Geneviève lost the battle with her smile and leaned in as well, a coconspirator on a mission of entertainment. “Well then, I think I can make a change in my plans. For the sake of the Bordeaux, of course.”
Sebastien’s mouth spread and his dimples came out to play. “Of course,” he said, and straightened in his saddle.
With a flurry of activity, the court spread out over the town and the surrounding territory. The king would stay at the abbey, high on the hill overlooking the river and the town proper, as would the queen and the duchesse alike. The maré chaux des logis scavenged to find sleeping quarters for the hundreds in the caravan, following the strict rules of conduct but forced to make unprecedented accommodations. The ladies of the queen and the duchesse would take the rooms of the two small inns while other nobles were forced to billet with the town’s residents. Many of the king’s gentlemen had chosen to forge on, to ride through the night and make for the estate at Orléans rather than bed down under tents or in the open air. Sebastien was not among them.
“That large tree there, do you see it?” he whispered to Gene-viève as he took her reins and began to lead their horses away.
She followed his gaze and saw the lone weeping willow perched at the top of a rolling hill beyond the edge of the town square, its pale green, feathery fingers reaching down to tickle the earth as they swayed in the feeble breeze.
“May I see you there as soon as the sun has set?” She could deny his hopeful gaze no more than the flutter of excitement in her belly. Suddenly shy before this man with whom she felt so comfortable, Geneviève nodded with a bashful grin.
Geneviève joined the procession of Anne’s maids as they crossed the narrow wooden threshold of the Four Horsemen’s Inn and climbed up the winding stairwell to a closet of a room in the peak of the wooden structure. Four narrow beds for six women meant two must sleep upon the floor, and the ladies drew straws to see who would get the cots. Béatrice accepted her fate with grace, while Jecelyn grumbled viciously about seniority, and birth having greater influence than any straw, short or long.
The dark-haired vixen continued to grouse as the group made their way back down to the common room for victuals. Only when she took a seat among three handsome cavaliers who plied her with a mug of ale, did her griping cease.
Geneviève picked at her food, tearing small pieces from the overcooked partridge and nibbling on it with little enjoyment. The room filled with the sounds of clanking mugs, plunking daggers upon wooden trenchers, and hurried footsteps of harried servants. Pungent aromas filled the air as did raucous voices, but Geneviève found all her concentration was on the small, unshuttered windows flanking each side of the door. The gray of dusk took its reign over the yellow glow of the sun with slow, agonizing triumph, until, at last, the sun conceded and dropped below the horizon.
Geneviève jumped up, startling the ladies at her side.
“Is everything all right, Geneviève?” Lisette asked as she tore off another piece of crusty bread and popped it in her mouth.
“Yes, yes, I am fine. I am so very warm.” She wiped her hand on the back of her neck; the thin film of sweat was no feigned illusion. “I think I need a bit of air. Perhaps a walk will help.”
Arabelle stood. “I’ll accompany you.”
“No!” Geneviève stopped her with indecorous haste, and laid a calming hand upon her friend, easing her back down to her seat. “You have begun your meal. I’ll be fine on my own, I assure you.”
“Very well,” Arabelle acquiesced. “But please do not go far. We don’t want you to become lost.”
Geneviève tossed a smile and a tease over her shoulder as she made for the door with haste. “Yes, Maman.”
She skipped through the portal, pleased to see Arabelle’s smile and indulgent head shake.
The lopsided door banged to a close behind her and Geneviève stopped just beyond. A few noblemen lazed about the small town square, leaning chairs back against stone and wood buildings, voices low with exhaustion and relaxation.
Though the air had cooled but a few degrees with the absence of the burning sun’s rays, the smidgen of relief was a gift, and Geneviève heaved a deep sigh of relief. A faint breeze stroked her, tingling on her moist skin. She put a hand upon her stomach, smoothing the thin linen, hoping to squelch the flutter of anxiety and anticipation beneath.
