Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  He reached up a thumb to her face and brushed away a stray tear. She bit her lip at the compassion of his touch.

  His restrained, sweet smile returned, dimples peeking in and out. “You are usually so … so …”

  Geneviève met his gaze, her curiosity getting the better of her. “So …?”

  Sebastien shrugged comically. “So stoic.”

  Geneviève laughed, but there was nothing pretty in the sound.

  He took her by the shoulders and spun her toward him, his deep blue gaze beseeching her. “Let me help you.”

  She could fall into that gaze, tumble away, and never return. She shook her head and broke away from the oasis of his eyes. He lay open to her, to whatever she had to say. Perhaps there was some assistance to be gained here after all; perhaps Sebastien might help her acquire the funds to fend off the soothsayer.

  “It is … Madame Arceneau.” Geneviève faltered, violet eyes shifting off to the left, away from him. She needed time to conjure the story—a logical, credible story that would allow for her torment and garner his help. “She has threatened me.”

  Sebastien frowned with angry curiosity. “Threatened you? How? Did she try to hurt you?”

  Geneviève waggled her head; another curl tumbled down in a corkscrew. “No. She would have no power over me there.”

  “Then what is it?” he coaxed, picking up the fallen curl and tucking it gently back under her hat.

  Her aunt had taught her to keep her lies as close to the truth as possible. “She claims to have had a premonition about me.”

  “What kind of premonition?”

  Geneviève’s chest heaved as she took a steadying breath, as the notion jumped into her mind and off her tongue. “She claims she has seen me … with the king.” She allowed her voice to fall away, to let him infer a far more devious meaning. The cloud crossed his face and she knew he understood. “What’s more, she claims to have seen my future standing beside him and she threatens to tell Anne, to tell her everything.”

  Sebastien met her pronouncement with stony silence. Geneviève pulled her hand from his grasp, so tight it had become painful. He forced away his tension and drew her hand back, lightness of touch returning.

  “She is asking for money, a great deal of money,” Geneviève continued. No need for her to act desperate; it clung to her with clammy truth. “She asks for a home. As if I could ever conjure such a thing.”

  “She is mad,” Sebastien whispered.

  “Most certainly,” Geneviève agreed, her voice cracking with desolation.

  He jumped to his feet and paced around the small thicket, hands thrust hard upon hips, treading heavily upon the pale green shoots of creeping vine that dared to search for life above the pine needles. “We cannot let her do this,” he mumbled as Geneviève’s gaze followed him. “This would be disastrous.”

  Sebastien rushed back, taking her in his arms as if the threat bore down upon her at this very moment and he was her shield.

  “The duchesse will have you sent away from court. Or worse.”

  Geneviève nodded her head where it lay against his hard chest. Never would she have believed she would long for the protection of a man. She believed she would never need or desire it, and yet there was such a pull to his embrace.

  He pushed her off him to look hard into her eyes. “What will you do?”

  Treacherous tears blurred her vision, try though she might to deny them. “I do not know.”

  Sebastien’s face crumbled; her agony became his own. He kissed her then, her lips, her eyes, her flushed cheeks. She closed her eyes to the feel of him. He pulled away from her and she fell forward into the empty space, opening her eyes in surprise. She heard it herself then, the voices and caterwauling drawing closer to their seclusion.

  “We will talk more of this soon, ma chérie.” He brushed her lips once more and rose to his feet. He would leave her then, hoping to separate before they were seen, before their clandestine meeting sullied her reputation.

  “Know that I am with you, always,” he said, and with one last squeeze of her hands, he left her.

  The perpetually peeved woman dogged Geneviève’s heels as they returned to their rooms, the dust and odor of the stables clinging to their tailored riding costumes. Jecelyn’s hot ire jabbed her back like the tip of a knife. They rushed on unhindered in the sparsely populated corridor.

  “You were seen, you know,” Jecelyn said at last, as if she had been taunting Geneviève with her penetrating silence, a predator poised for the kill.

  Geneviève’s shoulders knotted, creeping up closer to her ears, but she refused to take the bait.

