Donna Russo Morin

by To Serve A King

  Geneviève did her best to keep her hands from trembling as she accepted three such packages. The traditional exchange of tokens played a vital part in any noble meeting. But having never taken part in such a ritual, she did not know if she would present them directly to King Henry, or to his representative. The moment could be upon her, and she quivered with anticipation and apprehension. She scrambled after Arabelle as the woman scampered off to do her mistress’s bidding.

  They stepped out into the bright courtyard, the slanted rays of early morning light streaming through the thin alleyways between the stone and spire buildings that formed its periphery. A cacophony assaulted them—the quiet, largely abandoned square of the previous night now teemed with people, animals, and conveyances. Though the king of England had just arrived, his essence dominated the town. Squires groomed the long line of exhausted horses, the animals snorting two streams of vapor from their long noses. Servants grunted as they hefted trunks from the backs of wagons, and maids scurried to follow as they claimed each for their particular masters and directed them to the appropriate lodgings.

  Fog and smoke filled the air, blending with the aroma of small fires and cooking food; so many attendants had arrived with the English contingent, many were forced to take their accommodations out in the open, and they prepared their morning meal over small makeshift stoves, the meat sizzling and spitting over the small grates. Their strange language, so hard and guttural, lent the whole scene the spirit of a barnyard filled with braying and barking animals.

  Geneviève and Arabelle took a twisted path from one end of the courtyard to the other, skipping around a smiling group of breakfasting cavaliers here, avoiding a large, steaming pile of horse excrement there. They made their way past the enormous oak tree dominating the center of the courtyard; large russet leaves clung tenaciously to the thick, gnarled branches, unwilling to concede to the undeterred march toward winter. Geneviève’s eyes rose to the top thin twigs crowning the tree like fuzzy hair, marveling at how many hundreds of years this magnificent plant had survived, how many storms it had weathered, how much of man’s evolution it had witnessed.

  When at last they entered the large four-storied main hall at the south end, their arms ached with the weight of their cargo and they looked about, confused and leery, at the hordes of people bustling about.

  “May I help you?” The tall, lanky man stepped out of the crowd, no sign of friendly welcome on his pasty face, dressed in the expensive but simple clothing of an attendant.

  Geneviève understood his English well enough, but it had been far too long since she had used the language to explain their errand. She dipped a curtsy, as did Arabelle. “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  “Ah oui, bonjour,” the man replied, his stiff tongue mangling the lyrical greeting as he continued in French. “You have brought the gifts, I see.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” Arabelle stepped forward, thrusting the parcels out toward him, only to be abruptly forced aside as Geneviève stepped in front of her.

  “They are for King Henry,” she squawked.

  The man frowned, raising one eyebrow in disdainful disapproval. “And I will see he gets them.”

  Geneviève opened her mouth to protest, but Arabelle cut her off, handing the man her packages and grabbing those in Geneviève’s hands. The attendant made a small motion over his shoulder and two young pages rushed to his side, relieving him of the gifts. There was no chance to see the king, nothing Geneviève could say that would not be an unseemly breach of protocol. With reluctance, she made her obeisance beside Arabelle and followed the woman back out into the sun-drenched courtyard.

  “He is very unattractive, isn’t he?” Arabelle laughed, once safely out of the attendant’s hearing. “He quite resembled a horse, don’t you think?”

  Geneviève mumbled her agreement, throbbing with disappointment at not seeing King Henry for herself.

  “Do you think all Englishmen are as pompous as he?” Arabelle asked.

  “I would ima—”

  She slammed into the bent, wizened woman who appeared before her like an apparition, so small and slight, Geneviève sent her crashing to the ground.

  “Oh no! Oh, madame!” Geneviève and Arabelle cried out in alarm.

  Geneviève rushed forward, grabbing the tiny form and hefting her up, brushing the dirt from the woman’s threadbare skirts.

  “I am so very sorry. Are you al—”

  Geneviève’s words froze on her tongue as the old woman straightened up.

