Sir Jeremy Culpepper swallowed the sweetmeat and leaned across the table to grip his friend’s forearm. “Yes! Yes! You’re brilliant! That’s the answer!” Then a shadow crossed his face as he dropped back into his chair. “But how can you do it?”
“I suppose I shall have to go to France. The girl’s supposed to remain with the French court until the ‘wedding’ in April, so that would give me nearly two months.”
“Do you propose to just present yourself to King François and announce that you’ve come to inspect Micheline Tevoulere before agreeing to the marriage?”
He laughed softly. “Obviously not. No, I’ll have to pretend to be someone else.”
“And why would a made-up person be welcome at court?”
“Ah, now there’s the rub. Obviously I can’t use my title to gain entrance, so I’ll have to think of something else to offer.” A genuine smile lit his face for the first time that day. “My canvases and brushes may be of use at last, Jeremy.”
Culpepper had nearly forgotten that Sandhurst could paint. He’d shown talent as a youth and the duchess had sent him off to Florence to study for a year under the Italian masters. That had been a dozen years ago, at a time when she was as eager to separate him from his father as to nurture his artistic abilities.
“Are you any good at it?” Jeremy demanded bluntly, which elicited more low laughter from his friend.
“Actually I am. Hard to believe? You’ll be even more surprised to learn that I still paint from time to time when I’m at Sandhurst Manor. Remember the portrait of Cicely in the hall?”
Jeremy stared in consternation. He’d always assumed that Holbein or one of the other artists favored at court had done the exquisite painting of Lord Sandhurst’s sister which dominated the London house’s great hall. “You’re ribbing me,” he muttered, then took a candlestick from the table and went out to investigate. In the lower righthand corner of the canvas he discovered a familiar S, barely a shade darker than the rose of Cicely’s skirt.
A kitchen maid had come in to clear the table at last before retiring for the night, so Sandhurst didn’t notice at first when his friend reentered the parlor. Jeremy stood clutching the candlestick, its flame accentuating the stunned expression on his face.
His mouth gaped open before he managed to exclaim hoarsely, “Unbelievable—incredible!”
“Come and sit down before you faint.”
Jeremy staggered back to his chair. “Why didn’t you say anything? I never imagined…”
“There was never a reason to talk about it. Now, however, my adequate talents may prove highly useful.”
“If I could paint like that, I’d be boasting to anyone who’d listen! God’s bones, Sandhurst, there’s absolutely no question that you could pass yourself off as an artist at the French court! You’ve got charm and wit and extraordinary good looks to go with your talent. How could you fail?”
“You flatter me, but I do agree that the masquerade ought to succeed if I keep my wits about me.” He indulged in wicked laughter as the plan fell into place. “It could almost be amusing to become acquainted with Micheline Tevoulere under such circumstances.”
Beaming and nodding, Jeremy exclaimed, “ ’Zounds, I wish I could be there too!”
“But you will be there!” Sandhurst informed him smoothly. “You’re coming with me. I’ll need an extra pair of eyes and ears, not to mention a valet—you know, for appearance’s sake. Finchley’s perfectly capable of looking after my clothes, but he’s not cut out for subterfuge. Besides, I don’t want to involve him in all this. The less he knows, the better.”
Jeremy’s mouth hung open again, forgotten by its owner. “But—but—that is—I don’t see how—” He fell silent, digesting his friend’s speech, then narrowed his eyes suddenly. “Wait just a moment! You’re saying that you expect me to be your valet while we’re in France?!”
“Don’t get into a huff, old fellow. I didn’t mean to imply that you are my inferior in any way.”
“Next door to it!”
“Look, you won’t exactly be my valet; we’ll just pretend that you are. It will be a role, like my role as a painter of portraits.” Sandhurst arched a brow and grinned. “We’ll both be commoners for a few weeks. It should be quite amusing!”
“This is all more your style than mine. What if we’re found out? God’s teeth, imagine the humiliation!”
“Jeremy, you know you wouldn’t miss this adventure for the world, so why not spare us both the ordeal of this conversation and just capitulate?”
