“Perhaps, but it’s more than that. There’s something she’s not telling me!”
“Oh! What’s that?”
“How do I know? She hasn’t told me, you fool!” Sandhurst strode on into the forest, thinking while Culpepper raced to keep up. Eventually his pace slowed. “I suppose I may as well tell you—I have reason to be certain that Micheline is in love with me.”
“Love!” cried Jeremy. It was not a word he was accustomed to hearing from Sandhurst. If this French minx was in love, Andrew must be eager to flee….
“It gets worse,” he continued with quiet amusement. “I’m in love with her as well.”
Jeremy froze in his tracks. “I don’t believe it!”
Turning to look at him, Sandhurst lifted his brows and smiled slightly. “It’s the truth. It’s as if fate caused my father and the two kings to bring us together.”
“But—”
“You’ve chosen just the right word, my friend. But Micheline won’t have me. She’s determined to go through with this marriage to the Marquess of Sandhurst.”
Culpepper shook his head forcefully, hoping to jar his thoughts into a pattern that would make sense. “But that’s you!” was all he could reply, seemingly for the dozenth time since they’d arrived in France.
“Don’t you see? That doesn’t matter! Micheline has no idea that it’s me—and she’s choosing what amounts to a stranger over the man she loves. You’ll think I’ve lost my mind, but I find myself quite resentful and jealous of the Marquess of Sandhurst.”
“You’re right about one thing—I do think you’ve gone mad! For God’s sake, Sandhurst, just tell the girl the truth!”
“I cannot. If I told her now, and we married, that would be ever between us. I would always wonder if she loved me or my title more, and worry that I hadn’t been good enough to win her on my own.” He stared off into the distance. “No, I don’t intend to tell her who I am. Either she will choose me for myself and for love, or there will be no marriage.”
*
As March passed, Sandhurst’s words to Jeremy in the forest seemed discouragingly prophetic. Work on the portrait of Micheline continued, but she was extremely reserved, avoiding his eyes, his touch, unnecessary conversation… in short, any form of personal contact. There were moments when he glimpsed something in her eyes—pain, or fear perhaps—that made no sense to him. Why should Micheline fear him?
He could feel the strong currents of yearning that suffused the air whenever they were in the same room, and sensed that Micheline might capitulate if he were to hold her, kiss her, and demand that she admit the truth, but his pride was too great. Either she would come to him by choice, or not at all.
One sunny afternoon found Sandhurst seated on a stool in front of Micheline’s portrait, studying her image pensively. He had dismissed her early, unable to concentrate in her presence. The painting was very good. Too good, perhaps. On canvas Micheline gazed at him in a way she never allowed herself to do these days. Her beautiful face glowed with the love she could not admit, and yet there was a hint of that sadness that baffled him so. Staring at the portrait, Sandhurst tried to decide if it was sadness, regret, or fear… or a combination of all three. Of course, the greater mystery was what caused so poignant a shadow on the face of someone so fresh and young. Micheline would have him believe that the culprit was grief for her dead husband, but all his instincts told him otherwise.
“Excusez-moi, m’sieur….”
Andrew turned his head to discover a young page standing in the doorway. “Yes, what is it?”
“His Majesty requests your presence in the royal bedchamber. If you’ll follow me…”
Sighing heavily, Sandhurst rose. What could the king want this time? They’d already played cat-and-mouse after the night of the snowstorm. Since then, there certainly hadn’t been anything between him and Micheline that would further arouse the monarch’s suspicions!
“Ah, Selkirk!” François turned from the window to greet the Englishman. “You’re looking rather worse for wear! Sit down and have some wine.”
“Thank you. Now that you mention it, I am tired. If this is about Micheline Tevoulere—”
“No, no, absolutely not!” The king took a chair and Andrew followed suit, then they both sipped goblets of strong Hungarian wine. “Ah, that’s good. Revives the spirit, hmm?”
“Quite.” He nodded dryly, wishing his own spirit could be revived so easily.
