Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Quite.” Sandhurst stood, then stared down at her lovely face for a long moment. “Adieu, Michelle.”

  *

  That same night Sandhurst sought out Aimée de St. Briac, who assured him that Micheline was in no danger any longer. She was weak from the two long days of profound upset to her digestion and the king’s physician had recommended these vast quantities of rest.

  “Does he have any idea what caused this?” he asked, his brows knit with concern.

  “The physician says it could only be something Micheline ate, but since everyone else at the table partook of the same foods, we are all quite mystified.”

  “Very odd indeed,” he murmured.

  “Was there something else, m’sieur? My daughters are waiting to be kissed good night.”

  “I ought to tell you goodbye, madame. I return to England tomorrow.”

  Aimée felt a sharp pang of sadness. It was a shame that things couldn’t have turned out differently. If only Andrew Selkirk were another sort of man…

  “We shall miss you, m’sieur,” she said sincerely. “It has been a pleasure to know you, and I wish you good fortune.”

  Lifting her hand, Sandhurst kissed it lightly and managed to smile. “I return your sentiments. Goodbye, my lady. Kindly make my farewells to your family.”

  “I shall. Au revoir, m’sieur.”

  *

  Lying warm and naked in the great testered bed, Aimée watched her husband undress in front of the fire. In spite of her mixed feelings about Andrew Selkirk, now that he was leaving, a burden seemed lifted from Aimée’s shoulders. At least there was no choice anymore. Micheline would have to marry the Marquess of Sandhurst, and some sixth sense told Aimée that all would be well. She could return her attention to Thomas, and this seemed a perfect time to begin.

  “Mmm,” she purred, “I’ve missed you….”

  “Have you!” St. Briac glanced over at his wife, his mouth flickering with amused surprise. “I’m shocked that you have time for such selfish emotions.”

  “If you are referring to my preoccupation with Micheline, I can happily report that matters seem to be resolving themselves without me. She is nearly good as new, and Andrew Selkirk leaves tomorrow for England. There’s nothing left for me to worry about—at the moment at least!”

  Thomas stopped in the act of unlacing his breeches. “Did you say that Selkirk is leaving?”

  “That’s right—in the morning. He asked me to tell you goodbye.”

  St. Briac reached for his shirt and put it back on. “I ought to speak to him before he goes.”

  “What! Now?”

  He arched a brow, smiling. “Now you’re getting a taste of what I’ve been enduring these past months! Rather unpleasant, isn’t it!”

  “You’re being hateful.”

  “Not at all. It’s just that I happen to like Selkirk. I’d like to remind him that he had at least one friend here at Fontainebleau.” Pulling on his doublet, St. Briac leaned across the bed and dropped a kiss on his wife’s pouting lips. “It’s time you learned patience, miette. You’re much too spoiled.”

  In the doorway he glanced back and caught sight of a pillow flying from the bed. St. Briac dodged the missile just in time, and then the sound of his low laughter drifted back to Aimée from the other side of the door.

  Thomas discovered Andrew Selkirk in his modest room, folding shirts and drinking wine.

  “You ought to leave that to your manservant,” St. Briac remarked.

  The thought of Jeremy’s reaction to such a statement made Sandhurst smile. “Oh, Playfair is off making a long farewell to a little saucemaker he’s gotten to know rather well. In any case, I don’t mind. The activity distracts me.”

  Thomas didn’t need to ask what the Englishman needed to be distracted from. “Have you seen Micheline? Does she know you’re leaving?”

  “Yes on both counts.” Andrew proffered a goblet of wine to St. Briac. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it.”

  When the shirts were folded and stacked, the two men took chairs in front of the fire. The flames leaped and danced, gilding Sandhurst’s hair and handsome profile. They talked for a time about horses and England. At length, Thomas inquired, “Are you familiar with Paris? I can recommend excellent lodgings.”

