Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  Anne knew the queen would be busy with similar arrangements, certain that in many cases their instructions would contradict each other. She also knew with confidence that hers would take precedence, and the success of this visit weighed heavily upon her slim shoulders. There was little question who was the mistress of the king’s heart and his castle.

  Geneviève stuck the needle into the thick fabric of the pillow coverlet; Anne had launched the project to make gifts for the emperor, and the ladies stitched night and day to complete the task in time. If current negotiations held, the emperor would arrive in less than two months. Geneviève pulled the thick magenta floss through the sumptuous ecru fabric, her stitches crooked and awkwardly plied. She jumped at the sound of every footstep as it neared the door, cringed at every voice slithering through the cracks.

  “Where in heaven’s name are they?” Anne’s patience had thinned with every tick of the clock, so many had sounded since the cousins set off on their errand. She slapped her hand upon the table, papers flying up in the breeze, Arabelle and Geneviève recoiling in fright.

  “Madame Arceneau does not move very well.” Arabelle made the excuse, a flimsy one at best.

  Anne gave it no consideration. “Geneviève,” she barked, “see if you can find my mystic and my maids. Perhaps you will have better efficiency in seeing to my wishes.”

  All the moisture in Geneviève’s mouth evaporated and her tongue caught on the dryness. She gave herself a mental kick, chiding herself to be careful what she prayed for, always. “I … uh … oui … but—”

  “Madame!” The door burst open, pounding against the inside wall with a stony crack.

  Béatrice grabbed it as it dared to kick back upon her and her sister, hanging onto it as she gasped for breath. Sybille hung upon her sister’s arm, her other hand on her heaving chest.

  “What? What is it?” Anne rushed forward; only bad news came on such panting tongues as these.

  “She’s … gone …,” Béatrice groaned.

  Anne’s face puckered. “Gone? Who is gone?” Her green eyes gaped with comprehension. “Madame Arceneau is gone? Gone where?”

  “No one knows, madame,” Sybille said, recovering faster than her sister did. “All her clothes, all her possessions, are gone as well. Her room has been stripped clean.”

  Arabelle and Geneviève exchanged stunned glances. Gene-viève dropped her stitching, squeezing her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white.

  Béatrice picked up the story. “She has moved on with but a cursory note to her sister that she is well, that everything has worked out as she hoped, but she has chosen to start a new life in another town.”

  “Which town? Where?” Anne prodded, disbelief and aggravation a double edge in her tone.

  “The note did not say,” Sybille replied.

  Anne stood immobilized, a seething statue.

  “How very bizarre,” Arabelle mumbled as she leaned toward Geneviève.

  Her own mouth agape, her tongue vacant of coherent speech, Geneviève nodded in agreement. The woman who posed the greatest threat to her had now vanished, and in such a way as to bring none of the mystic’s threat to bear. It was astounding, too astounding. Geneviève tried to imagine all the possible explanations, but one word—one name—rang out again and again. Sebas-tien.

  “This can go on no longer.” Giuseppe stood with arms akimbo before the gathering of musicians that included his brother, his foot tapping with flagrant impatience.

  Geneviève tossed her gaze his way, balking with surprise. The young handsome man appeared as normal, pale skin topped by raven curls, but this night his lips were black, as if he had decided to try his hand at cosmetics, with disastrous results.

  Eliodoro batted innocent eyes as he clamped his lips between his teeth, fighting against the laughter bubbling in his throat at the sight of his brother’s indignant, comical face.

  “I do not know of what you speak,” he managed to eke out, but the blush across his ruddy complexion told another tale.

  “You have inked my wine!” Giuseppe launched himself across the chairs at his annoying sibling.

  Eliodoro jumped to his feet, chair flying out behind him, fists raised, ready to defend himself. “You stole my clothes!” he countered with his own indictment, and lunged.

  Fellow musicians jumped between them, pulling the brothers apart before the fight was engaged.

  “Behave yourselves,” the hautbois player admonished with a roll of his eyes, as if he were their appalled parent.

  On any other night Geneviève would have delighted in the antics of the feuding siblings, would have pulled up a chair to watch them as she would any of their other performances, but not tonight. Tonight she could think of nothing but finding Sebastien, to learn if he had anything to do with the disappearance of Anne’s mystic.

  She had not seen him in many a day, their duties keeping them apart, but she could wait no longer. She wanted answers, desperate to know if he had had anything to do with the disappearance of Madame Arceneau. It was like a gift from God, but Geneviève’s cynicism feared the ease of attainment and did not trust it, feared the price such a lagniappe would reap. If Sebastien had done anything to precipitate the woman’s leave-taking, his actions might serve to exacerbate the situation, and Geneviève feared what repercussions they would bring.

  Geneviève searched the packed room, circling the perimeter like a soldier on parade, then skirting between the tables, swerving between the hundreds of courtiers grouped together, eating and drinking, their laughter raucous in her ears like the condemning caw of perturbed crows.

  “Monsieur!” Geneviève shrieked a bit as she found and grabbed onto the arm of Sebastien’s friend Dureau. “Have you seen Se-bastien?”