“As it happens, I am well pleased with your behavior regarding Madame Tevoulere these days. I know that you have been keeping your distance, and I appreciate how difficult that can be.” François’s brows went up over his hazel eyes for emphasis.
Sandhurst had guessed that the king had harbored feelings of his own for Micheline, but this near confession startled him. Instead of answering, he merely drank his wine and waited.
“I propose that we put Micheline out of our minds and turn our attention to more… receptive subjects. You may be aware that François Rabelais arrived here today. He is our rather astonishing monk who left the monastery to pursue all manner of things. Last year, as a physician, he dissected a corpse at Lyons, and now students have begun following his example. He has also written a book, called Pantagruel, and has come here now to bring me the first copy. The story sounds interesting… about the king of Utopia.”
“Having read Sir Thomas More’s book, I am familiar with the theme of Utopia,” remarked Andrew. “And I have heard of your Rabelais as well. Quite a colorful character, isn’t he?”
“Yes! I must say that court life has become rather boring of late, and Rabelais’s appearance is a perfect curative. I never could bear March. We’re all fed up with winter, itching to ride and hunt all day, and along comes Lent to make the month even more tedious. Forty days of fish!” The king rolled his eyes.
Sandhurst was beginning to wonder if the king had earlier been into the wine with Rabelais. “Yes, well…”
“We’ll have another visitor soon that will cheer us all, including my children! When your king and I met this past autumn, we agreed that it would be a fine thing if his son were to come to the French court to be raised alongside my own boys. I received the happy news this morning that the Duke of Richmond will arrive in a week!”
Andrew went pale. The Duke of Richmond and Somerset was actually Henry Fitzroy, illegitimate son of Henry VIII and Bessie Blount. In the absence of other children, the king had bestowed two significant titles on the boy when he was only six. Now fourteen, the young duke had been introduced to the Marquess of Sandhurst on countless occasions, and Andrew knew that he would blurt out the truth immediately if they met at Fontainebleau.
“A week, you say?” he echoed.
“Yes. My own François is the same age as young Henry, so he especially is looking forward to his arrival. But enough about that. More wine?” A steward rushed to refill their goblets. “You are doubtless wondering why I wanted to see you?”
André nodded absently, his mind racing with the news about the Duke of Richmond.
“I understand that you are nearly finished with Madame Tevoulere’s portrait. I had heard such marvelous things about it that I confess I went for a look myself last evening, and I found it breathtaking. Congratulations, monsieur.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“My—uh—friend Mademoiselle d’Heilly has her heart set on being your next subject, but a different idea occurred to me today. How would you like to paint the incomparable Rabelais?”
“I realize, sire, that it is an honor to be asked, but unfortunately I shall have to return to England shortly.”
“Shortly?” The king’s brow gathered.
“Within the week…”
*
The next evening Micheline went down to the hall for supper, clad in a sumptuous gown of powder blue and white velvet, her flame-tinted hair cooled by a silvery crispinette. These meals had become an ordeal for her, since she was always aware of Andrew Selkirk’s presence above all
else.
Tonight was different. Boards were laid, as usual, on trestles, to make three extensive tables that ran lengthwise down the hall, while the king’s table was placed horizontally at the head of the huge room. Ever since Andrew’s arrival at court, he had been given a place among the privileged, but tonight Micheline glimpsed him sitting far away at one of the other three tables. Moreover, his place was filled by François Rabelais, who had chosen a seat next to Micheline.
The eccentric, charismatic genius from Chinon proved a perfect supper companion for Micheline. Although three years out of the monastery, he still wore his monkish cowl, but his attitude was anything but holy.
“Ah, my good September soup!” Rabelais cried gustily when the first goblet of wine was poured. “Drink up, madame. I taste the essence of violets in this wine. It is obviously a product of Chinon grapes!”
Spellbound at first, Micheline soon was completely distracted by the lively company of Rabelais. He had an opinion on everything. While she enjoyed a dish of sturgeon eggs and olives, Rabelais held forth on the subject of astrology. His tone was mocking, his choice of words humorous, and yet his points made sense.
