Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  “Wait!” Anne cried, rushing to his side, a choked sob rising above the rustling of her skirts. She threw her arms around him, clutched him near, her cheek flat and tight against his chest.

  Relief flooded François, his wide mouth trembling as he lowered his lips to the top of her head, closing his eyes as he leaned upon her. Their silent, intimate embrace, one offered to each other as freely as if they had been alone, healed any fissure daring to insinuate itself between them. Anne lifted her face, offering him a tender smile, an expression infused with love but tinctured with their shared grief. The large man returned it in kind. Taking his hand, Anne led him silently into the room.

  Out in the courtyard the drums began to beat, echoes of those in the courtyard of the Louvre, informing the king of what took place at the city’s judicial center. François and Anne fell onto the couch opposite the settee—listless, shocked victims of a ruthless trauma. For an instant, the king’s gaze caught Geneviève’s and her heart thudded against her chest. Did he know of her hand in this catastrophe? She did not believe it would serve Constable Mont-morency to tell him, but she feared his censure nonetheless. His empty stare passed over her, and she knew he was ignorant.

  Yet the hammering in her chest would not yield. As the beat of the drums grew faster and faster, so did her palpitating heart. She stared at the defeated king, but there was no joy in a battle won. It should have been a moment of triumph, at the very least one of enormous relief, but it was neither.

  The drum beats became a furious roll, a never-ending roar.

  The king threw himself into Anne’s arms.

  Arabelle sobbed.

  Sybille and Béatrice began to pray, beseeching God for intervention.

  Geneviève gasped for air, unable to breathe.

  But she must.

  She had to tell the king to stop it.

  He had to save Lisette.

  The drums thundered.

  She jumped to her feet.

  The words formed on the tip of her tongue.

  The drums crashed.

  And then … they stopped.

  “God be with her,” Sybille sobbed.

  Geneviève crumbled, unconscious, to the ground.

  Her gowns hung upon her, so much weight had she lost in the last fortnight. Carine had no choice but to hastily ply needle and thread to make Geneviève presentable before she returned to the duchesse’s chambers and resumed her duties.

  The duchesse had insisted Geneviève take time to recover. The king’s physician, the same who had scooped her off Anne’s floor and rushed her to bed, had told them she suffered a physical malady, one whose symptoms included weakness, lack of appetite, and an inability to keep food in her gullet. In truth, the symptoms had been extreme, the nausea debilitating, but no one knew her illness bore the name of heartbreak and confusion.

  Carine’s hands brushed her mistress’s skirts. “It is not the best I have seen you looking, but it is far better than some.” She offered the backhanded compliment as she looked up at Geneviève’s pale face with a smile. “All shall be much pleased to see you, mam’selle.”

  Geneviève gave a small nod. Day after day, Arabelle had been to visit her; Sebastien came as often as his duties would allow. The duchesse had sent her tokens, as had the king, both his sons, and Diane de Poitiers as well. Yes, she was a well-liked courtier, for all that she was a murderer.

  She looked at herself in the cloudy looking glass, or was it her essence that was cloudy and not the glass? How much of herself had she lost? The blond ringlets flowing from the jeweled crescent hood, the waiflike body encased in beaded lilac: It was her, but it wasn’t.

  The knocking upon her door did little to rouse her from her self-examination, and Carine jumped up to answer it.

  “Oh look, mademoiselle, another posy to cheer you,” Carine trilled as she retrieved the delivery from the page and dismissed him with a denier to his palm and a polite merci. “And English ivy, no less. It must be a deep pocket to afford such a token.”

  Geneviève jerked round, eyes wide at the sight of the two small pink rosebuds surrounded by the trailing, three-pointed green leaves.

  “Who sends it, Carine?”

  Her maid used her fingers to hunt among the leaves and petals, but found no note or card. “It doesn’t say,” she said dubiously. “How very odd.”