  “In the woods.” Jecelyn’s pronouncement kept time with the hard clicks of their boot heels upon the stone floor. “With Monsieur du Lac. The whole court knows what you were doing.”

  “Merde. Enough!” Geneviève stopped with no warning.

  Taken by surprise, Jecelyn walked on, barging into Geneviève’s back. Geneviève spun and shoved out with her hands, connecting with Jecelyn’s shoulders. The stunned woman tumbled backward, tripping on her long skirts, reaching out to the wall to stop her fall.

  The smattering of courtiers kept moving, but every gaze fell upon them, every ear listened for their bickering words.

  Two long, quick steps and Geneviève was in her face, the late-day sun streaming in sideways, throwing harsh, scraggy shadows upon a beautiful face twisted with frustration. “The court knows nothing. It is all pretense and posturing. It is all make-believe.”

  Geneviève spoke of deeper meanings, but Jecelyn had not the insight to follow her. “You cannot deny it. Everyone knows you are lovers.”

  “And what of it?” Geneviève shook her head at the insignificance of this conversation. She narrowed her eyes at Jecelyn, at the black eyes staring at her with such contempt. If they must speak, then she would speak to the heart of the matter. “What have I ever done to vex you so? You have hated me from the moment you met me.”

  Jecelyn’s anger propelled her forward. Geneviève recoiled as she hissed in her face. “You think to take my place. You think you can come to court, a veritable stranger to this life, when I have given every moment of mine to it, and become Anne’s first.” Spittle flew off Jecelyn’s lips; her cheeks burst with splotches of fury. “You, with your strange eyes and your prowess with a bow, yet you are nothing compared to me.”

  Geneviève laughed—a cruel, harsh sound—and Jecelyn’s spewing tongue fell silent. Geneviève shook her head with the disappointment. This was nothing more than petty jealousy, the greatest weapon women used on each other. While men fought for causes and crusades, women quibbled over beauty and privilege. Such envy would be the downfall of their gender.

  “Very well. You are the most intriguing of Anne’s ladies. If offered the position of first, I will decline. I concede wholly and completely … to you.” Geneviève threw up her hands and dropped them to slap upon her thighs. “There. Are you happy now?”

  She spun on her heel and barreled off and away from this trivial annoyance, this petulant child of a woman. “I have no time for this nonsense.”

  Like the specter of a haunted house, Geneviève had become a nightly prowler of the darkened halls of the château, as if searching for the ever-elusive sleep in the shadowy corners where lovers met and lowly servants swept.

  She had waited for word from Sebastien, for a note with a time and place to meet, certain one would come after their words in the glade this afternoon, but one hadn’t, and she could not bear any more hours of soundless worry. She could not read Pantagruel another time; its words had become far too familiar to distract, and the tome served to remind her of all to be won, or lost.

  Geneviève held the candle out—lighting her path but not blinding her sight—with her left hand, her dagger gripped in her right as she crept up the one flight of stairs to the floor above and the library situated over the gallery. Among all the books the king had brought from Blois, there must be something to engage
her mind and silence the braying voices screeching at her from within. There was escape in the pages of books; she had found it there so often during her childhood and knew it would be there for her again.

  The large gilded door gave way at her push, and Geneviève entered the long rectangular room that fell away from the portal. She stepped over the threshold and breathed deep, inhaling the sublime and soothing scents of leather and parchment, an aroma that eased more effectively than the incense of a church. She moved cautiously into the unfamiliar chamber until she came upon the first in a long row of double-sided desks running parallel to the windows at the back of the chamber. With her small flame, she lit the five-branched candelabrum poised upon its smooth surface. In its light, she found the next such desk and flambeau, lit it, and the four that followed as well.

  Once she had them aflame, the center aisle of the room glowed with light and Geneviève glimpsed the giants rising up on each side. The shelves soared from floor to ceiling, the rich wood cases waxed and polished to a high gloss. Each flame multiplied ten fold in the reflections, shimmering prismatic echoes of light, and books stood upon every available space on the towering shelves.

