Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  With a shared roll of their eyes, Geneviève, Arabelle, and Sybille took their posts around their infuriated mistress, knowing if she did not find satisfaction soon, they would feel the sharp edge of her ire.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Sybille muttered, and her company followed her gaze to the room’s entry.

  On the threshold stood the Dauphin; by his side, as always, Diane de Poitiers.

  Anne rose to her feet, as she must to greet Henri, though it pained her greatly.

  “Bonjour, Majesté.” She dipped him a fine curtsy.

  “Madame,” Henri countered with a graceful side tilt and short bow of his head.

  The women’s gazes met, equally impervious. Without a word, each gave the other a most perfunctory obeisance.

  “I wish to see my father.” Anne forgotten, or perhaps ignored, Henri approached the guard, as had the duchesse.

  With a bow, the soldier—by now cursing the name of the man who put him on duty that day—turned the king’s son away as he had the king’s mistress.

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but the king insists he not be disturbed. By anyone.”

  Henri scowled, as he had most of his life.

  “Madame la Duchesse already awaits him,” the soldier offered, as if to deflect any further reprimands from the Dauphin.

  Diane’s eyes flashed with a devious glint. “Then we should wait as well.” She leaned toward her lover as if to speak confidentially, but it was intimacy for appearance’s sake; she wanted Anne to hear.

  With a nod of agreement, Henri followed her to the settee across from Anne. There was little mistaking the salacious grin of satisfaction on Diane’s face. Tension choked the room; Geneviève opened her fan, unable to breathe in the stifling air. Like combatants across a battlefield, the two groups sat, neither attempting to breach the silence with polite conversation.

  Diane and Henri whispered between themselves, the woman’s laughter grating on Anne’s already strained nerves.

  Sybille tried time and again to distract her cousin with conversation, but the frustrated duchesse would have none of it, answering with one-word grunts.

  “I hear Monsieur de Gonzaga has returned from his moth—”

  The latch clicked, the door inched open, and the anxious bevy in the waiting room jumped to their feet, as if they would rush the door to be the first to enter.

  But no one moved, all progress denied in the face of those who came to the threshold.

  Catherine de’ Medici wore a smile on her plump face the likes of which few had seen in many a day. Henri stiffened to see his wife leaving his father’s inner council chamber. Any smugness on the haughty features of La Grande Sénéschale’s face disappeared as if scrubbed away with a rough cloth.

  “Good day to you, Your Highness.” Catherine curtsied and crossed into the waiting room, her step faltering at the sight of the group awaiting her. It took her but a moment’s recovery for her surprise to turn into hauteur.

  “I thank you, Catherine, and you, monsieur.”

  Though he was not visible, the king’s deep baritone inched out into the room, full of sincere congeniality and gratitude.

  Anne and Henri shared a look of concern; there was enough of a struggle vying for the king’s favor; they had no wish to share it with Catherine or whomever she had brought to meet François.

  All such considerations were forgotten when the man stepped into the room. Geneviève felt her breath hitch in her chest, and one quick glance at those around her revealed they felt the same sudden rush of apprehension.

  The tall young man wore the all-black cloak of an apothecary or physician, a four-horned black felt hat upon his long face. His presence filled the room, a spirit not to be ignored or denied.

  “Husband.” Catherine paid greeting to Henri, ignoring the woman who stood by his side.

  The Dauphin responded with a silent bow. “Pray introduce us to your companion.”

  “Oh, of course, wherever are my manners,” Catherine responded with effusive politeness. Turning to the man by her side, she gave name to the nobles in the room.

  The enigmatic man greeted each with a very deep, very silent bow.

  Catherine held the stage with great superiority. “And this is Monsieur Michel de Nostredame.”

  The name meant nothing to them, but it seemed as if it should.

  “Welcome to court, monsieur,” the Dauphin said.

  “Merci, Your Highness.” The raspy voice was thick with secrets.

  “What brings you to the palace?” There was little polite equivocation to Anne’s query.