She ran then, thinking to dash up the stairs and bury herself in her bed. Sebastien was a king’s guard and she a king’s enemy. And yet the thought of him as no more than a man and she nothing but a woman, pulled at her with greater force than her fear could counter. Geneviève set her sights on the tree, a fuzzy round shadow upon the hill, and set off, lifting her skirts to hike up the narrow meandering trail through the grass and weeds. Her silhouette became a ghostly specter hovering up the side of the mound.
“In here, Geneviève.”
The whisper came from the tree itself. Geneviève ducked down, looking through the curtain of feathery leaves, where Se-bastien’s mischievous smile found her. He moved forward on his knees and drew back the branches, as if opening the drapes of a hidden room. Geneviève gathered her skirts and scurried in on bended legs. Once within the burrow, she took his hand and straightened.
“Are we in a fairy tale?” she asked him, as he led her to the large trunk and she turned round.
It was a different world in the nook of the tree; the heavy heat of the day had not inveigled its way into the space formed by the gnarled trunk, the roots that buckled up out of the ground, and the verdant branches that reached down. Looking out, the real world beyond appeared like an opaque illusion through the haze of green, as if it were no more than a painting on the wall of a room—their room. The blurry vista made it impossible to see the black-haired woman who stood at the corner of the nearest building and peered at them from around its brown wooden frame.
“My very thought,” Sebastien replied in wonder. “Come. See what I have for us.” He conveyed her around the back of the tree with the smile of a playful child.
Geneviève brought her hands together and then to her mouth at the sight of his cloak spread out on the ground, snug between two burgeoning roots, the bottle of wine and two mugs sitting beside a small picnic of fruit and cheese and bread.
“Sit, Geneviève, and rest ye here awhile,” he beckoned poetically, and she floated down beside him. She found the most comfortable seat in the very crook of the tree and he joined her. They giggled as he removed the cork from the bottle with a bright pop and the pungent, fruity aroma joined them in their secret hollow.
Geneviève hummed as the delicious beverage slithered down her throat. “How did you say you came by this?”
Sebastien waggled his brows at her. “I didn’t, but I will tell you now. I won it at cards, much to the anger of the marquis Fontage.” He laughed as the memory returned, broke off a piece of the warm bread and gave them each a portion. “He did not have enough coin to cover his bet and floundered for something. I had heard of his purchase of the expensive wine that very morning. I think I had it in mind all along to win a bottle of it.”
Geneviève held up her tankard for him to fill once more. “Your thoughts made it happen.”
Sebastien laughed. “It would seem so. My cards trounced his and he stalked away from the table with many a curse upon his tongue.”
“But he lived up to his bargain?” Geneviève giggled, picturing the jowly marquis’s fat, cracked lips blubbering as he swore oaths upon Sebastien.
“Most certainly.” Sebastien chortled. “He may be a braggart and a leach, but he is honorable.”
They guffawed at the dichotomy of his words; how well they summed up the true nature of a courtier.
The stars poked through the clear night sky as darkness pushed away the gray, as twilight triumphed over dusk’s fleeting dominance. They spoke of everything and nothing at all. They shared their favorite poems, marveled over their love of art, but said not a personal word about themselves, as if neither wanted reali
ty to join them in their secret place and ruin the magic of it.
They were of a similar mien—not as riotous as most courtiers, but quiet souls who kept their truths close to themselves. And yet they shared this laughter, this intellectual curiosity without haughtiness or grandeur, without fear of reprisal for their thoughts.
“I am glad you are here, Geneviève.” Sebastien’s voice purred like a satiated kitten, the sentiment bursting from him with un-practiced spontaneity.
“I am glad as well,” she responded with a shrug, as if unable to deny her reply. She threw back her goblet and swallowed a mouthful of wine with a large gulp.
As he closed the space between them, his smile faded and his gaze grew intent upon her. He lingered, his face inches from hers. Her breath quivered as his lips drew near, and she parted her own in silent welcome.
