Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  Her small, bow-shaped mouth fell open as she revealed the dazzling pair of amethyst earrings sparkling upon the small swath of black velvet; the teardrop-shaped stones as large as the pad of her thumb hung from clasps of perfect white gold. She fingered them with timid awe and took up the folded square of parchment.

  Mademoiselle Gravois,

  Though I can never thank you for the life of my son, I offer these as a small token of my esteem and gratitude. I have had them wrought especially for you. As beautiful as your eyes, I thought they would be the perfect complement to the ring I have seen you wear so often.

  François

  Carine gave an astounded gasp, unable to restrain herself from peering over Geneviève’s shoulder. “They are exquisite, mam’selle. You have garnered the best of the king’s favor.”

  Geneviève turned with agitation; Carine had dared sneak a look at the gift and read its accompanying missive as well. Geneviève brushed aside her annoyance for the meaningless irritant it was, while Carine attached the jewels to Geneviève’s ears. She turned to face the looking glass and laughter snagged in her throat. The earrings did indeed perfectly match the ring on her finger, as if they were created simultaneously.

  “How exceedingly considerate of the king,” Carine remarked.

  Indeed it was, and yet Geneviève could not reconcile the gesture with the man who had made it.

  Carine laughed as she glimpsed the bewildered amazement on Geneviève’s face. “You are pleased,” she cooed. “What a wonderful gift.”

  Was it wonderful? Geneviève was unsure. She knew only that life was a twisted journey, and hers more than most. Irony was assuredly God’s deranged sense of humor.

  Silks, satins, brocades, and velvets lay draped upon every available surface of the duchesse d’Étampes’s audience chamber; iridescent primrose silk fell across the settee, crimson flowed over the ottoman, royal blue velvet hid the corner chairs.

  Like half-blossomed roses, the women pranced about, scantily clad in frilly petticoats and shifts as the maids measured them for their new gowns, tossing the yards of exquisite fabrics around their shoulders to see how the color might highlight their own particular beauty. No one could choose before the duchesse herself had discarded any selection, but there was more than enough fabric to please all of her attendants, to send them twittering with squeals of delight as the contingent of merchants brought out each new bolt of cloth and each new style pattern.

  Federico II of Gonzaga had returned from his latest visit with his mother, Isabella d’Este, and his trunks overflowed with Italy’s most current fashions and cosmetics. François loved for the ladies of his court to be adorned with nothing but the finest couture the world had to offer, and he made sure the Italian brought them on a regular basis.

  A knock at the door brought scarcely a notice, and little more as the adolescent serving girl opened the door to the messenger. She took the parchment he offered her and closed the door quickly. The mousy girl stepped sprightly through the dithering throng and delivered the small square with the red wax seal into Geneviève’s surprised hands.

  A pang of fear gave Geneviève’s heart a squeeze, but she cast it off. No message from King Henry would be delivered in such a public manner; she need not fear exposure.

  Unfolding the parchment, she was well aware of the prying eyes and the women who grew closer about her, but she wanted them to see, wanted the normal events of her life to appear as transparent as possible.

  “Hmm. Very well then,” she said as she finished the message. Her reaction, though genuine, was nothing more than diluted surprise.

  “What is it, Geneviève?” Monique asked, having not been able to read the complete missive, though she had craned her neck the most.

  “My aunt has died,” Geneviève said as if she reported the condition of the weather.

  “Mon Dieu,” the woman responded. “I am so very sorry.”

  Arabelle and others rushed to her side, ready to make a fuss, to either join her or support her as she fled into the dramatic bliss that could be mourning at court. But Geneviève would have none of it.

  “Please do not concern yourselves.” She stood and busied herself with hunting among the fabrics once more, as if to put a punctuation mark on her feelings. “She had been sick for a very long time. It was to be expected.”

  “But she raised you,” Sybille insisted with a frown. “You spent your entire childhood with her. Will you not miss her?”