  Geneviève rushed to retrieve the small bouquet from Carine’s hand. “Very odd, indeed, but beautiful all the same. I will treasure it in the spirit it was given.”

  “Will you take it with you to the duchesse?” Carine asked casually, clearing her sewing notions from the floor where she’d left them, and missing the vexation sweeping across Geneviève’s face.

  “No. I believe I will keep it to myself,” Geneviève replied. “You may leave me now, Carine. I think I will take a few minutes’ more rest before I go.”

  Carine looked hard at her mistress. “Are you all right? Do you feel a return of the illness?”

  “No no, have no fear,” Geneviève assured her, deciding again to use truth to perpetuate deception. “I’m a little nervous, if truth be told. I would gather myself before seeing the duchesse.”

  Carine tilted her head and smiled at Geneviève with the sympathetic indulgence of a mother. “Of course, mam’selle, I understand.” She took up her sewing basket and made for the door. “I will not be far, should you need me.”

  “Merci, Carine,” Geneviève said.

  Before the door latched closed behind the servant, Geneviève pulled at the ribbons on the posy, tearing the shoots and tendrils of the plants apart in her hands. There, at the very center of the greenery, was the small piece of parchment she expected to find. No one but King Henry would send her a bouquet of English ivy, and the irony had not been lost on her.

  It was a tiny rolled rectangle of paper, with no more than a few words on it. It took Geneviève a few scant minutes to decipher it. But it required more time to accept its meaning.

  I need you where you are. You are safe.

  The message could not be clearer for all its brevity. Henry needed her to stay at the French court, needed her to continue her mission, but would see to her safety. Geneviève dropped the papers into the fire, those that held the coded message as well as its translation. As she watched the flames devour the words, she worried upon them. She had broken King François, she was sure of it. What more he would do worthy to report to King Henry, she could not fathom. As to Henry’s assurance of her well-being, that was as intangible as the smoke rising up the chimney; she was alone here, and she felt it more with each passing day.

  * * *

  “Geneviève. It’s Geneviève!” Arabelle’s delighted cry greeted her as soon as she entered the bright presence chamber. But a few steps across the threshold and they all flocked around her, Sybille and Béatrice, and Jecelyn as well; they had shared a great loss and in it found a place to coexist in peace if not friendship.

  Geneviève accepted their welcome with modest grace, unable to deny the cloak of warm affection they piled upon her. Stepping out of their circle, she made her way to the far corner of the room, where the duchesse and the king sat side by side at the head of the table. They broke their solemn counsel as she approached.

  “It is quite wonderful to see you, Geneviève.” Anne stood and pulled her attendant out of her curtsy, gracing each side of Geneviève’s face with the brush of a kiss. “You had us worried, ma chérie.”

  “Far too worried.” François reached out and took Geneviève’s hand, bowing over it in a chaste and tender gesture. His clasp upon her hand was weak, the fingers tremulous. “I could not have borne to lose another daughter.”

  Geneviève dropped to a deep obeisance, her face to the floor in undeniable respect and necessary artifice, hiding the strong reaction his words wrought.

  “We will be on the hunt this afternoon,” the king told her gladly. “I hope you are up to the challenge. It is not the same without your skilled bow at the ready.”

>   “It will be my honor, Your Majesty,” Geneviève assured him.

  “Then make ready with the ladies,” Anne told her, dismissing her from their side.

  Geneviève gave a quick dip and returned to the circle of women who eagerly waited to chat with her.

  “You have missed so much,” Sybille twittered as Geneviève sat among them.

  The women launched into a tirade of gossip, reporting on every illicit love affair, every bastard child conceived, every marriage match that had taken place in the two short weeks of Geneviève’s absence. Not once did they mention Lisette’s name; their wound was too raw for anyone to poke at it.

  Geneviève listened with halfhearted consideration, indulging a catty interest in the outrageous comings and goings of the nobles at court, but she strained to hear the discussion of duchesse and king, listening to each conversation with diligence. When the king spoke the name of the Holy Roman Emperor, Geneviève shut out the twitterings of the ladies around her and focused on the words passing between the ruler and his adviser.