  The intense gaze turned to the duchesse and Geneviève felt the onslaught of it as she stood beside her.

  “I am a guest of the Dauphine’s,” Nostredame replied, giving no real answer.

  Henri’s smooth brow crinkled. “I see. And what—”

  “Come, monsieur.” Catherine stepped upon her husband’s words mercilessly. “We must be off. There is much to do this day.”

  If she had intended her words to incite further concern, the future queen of France could not have done any better.

  The apprehensive assemblage watched the odd pair until they turned into the corridor and out of their sight. As if in a dance, all eyes turned back to the king, poised in the doorway; all hearts beat quicker at the enraptured look upon the aging sovereign’s face.

  “Bonjour, mesdames.” The king entered Anne’s spacious presence chamber as the morning sun began its climb to midday, its rays finding no flesh as it streamed in the gaping wall-length windows. The ladies had run from its scorching touch, hiding in the shadowy, cooler corners of the vast room. The fingers of the fiery orb found nothing more than robin’s egg blue and sunflower tile, matched in the rich fabric on the walls, walls graced by the long, tapering limbs of the caryatids that flanked the gilded artwork.

  The royal wing of the château consisted of two pavilions joined by a gallery. Like those of the king himself, the rooms of the duchesse d’Étampes were found in the Pavillon des Armes. François had had them designed to her unique and elegant tastes, and they rivaled those of any queen.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty.” The ladies rose and curtsied. Anne moved to her lover’s side, her sage silk and the layers of taffeta beneath rustling as she skittered on her tiny, ribbon-festooned slippers.

  “You look luminous, ma chérie.” The king bowed over her hand and brushed his full lips across her flesh. “I burn with your touch. It was a night I will always remember.”

  Though the king whispered his endearments, Geneviève heard them from her nearby perch, recognizing the contentment of well-served passion in his husky voice.

  “Will you take a walk with me, dear Anne?” François asked. “The hydrangea is in full bloom and the sun has not yet reached the garden.”

  Anne gleamed. “It will be my pleasure,” she purred. “Ladies, if you please.”

  Though she had spent the night in the king’s arms, decorum called for chaperones when upon a public stage.

  Arabelle rose, as did Geneviève and Lisette, and they formed a train behind the regal couple. Jecelyn joined them from the far side of the room, sneering as she passed close to Geneviève with a discourteous bump of her shoulder, the faint smudgy remnants of purple and green bruises visible beneath the layer of powder around her left eye. Sybille would remain in the chamber with Béatrice, who had yet to recover her full strength after weeks of battling the flux she acquired on their progress.

  They strode through the golden gallery connecting the pavilions, the crowning glory of the most lavish palace in the land, with slow admiration. Breathtaking stuccowork skirted the long passageway marked by chandeliers and windows; this carved plaster and powder of marble were topped by frescoes painted directly upon the wall, image after image intended to glorify royal power and prestige. Everywhere were symbols of the king’s wisdom and courage, some drawn from antiquity, and always the salamander and the fleur de lis.

  Passing out of the Cour du Cheval B
lanc, the troupe entered the more pristine and formal back garden. Not as ostentatious as the Grand Parterre, nevertheless it embraced its visitors in nature’s calm stillness.

  The king plucked a huge round blue blossom, a perfect ball of petals, from a bursting shrub and handed it to Anne. “I hope you will not be surprised to hear that I need your assistance, ma chérie.”

  Anne accepted the gift and plunged her pert nose within its soft foliage. “You know there is nothing I would rather do than help you.”

  François smiled, patting the delicate hand resting in the crook of his arm. “Then I wonder if you would be inclined to some travel?”

  “You wish me to leave court, Your Majesty?”

  “For a few days at most.” The king stopped and turned to Anne, her ladies hovering a discreet distance away. “It has come to my attention that England’s King Henry will be passing close to our border very soon. I would like for you to bring him my regards.”

  “Has the meeting with the emperor fallen out?” Anne asked.