  Geneviève gave the question a moment’s thought. The passing of Madame de Montlhéry did affect her profoundly, though not in any predictable manner. With her aunt’s death there was no one in the world who knew her true identity—the person she had been born as—save for the king of England. There was something liberating and yet surreal in the notion.

  Geneviève turned to Sybille with a straightforward violet stare. “She did her duty by me and for that I shall always be grateful.”

  Her dispassionate candor astonished more than one woman, but only Béatrice made to remark upon it. “Will you trav—”

  “Madame, madame!” Lisette rushed in on her little feet, crashing the door open in her haste to find her mistress, cutting off all other conversation.

  “Here, Lisette,” Anne called, stepping out of the cloth being held against her and away from the bevy of servants surrounding her, put on guard by the urgency of her lady’s tone.

  “Oh, madame, you … will … not … believe …” Lisette struggled with words and shortness of breath. She gained Anne’s side, bending in half, one hand on her chest as it heaved to find air while the other reached out for her mistress’s arm.

  “Bring her a drink.” Anne snapped her fingers. “Some ale, please.”

  The women jumped to her bidding, crashing into one another as they moved in a different direction. Arabelle was the first to latch onto the jug of ale and sloshed some into a pewter mug.

  “You will excuse us?” Anne tossed a pointed look toward the merchants posed before their wares, ears and eyes as wide as their lidless trunks. “We will call for you again in a moment.”

  With reluctant bows the men took their leave, disappointment evident on their polite expressions, frustrated they would not be present to hear what astounding news the diminutive lady would impart.

  Lisette threw back the beverage and gulped, drew a huge draught of air, and suppressed an unladylike belch with one fisted hand.

  “Now tell me, Lisette”—Anne wheedled like a parent to an overstimulated child, but with a distinct lack of patience—“what is the matter? Is anyone hurt? Is the king well?”

  “I’m sure the king is fine, madame,” Lisette finally said and, as one, the women inched forward to catch every word. “Though he may be embarrassed by what has happened to the queen.”

  “What has happened?” Anne beseeched her, pulling her roughly by the arm and throwing them both upon the settee, the others gathering close around them, the lustrous fabrics and ingenious patterns forgotten like yesterday’s stale bread.

  Lisette’s round cheeks flushed with high color. “The queen and her train had finally reached Nice and the day had dawned for her to meet with her brother.”

  “Yes, yes, it was to be three days ago.” Anne spurred her on, having little tolerance to receive information she already knew. “But no word has yet come from the encounter.”

  “Oh, but it has, madame.” Lisette giggled. “And it is most delicious.” She took the last swig of ale, keeping her captive audience on edge for as long as she could.

  But Anne tired of her drama. “Lisette,” she growled, and the silly girl needed no further prodding.

  “The day was rather fine.” Lisette launched into her story with hands thrashing theatrically. “And the emperor decided to wait for his sister at the end of the dock in Nice. Much show was made as the queen’s boat pulled up to the pier. There was music playing, and the emperor stood there accompanied by his guards.”

  Here Lisette turned to the women
hanging on her every word. “You know how handsome those Italian men are. I can only imagine how debonair they must look in their uni—”

  “Lisette!” Anne barked, patience stretched to the breaking point.

  Geneviève was grateful for the duchesse’s intervention. Had she not stifled Lisette’s aimless prattle, Geneviève was quite sure she herself was about to pummel the flighty woman.

  “Oh, ah, oui, madame,” Lisette mumbled, contrite. “They had erected a fine wooden ramp with unique railings, especially for the queen, to make it easier for her to disembark. You know how ungainly she can be. And they had moved it up to her boat. The music grew louder as she descended, three of her prettiest ladies behind her. The emperor waited patiently, himself splendid in velvet and gold, or so I was told. He reached out his hand, the queen and her ladies stepped onto the dock and … and …” Lisette took a deep breath, her mouth open, the words hanging in the air.

  “And, and?” the voices rang out, as if the chorus to Lisette’s solo.

  “And the dock collapsed. Each and every one dropped into the water like a stone!”