  “I’d appreciate that. The auberge we picked at random on the way here left much to be desired.” Ironically the Duke of Aylesbury owned a magnificent house in Paris, but Andrew had no intention of going there. He didn’t want word to reach his father that he’d been in France at all. “We ate cold vegetables and hard bread on a greasy board and the wine was piquette. Playfair and I had to take turns sleeping during the night to ensure the safety of our belongings. Needless to say, I shall be grateful for your recommendation.”

  “My sister, Nicole, is married to an artist named Michel Joubert. They live quite comfortably on the Right Bank, and I can assure you that they would be more than happy to give you rooms for a night.”

  “But it would be too great an imposition! They’ve never met me.”

  “Trust me, my friend. My sister enjoys guests above all else. I will write a message for you to take to her. She will be delighted to welcome you—and equally delighted to hear all the news of my family.”

  “Well, if you are certain…”

  St. Briac laughed. “Absolutely!”

  “In that case, I am grateful.”

  The two men rose and shook hands. “It is late,” said Thomas. “I’ll say adieu now and wish you godspeed.”

  “I’ve enjoyed knowing you, my lord,” replied Andrew.

  “I have to tell you that I am sorry your story with Micheline could not have had a happier ending. I only hope that my wife is right and that Micheline will not have cause to regret her choice.”

  “My lady is for Lord Sandhurst?” Andrew inquired, his brows flicking upward.

  “She heard that he is everything wonderful in a man.” Thomas shrugged. “And I’m sure that if you care for Micheline, you also must wish her happiness in her marriage.”

  Sandhurst watched as the other man went to the table and took up a quill to write a brief message to his sister. On another sheet of parchment he wrote her name, address, and directions to help Andrew find the house.

  “Don’t look so angry, Selkirk,” Thomas admonished when he put down the quill. “After all, the lady had already given her word to marry Lord Sandhurst before she ever met you!”

  When Andrew spoke, there was an unmistakable edge of steel in his voice. “You’re right, and I do hope that Micheline will be happy, but it won’t be with the Marquess of Sandhurst. Of that much I’m certain.”

  “Why do you say that?” St. Briac demanded, utterly taken aback.

  “Forget it. I was just raving.”

  Andrew laughed then, but Thomas felt uneasy. After they exchanged farewells again and he took his leave, he walked only a few paces down the corridor before stopping. Raking a hand through his crisp hair, he ran the Englishman’s words through his mind over and over. Sangdieu! What could he have meant?

  “Greetings, my lord!”

  St. Briac looked up to see Jeremy Playfair, weaving slightly as he approached.

  “Playfair!” he exclaimed softly, elated. The young man looked more than slightly intoxicated, which was just fine. Taking Jeremy by the arm, he drew him farther away from Andrew Selkirk’s door. “I have something to ask you, and I must demand that you give me an honest answer.”

  This Frenchman had always appeared merry enough to Jeremy, but now he towered over him in a manner that seemed altogether menacing. “Certainly, my lord! If I can!”

  “A few minutes ago your master said that he wished that Micheline Tevoulere might be happy, but that it wouldn’t be with the Marquess of Sandhurst. He emphasized that he was certain about that. What did he mean?”

  “Why—why—it’s because he don’t intend to go through with the wedding!”

  St. Briac’s confusion grew. “Who
doesn’t?”

  “Lord Sandhurst!” As soon as this was out, Jeremy’s eyes nearly crossed as he realized what he had said, but Thomas was still in the dark.

  “How would Andrew Selkirk know that?” An absurd notion occurred to him. “That is, unless… you don’t mean—”

  “I can’t say another word, my lord! If he finds out, he’ll see me hanged! He’ll have me drawn and quartered! I must go now.”

  St. Briac caught the young Englishman by the collar of his shirt. “Be easy, my friend. I give you my word that I will not betray your confidence.”

  “Do you swear? Swear that you won’t tell a soul in all the world that it’s been Sandhurst himself here at Fontainebleau!”

  So there it was, a truth that left Thomas stunned. “I swear,” he sighed.

  “He meant no harm! The marriage was being forced on him by the king and the Duke of Aylesbury. He considered refusing outright, but the stakes were high, and so we thought it might be prudent to at least have a look at the chit. You see, I’m not Playfair, either; I’m Sir Jeremy Culpepper, Sandhurst’s friend.”