Soon everyone at the table, including the king himself, was listening to the monk. No one was safe from his sharp, ingenious tongue. He gaily attacked the Sorbonne, various theologians and pompous scholars, and let his humor stray dangerously near the monarchy. His listeners laughed, albeit nervously through course after course. They were served a variety of fish: salmon, carp from the Marne River, and breams. Among the side dishes were orange-apples, rice with fried almonds, sorrel and watercress, and porpoise with sauce. The torchlight seemed brighter than usual to Micheline, and once, when laughter seemed to come at her from every direction, she pushed back her plate, remembering the intimate evening she and Andrew had spent at the cottage in the woods.
“Are you meditating, madame?” Rabelais inquired.
Pastries shaped like swans and white and vermilion sugar plums were being served along with a sweet German wine. More wine was poured, and the rest of the company lapsed into quieter conversation. Micheline smiled at the erstwhile monk.
“In a way, I suppose I was. I often wonder why the things in life that give us the most pleasure are also the most complicated.”
“Complicated by whom?”
“Other people, I suppose, and even by ourselves…”
“Madame, you are clearly intelligent. Let me tell you something that it has taken me most of my forty years to learn. There are all sorts of fools in this world. Don’t be a fool yourself because you’ve allowed other people to exert pressure on your life. I’ve come to believe in freedom. We only have one life… and when it ends, we can only hope to go to the great perhaps. With that in mind, I’ve adopted a new motto.”
Dancing bears and monkeys wearing hats and playing miniature harps were entertaining the court, but Micheline noticed none of this.
“Pray tell me, m’sieur, what is your motto?”
“Faye ce que vouldras.” Rabelais grinned, finishing his wine. “Do as you please!”
*
By morning Micheline had taken ill. Aimée, who rushed to her bedside, watched in alarm as Micheline retched until she lay pale and exhausted. She could only pray that it was something her friend had eaten or a result of the strenuous festivities of the night before. There had been a great deal of toasting going on between Rabelais and Micheline.
Suzette, Aimée’s maid, went to give Andrew the news, which he accepted skeptically. It seemed much more likely that Micheline merely wished to avoid him now that her presence was no longer necessary for the completion of the portrait.
Two more days passed. Sandhurst completed his painting and presented it to the king, who had been scarcely civil to him since he declined to remain at Fontainebleau at François’s beck and call. The sight of the portrait did banish the monarch’s ill temper, however, and he even called Anne d’Heilly in to view the masterpiece.
“Magnifique!” she exclaimed. “Why, Madame Tevoulere looks almost beautiful!”
“I should hope so, since she is more than that in life,” said Sandhurst.
Sheathing her claws, Anne smiled at the Englishman. “Monsieur, have you been to visit our poor Micheline? She has been desperately ill.”
“Has she? I heard that she was not well, but I wasn’t certain if it was serious.”
“Oh, mais oui! Madame de St. Briac has feared for her life!”
Sandhurst looked sharply toward the king. “And your physician? What has he to say?”
“It is a digestive malady. I hardly think that the lady is fit to receive male visitors.”
Observing the way François glared at his mistress, Sandhurst felt suspicious again. It seemed highly likely that all of this was merely a ruse to keep him from Micheline—at her own request.
“I would not want to disrupt Madame’s recovery,” Sandhurst said evenly. “If she is better before I leave Fontainebleau, I will see her then.”
“Leave?” cried Anne. “When are you leaving?”
“Before the week is out, my lady. I have pressing business in England this April.”
Anne had hoped to have her own turn of solitary portrait sittings with the irresistible Englishman. Sighing, she murmured, “How sad for us. I do hope, though, that you won’t be a stranger in the future.”
Sandhurst glanced up, a smile playing over his mouth. “That remains to be seen, mademoiselle.”