  Hands flew to mouths stunned into silence. But only for a moment. The laughter, when it came, rang from the rafters, trembled the tapestries on the walls and the glass in the windows. Such a vision her words created … resplendently attired royals flaying and sputtering in the water, the queen floundering like a fish.

  “You jest?” Anne laughed as hard as the others did, unable to lower her hand from her drop-jawed mouth. “Surely, you jest?”

  Lisette shook her head, her shoulders quivering with unabated laughter. Geneviève turned, quaking with suppressed mirth. She stared out the window as if to see the humiliated nobility far to the south.

  “Was anyone injured? Was the queen hurt?”

  “No, madame, though it took many soldiers to fish her out of the sea. Of course, everyone made quite the fuss over her, concerned over her delicate sensibilities, worried she would become ill from a little dousing.”

  “And the emperor. What of him?” Anne asked.

  “He was not injured, either, except for his pride. It is said he roared with rage, calling everyone imbeciles—the mayor, the governor, all of them—for not insuring his safety and that of the queen of France.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Anne whispered as she pushed herself to her feet and came to stand beside Geneviève near the sun-saturated windows, as if she could see the comedic scene in the distance beyond. “What will the king say? He will be so angry.” Though she spoke of doom, her smile grew wide and her eyes glinted with satisfaction.

  “She is returning in four days. Who knows what else will happen when next they meet,” Lisette said, enjoying her fame as messenger.

  Anne spun as if struck. “What’s that you say?”

  Lisette cowered; perhaps she had said too much. “The queen, madame. She is to meet with her brother once more.”

  Anne’s green eyes narrowed and their spark of pure delight dimmed appreciatively. The room held its collective breath as the women waited to see how the mistress would take this news. Ever so slowly, the duchesse began to shake her head, and a glimmer of a grin once more tickled her rosy lips. Geneviève watched in wonder as the woman threw off the despondency as if she discarded an old soiled gown.

  Anne threw back her head, auburn curls dancing against her back, and laughed riotously. “Oh, but for all the gold in the kingdom, would I have been there.”

  16

  You have no enemys except yourselves.

  —Francis of Assisi (1181–1226)

  “The king is playing tennis with the duc de Montrichard, but we will not attend the match. His rooms will be empty, and I wish to surprise him.” Anne held the white silk garment out to Geneviève. “Bring this to his privy chamber, and lay it out on the bed. Display it prettily, would you?”

  Geneviève accepted the shirt and recognized it as the one the duchesse had worked on for the past fortnight. Sewing was not her strong suit, and Anne had anguished over each stitch in the silky fabric, the intricacy of each full, flouncy sleeve, and the detail of lace at collar and cuff. The king was a man of fashion, and his mistress’s gift would appeal to his distinct sense of style.

  “Put this on top once it is all arranged.” Anne handed her an aromatic lily, dappled pink flesh edged in white and centered by golden stigma. “He will know from whence it came.”

  With a curtsy, Geneviève took the bloom by the stem, unable to keep her nose from inhaling the powerful fragrance.

  The aroma followed her like an invisible tendril as she hiked through the vast château. Geneviève approached the king’s chambers, inured to the sight of the halberd-brandishing gentlemen of the guard resplendent in blue and gold, who stood forever at the double gilded doors.

  “From the duchesse.” Geneviève held up the shirt and flower as explanation for her presence, but she need not have bothered; her face had become a part of the court tapestry and the men presented her with a nod of recognition as they turned the brass handle and allowed her entry without question.

  Geneviève tiptoed across the colorful tile flooring of the audience chamber, each little step loud in the vast empty suite. Never had she seen it so deserted, so vacant of roisterous courtiers and obsequious servants. How different it looked, the beauty of its architecture and décor especially striking without competition from any inhabitants.

  Another set of guards stood at the single door separating the public room from the king’s privy chamber. Geneviève stood at the aperture, and though once more afforded unquestioned entry, she hesitated at the threshold. To enter a king’s private rooms, or anyone’s for that matter, was to peel back layers of armor, to see beneath that which the person chooses the world to see and to peer deep within them, to their very truth. Geneviève did not want to look so closely at this man; she wanted only to see him for what she knew him to be. She admitted her fear and wanted nothing more than to spin on her heels and run.

