“And you know how dearly I love you in return,” Aimée replied softly, tears stinging her eyes. “It’s important to have friends outside of one’s marriage—and to nurture other interests, as you have done.”
“Alors,” Micheline murmured, dropping her eyes. “I have always had solitary passions, like these books. I thought when I married Bernard that he would share these things with me. Something… happened to him, though…. When he first went away, I told myself that he was helping France. I told myself that his wanderlust would fade. But when he came home, and we conceived a child, he rushed back to court!”
“I remember, cherie,” Aimée whispered. “I was here when you lost the baby.”
“How many times have you been here with me when Bernard has been away? When he finally did return home, he seemed almost relieved about the baby. I don’t think he was ready to become a father.”
“Perhaps that was the case.” Aimée nodded. “And how do you feel now?”
“I miss him! Desperately!” A starry tear clung to her thick lashes. “I’m confused. Sometimes, I feel that we are almost strangers, but when he’s away, it’s the Bernard of years past that I continue to yearn for. I gave him my heart when we were so young! That is who I wait for. Do you think he will ever come back to me?”
“I think that the man you married still lives, and always will, in your heart. And I think that he would have returned to you, in time… but that’s no longer possible.” Aimée crouched beside her friend’s chair and gathered her into her arms. “Bernard won’t be coming home. He was killed, accidentally, in a tournament at Amboise.”
Micheline’s exquisite face went white with shock and disbelief. “No! No! Mere de Dieu! It cannot be!”
Holding her near, Aimée stroked her hair. “I’m here, dearest. You won’t be alone. Thomas must accompany the king to meetings with Henry VIII at Calais and Boulogne. You must come home to Chateau du Soleil with me until he returns. We’ll take care of each other, cherie.”
Chapter Two
St. Briac-sur-Loire, France
November 12. 1532
It was a chilly but sparkling afternoon when St. Briac returned home from the month-long meetings between King François I and Henry VIII in Calais and Boulogne. As he rode up the long, curving road to his ancestral chateau, a smile played over his mouth in anticipation of the reunion with his family.
Chateau du Soleil shone in the sunlight, a marvel of soaring white towers against the backdrop of the dark forest of Chinon. It was a castle of fairytale proportions but it hadn’t seemed enchanted to him until the day he brought Aimée there as his bride. Now, accompanied by a groom and his wizened manservant, Gaspard Lefait, he dismounted before a courtyard that commanded a stunning view of the meandering Loire River. Dusting off the buttery suede doublet that accentuated his tanned, rakishly handsome face, St. Briac headed for the arched stone doorway. All his senses ached for Aimée.
“Thomas! You’re home!”
He tried not to betray his disappointment when his aunt, Fanchette, hurried from the gallery to welcome him. “It’s good to see you, ma tante.” He hugged her well-cushioned body. “It feels as if I’ve been away forever.”
Thomas smiled down at the woman who had run his household since the death of his mother more than twenty years ago. She had raised his brother, Christophe, from infancy, and even after Aimée became mistress of Chateau du Soleil Fanchette remained. The two women lived together in harmony.
“I’m missing my wife,” St. Briac said frankly. “Where is she?”
“She and Micheline went for a walk in the woods, but I expect they’ll be back soon. Don’t fidget, Thomas! It’s time you learned patience!”
“You needn’t talk to me as if I were Christophe, old woman,” he teased. “Even he is grown now and at the university. When will you realize that we are men?”
“Probably never,” Fanchette responded dryly.
St. Briac walked into the gallery and began to pace, but soon the sound of a commotion upstairs intruded on his thoughts of Aimée. Fanchette stood off to one side and tried not to chuckle as she watched her nephew stop and incline his head.
“Has your lust for your wife caused you to forget your daughters, monseigneur?” she wondered. “ ’Twould seem that they have arisen from their naps….”
“Forget them?” he scoffed. “You insult me!” Striding to the foot of the curving staircase, St. Briac called, “Mes anges! Come down and give kisses to your poor papa!”