  Fears forgotten, she flushed with an eagerness to find another world; the wondrous choices laid before her proved enough to pull her out of time and place. She walked along the right side, her fingers brushing across the leather bindings and their gilt letterings.

  Here and there, she found other treasures, strange objects hidden in niches formed in the shelves, square hollows hosting intricately carved busts, a terrestrial globe, and other small works of art. She squealed at the menacing eyes of a crocodile’s head and smiled at the miniature portrait of François as a child. Pulling out book after book, some closed by intricate locks and clasps of silver, Geneviève ran her hand over the embossed Moroccan leather, turning the gold-tipped pages, unable to decide which to choose, wondering what other delights lay on the shelf of the next aisle.

  She turned a corner, heading toward the outer wall, and froze, her heart slamming against her chest. A hulking shape of a human form rose up in silhouette against the moonlit sky beyond the glass. Like an animal locked in the sight of a deadly weapon, Geneviève couldn’t move, her hunter’s prowess abandoning her.

  “You are a creature of the night, Mademoiselle Gravois.” The king’s voice was unmistakable, as was its gloominess.

  Geneviève dropped like an arrow-pierced bird, her legs trembling as she curtsied.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean to intrude. I … I … did not intend any harm.” She kept her face bowed. Her trespass was undeniable; only those with permission from Mellin de Saint-Gelais, the king’s keeper of the royal library, or the king himself, could gain access to the chamber. She had neither.

  “Do not worry yourself. I know you to be trustworthy. I have no fear you would hurt any of my precious books.” The king did not move from his seat at the desk, but beckoned her forward with the wave of a hand. Geneviève saw the gesture in the glow of the moon and answered its call, giving no pause to the irony of his words.

  She stood on the opposite side of the desk and placed her candle between them. In its wavering light, she saw the face of the king, a ravaged face cut deep with hollows and crevices. He wore no courtly mask here in this refuge in the middle of the night, did not bother to don it, though he was no longer alone. A book sat on the table in front of him, opened to pages nigh invisible in the pale light.

  “Is it a passion of books that has brought you here, Geneviève, or an inability to sleep?” He sat back in his chair and his face became shrouded in shadows.

  Geneviève shrugged. “A little of both, Your Majesty. I do love to read, but would prefer to do so in the light of day.”

  The king laughed at her quip.

  “Is it a romance you come to find?” François crinkled his nose as he prodded her, but shook his head before she could answer. “No, I do not think so. It would be the obvious assumption, but an incorrect one, I think.”

  Geneviève worried that the man saw her so clearly. “I prefer adventures, Your Highness.”

  François nodded. “Ah, now that I can see.” He sat up and reached for her candle, using the flame to light the candelabrum sitting on the desk between them. Like her, he wore his evening clothes, his face deathly pale against the maroon and gold mantle. “Come look at this.”

  With a long, lithe finger, he summoned her around to his side of the desk, and opened the book before him. “Have you ever seen a book with such text?”

  Geneviève looked down at the formation of the letters on the page, anchoring her loose pale curls behind both ears. The text was a unique style, with long extending lines and small interior spaces. “No, Sire, I have never seen it. It is quite pleasing to the eye.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, grinning. “Garamond has created it especially for my books.”

  He fell into a heavy silence, save for the rasping of his dry skin as his hand rubbed circles on the page.

  “Our words, our stories will live long after we’re gone.”

  Regret drenched his words; his sorrow held Geneviève captive. He turned and looked upon her, all his truth laid bare. This was not a king, just a man.

  “Like you, I find sleep elusive.” He pulled out the chair beside him, and Geneviève sat, no other action conceivable, and he leaned in close, his chair creaking as he shifted his large form. “The ghosts, they keep me awake.”

  “G … ghosts,” Geneviève sputtered, eyes wide, mouth agape. She could well believe the palace was possessed; she had often felt the oppression of angry spirits in the halls, late at night, heard their footsteps or felt the rush of air as they passed her.