Sebastien’s lips were soft upon hers, his breath sweet and warm upon her face, his nearness alone a delight for her senses, his closeness bringing her to another place from where she usually dwelled. Here in this state of being there was no stark aloneness, no avaricious anger. There was only the two of them and the chirping of the crickets in the warm night air.
He explored her mouth as if it were an undiscovered land and he its first conqueror, yet there was nothing demanding or insistent about his expedition. His lips brushed against hers with a delicate sweep, a gossamer touch, as he gently moved his head back and forth. With an indrawn breath, he nuzzled her face with his, yet with hardly a touch at all; his eyelashes fluttered against the apple of her cheek, his lips against her forehead. It was the most intimate embrace Geneviève had ever felt and she swayed with its intoxication, opening her mouth as he returned to it again and again.
“I do love kisses,” he whispered, and her eyes flashed open in surprise.
“You do?” she asked, her voice rising, bewildered.
Sebastien laughed huskily, and pulled back a bit. “Does that surprise you?”
Geneviève had the decency to wince with embarrassment. “Well, yes, a bit. I thought only women enjoyed kisses. Men would rather … well …” she faltered, feeling the heat rise upon her cheeks. “Well, I think most men would rather arrive at the destination, as it were, than enjoy the journey.”
Sebastien threw back his head and laughed aloud, his eyes sparkling, his dimples deep and full of mysterious shadows. “I suppose you are right, Geneviève. Many a man would rather have his belly full of wine, but not I.” He wrapped his strong arms around her waist and pulled her close. He opened his mouth, grazed it along hers with a promise. “I would rather taste the moist sweetness upon my tongue for as long as possible.”
Geneviève felt her heart thumping against his and she reached up, allowing the tips of her fingers to caress his dimples and the slight cleft in his chin as she had wished to do for so long. His lips took hers again, and together they drank.
* * *
They whispered their good-byes in the early morning, neither realizing how long they had been gone, neither caring. He kissed the wrists of both her hands as he saw her to her door, leaving with a quiet rumble of laughter as she shivered with the touch.
Geneviève passed the door of the common room, tiptoeing in swift silence, doing her best not to disturb those within, their heads dropped upon the scarred wood tables, snoring and snorting in their drink-induced slumber. The winding stairs creaked and she longed to hush at them but knew it would do her no good. She slipped into the room, the sound of soft, restful breathing greeting her, the lumps of her roommates indistinct in the muted moonlight filtering through the lone window at the gabled peak.
With great stealth, she made her way round two of the beds and the curled-up form of Béatrice on the floor, then pulled up short. Her bed was not empty; a long, slender body filled its space, a head of thick black hair covered its pillow. She stood over the form, arms akimbo, considering for a moment how good it would feel to reach down and throttle Jecelyn until the aggravating woman fell from her perch.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Geneviève. I have taken your bed, haven’t I?” The counterfeit sweetness cast such fantasies aside. “We did not think you were returning, with such better company that you found this night.”
Geneviève’s jaw tightened. How like the conniving woman to have found her out. No wonder no one had come looking for her as she had expected. There was little Geneviève could do about her now, no matter how strong the urge to yank the woman out from the threadbare sheets by her hair. She found some space at the end of Arabelle’s bed and gathered up someone’s discarded gown, rolling it into a ball, hoping it was Jecelyn’s as she smashed it into the shape of a pillow. As she tried to find some comfort on the thin ticking put down for Jecelyn’s benefit, she felt hands reach down and loosen the laces at her back. Once released from the tightness of the stays, she took a breath of relief, rolled onto her back, and smiled into Arabelle’s sleepy face, giggling softly as her friend sent a stuck-out tongue in Jecelyn’s direction. Rolling back onto her side, Geneviève closed her eyes and dreamed of a fantasy world of wood nymphs and kissing satyrs.
18
All strangers love her, will always find her fair,
Because such elegance, such happiness,
Will not be found in any town but this:
Paris is beyond compare.