  The purple scars covered most of her, the raw, reddish splotches bright under the wiry gray and white hair surrounding it. No more than a small wrinkled portion of the woman’s forehead and one crinkled eye were untouched by whatever trauma had decimated her face. It took all of Geneviève’s control not to cringe outwardly at the deformed visage.

  “Are … are you all right, madame?” Geneviève asked with unvarnished concern.

  The elderly woman stared at the young face before her. The jagged opening that was her mouth moved a fraction, but no words came forth. Geneviève looked helplessly at Arabelle, but her friend shrugged her shoulders feebly.

  “Do you need a doctor?” Arabelle asked, but received no reply, and turned back to Geneviève. “Perhaps she is English and doesn’t understand us?”

  Geneviève nodded and searched her mind for the words studied so long ago. “Doctor?” Her brows rose with the upward lilt of her voice and she pointed to the woman’s body. “You are … qu’est-ce que … injured?”

  But not a word came in response. Geneviève looked down at the woman. The steady blue eyes, their brilliance shining out of the decimated skin, had not moved from her own face. The woman stared at her as if she looked through her.

  “What do I do?” Geneviève appealed to Arabelle, but the befuddled young woman offered no more than another shrug.

  Geneviève untied the small drawstring purse from her waist. Reaching out, she lifted the old woman’s hand and dropped the purse and the few coins within it, into the flaccid palm. “This is all I have.” She spoke once more in French, not knowing if the woman understood her, but unable to find the right English words. “If I can help you otherwise, get you a doctor, please come and find me.”

  Geneviève pointed at the smaller building where she stayed with Anne, and then back at herself.

  “Look for me there. Ask for Geneviève, Geneviève Gravois.”

  “G … Geneviève?” The raspy whisper eked out of the old woman’s throat.

  “Yes, that’s right. Geneviève.” She smiled, feeling better; at least she had not knocked all coherence out of the deformed, decrepit creature.

  The woman watched Geneviève walk away; her gaze locked upon the slender, graceful form as the mademoiselle strode the entire distance of the courtyard and entered the building on the far side. Once Geneviève looked back, as if she felt the gaze so firmly fixed upon her. Geneviève threw back a small wave and a tender smile, the gestures of a caring soul.

  As soon as the young lady disappeared from her sight, the old woman’s sob broke from her lipless mouth, the remaining flesh slashing wide as the crying burst from her. She dropped where she stood, unable to take a step away, collapsing onto the sun-warmed stone.

  All this time, all these years of searching, and here was her daughter, discovered when she no longer looked for her. She may call herself by a different surname, but there could be no other Geneviève with the same luminous pale hair, the same jewellike eyes.

  Those months and months after her recovery from the fire, they had told her that her daughter was dead. She had begged them to show her Geneviève’s grave, but they claimed there was none, that the child’s remains had never been found. She knew then her daughter lived, and she had spent more than fifteen years looking for her. How could she have given up? How could she have let the cough that plagued her day and night for the last few years stop her from continuing her search?

  The old woman raised her scarred face to the heavens,
the warmth of the sun drying the tears from her haggard cheeks. She looked up into the face of God and offered her thanks.

  The long, narrow table ran from one end of the great hall in the burghers’ common house to the other, the silver trenchers lined up along each side like flowers spaced precisely apart in a formal garden, sparkling against the pristine white linens swathing the table. The flames in the three fireplaces, each large enough for a man to stand in, burned low but bright, their glow reaching up to kiss the gilt-edged ceiling coves.

  From morning until afternoon, the debate over the order in which the attendants arrived persisted, though there was never any question of the outcome. Protocol and precedence were the dictates of the day, and each player knew his or her part well.

  The duchesse d’Étampes was the first to cross the threshold, preceded by her ladies and her guards, her gracious entrance performed for the town’s nobles and the servants who awaited the arrival of the evening’s honored guests.

  Geneviève walked beside a tall soldier, a flash of yearning for Sebastien tugging at her. In truth, she was glad her lover did not attend the assemblage. Their intimacy had revealed much of her soul; he would know the conflict raging within her. Better to miss him than to face questions she would not care to answer.

