“Of course, of course,” the king placated her, large hands clasping her face tenderly, thumbs stroking her flushed skin until she calmed. “I would never suggest otherwise. I propose that we continue to make plans, no more. It will remind everyone of your devotion and willingness to work on our behalf. I am merely asking you to continue on as if nothing had changed, as if all will be well.”
“All will be well,” she hissed, and struggled against his embrace.
François held her tighter, allowing her to rail against him, to pound out her anger, frustration, and fear as she beat her small fists against his large chest. Her hands fell limply, all strength wrung out of them, her protests slurring to incomprehensible sobbing. The king pulled her to him, laying her head against his chest, stroking her head with the same loving succor she so often administered upon him.
“Of course, ma chérie, of course all will be well.” But to Geneviève and every ear who heard the words, the promise sounded like no more than a hollow echo of hope.
25
In me the fires abide.
—Mellin de Saint-Gelais (1491–1558)
The trial had begun, and the court whispered of it constantly. Talk of it seethed through the castle like the unrelenting hiss of steam. Riders were dispatched to and from Paris four or five times a day, returning with news brought to the king; yet every word found its way through the court, spreading with the same insidious contagion as an illness once breathed into life.
Like many others, Arabelle and Jecelyn had made their way to the great city, to hear for themselves the words spoken against their friend and colleague, leaving Geneviève, Monique, and Anne’s cousins to see to the duchesse and her needs. Geneviève could not have borne one minute in the stultifying air of the judicial chamber; every word spoken against Lisette would have pushed and twisted the dagger of guilt piercing her heart, a cutting reminder of her own hand in the fallacious charges against the woman. Yet she could not have been more torn apart than she was, far away though she may be. She held her breath with every new report, unable to alleviate the nausea grinding in her gullet, no matter how many steamed herbs she imbibed.
Anne kept herself frantic with plans and activities, hiding her own desperate fear in action, and Geneviève was grateful for it. She left Sybille and Béatrice to the sewing and stitching, accepting every errand, running willy-nilly through the castle, borrowing hair notions from one comtesse, a jeweled and embroidered fan from another, anything to escape the duchesse’s abandoned, tension-filled chambers. But such frenzy was futile; every salacious report found her no matter how fast she ran; eventually, she heard every bit of news as the breathless riders plunged into the palace.
Geneviève wrapped the small pearl-encrusted drawstring pouch in soft gauze before retrieving it from the chamber of the comtesse de Freyne, guarding the delicate accessory with exceptional care.
The white-haired woman pretended to help, doing no more than tucking in a corner of the cottony material, leaning in close to whisper to Geneviève as they worked together on either side of the round claw-foot table. “Have you seen any of them?”
Geneviève looked up at her with a puckered brow. “Seen any of what, Comtesse?”
“Any of the papers?” The elderly woman’s cloudy blue eyes pierced her with vicious curiosity. “I’m sure you have been to her room. You would have seen the papers they accuse Lisette of possessing.”
Geneviève felt her mouth open and close like a gaping fish, her blatant shock feeding the woman’s hunger for scandal.
“You have not heard then? Oh, I am so sorry to tell you.” But the small pointy-toothed grin on the noblewoman’s face refuted her apologetic words. “It is said that substantial evidence was found in her rooms, messages passed between her and her foreign lover.”
Geneviève gnashed her teeth against such unsubstantiated condemnation. “Love letters are hardly treasonous, madame. If they were, most of the court would long have been imprisoned.”
The comtesse leered at her. “Perhaps, my dear, but where there is smoke …”
Geneviève tucked the package beneath one arm and dropped a curtsy before the malicious woman spoke again. “I thank you, Comtesse, as does the duchesse.”