He sighed loudly. “All right then. I’ll go.”
“A toast, my friend!” Raising his tankard, he proclaimed, “To our adventure!”
“And its safe conclusion,” muttered Jeremy. He drank deeply, Sandhurst’s laughter echoing in his ears.
Chapter Seven
Chateau de Fontainebleau
February 22-27, 1533
Anne d’Heilly stood in the king’s magnificent oval bedchamber, waiting for him to return from the morning council meeting. She held the letter that had arrived from King Henry VIII the previous day, silently rehearsing her speech to François. If he guessed that she was behind this suddenly arranged marriage for Micheline Tevoulere, God only knew what would happen. Now that events had been set in motion in England, Anne was realizing just how great a risk she had taken. All that she had worked for years to attain might be lost if her king discovered her scheme.
Fretfully she went to the window and looked for François in the Oval Courtyard below. The sight that met her blue eyes replaced her doubts with a rush of consuming jealousy. Micheline had just strolled from the gardens through the Port Doree, while the king was entering the courtyard from his council chambers. Though surrounded by courtiers, he left them instantly and went to meet Micheline, who was looking lovely in the winter sunlight. Clad in a cloak of forest-green velvet trimmed with fox, she wore her warm auburn curls loose, spilling over her shoulders and down her back.
Anne burned at the sight of the genuine smile that lit her rivals’s face as the king bent to kiss her hand. The girl had become his friend, gently rebuffing his advances over the weeks until he retreated and settled for what Micheline could offer. Anne knew, however, that he had not given up. The slow seduction of Micheline was a constant test for his patience and ingenuity.
Turning from the window, Anne paced from one end of the long oval chamber to the other until at last the outer door opened and the king appeared. Richly garbed in his usual black velvet cap, slashed doublet, and fur-trimmed cape, his vital presence seemed to fill the room.
“My dear Anne!” François exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought my daughters were to have their first Latin lesson this morning!”
“They are copying some phrases, sire, so I stole away to have a word with you in private.” She went to him, her demure fraise looking like white rose petals beneath her cream and pink face. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you some wine?”
“Exactly what I had in mind. I’ve some dispatches to look at before mass, so I hope that your business is brief.”
“I shall try,” Anne promised. She placed a jeweled goblet of wine beside him on a table, then bent to bestow a few kisses, hoping to sweeten his mood. François smiled at her. Heartened, Anne took the chair opposite his and summoned her courage. “I received a very interesting letter from King Henry, sire.”
François had leaned back in his carved walnut chair, sipping his wine contentedly, but now he looked up in surprise. “Why would Henry write to you?”
“I wondered too, until I discovered that the letter had to do with a marriage he hopes to arrange. Perhaps he thought that I might be helpful regarding… affairs of the heart.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Do you know the Duke of Aylesbury? Or his son, the Marquess of Sandhurst?”
“I met the father some years ago, as I recall. I’m not acquainted with the son, but I’ve heard that he’s
a dashing sort. Unconventional and independent.”
“Yes, and a constant source of concern to his father,” Anne supplied, nodding. “Apparently the duke is dying, and he wants to see his son married, so he sought Henry’s help and authority to bring that about.”
“What can that possibly have to do with you?”
“It seems that Lord Sandhurst has a fondness for Frenchwomen, so his father thought that he would be more agreeable to the marriage if the bride were French… and beautiful and intelligent, of course!”
“Next you’ll tell me that Henry suggested your name!” François’s eyes twinkled, but there was a wary glint in them as well.
“Don’t tease me!” Anne scolded with a giggle. “Just think of it, sire, a Frenchwoman in the English court… and soon an English duchess. Henry wrote that he believes such a marriage would strengthen the bonds of friendship between our two countries.”
François pondered this for a moment. “It could be a good thing, certainly, from the standpoint of diplomacy, even though we do have the upper hand in that area these days.”
“But it is always wise to plan for the future, sire,” Anne said, her eyes wide with sincerity.