His shouts were met with distant squeals of excitement followed by the patter of little feet, and then the sight of two sweet faces on the top step.
“Papa! Papa!!”
St. Briac ascended and caught them up in his strong arms before they managed to clamber down three steps. Amid much hugging, giggling, and kissing, he gloried in the scent of their sleepy toddlers’ skin, the silky texture of their curly hair, the sight of rosy cheeks, and eyes that sparkled with excitement and love for their adored papa.
Though Juliette was three years old and Ninon nearly two, they still seemed to be babies to St. Briac. They expressed their thoughts clearly these days, yet their little bodies were dimpled, their faces round and sweet-smelling, and he could still easily fit a daughter in the crook of each arm.
Sometimes Thomas thought about the first child born to him and Aimée. Justin would have been deep into his sixth year now. There were moments when he imagined how his son might look and act had he lived. St. Briac could picture him laughing, running in the sunlight with a puppy, and then he’d force the thoughts away. Justin’s death, after a year of life, had been a tragedy, but it had brought Thomas and Aimée closer together than ever. And time had brought these two rosy-cheeked little fairy princesses. The pain of Justin’s loss made Thomas appreciate his daughters all the more. Aimée still longed ardently for another son, but Thomas felt no void. His heart was full.
“Papa,” Juliette implored, “promise not to leave us ever again! We missed you frightfully!”
Ninon nodded solemn agreement, her chin quivering as if she might cry. “Promise, Papa!”
“We’ll be together for a long time,” he said, smiling. “And if I do have to go away again, for a bit, you know I will always come home to you and your maman.”
“Where is Maman?” Juliette demanded.
St. Briac turned his head to gaze out the tall gallery windows. “I wish I knew,” he murmured in response.
*
Out in the woods, Micheline and Aimée tramped over a carpet of rusty leaves, each lost in thought.
“Thomas is due to return soon, isn’t he?” Micheline queried, reading her friend’s mind. “You must be missing him terribly.”
“Well, yes, of course….” Aimée was very conscious of Micheline’s continued grief, and although she had missed Thomas desperately, part of her had been glad to devote all her attention to her friend. Surely the sight of Thomas, who could not conceal his love for his wife, would have daily sprinkled salt over Micheline’s wound. Two months had passed since Bernard’s death and only lately had Aimée seen Micheline smile, and even laugh, with any sign of true pleasure… and now Thomas was coming home. What effect would that have on Micheline’s progress?
“My dear friend,” Micheline said, stopping to take Aimée’s hand, “please do not hide your feelings on my account. I’m very happy for you and Thomas.”
“Cherie, it is so unfair that you should have to bear such terrible grief!” Aimée exclaimed, hugging her near. “I wish that I could take away your sadness.”
“I fear that only time, and God, can do that. I know you understand my meaning after losing your little Justin. And you have helped, Aimée, by bringing me here to be with you.” She paused, then continued gently. “But your husband is coming home. You must return your attention to him and your children… and I should go back to Angouleme before winter.”
“No!” Aimée exclaimed. “You must not even think of that yet!” Seeing that Micheline wo
uld not be so easily dissuaded, she took her friend’s arm. “Let us talk of this another time. The girls will be waking from naps, and you promised to teach the cook your recipe for braised wild boar with red wine. Tante Fanchette has been anticipating it so—she’ll scold us terribly if we’re late!”
Micheline smiled and yielded. Emerging from the forest, the two friends paused to appreciate the beauty that lay below them. The autumn sun danced over the vine-covered hillocks, down to the peaked towers of Chateau du Soleil and the luminous Loire River that swirled lazily in the distance.
For a moment Micheline forgot her heartache. The beauty of the day and the love of her friend warmed her heart. Life seemed sweet.
As they approached the chateau, Aimée’s step quickened. “This may sound silly, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I think Thomas may be home!”
Micheline felt a queer mixture of emotions when they entered the chateau’s great hall and discovered St. Briac sitting in a carved chair near the window, a daughter on each knee. The three of them were engaged in private conversation, heads bent. Juliette held fast to her father’s big hand and kissed it repeatedly.