  He nodded and pushed back the strands of black and gray hair falling across his face. “I have led a selfish, greedy life, and my greed has given birth to them.”

  He turned back to the book, began to turn the pages, as if he saw a ghost on each surface, and recounted them.

  “The friends I lost in the war and in prison”—he flipped a leaf—“my sons’ youth”—he turned another. “Semblançay groans at me.” He spoke the name of a man he condemned to death. “My strong and proud François.” This one he named for his son, not long dead, poisoned by an Italian. “My … my darling Lily.” His voice broke; his hand trembled on the thin sheet of parchment.

  He closed the book with a hard snap and thrust it from him. “Every one of them dead, because of me.” François turned to her as if she would confirm or deny it, his face twisted and malformed, scourged with grief, eyes flooded with tears.

  Please stop, she wanted to beg him. Do not take me into your confidence, do not take me into your heart, for my own cannot bear it.

  “You did your duty as a king to his country,” she whispered, compelled.

  He shook his head back and forth so hard his whole body moved with the force. “No, no. It was my need for my own brilliance, to feed my own ego. Greed made me weak and my weakness infected us all. My country would have prospered had I simply treated it with loving care.”

  He pushed against the arms of his chair as though to stand, looking as if he would run from the room, ghosts snipping at his heels. His hands slipped from the perch, his shoulders curled and slumped, and he dropped back upon the seat.

  “Lily, oh my Lily.” He whispered his daughter’s name, his Madeleine whom he called his flower, Lily, dead less than two years, a weak and sickly woman who lasted no more than a few months after her marriage to the king of Scotland, after leaving her father’s court for the coldness of her husband’s land. “She was so fragile. I knew it was wrong, knew it. I do not think I can bear to live without her.” He grabbed the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as if he would break off a piece of it, hanging his head between his trembling arms.

  Geneviève turned from the ravaging sight, her own frustration pounding in her head. Would that a father trembled with love for her, that such a man existed, willing to give away his life for her o
wn. The pain of the wanting dug a hole in her gut and tears for them both filled her eyes. A sob stuck in her throat.

  She turned back to the grieving man, his shoulders shaking with his sobs, his hands trembling upon the varnished wood. Little by little, she reached out and laid her fingers upon the age-spotted skin. His fingers clutched at hers, the lifeline of a drowning man, and held.

  21

  If you grant to your soul all the things it covets,

  it will pay you back in your enemy’s satisfaction.

  —Ignatius de Loyola (1491–1556)

  Anne sat at her writing table; haphazard piles of parchment, unanswered letters, and lists of tasks to prepare the palace for the visit of the Holy Roman Emperor covered the top of the finely carved bureau-plat, mounted on the H-shaped stretcher. The duchesse stared vacantly down at the chaos, her gaze vague and unfocused, her ladies’ questions ignored and unanswered.

  “I need to speak with Madame Arceneau,” Anne said, an un-tethered remark that silenced all other conversation.

  Béatrice was the first to react. At last recovered from the illness that had plagued her through the summer, she was anxious to be of service to her mistress once again. “Of course, madame, I will accompany you.”

  “No, no, bring her to me,” Anne commanded brusquely. “I have no time to scamper about the palace.”

  Béatrice dropped a quick curtsy at the harsh imperative and ran for the door, Sybille fast on her heels.

  “Thank you, ma chérie” Anne called, recanting her own callousness. Béatrice replied with a grateful smile upon her gaunt face and the two women scuttled from the room.

  Geneviève squeezed the needle in her hand; not one stitch had she taken since the mention of the soothsayer. She scoured her mind for any reason to be gone from the chamber before the mystic made her appearance, but nothing of any credence came to mind. She and Arabelle alone remained with the duchesse. Jece-lyn and Lisette were already off on Anne’s errands—delivering a lengthy note to the grand maître de d’hôtel concerning the menu for the finicky Charles V, asking the maréchaux des logis about the state of the visitor’s rooms. Geneviève had no choice but to remain should another such task crop up; she prayed that one would, and soon.