“That’s true. Does Henry want you to find a bride for the Marquess of Sandhurst?”
“Not exactly. He already has one in mind.” She took a deep breath, praying that she wouldn’t make a fatal mistake in the series of lies she was about to tell. “It seems that one of those English visitors to Fontainebleau early last month returned home singing the praises of Madame Tevoulere.”
“Micheline?” cried François, instantly suspicious.
“Yes, that’s right.” It took every ounce of Anne’s control to keep her tone sweet and concerned when she longed to grab the goblet of wine and pour it over his head. “Apparently Henry is convinced that only Madame Tevoulere would be a proper candidate for Duchess of Aylesbury—and, sire, I must agree.”
“Why?” wailed François. Then, remembering that his mistress had no inkling of the regard he felt for Madame Tevoulere, he struggled to appear more calm. “That is, she is still grieving. There must be someone else who would suit better.”
“Don’t you see that this would be the perfect solution for Micheline? Here in France she cannot forget her dead husband. Even six months after his death she continues to languish. However, new surroundings, a handsome new husband, wealth and position—all of these would mean a fresh start for Micheline. If we are her friends, we will do what is best for her.”
Listening to Anne, the king flushed with guilt. “I suppose it would be selfish for us to deprive Micheline of such an opportunity,” he murmured. “Very well. You may speak to her, and if she agrees, so shall I.”
*
All through mass Anne d’Heilly pondered her next move. Her interview with the king had been a success, and though he had bade her speak to Micheline Tevoulere, Anne knew she must lay careful groundwork before that conversation could take place. She knew enough of the personality and character of her rival to realize that Micheline would never agree to an arranged marriage with a stranger, no matter how advantageous it might be. She was a romantic, or she wouldn’t still be grieving for Bernard Tevoulere and rejecting the attentions of nearly every man at court, including the king himself.
The priest was speaking. In front of Anne, who sat with the two young princesses, François knelt beside Queen Eleanor. It was often the only time he spent with his wife in the course of an entire day and night. To the king’s left were St. Briac and his family, and at the end of the row sat Micheline Tevoulere. Anne surreptitiously studied the face of the praying girl.
She’s thinking of her dead husband, thought Anne. She still feels bound to him spiritually, and that’s why she’s unable to think of any other man.
Anne d’Heilly had known Bernard Tevoulere during his increasingly frequent stays with the court. As time had passed, his earnest shyness had seemed to melt away. He had gained confidence in proportion to his growing prowess as a knight, and then he’d begun an affair with one of the girls at court. Soon he was drinking too much and becoming arrogant. Still, there were always ladies at court willing to be entertained by Bernard, and gradually Anne had nearly forgotten that he had a wife at all… until the day Thomas and Aimée arrived at Fontainebleau with the exquisite, grieving Micheline Tevoulere in tow. The girl knew nothing of her dead husband’s debauched behavior at court nor the facts of his ignominious death at the hands of a jealous husband. Everyone seemed to think that she needed protecting from the cruel realities of life.
Pondering all this, Anne began to realize what it might take to cause the idealistic Micheline to turn her back on the past and accept marriage to a stranger from England….
*
Dawn broke frosty and clear. Rising early, Micheline shared crusty bread, fruit, and milk with Aimée and her daughters. Then, shortly after eight o’clock, she donned her cloak, bade the others goodbye, and set off for what had become her habitual morning walk in the woods of Fontainebleau. Micheline loved the contrast between the pristine gray forest, all stark branches and carpeted with dead leaves that warmed and nourished the plant life through the winter, and the opulent artifice of the king’s chateau—where few people or things were ever quite what they seemed.
Tramping now through the damp leaves, Micheline spied a great roebuck, gray now in winter to blend with the trees. His head was bent as he munched on some late breakfast, but he raised it instantly at the first sound of Micheline’s approach. She stopped, smiling at him, and was gratified to realize that he trusted her. Calmly, he returned to the bit of green nourishment he’d discovered.