Aimée watched in silence, glowing, then spoke up at last. “Poor Maman! No kisses for her! No one even cares that she’s here!”
“Oh, Maman!” cried Ninon, instantly sympathetic.
Laughing, St. Briac crossed the room carrying his daughters and Aimée met them halfway. The little family hugged while Micheline stood in the doorway, her own heart swelling with bittersweet emotions.
At length she called, “Ninon! Juliette! I’m going to cook a wild boar. Won’t you come and help me? He has very long tusks!”
The girls squealed and Thomas set them down. As they hurried across the floor, he grinned at Micheline and gave her a fleeting wink.
“Greetings, madame,” he called to her as his arms stole around Aimée’s waist. “And many thanks.”
Chapter Three
November 12-13, 1532
Micheline retired early that night to her tower chamber with a book of poetry by François Villon. Propped against a bolster, she gazed out at the full moon that poured its light across the bed. A candle burned on the table next to her, but she had no heart for reading. It would be so much more convenient, she thought, if cheery surroundings and loving friends were enough to make one happy, but it seemed that moods could not be shaped quite so easily. No matter how many distractions she had, her mind went around and around of its own accord, taking the past apart and putting it together again in an effort to make sense of it, then fretting over the future.
Putting aside her book, Micheline blew out the candle and stared into the silver-blue moonlight. Sleep, she told herself. However, when her eyes closed, she saw images of Thomas, Aimée, and their two cherubs. How fortunate they were! It seemed that any chance of her own for such contentment had died with Bernard.
Micheline tossed this way and that in the cool darkness while memories and questions swirled round and round inside her. Finally, throwing off her covers, she put on a robe and went into the corridor. The chateau was quiet now. Tears burned her eyes as she descended the curving stairway to the moon-silvered gallery. Was there no escape from the pain that had seemingly had attached itself to her very soul?
*
The chateau was not as quiet as it appeared. Upstairs, Thomas and Aimée had just indulged in a long, shared bath. She was now sitting up in bed, naked under the covers, while Thomas combed out her long raven curls.
“I’m too tired to listen to the serious side of the king’s meetings with Henry the Eighth,” Aimée murmured with a yawn. “Save the details of the treaties and subterfuge for tomorrow… but do tell me about Anne Boleyn! Is she very beautiful? Do you suppose Henry will actually marry her?”
“Beautiful? No. But there is a… quality about the lady that some men might find attractive. François certainly seemed taken with her—he gave her a diamond worth fifteen thousand ecus. As for her chances to become queen of England, Henry recently made her Marquess of Pembroke, so I would wager in her favor. He’s besotted; there’s no doubt.”
“Do you think the French court life impressed them? Were the entertainments fine?”
St. Briac shrugged, laid the comb aside, and began to caress his wife’s shoulders. “Fine enough,” he replied absently. “Bear-baiting, and a rather bizarre wrestling contest between Englishmen and French priests… and, of course, the usual balls and masques. François left Queen Eleanor at Fontainebleau, so he was free to partner Anne Boleyn in the dances.”
Although Aimée was frankly aroused by her husband’s increasingly intimate caresses, she could not resist the opening he’d provided for another avenue of conversation.
“So… the court is in residence at Fontainebleau? How I have longed to be there myself lately!”
St. Briac blinked in surprise, but did not waver in his own course of action. Drawing Aimée into his arms, he kissed her throat with warm lips. “I thought that you desired only to spend weeks on end here with me! Before I left for Calais, you could talk of nothing else except the son you intended to conceive before Christmas.”
His fingertips were drawing fiery patterns on her breasts. It took every ounce of control Aimée possessed to continue the conversation. “I do still want to conceive a son, but right now there is a more urgent matter that demands my immediate attention.”
“Impossible, miette,” he murmured absently.
“You’ve been so busy stealing kisses from me and playing with the babies that you’ve scarcely had time to notice. I’m talking about darling Micheline!”