  “No, on the contrary. Plans proceed beyond my expectations,” François explained. “But I would not be doing my due diligence to my people were I not to take every advantage, and pursue every opportunity as it rose up before me.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your conversation with that man yesterday, that Nostredame?”

  François raised his chin. “You know well I take advice from many quarters. He has offered some theories for me to ruminate upon, some prophesies to ponder.”

  Anne searched her lover’s face, chewing on all said and unsaid.

  “But …” Anne blinked her green eyes, pale in the bright light. “Me? You wish for me to take the meeting with Henry?” For years, the duchesse had been one of the king’s greatest advisers, on both domestic and foreign issues, but she had never conducted negotiations on her own.

  “Do not look so surprised. The women of this nation have often brought about its greatest accomplishments in diplomacy. If it were not for the efforts of my mother and Margaret of Austria we might still be at war with the emperor, my children might never have been returned to me.” He shook his long head in naked adoration. “La paix des dames gave us the Treaty of Cambrai and the chance for this land and its king to heal.”

  “If it is what you wish, then rest assured I will do my best.” Anne raised her chin and threw back her shoulders, but the gesture did not obscure the caution in her voice.

  The king smiled with pleasure. “Then I will tell the council of it. I hesitated to do so until I had your accord.” François put his pawlike hands upon her small shoulders. “You are one of the most brilliant women I have ever met, Anne. You will handle yourself splendidly, I am quite certain of it. And you’ll find an additional treat upon arrival.” He grinned mischievously. “My sister will be waiting for you.”

  Anne brightened. “Marguerite will be there?”

  The king’s sister had forever been a stalwart supporter of the duchesse, for they were alike in both political and religious philosophies. It had been many months since the women had shared company and Anne would delight in a visit with the woman who had helped raise the king, who was as devoted to him as she was herself.

  “She learned as much of diplomacy as I. Marguerite will help lead you through any difficult moments, on that you can rely.”

  Anne put her hands over his where they rested upon her shoulders, lifting up on tiptoes to nuzzle his nose with her own. “I won’t let you down, my liege. You will see.”

  He wrapped his long arms around her small waist and pulled her against him. “You never do.”

  “But you have already told the king you will make the trip, have you not?” Sybille strode beside Anne, as Arabelle, Jecelyn and Geneviève rushed to keep up. From the main wing of the château, they crossed the Cour Ovale to the small wing beyond. Here the lesser nobles made their homes and here, in the bleakest corner of the ground floor, Madame Arceneau awaited the arrival of her mistress.

  “Yes, of course.” Anne begrudged the response.

  “Then what possible difference could it make what Madame has to say about it?” Sybille huffed with a crass familiarity only a relative would dare.

  Anne crossed the cobbles and entered the far building with the prowess of a gladiator rushing at the lion upon the Coliseum floor; no shortness of breath plagued the fit woman, as it did her cousin and Arabelle. Geneviève kept pace, invigorated by the physical exertion, feeling so very lazy after all these months at the pampered court.

  “I know she will give me affirmation.” Anne turned a dour stare on her cousin as they plunged through the quiet corridor. “And I need to hear it.”

  Geneviève thought it might be the first time she had ever heard an inkling of fear in Anne’s voice.

  Anne knocked on the knotted wood of the small closed door with three quick raps, showing little patience in the request for admittance.

  “Come,” the distinctive voice called, and Anne needed little else. She flung the door open and stepped in.

  “You are here, Madame Arceneau?”

  The sinister shadows inhabited the room; it belonged to them, and they allowed the mystic access to it. Subdued golden candle flames cast wavering light, pale circles of illumination, and their fumes mixed with those of incense, spices, and something sinister and untamed.

  Everywhere Geneviève looked there stood bottles of potions, jars of herbs, talismans and amulets of the soothsayer’s craft. It was difficult to find where to stand among the collection of mysterious objects.

  From the farthest corner of the room, the aberrant, girlish squeak beckoned them. “I am here, Madame Duchesse.”