  “I think I can guess the rest. Your friend fell in love with Micheline, and his pride was stung when she continued to choose a stranger over him. I can imagine how he must feel.”

  “Sandhurst’s always been cynical about love and marriage, but now I think he’ll never take a wife. A shame, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, M’sieur Culpepper, it is a shame. I must be off now. Thank you for your time.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “My oath? Rest easy, m’sieur; my word is good.”

  *

  Before Chateau de Fontainebleau awoke at six o’clock, Andrew and Jeremy mounted their horses and clattered over the moonlit Oval Courtyard.

  “God’s toes!” exclaimed Culpepper. “I don’t know about you, but I shall be bloody glad to be back in England. France is well enough, I suppose, but there’s no place like home.”

  Sandhurst looked up at Micheline’s darkened windows and expelled a harsh sigh. “Indeed…”

  *

  It was still dark when Micheline awoke. She had tossed fitfully all night, not because of illness but because she was feeling herself again and had had enough sleep to last a lifetime.

  As soon as the first pink streaks stained the eastern sky, Micheline roused Suzette and told her she wanted a bath. This was soon accomplished, and as she scrubbed herself in the cuve, Micheline rehearsed every word that she would say to Andrew. All the time that she’d been sick, she had dreamt of him. Since her conversation with Rabelais, everything seemed to make sense. The monk’s pronouncements had been unorthodox, yet perfectly suited to Micheline’s problems. She had allowed silly fears and events from the past that had nothing to do with Andrew cloud her judgment. Rabelais was right. Micheline would only have one life, and now she was determined not to waste it. Andrew was everything Bernard couldn’t be; his strength and tenderness emanated from a steel core, while Bernard had been innately weak. Now that Micheline’s eyes were open, she knew that she would never compare the two men again.

  Suzette fretted aloud as Micheline dressed, worrying that she should not have gotten up and that this sudden burst of energy might trigger a relapse. The younger girl placated her by nibbling on some bread and sliced orange, but she would not be persuaded to return to bed.

  Finally, clad in a gown of buttery-yellow silk, her freshly washed curls spilling loose down her back, Micheline was ready. It was past seven now. Andrew would certainly be awake.

  “There’s someone I must see, Suzette. Don’t worry—I’m not going outside!”

  “But, madame, what if my mistress should come? What shall I say?”

  “Aimée never leaves her own rooms until eight-thirty, but if she should appear before I return, simply tell her that you couldn’t control me. Tell her I was incorrigible!” Laughing gaily, Micheline opened the door and came face to face with St. Briac.

  “Bonjour, monseigneur!” she greeted him. “I’ve recovered!”

  “So I see.” His smile was distracted. “Micheline, I need to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait? I was on my way to speak to Andrew Selkirk.”

  “Save your breath, cherie. I hate to tell you, but he’s left for England.”

  Part Three

  Lord, what is this world’s bliss,

  That changeth as the moon?

  My summer’s day in lusty May

  Is darked before the noon.

  I hear you say farewell. Nay, nay,

  We depart not so soon.

  Why say ye so? Whither will ye go?

  Alas! what have ye done?

  All my welfare to sorrow and care

  Should change, if ye were gone,

  For in my mind of all mankind

  I love but you alone.

  – Anonymous

  Chapter Eighteen

  March 31, 1533

  “Left? Left?! But how can that be?” The blood drained from Micheline’s face as St. Briac led her over to a chair.

  “He said that he told you goodbye, ma petite. Don’t you remember? I had the feeling that he didn’t want to think about whatever passed between you.”

  “I—I thought Andrew was here, but later it seemed that it must have been another dream. The physician gave me so many sleeping draughts that even when I appeared to be awake, I was scarcely conscious. What could I have said to Andrew?”

  St. Briac held tight to her trembling hands in an effort to calm her. “I don’t know. Perhaps he expected you to change your mind about marrying him when you heard that he was leaving.”

