By Honor Bound (2 page)

Honneure merely nodded because she could not speak. She took her mother’s hand and held it tightly. She did not hear Cook leave.

“The king!”

Honneure pulled sharply from her reverie and leaned over her mother. Mathilde’s eyes widened and briefly brightened, but whether from fever or excitement Honneure could not tell. Or was that fear in her mother’s unblinking gaze?

Honneure’s own fears resurfaced. What was wrong with her mother? Why did she not seem to recognize her daughter, to hear or understand her? Why did she speak of the king, she who had been a servant all her life?

As if attempting to answer the swirl of questions eddying in Honneure’s brain, Mathilde spoke again. “Never tell … never tell.” Her voice was no more than a croak. “
Les cerfs
…
dans le parc
…
les cerfs
.”

“The deer,” Honneure repeated, confused now as well as frightened. “The deer in the park?” What could her mother possibly mean? She took her mother’s hand again and smoothed strands of damp hair from her forehead. “Mother, please tell me what you mean. I’m so frightened, Mother. I don’t understand. Look at me. Please, look at me. Tell me what you mean.”

Something in her daughter’s voice, perhaps the desperate plea of her child, finally penetrated the dying woman’s consciousness. With a last great effort of will, Mathilde focused on Honneure, gathered the last of her swiftly ebbing strength, and whispered, “Poor, lost Honneure … my lost
honneur
.”

Honneure watched her mother’s eyes close once more, and she appeared to sleep. She pulled the rough blanket up over her mother’s chest, then turned to the hearth, banked its dying embers, and threw on another piece of wood. She must try to stay awake, she knew, and ensure the fire’s meager warmth was not lost. Nothing must disturb her mother’s comfort.

The long day, her anxiety, and the fearfully long hours of the night had taken their toll, however. Honneure had meant merely to rest her head on her mother’s pallet, touching her lightly so she would be instantly aware of the smallest movement and answer her mother’s need. But blessed sleep claimed her almost at once. The night deepened, and the darkness, as the fire flickered and died.

Chapter Two

The priest intoned the words of the mass, but they meant nothing to Honneure. She did not understand the Latin and was unfamiliar with the ritual, in spite of the fact Madame Choiseul had brought her to the Saint-Hubert chapel every day since her mother’s death. She could not seem to concentrate. She stared either at the flames leaping in the tiny hearth to her right or at the hem of the priest’s robe directly in front of her. Occasionally the movement of his hands caught her gaze when he made the sign of the cross. She listened to Madame and Marguerite murmur incomprehensible responses. Her mind drifted off in a haze.

On the left side of the miniature Gothic church, large enough for barely a dozen people, was the only thing Honneure regarded with any thought, the final resting place of a man called Leonardo da Vinci. Her mother had taught her about this great and talented personage, artist, and inventor. Francis I had convinced the great genius of the sixteenth century to come to Amboise in 1516 to end his days at the Court of France. Mathilde had said what honor it had brought to the château. She had received permission to show Honneure the paintings he had brought with him and left behind when he died, pictures of Saint Anne and the Virgin, Saint John the Baptist and Honneure’s favorite, the likeness of a woman called Mona Lisa. Mathilde had often said how she would have loved to know such a man, to have talked with him and learned from him. Were they together now? Having both died at the château, were they somehow linked? Did Mathilde get her wish? Was she even now walking and talking with the man she had so admired?

Honneure closed her eyes and tried to hold on to the image. She could not bear to remember her mother as she had last seen her, so pale and cold and still, an alabaster effigy. That was not the mother who had loved her, hugged her, stroked her hair, and tried to teach her all she knew … the mother who was now gone from her forever.

The pain in Honneure’s chest was almost unbearable. Her throat ached, and tears burned in her eyes. She clasped her chapped and reddened hands and, still on her knees, rocked slowly.

“Honneure? The mass is over, child. Come.” Madame Choiseul gently assisted Honneure to her feet. “Come back to the château and warm by the fire. Cook will make you some tea.”

Honneure obeyed but stumbled, blinded by her tears. Marguerite pressed a handkerchief into her hand. They stepped outside the church, and the icy wind lifted her long, pale curls. Madame Choiseul placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her across the courtyard.

“Cook has something to tell you,” she continued at length. “She has what I think is some very good news for you.”

Honneure did not respond. Since her mother had died it was as if the atmosphere had thickened. She could not hear or see as well. Her body felt weighted, her legs leaden and slow. Sometimes when people talked to her it seemed they spoke in another language, and she simply could not grasp what they were saying.