  “Mademoiselle?” The tall guard who held the door open beckoned quizzically.

  Geneviève shook off the apprehension. “Excusez-moi.” She dipped her head and stepped through.

  The door clicked to a close behind her, but she did not move. Her astonished gaze rose from the marbled floor to the gilded frescoed ceiling above, to rest, in the end, upon the crowning glory of the room … the artwork hanging upon the limestone walls.

  Geneviève circled the room, studying each breathtaking painting in its gilded and scrolled frame.

  From the inauguration of his reign, François had used every treasure at his disposal to tempt the world’s greatest artists to his court. Michelangelo and Raphael had turned him down but had sent many of their works in their stead, canvases now forming the centerpieces of France’s growing collection. Here the most cherished were displayed; in one bearing Raphael’s name, St. Michael slayed a demon; in another, a most delicate beauty in magnificent maroon velvet stroked her long locks.

  Raised for a time in his father’s home, a man who took food from his own plate to give to artists who found sponsorship under his roof, François had inherited this artistic passion and made it his own. It was rumored the king of France had threatened to choke Benvenuto Cellini with gold, and that his warning had worked; the artist had answered the call and would soon make his way to the court, following the footsteps of Primaticcio, Andrea del Sarto, and, of course, Leonardo da Vinci.

  Geneviève arrived at the far wall, against which stood the king’s mammoth bed, royal blue and gold curtains hanging from the golden columns at each corner. One—and only one—intriguing painting held the place of honor above the head of the bed. Not as large as the others, this was a portrait of a woman who smiled amidst the earth-toned landscape with the most captivating and curious of expressions.

  “He called her La Gioconda.”

  “Merd—!” Geneviève yelped, spinning round, losing her balance, and falling upon the bed.

  The king stood in the threshold, his larg
e silhouette outlined in the bright light of the presence chamber at his back.

  “Your Majesty”—Geneviève dropped into a curtsy like a felled bird—“please forgive me.”

  “Fear not, mademoiselle. Rise up,” François said blithely. “The guards alerted me to your presence. And I can see by the possession you clutch so tightly that you have come upon an errand.”

  Geneviève remembered the shirt and flower in her grasp, both a bit crumpled by her stumble. She straightened her shaky legs, took a step toward the door, remembered her errand, turned back to the bed, but hesitated under the king’s scrutiny.

  “Do you like the painting?” he asked casually, but there was a note of such deep sadness in his voice it startled her, and she did not hear the words for the anguish of it. “I saw how you looked at her. You think it fine, oui?”

  “Yes, Sire, I do,” Geneviève answered honestly, turning back to gaze once more at the small portrait at the head of the bed.

  With his long strides, François crossed the room.

  “What is it that speaks to you?”

  Again, that note of bleakness in his voice. Geneviève turned to look up at his face. His hollow eyes had grown more so since she had first seen him, and more frown lines punctuated each side of his wide mouth. In the slanted sunlight of late afternoon, he looked like someone else altogether, an older and disheartened version of the once young, hubristic king. As if he felt her scrutiny, he looked down at her, one brow rising expectantly.

  “I … um …” she floundered, tilting her head to one side. “I am sure most say it is her mouth that captures their attention. But for me it is her hands. They are so very graceful and lifelike, and her eyes. They seem to hold me in their sway.”

  François chuckled. “You have a keen eye, mademoiselle. I feel her eyes on me often, but they do not condemn me. And for that I am grateful.”

  Did he bear a heavy burden of harsh public opinion? Geneviève found it hard to believe a man of such noted arrogance would allow civil judgment to affect him. Many alleged that he never said a foolish thing yet never did a wise one, but Geneviève struggled to think he would feel the sting of such barbed arrows. And yet so much of what she had seen of this man in these past weeks spoke of humble defeat.