  “But I would have! I’ve thought and dreamed of nothing else for days!”

  “Are you certain, Micheline? I want you to be honest with me. Why did you refuse him in the first place?”

  Something in Thomas’s face gave her hope. Perhaps, if she told all to him, he would find a way to help her. And so Suzette was sent from the chamber and Micheline spilled out the tale of her marriage to Bernard. She told of her adoration for the young man, of her implicit trust in him, and of the confusion she had felt when he began spending more and more of his time with the court.

  “Bernard had been the one ray of sunshine in my life ever since Maman died, and now, looking back, I see how naive I was… and how hungry I was for love. Bernard seemed the answer to all my prayers. When he began to change, I couldn’t face it. I was certain I must be at fault, so I tried harder than ever to be a good wife, hoping that he would want to stay with me in Angouleme.”

  “And instead he did the opposite,” St: Briac said grimly.

  “I told myself that all would be well… next month, or next season. There didn’t seem to be any meaning to my life without Bernard. When I lost the baby, I felt that I had failed him.”

  Thomas reached out to wipe away the tear that spilled onto Micheline’s cheek.

  “You know how desolate I was when he died. Even after I came to court, I continued to grieve, but then…” she sobbed.

  “Trust me, Micheline. I’ll help you if I can.”

  She tried to smile through her tears. “I haven’t been able to tell anyone, not even Aimée.” Taking a deep breath, Micheline looked into St. Briac’s sympathetic eyes and repeated the story of Bernard’s infidelities that she had heard in the garden. How long ago that seemed! She had been a different person then.

  “It broke my heart. I felt robbed of my last shred of pride and my last illusion about my marriage. I didn’t think I could ever feel the slightest attraction to any man again, let alone—”

  “Fall in love?”

  “Yes! And even after my love for Andrew became almost overwhelming, I tried to deny it. I was so afraid that giving in to my feelings would bring me even more heartache than I’d suffered because of Bernard.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Many things… I suppose it was inevitable. I’d turned away from the truth in my marriage, but when it caught up with me, it had grown to d
rastic proportions. Deep inside, I probably knew from the first night I met Andrew that I would eventually have to surrender to my feelings. Love and fear have been struggling in my heart ever since… and, of course, the problem has been compounded by my betrothal to the Marquess of Sandhurst. I hid behind that commitment as long as I could.” Micheline gave him a shaky smile. “Too long, it seems. Then I met François Rabelais. The things he said to me stirred up my deepest emotions and made me see the truth!”

  “But then you were taken ill,” St. Briac sighed. He rose to pace before the fireplace. “Are you really prepared to cast aside caution now?”

  “I don’t see it quite that way, monseigneur. Andrew is not Bernard. That, of course, was apparent from the start, but what I had a harder time realizing was that he would not repeat Bernard’s behavior just because he is a man. While I was ill, I had a great deal of time to think about Andrew. He is very masculine, yet so tender, just the right mate for me. None of us knows what the future will bring, but for now I am resolved not to waste another day because I’m afraid to live.”

  “And it doesn’t matter that he can’t offer you wealth or nobility?”

  Micheline laughed softly. “Of course not! He is better than any nobleman. All I ask is to share his life—if he’ll still have me.”

  Her eyes widened in silent appeal. St. Briac rubbed his bearded jaw and made a low sound of frustration, then returned to sit across from Micheline.

  “Please,” she implored, tears springing once more to her eyes, “say that you know where Andrew has gone! If I could not find him…” That thought was too terrible to articulate.

  “As it happens, I do know—”

  Micheline leaped nearly into his lap. “Oh, monseigneur, I love you!” she exclaimed, weeping and laughing at once. “Tell me, please, tell me!”

  “I’ll do better than that, ma petite. I’ll take you to him myself, though God knows what Aimée will have to say about it.” Thomas spared a sigh at the prospect of trying to explain to his wife without breaking his oath to Jeremy Culpepper. Then he rose and grinned at Micheline.

  “Make haste, madame! We leave for Paris by midday!”