  “The timing has been confirmed by his ambassador.” A glimmer sparked in François’s serious stare, one not seen in a long while, and for a moment, the dashing cavalier once more reigned. “The emperor will arrive at the end of November, no more than a month and a half from this very day.” He reached across the table-top and gripped Anne’s hands as if they began a dance, his anxious delight apparent in every movement, in the breadth of his wide smile.

  Geneviève denied the nagging desire to jump up and protest. How could the king consider keeping his appointment with the emperor? How could he continue on the destructive road to domination, one that might well bring France to war with England and wreak the deaths of more innocent people? Had he learned nothing from all his losses?

  Geneviève longed to argue aloud; instead, she nodded distractedly as the women continued their frivolous lecture. She had been a fool to think Lisette’s death would have changed the king’s attitude, for if he believed Lisette’s Italian lover was a secret agent bent on evildoing, then the man could only have been an emissary of Charles V’s. Had they tortured the man before executing him? Perhaps he had incriminated himself and Lisette. How could it not have changed François’s strategy with the emperor?

  The ways of a king remained a conundrum. She could not attempt to persuade him against his plans nor could she abandon her quest. As much as François’s weakness and affection captured her sympathy and touched her heart, she could not allow him to gain back any former glory. If she could not have her parents back, he could not go unpunished. If he did not show remorse and allow it to change him—for only with remorse, can true forgiveness be granted—then she would not show mercy.

  “Time to make ready, ladies,” Anne called out.

  The women around Geneviève jumped up and she followed.

  “Take yourselves off and change into your hunting costumes.” Anne released the hand of the king as he stepped out of the chamber, then she turned back to the room. “Return soon. The king is anxious to be off.”

  Like fish up a stream, the women rushed for the door as Anne’s servants made her own riding outfit ready.

  “Geneviève, could you stay a moment?” Anne gestured to two winged chairs in front of the windows.

  “Of course, madame,” Geneviève replied, waiting for the duchesse to sit before taking her own seat.

  The rising afternoon sun was warm on their backs, the autumn as preternaturally hot and dry as the spring and summer had been. Geneviève felt beads of moisture form on her upper lip and wiped them away.

  Anne leaned toward her companion, a devilish smirk spreading on her dainty face. Geneviève did not know whether to fear it or be amused by it.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Anne said. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  Geneviève replied with a half smile, “I am most eager to hear it, madame.”

  “I have decided you will accompany me on my upcoming journey,” Anne announced, and flounced back in triumph.

  Geneviève’s small mouth formed a perfect O.

  Anne laughed. “I knew you would be surprised.”

  “To see the king of England?” Geneviève found her voice, be it no more than a hushed whisper.

  “Mais oui!” Anne leaned forward and took Geneviève’s hand. “It will be grand, yes? I knew such a trip would cheer you.”

  Geneviève’s heart burst with joyful astonishment, and she did little to keep it from showing on her face. If she had searched for a sign, if God answered her prayers for guidance, the intention could not have been clearer.

  27

  So you must always remember

  That time ends the beauty.

  —Mellin de Saint-Gelais (1491–1558)

  The caravan arrived in Calais with far less fanfare than had launched it from Fontainebleau, and it was a somber cortege awaiting the duchesse d’Étampes and her train of ladies and outriders. The burghers of Calais stood together in a quiet reception line, looking none too pleased to have their town host such a turbulent meeting, concerned that should it sour, they would somehow be to blame. This gaggle of gentry offered no more than shallow bows and mumblings of welcome. One voice in the crowd offered a rousing greeting.

  “Anne! Anne! You are here!” The dark-haired, sumptuously dressed woman ran out of the crowd gathered in the cobbled town center, her arms flung wide in greeting, familiar features bursting with joy.

