to do her bidding, bringing not one but two pewter mugs of the warmed beverage to the table.

  The courtiers scattered themselves about the room, taking their places upon the couches and footrests, whispering softly to one another so as not to disturb the king and his greatest confidant.

  François raised the mug to his lips, sipped, and closed his eyes with a satisfied smile. He brightened a bit as the warm liquid infused him with comfort.

  “I have not yet heard from the emperor.” It was a bitter complaint.

  “Our ambassadors confirm he has received the messages?” Anne asked.

  François nodded petulantly. “They have. He actually flaunts it, letting them know each time he receives one but giving no indication if he intends to answer.”

  “He toys with us,” Anne hissed crossly. In matters of foreign affairs, Anne’s political views were broadly in line with her personal sympathies, those tainted by her dislike of the king’s Spanish wife, and she leaned toward England. However, her ability to see the lands
cape for what it was, always ruled her tongue.

  From the table by the windows, not more than a few feet behind the couch where king and mistress sat, Geneviève peered down at the open book in her hands, the words meaningless, the letters blurring on the page, as she strained to hear every word of the conversation. A crinkle of a frown formed between her brows as she reflected on the trepidation in the sovereign’s tone, a vulnerability inconsistent with the reputation of the mighty King François.

  “Agreed,” the king said, rubbing the heel of one palm hard against his brow. “But I cannot for the life of me think why. He has severed all ties with England. Henry’s behavior with all those wives and his conflicts with the pope have seen to that. It is only natural we should align.”

  Anne watched as he tried to push the pain from his head. Putting her hand on one of his broad shoulders, she pulled gently, scooting farther down the end of the couch and lowering his head into the cradle of her lap. François relinquished his care into her bidding, but continued his diatribe.

  “After all these years, he continues to hold Milan over my head like a master teasing a dog with a hearty bone,” he said as she began to stroke his hair away from his worried face.

  Having lost the territory in the Treaty of Madrid—a humiliation compounded by the disgrace, defeat, and his subsequent imprisonment at Pavia—reclaiming the birthright had been his lifelong obsession, one competing only with that of Hely herself. François craved all things Italian, a result and a symptom of his obsession, yet it permeated every facet of his life—his dress, his food, his home, and the art hanging on his walls.

  Anne stared out the window as she caressed him. “And yet Charles knows he needs you. If the English king decides to ride out against him, the emperor will need you.” Her words supported François’s position, encouraged him to keep to his path, but to Geneviève her mistress sounded irked to speak them.

  François’s eyes closed against the succor of her touch. “You are right, I do know, but it takes so long. The road stretches out in front of me by half as much as it does behind. That’s why …”