  The duc d’Orléans sauntered in, his dashing cavaliers beside him, the marquis de Limoges among them. Geneviève felt a moment’s pleasure at the sight of his round, freckled face, but it fluttered away as her anxious gaze returned to the wide entry arch, breaths quick and shallow as she waited for the king.

  Marguerite de Navarre entered next, her quick and informal entry more regal than Anne’s, for its lack of any pomposity announced her as a true royal. Her attendants took their place at the far right end of the table, joining Geneviève and Arabelle and the other attendants from Fontainebleau; Marguerite sat beside Anne, Charles, and the burghers at the other end.

  Minutes passed, the vaulted room filled with spirited conversation and enticing aromas, until two heralds, in plumed hats and tabards in black and gold, entered the chamber and blared the arrival of the king of England. Every man and woman in the chamber rose to their feet and turned to the wooden arches of the entry. Situated on the far side of the table, Geneviève jostled the woman to her right, unable to see around the rather robust man who stood between her and the door, until at last she caught her first sight of the man who had dominated her thoughts and dreams for most of her life.

  There was no mistaking the king, though he hobbled in upon a cane, followed by the handsome, haunted Duke of Suffolk, the somberly clad Cromwell, and a contingent of ministers and soldiers. Tall, rotund, and dictatorial, Henry’s small, bow-shaped mouth puckered firm and tight into a sour expression. This king owned the room but was not pleased by it.

  Geneviève grabbed the table before her, thighs pressing against the hard edge. She glared at the prodigious man with impudent astonishment. She had expected an altered visage, his physique affected by the years since she had received his miniature portrait, since she had grown from child to woman. But she never imagined such a drastic transformation. The broad shoulders remained, enhanced by the puff-sleeved gold and maroon mantle; but the bulbous cheeks, the red-veined complexion, the wiry white hairs poking out from the sparse auburn remnants on his head and chin, and the hard coldness in the beady eyes shocked her.

  Geneviève tore her gaze from the disappointment. A person’s physical appearance meant nothing; beauty often blossomed behind ugliness; ugliness often masqueraded as beauty. Geneviève reminded herself that this king was older than François and she saw for herself every day what age and hardship had done to that once fine-looking man. Henry’s leg wound was no secret, nor its lasting effect. All this she would dismiss. She would know this king for the sanctuary he had given her, and for the wisdom and kindness she was sure would come from his words.

  The two long rows of courtiers remained standing until King Henry took his seat at the very end of the table. Geneviève leaned forward to catch a glimpse of him and frowned; there was little hope of hearing any of the sovereign’s words from this distance, indeed she could barely make out the movement of his lips. She flounced back in her chair, all appetite for the meal and the night buried beneath layers of discontent.

  The servants placed course after sumptuous course before her, Arabelle and the courtiers around her offered conversation, musicians performed entertainment, yet Geneviève was no more than a shadow in the midst of such activity.

  “Do you feel ill?” Arabelle whispered her concern. “Does the food not agree with you?”

  Geneviève shook off her worry. “I am fine. Overwhelmed perhaps.”

  Arabelle nodded with a relieved smile, casting her bright blue eyes down the long table. “The king is quite … quite imperious, I think, oui?”

  “Indeed,” Geneviève agreed wholeheartedly.

  “But look at our lady.” Arabelle encouraged Geneviève to glance again down the far end of the table.

  Anne sat to the king’s left while Marguerite took the place of honor at his right. Geneviève watched the duchesse smile and banter, green eyes sparkling, hands gesturing with ease and grace. She was at her most charming, her intellect and vivaciousness suffering not at all beside the dominance of the king and the perspicacity of Marguerite.

  Geneviève could not deny nor comprehend the sense of pride she felt watching her mistress. As if Anne felt their gaze upon her, she turned from the king and glanced at them, returning the fond smiles she found there. They watched as the duchesse gestured one curling finger at the thin adolescent page behind her, as she and the queen of Navarre gave him their instructions and he scurried down the table toward them.