  The duchesse abandoned her posture of aloof pretention at the sight of Marguerite de Navarre, launching herself into the tall woman’s arms.

  “Oh, ma chérie, how wonderful to see you,” Anne twittered. “How I have missed you.”

  “Dear sister, what a delight you are for the eyes.” Marguerite held tightly to the maîtresse en titre of France, her brother’s official mistress and her dear friend. “We should not allow years to pass between our visits.”

  Anne’s retinue looked on as the two women greeted each other with poignant affection. Geneviève had never seen the king’s sister prior to this moment, but there could be no denying their kinship, for Marguerite’s appearance was a mirror of François’s; they shared the same tall build, the same long face, the same wide mouth and prominent nose. What projected as masculine beauty on the king was not quite as attractive in its female form, and yet Marguerite showed none of the signs of age that so beleaguered her brother. Her quieter, more peaceful life gave her an appeal and a healthy glow the king had long since lost.

  Since her marriage to the king of Navarre more than a decade ago, Marguerite had spent much of her time with her own court and her residences at Cognac, Alençon, and Nérac. Though far away, she continued to support the brother she adored, producing some of the most erudite missives in support of his reforms and initiatives in the land, for Marguerite was nothing if not a prolific writer. And yet her distance had saved her from the angst of her brother’s turbulent life.

  The duc d’Orléans swaggered up to his aunt and they paid each other fond, affectionate greetings, the elder woman tousling the handsome young man’s hair. He revealed the adolescent he was, embarrassment warming his cheeks, but he smiled at the motherly affection he knew so little of.

  “What has happened to the naughty child I have missed?” Marguerite cajoled, without letting go of his hand.

  Eyes so like her own twinkled back at her. “The child is gone, but the naughtiness remains.” Charles laughed, as did his aunt and the duchesse.

  “And how does my brother fare?” Marguerite asked, leading them toward the large main building anchoring the square to the north.

  “He is doing better of late. He is finding renewed vigor in purpose.” Anne smiled. “He sends his very best to his darling sister.”

  From their childhood days together, François had called his sister “darling” and she warmed at the affectionate endearment. “King Henry does not arrive until tomorrow, but I have arranged a wonderful night of entertainment for you. I have brought my most favored mus
icians and linguists, all for your diversion and amusement.”

  A true patron of the arts like her brother, Marguerite was forever in the company of scholars and poets, musicians and painters.

  “Then we shall have a jolly time of it, at least for one night.” Anne offered the sarcasm with the snidest of grins, and Marguerite laughed at the king of England’s expense.

  The food was perfectly prepared, the music magnificent, the readings rousing, and yet the night stretched on interminably. Geneviève nipped at her food, neither cognizant nor comprehending of the poetry, so fervent was her anticipation of the meeting to come. She would at last be in the company of the man whom she had thought of as her father for most of her life, whose dimensions of power and authority had evolved into nothing short of godlike in her esteem. The occasion could be no more momentous were she to travel to the gates of heaven.

  At last they had retired—to the soft beds at the top floor of the inn, in the quiet that wrapped them in slumber—and yet she still could not find her ease. She sat up on the feather ticking, back against the headboard, eyes out the window and on the moon as it rose in the clear sky, watching it through the long hours, until it began its descent.

  “Are you unwell, Geneviève?” Arabelle roused, half-conscious, her speech slurred by sleepiness.

  Geneviève found her friend staring at her in the moonlight, perched on one elbow in the bed beside her own.

  “I am fine, fear not.”

  “You must get your rest. Many busy days lie ahead.”

  “Go back to sleep,” she told her friend, nodding. Arabelle needed nothing more; she flopped back onto her pillow and mattress and within minutes, Geneviève recognized the slow, even breath of sleep. How she envied her.

  “Please bring these gifts to the king’s lodgings.” The duchesse handed Geneviève and Arabelle the brightly wrapped parcels, bouquets of pastel silk linens tied together with golden taffeta bows.