  “Bonsoir, Geneviève.” The young cavalier bowed in genuine greeting, but Geneviève would not be deterred by pleasantries.

  “Is Sebastien here?”

  Dureau nodded, head swiveling about on broad shoulders. “Oui. He was standing right here.” He rose on tiptoe to search above the heads of the crowd around them, amber eyes flitting from face to face. “Ah, there he is.”

  Geneviève followed the man’s outstretched finger, seeing the dark hair and ruddy complexion of the face she had searched for at the far side of the room.

  “Merci, Dureau,” she said with another grateful squeeze of his arm, but scurried off without awaiting his reply.

  Geneviève tumbled through the crowd, the hunter intent on the prey through a thickly treed forest.

  “Sebastien!” she called at the very moment the mischievous musicians surrendered their petty bickering and struck up a rousing song. Her voice was lost in the crescendo.

  She neared him and he turned, as if sensing her approach, and his face broke into an expression of pure joy—eyes crinkled, dimples deepened as his mouth spread wide.

  “Geneviève!” He held out his hands and she caught them. “How wonderful to see you. I have missed you so.” He kissed her on both cheeks, impervious to the prying gazes of the courtiers around them or the crestfallen expression of the marquis de Limoges by his side.

  The opening chords of the song gave way to the melody, and a cheer rose up through the crowd.

  “A farandole,” Sebastien cried. “Come. We must dance.”

  Geneviève shook her head, pulling back on the strong arms leading her to the center of the vast room. “No, Sebastien. I must speak with you.”

  “Yes, of course.” He smiled dashingly. “After.”

  Geneviève tried to resist but failed, unwilling to cause a scene by running off the dance floor. They clasped hands with the people beside them and launched into the spirited circle dance. Geneviève completed the steps with precision, as she always did, but with little joy. Sebastien’s grin slithered off his face when he saw the furrow between her eyes, the downward turn to the delicate curve of her lips.

  Within seconds of the long song’s last note, Sebastien grabbed her hand and drew her off the dance floor
, down the long corridor, and into the inner foyer outside the gray cobbled courtyard. Beside the tall glass doors looking out onto the rainy night, he pulled up short, and swung round to face her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her close.

  “Are you all right? Has Madame Arceneau threatened you again?” His gaze searched her face.

  Geneviève’s bow-shaped mouth formed a stunned, silent moue.

  Sebastien gave her a shake. “Tell me, what has happened?”

  “No, no, she has not bothered me again.” Geneviève found her voice, surprised by his response. She brought her hands up to her face, her fingertips pushing on her forehead as if the pressure forced her to think more clearly. “I found you. I searched for you, to ask about her.”

  “Me?” Sebastien recoiled. “Why would you ask me about her? I d—”

  “She’s gone.” Geneviève silenced his words with her own. “We are not sure when she left, but she has left court. For good.”

  Sebastien’s hands fell from her as she told him the entire story, repeating the words in the note the mystic had left with her sister. Her tale done, he sniffed a laugh as he pulled her into a tender embrace, arms circling her waist, hands rubbing the curve of her lower back evocatively.

  “How wonderful,” he cooed in her ear. “All your troubles are over.”

  Geneviève closed her eyes to the tingling sensation of his breath through her curls. “I thought … I meant to ask …”

  “To ask?” he encouraged, kissing her forehead languorously.

  She lowered her head, modestly chagrined. “I thought perhaps you were responsible for her sudden … departure.”

  “What a silly thought.” He turned her around to face the rain-speckled glass, curling his body around hers, nuzzling his warm lips against her neck. “I have not an inkling of what the woman looks like. Perhaps she has acquired that home in Paris she desired so much, and needed nothing further from you.”

  Geneviève’s hand faltered as it rose up to grasp his head, frozen inches away from the luxuriant waves of black hair. Had she mentioned Paris to him? Did she tell him Madame Arceneau craved a home in that city? She could not remember, and the question plucked at her as the scullion plucks the feathers from the slain chicken.

  “Whatever has taken her from here, I am grateful for it.” His tongue traced a line of fire from her ear to her shoulder, drawing down the edge of her gown to reveal the snowy whiteness of her flesh, plying his lips and his tongue to the sensitive skin.

  Her legs quivered, her resolve weakened at the sensual assault; she became fluid in his arms. His mouth lifted, his grip grew tight, and he spun her around.

  Sebastien looked down with true fire and passion burning in his eyes. “I will serve you, Geneviève,” he said, his voice thick and husky. “I have made it my mission, but it has become my destiny.”

  His mouth ravaged hers, as if he fought against all he felt for her, and she was defenseless at its onslaught.

  She closed her eyes, relinquishing her body to his kisses and caresses, but she could not release the questions from her mind.

  22

  Who naught suspects is easily deceived.

  —Petrarch (1304–1374)

  The two long-legged men circled the courtyard; the king with his hands clasped behind his back, Monty with his own crossed upon his barrel chest. These two childhood friends had ruled their country for decades, and yet the friendship had not survived as well as the land. So many disputes had wedged themselves between them, but they were ever united in their devotion to France.