  “Oh my,” Arabelle trilled.

  Geneviève turned in question, but had not time to give voice to it.

  “The queen and the duchesse request a moment with their ladies.” The scrawny young man gave a most regal bow as his voice gave a raucous crack.

  Arabelle jumped to her feet, as did the two women who sat across from them.

  “Come, Geneviève,” Arabelle hissed down at her. “We are to be presented to the king.”

  Geneviève felt the small fingers as they pulled gently on her upper arm and followed their direction, rising slowly. A sense of the surreal cloaked her as she followed the women along the breadth of the vast table, as each pair came to stand beside their mistresses.

  The humming in Geneviève’s ears grew louder as she stood a mere foot or two away from King Henry, and yet such proximity did little to dissuade her of her initial impressions; verily, he appeared more despotic than ever. The hard, heavy lines cut deep around his mouth, and displeasure gleamed from his eyes.

  “Your Highness”—Marguerite smiled and extended an open palm toward the women beside her—“pray make the acquaintance of my attendants, Mademoiselles d’ Alincourt and de Nemours.”

  The two young women curtsied deep and remained so.

  “Nemours,” the king mused with a low throaty voice, eyes upon the raven-haired beauty. “Was not your father once an ambassador at my court?”

  The attendant daringly raised her caramel eyes. “That would be my grandfather, Your Highness.”

  Henry snorted a half-amused laugh, affected more by what the young lady’s glance said than her words. “Ah yes, I remember him well.” He shifted to the edge of his seat, animated and attentive.

  “Your Majesty”—Anne took her turn in the conventions—“may I present Mademoiselle Gravois, and Mademoiselle d’Aiguillon—the daughter of the comte de Vandreuil.”

  Like Arabelle, Geneviève dropped into her deepest obeisance, but dared to look up, peeking at the king.

  Henry turned to them with a perfunctory gaze and an indiscernible grunt. Geneviève shivered from the empty chill of it.

  “Your Highness,” Arabelle intoned as she and Geneviève rose.

  Geneviève said nothing, nor did it matter. She had sat for weeks as Lodovico had painstakingly
captured her likeness onto the miniature, and she had sent it to King Henry as requested. And yet his gaze passed over her without the barest glimmer of recognition. He had heard her name without a tincture of reaction. He gave all the ladies the same cold, cursory greeting, save Mademoiselle de Nemours. To the exotic beauty—a woman young enough to be his granddaughter—he offered a lecherous smile and asked after her journey, his rheumy eyes rarely straying from the rounded globes of her breasts spilling from her jewel-trimmed square neckline.

  “Thank you, ladies.” Marguerite pleasantly dismissed both her attendants and Anne’s, sharing a cynical roll of her eyes with the duchesse.

  The four women dipped a quick curtsy, taking themselves back to their own seats, but not before a last knowing look passed between the king and Mademoiselle de Nemours.

  Geneviève rushed back to her place, grabbed the full goblet of wine before her, and drank deeply, her mind tumbling with thoughts of the encounter and the king’s complete lack of acknowledgment, thoughts fraught with the sting of devastation.

  Her breathing slowed; she raised her eyes heavenward as she chided herself, as understanding dawned. Henry VIII was a cunning man, one of the most powerful in all the world; he knew better than to show any sign of recognition of her, for it could be disastrous for them both. She fought with herself over the logic of it, struggled to believe this was the reason for his arrogant dismissal. Part of her clung to her rationale with all the inner tenacity she could muster. The other said far less but spoke much louder.

  28

  A fool may well teach a wise man.

  —François Rabelais (c. 1494–1553)

  She circled the square in the gloaming, her heels clacking upon the cobbles, losing herself in the anonymity of the smudgy light. Fires crackled around her amid the grumble of those who sat in their warmth, but few paid her any heed; she had become another of the nameless who began to settle down for the night. Geneviève counted the steps as she passed the buildings a second time, filling her head with the useless words, pushing out those intending her harm.