The king was nodding thoughtfully, sipping his jeweled goblet of wine. “Indeed, Romano himself speaks highly of you. He believes that you are gifted.”
“Sire, there is so much that needs to be done right here, in this very palace.” Christophe realized that he might be saying too much, but caution was not in his nature. “The Louvre was built to be a fortress, for defense rather than beauty, but those days are over.”
“I know that. I have already taken down the ancient keep that filled the courtyard and blocked all the sunlight from these windows. Do you not see the garden that we may view instead? And, of course, I have other plans.”
“I am just the person to carry them out.” Christophe could hear the note of fierce pride in his voice, but if he did not believe in himself, who would?
“Indeed. You may well be that very person,” replied the king.
Had he heard correctly? Was he dreaming? “I vow to you, I am!” A sense of passion and purpose unlike anything Christophe had ever known before coursed through his veins.
The king was nodding. “You are a St. Briac, and that is a badge of honor in my court.” After a long, dramatic pause, he intoned, “I will grant you the commission to rebuild the Palais du Louvre.”
Christophe thought for a moment that his heart had stopped, but he managed to keep his tone even as he replied, “I am deeply honored, Your Majesty.”
“Not so fast. Have you forgotten that I called you here to make a request?”
“I am listening, sire.” With a sinking feeling, Christophe recalled that Thomas had hinted the king’s proposal would alter the course of his life.
“I would remind you that last year, my beloved daughter, Madeleine, wed King James V of Scotland. In spite of her frail health, she insisted on a marriage that required her to live in cold and gloomy Scotland!” He scowled even as his eyes filled with tears. “My sweet Madeleine lived only a few weeks after setting foot on Scottish soil. I should never have let her go!”
Christophe had to suppress an impulse to put a comforting hand on the king’s arm. “I did know this, sire. You have my sincere condolences.” What, he wondered, did this sad story have to do with him—and the Louvre?
“The King of Scots has requested another high-born French bride to replace my daughter. You doubtless also know that he will wed my god-daughter, Marie de Guise, by proxy, mere days from now.” François paused, stroking his short beard. “For political reasons, I have had to support their wedding, but as you may imagine, I have serious misgivings.”
Wondering what possible connection there might be between Scotland and the renovations of the Palais du Louvre, Christophe glanced toward his brother, who was watching from a discreet distance. As if reading his mind, Thomas gave a slight nod of reassurance.
“Your misgivings are understandable, sire,” Christophe said cautiously.
The king’s dark eyes lit up. “Ah, you divine my meaning! But then, of course you would…you are Thomas’s brother.”
Christophe nodded, waiting, resisting an urge to cringe.
“I will feel so much better about this marriage if someone I trust is there to watch over Marie. In the event she is anxious, for any reason.”
What the devil was he getting at? “Do you fear for her safety, Your Majesty?”
The king shrugged slightly. “Who can say? Scotland is very different from the civilized world of France, after all, and she will doubtless feel lonely.” More forcefully, he continued, “Perhaps you are wondering why I speak of these matters to you. In truth, I hope you can help me. You see, when King James married my daughter, he wisely began to bring French masons to Scotland to rebuild his palaces in the French style. Now that Marie de Guise is to be his queen, she wishes that more Frenchmen join in this project…requesting also that they be accompanied by a French Master Mason.”
Christophe stared as it came to him what King François intended.
“Ah, I see that I have caught you by surprise,” the monarch continued smoothly. “But you see, I am presenting to you a grand adventure! You will live in comfort at Falkland Palace and be treated with great deference. I’ve already assured King James that Christophe Mardouet, Chevalier de St. Briac is the most brilliant architect in Paris today, explaining that your accomplishments have already earned you a knighthood. He is overjoyed that you will be traveling with his new bride to Scotland. I believe he intends to make you the royal builder, allowing you to bring your best masons with you to Falkland Palace.”