She did not mean to let the door slam shut behind her, at least not consciously. Geneviève rushed back to Anne’s chambers as the echo of the crash chased her down the hallway. She hoped to deliver the latest dispatch to the duchesse before anyone else, someone who would be vicious in how they plied the propaganda. Geneviève rushed through the palace, the woman’s words a gauntlet she must hurdle, and she tripped on them. She had called Lisette’s lover a foreigner, and nothing else Geneviève had heard that day vexed her more. There existed no harsher a denunciation against Lisette than for her man to be from another land.
Geneviève dashed through the halls, bursting through the door, package in hand.
The reticence filled the room with dire gloom. Anne sat immobile on the green organza settee, Sybille by her side, one of Anne’s hands in both of hers. Facing them, perched upon a small petit-point hassock, Béatrice sat, leaning forward with elbows on knees to hold her cousin’s other hand. Silent tears ran down Anne’s face; they marred her beauty, but she cared not at all.
“You have heard then, about the papers found in her room?” Geneviève’s whisper barely cut through the oppression, so thickly did it permeate the chamber.
Béatrice nodded. “And of the man.”
Geneviève rushed forward and flounced down onto the floor, inveigling her way into their circle to cast her lot with this small group of apprehensive women. “What of him?”
Sybille shook her head as it fell to her chest, her bottom lip quivering. “He is an … an Italian.” She said the word as if it were the most licentious ever to pass from her lips.
Geneviève’s befuddled gaze rose to Anne’s face.
The woman’s pert nose stood out like a red cherry on her pale visage; her delicate chin quivered. “He will be helpless to save her now. It is too soon after his son.”
Geneviève recoiled incredulously. “Do they infer a connection between Lisette and the Dauphin’s death?”
The Italian count, Sebastian de Montecuculli, had come to France in the retinue of Catherine de’ Medici, and had later come to serve as the young François’s secretary. He had also been convicted of the murder by poisoning of the king’s son, and had been executed for it in a most vicious manner, one in keeping with the king’s fury. Drawn and quartered, they hung the four parts of Montecuculli’s body at the four gates of Lyons, his head skewered on a lance and placed on a bridge over the Rhône. But there could be nothing to associate Lisette to that man or the heinous act; it had taken place three years ago.
“No connection would be needed,” Anne said with a calamitous monotone. “All know of the king’s unrelenting bitterness. If Par-lement should find her guilty, he cannot intercede. It would be an obvious act of favor and not of justice. They will expect him to be hideous with his punishment.”
“But there are hundreds of Italians at our court. Hundreds of noblemen have Italian mistresses. What of it?” Geneviève snapped.
“But the man did not make himself known to the court or to the king,” Anne bawled. “He kept his presence secret and she her involvement with him. Why?”
Béatrice rocked as she nodded. “It is always our secrets which give us away in the end.”
Geneviève flicked up a wary gaze, but saw nothing to fear except the words’ truth.
“We must have faith,” Sybille intoned with little of her own conviction. “And pray for God’s mercy.”
Anne nodded with a quaking sigh, rising to cross to her large writing table. “Let us continue our work, ladies.”
The three women shared a moment of concern, but they rose to their mistress’s command.
Long into the night, Anne had Geneviève fetching and carrying, copying plans and lists, and bringing them to the king for his approval, though they
were of such little consequence the approval was unnecessary.
She returned once more to Anne’s chambers, this time finding it dark, a lone, three-branched candlestick casting a pale glow in the center of the room, leaving the ravenous gloom to devour the corners. Evening had fallen without fanfare, and a murky night reigned supreme. Béatrice slept curled upon a couch, Sybille slouched in a chair, and Anne was nowhere to be seen.
“We gave her a sleeping draught and put her to bed,” Sybille explained with a whisper. “Go to your room, Geneviève. Find some peace if you can.”
Geneviève nodded; there was nothing more any of them could do this day.
Her feet dragged as she passed through the deserted corridors toward her room, her head aching with disruptive thoughts. She had lost her purpose and the strength it gave her, no longer certain who she was. Perhaps only God should wield the sword of revenge, as the Gospel proclaimed, for look at the harm she had done by brandishing it herself. The need to avenge her parents pumped through her veins, but the part of her that wanted to forget, if not forgive, to live in untroubled peace, grew more insistent with each passing day. The dichotomy of desire fought inside her like a parasite intent upon assimilation of its host.