It was like that now. She heard Madame Choiseul, but the words meant nothing. She trudged at her mistress’s side, step after step through the freezing air, neither knowing nor caring where she had been or where she was going. She moved because she had to, but no longer had a purpose. She existed but did not live. She was alone.

From the side of the château, the two women and the child entered what had once been the guard’s room but was now used as a dining chamber. They passed through a short, narrow corridor and entered the kitchen.

“We’ve returned with your ward, as you see,” Madame Choiseul announced needlessly to Cook. “I believe she’ll need a cup of tea to take the chill from her bones. Then the two of you can have a nice, little … chat.”

Honneure remained oblivious to the meaningful glances the three women shared. Madame Choiseul patted her shoulder. “I’ll leave you with Cook now. Be a good girl and mind what she has to tell you.”

The mistress and her ever-present servant hurriedly exited the room. They had done their duty as Christian women and, in truth, felt sympathy for the young orphan. She was a comely child, with her fair hair and gray eyes, and had exhibited a lively intelligence prior to her mother’s passing. But they were not equipped, nor obliged, to foster a servant’s orphan and were just as glad to have found a suitable placement for her.

Cook heard the door to the dining hall close with a resounding thud and sighed deeply. The slamming of the door seemed symbolic. The child’s time at Amboise was over. Her mother was gone, and she would likely never again see the only home she had ever known. The door to her past was well and truly closed.

Cook sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron. She would miss the child, as she would miss the mother. Mathilde had been a strange and mysterious girl who refused to speak of her past or the father of her child. But Cook had liked her from the first moment she had come to the château, infant still at the breast, begging for work in exchange for merely a place to sleep and something to eat. Cook had taken the chance and importuned the mistress and had never been sorry. Mathilde had not only been diligent, hardworking, and quick-witted but also graceful and lovely to look at, a ray of sunshine even through all the gray days of winter. And how she had loved that child! Always hugging and kissing her, teaching her in every spare moment.

An audible sob escaped Cook’s lips, and Honneure’s attention was captured at last. She had never been able to ignore a creature in pain, animal or human, and Cook’s distress finally penetrated the layers of her terrible grief. She looked up and tentatively reached out to touch the back of Cook’s hand.

“Are … are you all right?”

“Am
I
all right? Oh … child.” Cook drew a ragged breath and fought back the urge to sit down and weep. “Of course I’m all right. Here now. Drink your tea. I have something to tell you.”

Only a vague curiosity stirred within Honneure’s breast. She sipped at the scalding liquid and inhaled the steam rising from its surface.

Cook cleared her throat. “I want you to know the mistress has been very concerned about you. We all have,” she added sincerely. “This … this isn’t the best place for a child without … well, without a parent.”

“But it’s where I live.”

Cook silently cursed the fates that had put her in this position. “Yes, dear, it has been your home. But with your mother … gone … there’s no one here to really look after you. Do you understand?”

Honneure did not understand. Although she hadn’t thought about it until this moment, she knew she could look after herself. She would take over her mother’s duties, as she had done so frequently of late. She was able to work. She would go on as before. Wouldn’t she? Honneure slowly shook her head. “No, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, dear.” Cook sighed. “I’m sorry, child. I’ll speak more plainly. You … you’re …” Cook swallowed. “You’re going to leave Amboise.”

Thin slivers of fear pierced the armor of Honneure’s grief. “Leave Amboise?”

“Madame Choiseul has found a very fine place for you,” Cook said quickly. “It’s called Chenonceau. The mistress there is a friend of Madame’s and a kindly woman. There’s a family who works for her there, in the kitchen and stables. You will live with them and work for Madame Dupin, the mistress of Chenonceau.”

Cook smiled as if this was something Honneure should be grateful for. Somewhere deep within her she supposed she should be. But it was not reality. She had never been farther than the village of Amboise at the foot of the château. She had known no other home than the small chamber she had shared with her mother. She had known no other world than the one her mother had created for her.

But her mother was gone. Her world had shattered.

Honneure went to a place beyond fear. Even her grief no longer seemed to enwrap her. She felt naked and alone, as if she stood on the edge of a precipice and could not see what lay below. Yet she must jump and trust she would not die on hidden rocks.

“Did you hear me?” Cook said, worried by the child’s pale, drawn features. “Did you understand, Honneure?”