—Eustache Deschamps (c. 1346–c. 1406)
“Come with me, ladies!” the king yelled to Geneviève, Arabelle, and Jecelyn as t hey crouched behind the hitc hing posts.
The bright fruit careened across the courtyard, whistling by as the men and ladies of the court hurled them at one another, splat-ting with juicy collisions and a bursting of citrus. Out of ammunition, the three women took refuge behind the thick beams, trying to hide the red ribbons on their arms that would give away their location to the blue contingent. The battle of oranges—one festivity in the days’ long homecoming celebration—had ensued. The custom, begun in the twelfth century in Ivrea in the north of Italy, had become a favorite pastime of the king from his earliest days, calling for the contest whether it was carnival or not.
Returning to Fontainebleau proved the greatest elixir prescribed for the king, and he rebounded, taking part in every celebration, both day and night.
Rushing past the women, François seized an abandoned shield and crossed in front of them. “Stay behind me as much as you can, but grab those oranges. We need weapons, my soldiers!”
His enthusiasm was infectious and the women jumped into it, scooping up any fruit not smashed open on the cobbles or the stone walls. Jecelyn gave hers to the king, who launched them with incredible accuracy. Arabelle and Geneviève hurled those they gathered at the opposing team, closely following the king as he cut a swath toward the “enemy” with great guffaws of laughter and whoops of delight.
More who wore the red arm bands joined in their siege, and Arabelle and Geneviève fanned out from the king to cover more ground. From the right Geneviève caught sight of three or four blue bands and swiveled toward them. Lisette, Sebastien, and two other members of the opposition fell in her sights as they tried to flank the red team.
Geneviève cocked back her arm.
Jecelyn stepped up to the king with more oranges, jumping directly between Geneviève and her shot at Lisette.
Geneviève hesitated, barked a laugh, and launched her weapon.
The juicy orange hit Jecelyn squarely on the side of the head. The fruit burst upon impact. The left half of her face became a mess of stringy pulp. She dropped to the courtyard with a cry of pain and indignation.
“I believe you have hit one of our own team, Mademoiselle Gravois,” the king yelled, but not without a peculiar expression contorting his features.
Geneviève batted her eyes, all innocence and coyness, fighting hard against the volcanic laughter in her gullet as she dodged another hurtled fruit. “Oh dear, have I?”
Beside her Arabelle roared, not able or caring to hide her hilarity at Jecelyn’s expense.
“
Did you see her go down?” she howled, doubling up with laughter as she grabbed at Geneviève’s arm. “She dropped like a stone! Marvelous!”
Geneviève turned, allowing the mirth to finally burst forth. The two ran off, weak from laughter and no longer useful. Jecelyn stared at their retreating backs with pure evil upon her orange-stained face.
François sprawled back inelegantly in his chair, rubbing his large full belly, eyes soft and satiated. Strewn about the chamber in the east wing of the palace were his greatest lords and physicians; his almoner, Jean Le Veneur; and his confessor, his squires, and gentlemen of the chamber. The same pages who had delivered his lunch now cleared the remnants of it away, the clanking of pewter plates and golden chalices challenging the melodic voice of Monsieur du Chastel.
“A little louder, if you please, monsieur,” the king requested, and the bishop of Mâcon raised his beautifully modulated bass voice. Pierre du Chastel had been François’s lecteur du roi for the last three years, and these lunchtime readings were atop the list of the king’s favorite moments in a day. Most often of late, he would request something from Rabelais, at other times passages of Roman history or heroic tales of antiquity. Some days it was not such weighty material but a romance instead, and Du Chastel would read from Destruction de Troie la Grant or perhaps Le Roman de la Rose with his perfect diction.
Beyond the double doors of the main entry at the far end of the rectangular room, a great rumbling of voices coalesced behind the gilded wood, as if an orchestra warmed up for a performance. The king sighed, knowing the time of such midday relaxation drew to a close.
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