Dismally, Christophe realized that he wasn’t being given a choice. His brother Thomas had been known to refuse the king, but only because they had been raised together. Probably no one else in France could dare to do so. “I am…speechless, sire.”
“Excellent! I am counting on you to be my eyes and ears at the Scots court. Marie knows and likes you. You are friends, oui? She will marry the king by proxy in a few days, then travel to Scotland, and you will be with her when she leaves.” King François clapped him on the back. “Oh, and did I forget to mention your reward? When you successfully complete this assignment in Scotland, you shall return to Paris and begin to…” He paused dramatically before intoning, “redesign the Palais du Louvre!”
The king’s mistress, Anne d’Heilly, was hovering nearby. Christophe took the hint and uttered a few hollow words of gratitude before taking his leave. Never had he felt so conflicted.
“I know that Scotland was not a place you would have chosen to go,” said Thomas, as he came up behind him. “But cheer up! The adventure will do you good—and when you return, you’ll have the commission of your dreams, rebuilding the Palais du Louvre.”
* * *
On the morning of June 10th, the sun shone brightly on the bustling seaport of Le Havre. Marie de Guise, now known as Queen Mary of Scotland, was about to depart her native land. King James V had sent three magnificent galleys to transport her French furniture, treasures, and household staff, and although he had not been present for their wedding at Châteaudun, he would be there to greet his new bride when they docked at St. Andrews.
Thomas and Aimée de St. Briac, along with their children, had gathered to bid Christophe farewell as he traveled to Scotland in service of the new queen.
“Do you think he has come to accept his fate?” Aimée murmured to her husband. She could see her brother-in-law, standing out as usual, among a crowd of men. Tall and broad-shouldered, Christophe wore his fine clothing with a careless ease, as the sea breeze tousled his thick, dark hair.
Thomas shrugged slightly, but he was watching Christophe. “I hope so. You will think me mad, but now that this leave-taking is upon us, I am a bit reluctant to let him go. After all, I’ve felt responsible for my brother since he was a child and we lost our parents.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I realize that Christophe is as tall as I am now. I suppose I will feel protective toward him even when we are old men.”
Aimée straightened when she heard Thomas mention the deaths of his parents. It was so tragic a subject that he rarely spoke of it. She knew that he had struggled with guilt for years because he and his father had both had been away, fighting with the king in the legendary 1515 battle of Melegnano, when the plague had swept through Château d’Ussé and the village of St. Briac-sur-Loire. Many servants had fled to safety before they could be stricken, and those who had remained at the château to help care for Thomas’s mother and little brother had perished. When their aunt, Fanchette, belatedly arrived from Paris, she discovered only little Christophe had survived.
Kindly Tante Fanchette had assumed the duties of running the household after that, for Thomas’s father had been so crushed by grief and guilt when he came home from Italy that he seemed only half-alive until his own death a few years later.
Aimée had first visited Château du Soleil as a new bride, in 1526. The castle, bathed in a golden luster of the Loire Valley, had seemed enchanted. Tante Fanchette was welcoming, and fifteen-year-old Christophe had been healthy, happy, and eager to be a
man so that he might pursue females as lovely as his new sister-in-law.
Time passed, and Christophe went on to the College Royal in Paris and then to Italy to study with great master masons, yet Aimée had sensed a shadow beneath his customary air of reckless merriment. Might he have a deeper, secret reason for holding people at arm’s length?
She looked up now at her pensive husband. “Do you worry about him?”
“Worry? Nay, miette.” Thomas shook his head as if to return to the present moment. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t speak of it. Christophe is a man. Whatever tragic forces shaped his boyhood are in the past, and best left behind.”
“But…are they not part of him?”
Before Thomas could reply, their five-year-old son, Étienne, came running toward them in pursuit of Raoul, Christophe’s Grand Bleu hound.
“I couldn’t hold him, Papa,” cried the little boy.
Daughters Juliette and Ninon rushed over. “We’ll get him!” cried Juliette, who had recently celebrated her ninth birthday.