“My love, I have the utmost sympathy for Micheline’s plight, and I hope that she will stay with us until she feels better, but I fail to see what this has to do with the two of us making a baby!”
Aimée tried to ignore St. Briac’s waning patience with the conversation. “Your good wishes for Micheline are admirable, but I have realized that we, as her friends, must play a more active role in her recovery.”
Thomas lay back on his pillow. “I hate to say it, but all the signs point to one of your notorious plans.”
“How well you know me!” she teased. “We must think of Micheline. You and I have everything that she does not, and a whole lifetime ahead of us in which to enjoy our blessings.”
“And how do you propose to obtain our sort of blessings for Micheline?”
“Fontainebleau is the remedy!”
At this St. Briac gave her an incredulous stare. “Fontainebleau?! Surely you jest! A few months at court are more apt to corrupt than bless the unspoiled Micheline!”
“Not if we are there to watch over her!” She leaned toward him excitedly. “She is not ready to think of marriage yet. All I really want for her is to live again! At Fontainebleau, she is bound to feel a spark of interest. You don’t understand how desperately melancholy Micheline has been since Bernard’s death. She thinks her life is over!”
“Nonsense.”
“I know you have not forgotten what we suffered after little Justin’s death. Unspeakable grief! But at least we had each other. If we do nothing to help our friend, who knows how long it will take before something or someone comes along to make her take an interest in life again?”
She had said the one thing that could make his heart clench in empathy. “You’re determined about this, aren’t you?”
A tide of love swept over her as she heard the surrender in his voice. Wrapping her arms around him, she said, “Part of the reason I feel so strongly about this is that I’m certain Micheline has never been truly fulfilled in life or love before.”
“That’s a safe assumption considering the character of her husband. I’ve never been one to speak ill of the dead, but frankly Micheline is well rid of Tevoulere.”
“We must be very careful to keep the truth about Bernard from her. It would destroy her! She nurtures an illusion that he was meant to be her mate for life.”
St. Briac made a noise that su
ccinctly expressed his opinion on that subject.
“And yet,” Aimée continued, “I feel that even Micheline realizes, deep inside, that her marriage was not all it could have been. Bernard was the only man she’s ever known. She simply doesn’t know what she’s been missing.”
“I doubt that she’ll make that discovery at court.”
“Perhaps not, but she’ll have entertaining distractions. She’s like a wounded fawn, Thomas. First she has to heal and learn to enjoy the simplest pleasures; it may be quite some time before she’s ready to think of love.”
“I yield, my lady.” St. Briac smiled, kissing his wife’s hair. “We shall go to Fontainebleau for the winter, at least. Do you suppose, though, that in the meantime—”
Aimée turned her face up to joyously receive his kiss. He tasted the sweet secrets of her mouth and drew her closer to feel her softness against his hardness. “How I missed you, miette,” he whispered.
She gloried in the hot swirling spiral of passion, giving herself over to it as St. Briac’s mouth burned her throat and then found her breasts. Now that the matter of Micheline was resolved for the moment, Aimée could concentrate on her husband. He was, she believed, the most splendid man in France.
*
It was long past midnight when Thomas fell asleep. Aimée listened to his heartbeat, wide awake, dozens of plans circling busily in her mind. Gradually her sixth sense told her that Micheline might be awake as well.
St. Briac’s long, elegant fingers were curved around her waist, keeping her near even in sleep. His fatigue from the arduous journey home was such, however, that he didn’t stir when Aimée lifted his hand and crept out of bed. Donning a velvet robe, she lifted the latch and tiptoed out into the dark corridor.
Micheline sat near the bottom of the curving white marble stairway, leaning against a baluster fashioned of black wrought-iron grapevines. The moonlight was brighter than ever, flooding the gallery through the tall windows that opened onto the courtyard. Aimée approached Micheline carefully. She was so still that she seemed unaware of her friend’s presence, but then, as Aimée drew near, she whispered gently, “Has the moon kept you awake as well, Aimée?”
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