Geneviève reached her door, placed one hand upon its latch, and pulled away. She could not go into that room, could not be alone with herself and the voices in her head refusing to cease their prattling, could not lie quietly while the fight raged inside her, or she would surely go mad.
Geneviève ran; the desperation chased her. At first she was unmindful of where her rushing feet took her, until she clattered down the flight of stairs and through the great hall to the rooms on the far side of the castle. As soon as she turned the corner and saw the heavy wooden door at the end of the dimly lit stone hall, she knew what she needed … whom she needed.
She ran until her body fell against the portal, the flat of one hand rapping upon it.
Sebastien threw open the door, features contorted in confusion, dressed in nothing but the tight breeches and hose of his uniform. In the moment he saw her, his confusion changed to concern and again as quickly to desire. Geneviève fell into the space, fell into his strong arms, which opened without question and caught her.
“Sebastien, I …” she groaned, but she needed to say nothing more. His lips covered hers with his own greedy lust, his hands touched her everywhere, as if he could not believe in her nearness. They rubbed her back, pulled at her arms, held her face captive like a delicate dove in a tender, loving cage.
Geneviève threw her arms around him, felt the smooth, hard nakedness of his back, and latched onto it, her fingers digging into his flesh as she surrendered to his kisses. He led her toward his bed, or perhaps she moved on her own. Her laces came untied in a flurry of motion. Her gown dropped to the floor; her shift loosened as his hands found her breasts and paid homage to them.
Geneviève threw back her head, all painful thought abandoned in the escape found in Sebastien’s touch. The air filled with the musky scent of them and their rasping, harsh breaths.
Sebastien raised his lips to hers and took possession and she groaned like a petted cat. He raised his gaze and stilled, brows furrowing at the tears on her face. The passion raging through him simmered at her sorrow. He kissed her cheeks with small, tender kisses, like the touch of a butterfly’s wings, and laid her gently on the bed.
But she would have none of it. Geneviève grabbed the back of his neck with one hand, the hard curve of his shoulder with the other, and pushed, rolling them over until she lay on top of him, her legs straddling his.
For a fleeting moment, Sebastien’s stunned gaze stared up at her. His soft smile spread, his dimples came out to play, and a low, husky laugh rumbled in his chest. They came together then, in the frenzy that held her, in the impassioned violence she prayed would hammer away all her fears and sorrows.
She curled herself in a ball and he surrounded her, his warm, moist skin clinging to hers, his body the shield with which he kept the world at bay. He kissed her shoulder, caressing her soft flesh with his warm lips. One hand rose to her face, to push back the gorgeous mess of blond curls draping it, and felt her tears.
“Did I hurt—”
“No, oh no, Sebastien. That … we … it was wonderful,” she said, and rolled onto her back, her violet gaze confirming the truth of her words, pale skin blushing with stunning beauty at the delight she took in their lascivious lovemaking.
Sebastien rose up to brace himself on one elbow. “Then why do you cry, ma chérie?”
Geneviève turned her head and looked away from him, looked back at all she had lost and all she had become, looked forward to a future filled with nothing but uncertainty.
“I do not know my path ahead nor my own heart.” Her voice cracked on the words.
“None of us can know the future.” He kissed her full bottom lip and the tip of her nose. “We must do whatever is intended for us, no matter how difficult the challenge may be.”
Geneviève stared up into his penetrating eyes and saw a struggle in them she had never noticed before. With the tip of one finger, she followed the hard frown lines she had never seen around his lips.
He gave her a smile, though it did not seem to come easily. “We can take one step at a time and hope that God will give us a sure footing.”
Geneviève’s worry eased. His doubts echoed her own uncertainty, and she found great succor in his empathy.