Raoul let out a deep “Woof” and kept right on going, his tether dangling as he headed toward Christophe.
Aimée slipped her hand through Thomas’s arm. “Are you certain we should keep Raoul with us while Christophe is away in Scotland? What if he is unhappy and tries to return to Paris?”
“We had no choice,” her husband replied. “I don’t think Christophe would have agreed to go if we were not going to look after Raoul in his absence. He’s very attached to that dog, you know.”
Christophe came toward them, weaving his way through the crowds with Raoul at his side, and Aimée fell silent. She’d struggled for years with her impulse to try to arrange her irresistible brother-in-law’s life and of course none of her plans had worked. In fact he lately seemed almost bored by her efforts to make romantic matches for him.
“I suppose it may all work out even without me,” she murmured doubtfully.
This elicited a fond laugh from Thomas, and he caught her around the waist and held her fast. “Could it be possible?”
“May I remind you two that you are in public?” said Christophe as he drew near. “I suggest you save your displays of affection for later.” He lifted his dark brows at them suggestively.
Aimée saw that people had begun to board the galleys. Her heart caught slightly as she put a hand on Christophe’s sleeve. “You are truly going.”
He nodded. “Yes, I fear I must leave our civilized country for the wilds of Scotland. Wish me good fortune, sweet sister.”
“Where is your manservant?”
“Oh, Louis is staying behind to oversee Rêves in my absence. I think I’m quite capable of attending to my own needs.” As he spoke, a burly man with a thick neck and curly, unkempt hair strolled up to them. Gesturing to him, Christophe added, “I’m taking Bayard de Nieuil instead. He’s the best mason and carver I have and I will need him at Falkland Palace.”
Bayard had black eyes that snapped with confidence as he nodded. “So you shall, sir.”
“Bayard has been to Scotland before, which should be helpful,” added Christophe. “He tells me that it’s even more uncivilized than I might imagine.”
“North of Edinburgh, in the Highlands, the Scots live like barbarians,” confirmed Bayard.
“Barbarians, truly?” Thomas sounded dubious.
The stonemason nodded. “There’s not so much as a true road to be found, just a lot of bogs, rocks, and dismal weather. It’s no use taking a lot of possessions, for we’ll only have to leave them behind on the docks at St. Andrews.”
“A primitive place without roads?” Aimée furrowed her brow at this. “No wonder Princess Madeleine died after arriving in Scotland. I must say, I don’t envy Marie…”
“She’ll be the queen, miette, living in palaces,” Thomas murmured with irony. “I’m certain King James will make certain she is very comfortable, even in primitive Scotland.”
“It’s too late for second thoughts,” said Christophe. “They’ve begun boarding the Salamander.” He inclined his head toward the magnificent galley that was filling with dozens of members of Mary’s French household, from her maids of honor to her jester to her pastry-maker. The new Queen of Scots was clearly hoping to bring as much of France with her as possible.
The time had come for final farewells. After embracing Thomas, Aimée, and the children, Christophe knelt beside Raoul. The Grand Bleu hound lay his big head on his master’s shoulder, while Christophe stroked him and whispered words of reassurance.
“I’ve told him that he’ll be staying with some of his siblings at Château du Soleil,” Christophe explained as he disengaged and rose to his full height. “He’ll be much happier in a pack. It will be like a party!”
“I’m not certain he believes you,” murmured Aimée with a wry smile.
“I’ll be back before anyone misses me. With Bayard by my side, as well as countless more French masons who are already working at Falkland Palace, we shall make quick work of this task.” His tone was almost defiant.
With that, Christophe and Bayard strode off together and boarded the second galley, Moriset. As the ships cast off, the St. Briac family stood on the docks, waving, while Raoul put his head back and howled as if his heart were broken.
Chapter 2
Falkland Royal Park
The Kingdom of Fife, Scotland
July 1538
“I thought this day would never come,” said Christophe, inhaling the morning air as he galloped along through the thickly-wooded parkland surrounding Falkland Palace.