Chapter Seventeen
March 30-31, 1533
Micheline was dreaming about Rabelais. His face, alternately whimsical, serious, and laughing, advanced and retreated, telling her over and over again, “You’ve only one life, and then comes the great perhaps. Do as you please… do as you please…”
She awoke covered with a sheen of perspiration, her eyes wide and alert.
“Aimée, I must see M’sieur Rabelais!”
“Cherie, you cannot! He left Fontainebleau two days ago.” Aimée pressed a cool cloth to Micheline’s brow. “Why on earth do you want to see him!”
“I hoped to seek his advice—about love,” she whispered.
“What knowledge could Rabelais have on such a topic? The man’s a monk!”
“Yes,” Micheline agreed as her stomach began to gurgle in a familiar way, “but he seemed to know about all of life….”
Aimée watched as her friend turned her face away to stare out the window, her eyes filled with melancholy. It hurt Aimée to see her like this, but she told herself that it would be better in the long run. Andrew Selkirk was only an infatuation. Why, Selkirk’s own manservant sang the praises of the Marquess of Sandhurst! What better recommendation could there be?
Micheline drifted back to sleep throughout the day, waking only to take periodic nourishment. She had been very ill and remained extremely weak. Remembering the horrors of the first day, Aimée could only thank God that her friend had lived.
In the evening Suzette came to relieve her mistress so that Aimée might sup with her family.
“You must call me if Madame Tevoulere becomes ill again,” Aimée told her softly. “And she must be left alone to rest. If anyone calls, tell them she cannot have visitors yet.”
“Oui, madame.” Suzette nodded.
It was past eight o’clock when a knock sounded at the door. Micheline was sleeping fitfully, tossing and making sounds, but she did not awaken. Suzette went to answer the knock.
“I wish to see your mistress.”
It was Andrew Selkirk, the Englishman who had kept every female servant on pins and needles since his arrival at Fontainebleau. Suzette had been married for over six years, but she was no exception. Blushing, she smiled dreamily up at Andrew.
“I wish I could oblige you, m’sieur, but I’ve orders that Madame must not have visitors.”
Sandhurst was all too familiar with the maid’s expression. Usually he was loath to take advantage of feminine weakness, but this case did seem to be special.
; “You seem to be a girl of extraordinary beauty and understanding,” he murmured, his brown eyes melting her defenses. “Couldn’t you make an exception in my case? I’m certain that Madame Tevoulere would thank you for it. You see, I’m leaving Fontainebleau tomorrow, and this is my only opportunity to tell her goodbye.”
“Oh… well… I suppose, in that case—” Suzette found that she could scarcely speak in his presence. “The thing is, she’s asleep, and I don’t know if it’s wise—”
“I promise to be careful, mademoiselle. I won’t disturb her. If she doesn’t awake, I’ll leave quietly.”
“D’accord,” Suzette replied weakly.
“I’ll be only a moment.” Sandhurst gave her a potent smile. “You’ll trust me alone with Madame Tevoulere, won’t you?”
The girl was still nodding when the door closed and she found herself alone in the corridor.
On the other side of the door, Sandhurst turned to behold Micheline lying in a great testered bed, looking extremely pale and small against the pillows. He was ashamed for ever suspecting that her illness might have been a lie, but his guilt was quickly replaced by concern. He crossed to the bed, perched on the edge, and took her limp fingers between his two tanned, strong hands.
“Fondling, can you hear me?”
After a moment Micheline blinked and smiled weakly. The dreams improve, she thought. How real he seems!
“I have to talk to you, Micheline. It’s very important. Do you understand?”
She beamed at him and nodded slightly.
“I have to leave Fontainebleau tomorrow, but I couldn’t go without seeing you. Have you reconsidered? Is there anything you want to say to me?”
His face swam before her. So many thoughts were tangled in her mind that she couldn’t sort them out. Rabelais. Yes, that was what she wanted to tell Andrew.
“Do as you please,” Micheline whispered, smiling.
“I see.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Well, then, goodbye.”
Her eyes were closed. “The… great perhaps…” she seemed to murmur.
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