Sebastien brushed his lips across hers, moving them down her throat, and she tipped back her head to open herself to him. He took her gently then, with all the peace and tenderness she needed so desperately, loving her until she fell into a deep, restful sleep.
Sebastien jumped as the pounding struck the door, ungraceful with his slumberous movement, sleepy but splendid in his nakedness, grabbing his sword from its sheath hanging on the arm of the chair. Geneviève jolted up, blessed slumber cracked into jagged wakefulness. Smudgy gray dawn light hovered through the open curtains of the window, throwing their faces into shadowy masks of surreal specters.
It came again: explosive hammering that shook the wooden door in its frame, hinges and latch jangling in protest. The lovers stared at each other, confounded in their apprehension.
“Geneviève? Are you in there?” The fretful voice found its way through the cracks, and they jumped at its familiarity.
“Arabelle?” Geneviève leaped out of bed and wrapped the rumpled linens around her naked body.
Sebastien dropped his sword and grabbed his breeches, tumbling as he tried to walk to the door while pushing his legs through the slim openings. He made it to the door, threw up the latch, and yanked it open.
Arabelle stood on the threshold, face grubby with tears, lovely features decimated by exhaustion and turmoil. Geneviève rushed to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into the tiny chamber before any inquisitive courtiers wandering the halls found them.
“You are here?” Geneviève thought of nothing more to say. When she had fallen asleep, when emotional and physical exhaustion had overtaken her, Arabelle had been in Paris.
Arabelle nodded, throat bulging with a hard swallow. “We rode through the night. We did not want anyone else telling the duchesse.”
Geneviève’s chin dropped to her chest and her jaw hardened as she looked up at her friend. “Tell the duchesse what?”
In that wretched moment, she knew what was coming, but she would deny it to the last minute.
Arabelle reached out and grabbed Geneviève’s forearms as her knees began to give way.
“They’ve found her guilty,” she sobbed. “Lisette. They are going to hang her. They are going to hang Lisette in two days.”
Geneviève shook her head back and forth and back again, refusing Arabelle’s words, but such anguish was undeniable. The friends slipped to the ground and fell together in their sorrow.
26
The smile is a weapon as well as the sword—
And just as da
ngerous.
—François I (1494–1547)
Every one of Anne’s ladies came to her chamber that morning, creeping in long before dawn’s first light. As the day faithfully came, undeterred by their deepest hopes and fervent prayers, Je-celyn and Geneviève sat beside each other on the settee, pretending to sew, yet doing nothing more than holding the wood frame and linens in their hands without taking a stitch. Their senseless feud was forgotten, abandoned in the face of life’s bleak cruelty. There was no place else to be but here, no other people to be with.
Arabelle sat alone in the window embrasure; no words consoled her, no embrace called her away, but neither could she face the moment in solitude. Huddled in a ball, skirts wrapped around her knees as she rocked, Arabelle stared out at the bright sunny morning as if unable to comprehend its cheerfulness.
Sybille and Béatrice sat at the table with Anne. Not one of them had touched a single bite of the morning’s fare, not even Béatrice, for whom a good meal was of sacred esteem. The large corner clock in its walnut cabinet beat out the minutes left in Lisette’s life and the women listened to each tick, willing it to stop.
The door opened without a knock and the women jumped, fearful the Grim Reaper himself had come calling; the ravaged apparition standing in its frame could well have been.
The king hovered on the threshold, an elderly man beaten by a life that had piled hardship and loss upon suffering and grief. Geneviève stared at him, at the deep crags upon his once handsome face, at the inward slump of his once broad shoulders. She had come to his court to destroy him and, in a manner, she had succeeded; but at what cost?
His presence here, now, meant one thing; the time for a pardon had passed. Lisette’s fate was sealed.
Anne stood and for a long moment made no move toward her lover, her life’s mate. Temper clouded her features; they all saw it, the king most of all. He curled further inward, as if struck in the gut by a powerful fist, and began to turn away.
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