This time she nodded. She understood very well. She no longer had a mother or a home. She was at the mercy of a world she could barely even comprehend.

For the first time since her mother had died, Honneure prayed. She prayed God would take her too.

Honneure sat on her pallet in the small, chilly room and hugged her pitiful bundle. It contained all her worldly possessions that were not on her back: a change of linen, a cotton smock she wore in summer, and a comb. Her stomach growled, but she hardly noticed. She had eaten little since the day Cook had informed her of her fate. She attended to her chores, lay down and slept at night, but cared for nothing. She merely waited.

The wait was nearly over.

Honneure heard footsteps in the corridor. Cook appeared in the doorway.

“They’re here. It’s time to go, child.”

Honneure stood obediently and followed Cook from the room. As they passed through the kitchen, the woman took a shawl from the back of a chair and put it over her shoulders. Moments later they were in the courtyard.

The day was overcast and gray, the clouds seeming to hang just above the château’s towers. The smell of snow was in the air. Cook hurried her footsteps as she crossed the courtyard to the waiting wagon.

Honneure noticed the horse first. He was massive, like many cart horses she had seen in the village. But his long winter coat was silky from grooming, and there were no mats in his mane or tail. He appeared plumper than any of the other animals she had ever seen. He bobbed his head as she and Cook approached, dilated his nostrils, and blew two clouds of smoke into the freezing air. His ears pricked forward in a friendly manner, and Honneure couldn’t help feeling she had just received a greeting. The shadow of a smile touched the corners of her mouth.

“Honneure, this is Monsieur Mansart. He’s come to take you to your new home.”

The man sitting on the wagon, with large, rough hands loosely holding the reins, gave Honneure a long, slow smile and tipped his woolen cap. His dark hair was thick and curly, she noted, and lightly dusted with gray. His black eyes twinkled under bushy, prominent brows. “Good morning to you, little lady,” he said in a voice that seemed to issue from the very center of his barrel chest.

“Good … good morning.” Without thinking, Honneure dropped a little curtsy.

“Here now, none of that, pretty little miss,” the man boomed. “I’m just folks, same as you. Philippe! Where are your manners?”

A head suddenly popped up from the back of the wagon. Thick, black curls lifted in the stirring wind. The resemblance was so strong, Honneure had no doubt the boy belonged to the man. When he grinned, the likeness was startling.

“Hello. Are you my new sister?”

Sister? Feeling warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature, Honneure watched the boy leap over the side of the high wagon. He landed nearly at her feet, grin intact. His eyes were very large and very dark. Their lashes curled nearly to his thick, well-defined brows.

“I’m Philippe,” he proclaimed as he took her hand and raised it to his lips with mock courtliness.

“I’m … Honneure.”

“I hope so, because we came to collect a girl named Honneure. And you’re so beautiful I was hoping it was you we were taking home with us.”

Cook tittered. Honneure blushed to the roots of her hair.

“May I take your bundle?” Philippe offered.

Shyly, Honneure handed it to him. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
.” He tossed it into the deep straw piled in the bed of the wagon. “And now may I assist you into your coach, mademoiselle?”

Completely disarmed, Honneure took the hand Philippe offered.

“Oh, wait,” Cook interjected. “I’ve not said a proper good-bye.” Blinking back tears, she gave Honneure a quick hug. “You’re going to be very happy, child. I’ve no longer any doubt. Bless you,” she said under her breath to Philippe. “And God bless you, Monsieur Mansart.” Without another word she turned and hurried back inside the château.

Something tightened in Honneure’s chest. But she had no time to give it heed, for in the next moment Philippe’s hands went about her waist, and she was lifted into the wagon. He jumped in beside her, sat back, and knocked on the bench seat.

“On, Driver,” he commanded with feigned authority. “On to my château … on to Chenonceau!”

His father laughed and slapped the horse’s rump with the reins. The cart rolled forward.

Now the sensation moved to the pit of Honneure’s stomach. It was not fear, however, but something akin to excitement. She stole a glance at the boy next to her.

He was a few years older than she was and as handsome a human being as she had ever laid eyes on. He was also the merriest. She had never met anyone quite like him and found herself hoping he would speak to her again. In the next instant, he obliged.

“So, are you curious?” Philippe asked brightly.

“Curious?” Honneure repeated and felt the color flame in her cheeks yet again. How had he guessed her thoughts? How had he known she wanted to know more about him?

“Yes, curious. About your new home, your new family.”