  Anne crossed the room, stepping, nearly tripping, over the books and charts scattered upon the bare floor. Her ladies hurried after her, Geneviève reluctantly, as she tried to discern the strange markings on the stone beneath her feet. Black marks against gray granite formed the shapes of pentagrams, stars, and moons; a strange language formed incomprehensible sentences.

  Without invitation, Anne dropped herself into the chair at the small table covered in the same maroon velvet Geneviève had seen on her first glimpse of the mystic. The woman appeared as pale as ever across the small expanse, a wraithlike face glowing from out of her looming hood; white eyes staring out from the translucent skin like two glowing crystals.

  “Tell me of the days to come, madame, for I would know my path.”

  Madame Arceneau fixed her gaze on Anne, but neither moved nor spoke in response to the demanding duchesse, as if she gazed into her soul rather than her eyes. Shifting slowly as though time held little consequence, unconcerned by her mistress’s tapping fingernails upon the tabletop, the soothsayer reached into a hidden pocket of her cloak and pulled out her long, narrow deck of cards. As she splayed them out across the surface, their colorful and grotesque pictures formed a message, one for her eyes alone.

  “You will be traveling soon,” she said with a rising lilt, as if she herself was surprised.

  Anne looked back at her cousin with a supercilious glance. No one knew of the plan save the king, Anne, and her ladies. There was no possibility the mystic had heard of it from anyone.

  “Correct, madame. Can you tell me how I shall fare on my journey?”

  Madame Arceneau dealt three more cards, peering down at them as if from a distance. She shuffled the cards and dealt them again, grabbing small bits of herbs and tossing them over one shoulder, a pinch of powder over the other, and studied them once more.

  “You will return with treasure, Duchesse.” The mystic looked up. “I see no more.”

  “Hah!” Anne slapped her hands down upon the table and thrust to her feet as if shot from a cannon. “I knew it. I shall be successful,” she cried. “Nor will I make myself a joke of the court as the ill-mannered cow did.” Anne danced around the close room, untying the small pouch at her wrist and tossing it to the clairvoyant. “My thanks, madame.”

  Arceneau offered a small dip of her he
ad and hid the jangling purse away in a flash.

  “Perhaps your ladies would care to hear of their future.”

  “Oh, yes.” Annie laughed. “What a splendid idea. Arabelle, would you care to have your cards read by the gifted madame?”

  Arabelle hesitated, but her eager smile spoke her truth. She sat in the chair Anne vacated and, within minutes, the visionary forecast a bright and sunny future full of love and children for her. Ara-belle rose from the seat, glowing with bursting confidence in the perfect days of her future.

  “Come, Geneviève, it is your turn,” she said, holding the chair out.

  Geneviève raised two hands and shook them. “No, thank you. I’m sure someone else would rather enjoy the opportunity.”

  “Come, come, Mademoiselle Gravois,” Anne insisted. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you ask the advice of my mystic.”

  Geneviève choked on a response. To call the drivel Madame Arceneau offered advice was kind but also blind, yet she would not overtly chide her mistress’s beliefs.

  “Perhaps the young lady has no faith in my words,” Madame Arceneau said, the vaguest hint of a smile upon her hard-edged face.

  Geneviève dared to gaze into the strange eyes and saw the challenge in them. She grabbed the back of the chair from Arabelle’s hands and dropped herself upon the seat, pulling closer to the table with a shriek of the wooden legs as they scraped across the stone floor.

  “Tell me, madame, tell me all the wonderful things in my future.” Geneviève clenched her hands together and thumped them upon the table in front of her.

  With an arrogant waggle of her head, Madame Arceneau took up her cards and shuffled them, pale eyes never leaving Gene-viève’s face. At last she dealt them out into a cross, and placed the deck by her side.

  Geneviève waited—leg twitching beneath the folds of her heavy skirts—for the happily-ever-after tale of her life she was sure was forthcoming. She longed for the woman to look down at the cards, spew her nonsense, and end this travesty, but no such movement came.