Riding along next to him was Bayard de Nieul, who now looked over with a broad smile. “I tried to tell you it wouldn’t be easy. But, of course, you would not listen to me.”
“I thought we would never escape from the court train. I have always known Marie de Guise to be a sensible, strong-minded female, and so I hoped she would not suffer a lot of ridiculous delays.”
Bayard laughed. “Now that the Scots have a queen who can withstand the rigors of ceremony and travel, they mean to take full advantage of her fine health and disposition. She’ll doubtless be subjected to as crowded a schedule as possible.”
Christophe gave a harsh sigh. There had been delays at every turn, beginning with bad weather that swept the galleys off-course and forced them to land at Balcomie Castle, south of their planned destination of St. Andrews. The king, with an entourage of his own, had to travel down to meet them, so another full day was lost. And once they came at last to the relatively civilized coastal city of St. Andrews, Christophe discovered that the Scots intended to entrap them there for a full fortnight of celebrations. There had been banquets and balls, as well as jousts and mock battles. Even Christophe had been persuaded to participate in a joust with James Hamilton of Finnart, the king’s Master of Works. It had been amusing, but he sensed that Hamilton of Finnart, who oversaw all the royal building work, was not pleased to have been beaten by a French architect who seemed to have the ear of the new queen.
Finally, to St. Briac’s immense relief, the royal entourage had packed up and set off for Falkland Palace. It was a slow procession, for as Bayard had predicted, the roads that existed were rugged cart tracks and there were no closed coaches to be seen. Even the queen rode on horseback, no matter the weather.
Mary of Guise kept her party of countrymen close by, and she especially enjoyed riding near Christophe as they traveled inland. On one gloved wrist perched her merlin. He would periodically fly off to stretch his blue-gray wings and survey the new land and then glide back, sometimes landing on Christophe’s wrist instead of the queen’s. And, during their leisurely travels, she shared with him her enthusiasm for the French-inspired building projects at Falkland Palace and Stirling Castle.
Christophe hadn’t forgotten that King François had asked him to watch over the new queen, to be alert for any signs that she might be in danger or distress. But Mary of Guise glowed with good health, and though she clearly had doubts about her new life, sh
e appeared to be optimistic.
“I must say, I admired your ingenuity,” Bayard was saying cheerfully, “getting us away from the rest of the royal procession today.”
“Yes…” Christophe arched a sardonic brow. “When I realized that they meant to spend the night at Cupar Castle, I saw our chance to break free and go on to Falkland Palace on our own. I have never been at ease in large groups of people.”
“Especially, I’ll warrant, when half of them are crude Scots whose garbled speech is nearly impossible to understand,” grumbled Bayard. “If you take my meaning.”
Their horses picked their way over large rocks as they crested a steep hill. Christophe was spared the trouble of responding to Bayard’s complaints about the Scots when he glimpsed a bit of civilization through the trees.
There, in the valley far below, lay a fine castle, surrounded by stone walls and a small village. Something about the sight caused Christophe’s heart to leap in a way he didn’t recognize.
“That must be Falkland Palace,” he said. His throat was dry with something akin to excitement. He had nearly forgotten what that felt like.
“Ah, oui!” his companion cried lustily. “She’s a pretty thing now—but when you are done with her, she’ll be a true beauty!”
* * *
Christophe was grateful to be spared the mayhem that would attend the arrival of the full royal court on the morrow. Instead, he and Bayard rode through the village that nestled at the base of the shapely, green Lomond Hills and presented themselves to the guard at the palace Gatehouse.
The Keeper of the Palace, William Barclay, lived upstairs in the Gatehouse with his family. He came down to greet them personally, seemingly unsurprised that Christophe and Bayard had journeyed all the way from France to assist with the rebuilding of Falkland Palace. By the time he had taken them to Christophe’s quarters above the Great Hall, Christophe’s series of casual questions revealed that the castle and its grounds already teemed with masons, wrights, carvers, and painters.
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 3