  “This is the second time in as many months we have encountered problems with our correspondence to Spain.” The choler in François’s voice belied the pleasant smile on his face, the public form he offered to the courtier-filled terrace.

  The heat of the parched summer had at last broken, with a crash and a thwack and a thunderous lightning-filled storm that raged for two days. In its wake the air was fresh and clean, free from the ponderous humidity, but pleasantly warm. The court reveled in the stirring climate, finding every excuse to be out of doors. Men and women frolicked like children, playing a game of l’escaigne in one corner, hitting the large inflated ball with a stick shaped like a stool, the legs filled with lead. Across from them, courtiers fired darts at a wooden target affixed to the stone wall of the castle. The afternoon had taken on a festive atmosphere, a spur-of-the-moment fair in celebration of the crispness of autumn, and the king would not allow his agitation to besmirch the enjoyment of his people.

  “Any word of Bretonnière?” he asked Monty, concerned both as a king and as the messenger’s friend.

  The constable’s jowls trembled when he shook his head. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Merde,” the king swore under his breath. “I do not understand it. We must assume he has been found out and captured, though I cannot surmise how his identity could have been revealed. The secret survived for so many years. But it is the only possibility.”

  “I agree,” Monty mumbled.

  “A missing messenger, missing and altered messages. What is plaguing us?” The king demanded answers.

  “I have been making quiet inquiries,” Montmorency stated with unnatural casualness.

  “You have?” François turned a foreboding gaze upon his chancellor. “Why have you not told me?”

  “I did not want to make any report until I could offer a complete one.”

  “Your desire for thoroughness is to be commended, sir, but I would have been appeased to hear that action, any action, was under way.”

  Montmorency took the rebuke with a silent frown.

  “Well,” the king prompted impatiently, “what have you found?”

  The statesman turned his round face to his king, a flush of color rising on his grizzled cheeks. François had not often seen this opinionated man as hesitant to speak as he was at this moment, and the councilor’s silence frightened him more with every moment it devoured.

  “There can be but one answer, Majesté.” Monty’s voice dropped to a cavernous octave. François hung on every syllable. “There is a spy in our midst.”

  The king stumbled, tripping over a stone as well as the calamitous concept, faltering at the thought of such a threat to his nation. He reached out to his friend and colleague, grasping Monty’s arm to right himself, then dropping the hold before others witnessed his weakness.

  “You are certain?” He hissed the question, the words tasting foul upon his tongue.

  “It has been suggested by more than one source,” Monty confirmed with irrefutable gravity. “Though my investigation is newly begun, there is more than one indication that it is the only plausible postulation.”

  François’s feet shuffled to a stop, and he turned to look out upon the courtyard and the throng of playful courtiers. He knew each and every one by name, their faces as familiar as those of his own children, both living and dead. That one of them might have betrayed him so grievously sent bile burning up his throat. His hands trembled and he clasped them beneath his arms, holding himself as if to guard against the painful sedition.

  “Find him, Monty.” His voice trembled with violent wrath. “Find him and kill him.”

  The news of a subversive infested the palace, slithering through every crack and crevice like the unseen poison of the plague. At the king’s bidding, Montmorency had let the news of his investigation slip, hoping to draw the illicit emissary out, forcing him to make a pernicious mistake. Gossip turned into mania and the courtiers looked upon each other with suspicion and fear. The court became a festering nest of mistrusting vipers, and Geneviève gasped for every breath she took inside it.

  “Where’s the lavender silk?” She sat at her dressing table, watching the sunset through her window, watching it blaze with magnificent colors—taking its last flourishing bow—before departing the stage of the day. Earlier and earlier, the light bid adieu to the day; more and more the darkness overpowered the light.

  Would she exit this wor
ld with the brilliance of a setting sun? Thoughts of the gallows had possessed her mind from the moment the rumor had reached her ears. Geneviève thought of little else save escape, but upon that path lay nothing but fear. If she ran, if she simply disappeared, there could be no greater indictment of her guilt, and the search would begin; they would hunt her down. She could not hope for a successful retreat without the help of King Henry. To stay, to continue the façade, might be the only way to stay alive, but the pressure it put upon her was more than she believed bearable. Geneviève saw herself clearly for the first time in her life; not in the mirror, but in life’s reality. How different was truth from the reflection.

  Carine fussed over the saffron gown spread upon the bed. “I’m afraid the gown had grown rank. I could not in good conscience allow you to wear it again.”

  Geneviève turned dispiritedly; she had asked for her favorite gown, to encase herself in the familiar dress and its safety.

  Like all of the incredible couture worn by nobles the world over, this one had fallen to the frequent wearing, overuse of perfumes, and the inability to wash such fragile garments. Most women rarely noticed as one gown disappeared and another took its place, but Geneviève refused to dismiss her favorite with ease; she felt its loss and it showed on her face.

  Carine frowned at her mistress’s disappointment. “But I have saved the jewels, mam’selle, of course.”

  The maid knelt at Geneviève’s feet, taking her hand, opening the palm, and gently dropping the purple stones into it, closing Geneviève’s fingers upon them. “We will have another made.”