Often she felt more at home here in the forest than in the “civilized” court. Thomas and Aimée were wonderful and she’d come to like the king, but there seemed to be an invisible barrier between herself and nearly everyone else. Her heart was still with Bernard; even more here than at Chateau du Soleil, for he had spent time at Fontainebleau. Micheline often imagined him doing the things that she did now, speaking to the same people, inhabiting the same chambers.
Aimée tried to persuade her almost daily to try to look toward a new life, but Micheline had come to realize that she felt safer with her memories. Her instincts told her that it would be a mistake to seek her future in the court of Fontainebleau where values were different from hers. Micheline had learned to trust her heart, and it told her, over and over again, to be herself. Any changes would evolve naturally, inside her.
Rosy-cheeked and refreshed, Micheline emerged from the forest after more than an hour. She had brought a crust of bread and stopped now to feed the crumbs to the carp that darted about in the pond. When voices rose from the other side of a tall sculpted hedge, she stopped and held her breath.
“I am thoroughly fed up with the holier-than-thou behavior of Micheline Tevoulere!” a girl was complaining.
Micheline, though embarrassed, was about to show herself rather than go on eavesdropping, but an answering female voice brought her up short.
“Isn’t everyone? We’re all itching to tell her what her sainted Bernard was really like! Why, if she only knew…”
“That he’d made love to me?” giggled the first girl. “Why, it was months before I even knew he had a wife! The man was shameless!”
“And it wasn’t only you, Felice, in case you’ve forgotten. From what I’ve heard, it sounds as if Bernard Tevoulere slept with half the women in the court!”
“And what about those naughty little games he liked to play in bed? The longer he was at court, the more outrageous he became.”
“Certainly no one was surprised when Arnaud Guerre dispatched him in that jousting match. Arnaud had murder in his eyes for weeks beforehand, but Bernard had become so cocky, he seemed to be daring Arnaud to do his worst!”
“Poor little Bernard,” sighed Felice. “I confess I rather miss him! I’ll never forget the time he brought a bowl of grapes into bed. I wonder what his prim little widow would s
ay if she heard what he did with those grapes!”
The two women shared peals of wicked laughter.
Feeling as if she might retch right there, Micheline turned and bolted. Her skirts became tangled and she tripped, but picked herself up and ran on, back to the Chateau de Fontainebleau, which now loomed ahead of her like a hell on earth.
*
Unable to speak or even think, Micheline managed to suppress the urge to be ill as she rushed across the courtyard, her head bowed, past everyone who greeted her. The seigneur de St. Briac was one of these, and he stared after her, perplexed, before returning to his chambers to seek out his wife.
Micheline’s rooms were modest but afforded a splendid view of the gardens behind the Oval Courtyard. She threw herself on the testered bed and tried not to think, but it was like trying to hold back a dam. Memories like heart-piercing arrows attacked her: Bernard’s alternating coolness and uneasiness during his visits home, the awkward excuses he made to return sooner than planned to the court, the emotional distance she had felt between them when they were intimate… all of it made sense now.
Bernard’s sudden death had left a wound that had barely begun to heal. Now Micheline felt as though it had been ripped open wider than ever. She was unable to cry. Curled like a baby on the bed, she stared at the wall and wondered if she was dying. Could one die of a shattered heart?
“Micheline?” a voice called softly from the corridor. “It’s Aimée. May I come in?”
She couldn’t reply, and a moment later the door opened hesitantly. Through a fog Micheline saw Aimée approaching the bed, her expression concerned.
“What is it, cherie? Are you ill?” She sat down on the bed and stroked Micheline’s hair. “Did someone say something to upset you?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s… nothing, really.”
“You can tell me, you know,” Aimée said gently. A suspicion spread within her like a dark stain. She knew about Bernard’s increasingly blatant infidelities when he had been at court; in fact, Thomas had begun reminding her when voicing his own frustration over Micheline’s devotion to her undeserving dead husband. Still, they could find no solution short of telling their friend the cruel truth, and that was out of the question. Now Aimée wondered if someone else had done just that.
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