To Serve a King (10 page)
Turning the girl away gently but insistently by the shoulders, Geneviève rushed her from the room. “But not too late, mind you. I expect you to attend me bright and early to start our first day.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” Carine allowed herself to be hurried along, confusion scrunching her youthful face. She peered at her mistress, brow furrowed beneath her cap, as the door closed in her face.
Geneviève threw her back against the door, latching it securely. Raising two balled, quivering fists, she pushed them against her lips until their quavering—and her panic—receded, waiting with the patience of the fisherman who longs for the outgoing tide. She allowed the steely control to descend upon her, never forgetting the piece of parchment clenched tight in her hand.
On steadier legs, Geneviève removed to the bedside table and the small chair beside it. Leaning toward the flames of the triple-branched candelabrum, she unfolded the paper with the tips of her fingers, revealing its message beneath the pale light cast by the long tapers.
With a gasp of startled discovery, she gaped at the jumble of letters covering the small square. Geneviève jumped up, all action and purpose, snatching her book from the tabletop and the quill and ink pot from the drawer beneath, and rushed to her vanity,
thrusting aside the perfume bottles and cosmetics, caring little when a few fell to the floor with a tinkling collision upon the rushes. The sweet, woodsy scent of labdanum burst into the air, released as stopper separated from bottle top. Geneviève noticed its redolence not at all.
The years of puzzles pranced in her mind as she studied the incoherent text before her. Letters, not numbers; this was a substitution cipher, a polyalphabetic substitution, to be exact. She had solved so many of them, revealing the location of each small treat. But where was the key? She could not solve it without the text pair key.
Geneviève picked up
Pantagruel
, the book she had kept by her side through the long journey to the palace. What had her aunt said—what were her exact words? Geneviève rummaged through her memory, tossing aside needless knowledge as though she searched an old trunk.
The book holds the key.
That was it; she remembered it now. Geneviève had known then the book would be part of her ciphering, but she believed she would use it with an alphanumeric code. She rubbed the embossed leather as if coaxing the answer from it with her caress. Opening the cover, she turned page after page, searching for a hidden cipher disk or a pairing table, the crinkle of the paper like the tick of a clock in the silent room, but she found nothing helpful. She turned the last page, her vexation and frustration burning in her throat, ready to slam the book closed and throw it against the wall, when she saw the inscription on the inside back cover:
All is not seen that may be gleaned.
It was her aunt’s handwriting, Geneviève recognized it, but the meaning of the encrypted message was as much a mystery as the woman herself. Geneviève reached out a hand to rub the words, as if to conjure their meaning like a sorceress.
It was the slightest of bumps, no more than a slight ridge beneath the scrawl and the parchment, barely perceptible by the tips
of her fingers. Her hand stilled, as did her breath, yet she quivered with the thrill of discovery. Geneviève extracted the small jeweled dagger from beneath her skirt, and bent close over the book. With the delicacy of a surgeon, her bottom lip between her teeth in a trap of concentration, she inserted the knife tip beneath the edging and worked her way around the rectangle of the cover, until she had pried the flap away.
Revealing the small piece of parchment, no more than a three-inch square, she sat back, smiling with relieved satisfaction. Across the top edge of the small square was the full alphabet in its proper order; beneath it another complete alphabet, but in an altogether different configuration.
Geneviève snatched up the message that had tumbled from her bodice, and—
“Mon Dieu.
” She blasphemed aloud, chastising herself with sudden insight. Baron Pitou and his abrasive groping; it was purposeful, yet she had responded like a naïve, sullen child. What must he think of her? Geneviève thumped her elbow on the table and hung her head upon her hand, ruminating bitterly upon her actions.
All she had been taught had changed; her sensibilities, her self-awareness were not as blind as her rage had been. They had taught her to be a soldier, but one of cold calculation. There had been nothing cold about the outrage she had felt, and yet his offense had not been of so great a magnitude. Her response had been as white-hot as a branding iron, nothing of the dispassionate mien she had been taught. She searched deep inside herself; where did such ire come from? Did it fester within her, seething in her secret places? The possession of it had overwhelmed her; she saw it now in hindsight, its ferociousness blinding her like a mask.
The knuckles that had crashed into Raymond’s face throbbed; she could only guess at the pain he must be feeling. Geneviève could think no more of this now. She would find the baron tomorrow
and make amends. They shared allegiance and she must keep herself in his good graces.
Geneviève turned her attention back to her message; it was but a few lines and she had it decoded in a matter of minutes. She read it once, and yet again.
My dear Geneviève,
You are fulfilling your destiny. You have our love and God’s blessing. Bring your first message to the monastery. Ask Father Bernard to hear your confession. Remember, you are never alone.
Henry R
With the page clasped firmly against her chest, the beat of Geneviève’s heart thumped through the thin parchment. Time passed unnoticed as she vacillated between reading the missive and holding it dear. It was as if he knew what lay in the depths of her heart, how alone she had felt in the den of the enemy. But his words were a succor lifting her up, setting her on her feet, and placing her back upon her course once more.
Only when she had indelibly etched each word on the pages of her mind, did she bring the two pieces of parchment—the message and the key—and a long, lit taper to the alcove of the cold fireplace. Crouching down, she held the paper over the flame, index finger and thumb holding the tip of a corner as the lick of fire ate it away, as the ashes fell onto the empty grate.
The words had vanished with the paper upon which they were written, but the spirit of the sender held her fast.
But disdain is vice and should be refused,
Yet nevertheless it is too much used.
—Henry VIII (1491–1547)
H
e stomped about in a pattern of perturbation in the small room behind the great hall, from the windows to the fire and back again. One hand thrust upon one hip, King Henry’s round, puffed cheeks held the high color of his agitation, his leather heels pounding out a rhythm upon the hard stone floor as decidedly as the drums of war called soldiers to battle. He did nothing to contain his anxiety, expecting instead for those around him to give him the assurance he needed.
“This does not look promising to me, not at all.” Henry stared squinty-eyed at the miniature in his hand, as if willing the countenance upon it to come to life, to see the woman with more clarity. He skidded to a stop before Thomas Cromwell, who met the gaze of his king without a speck of aversion, his thin, stern mouth closed firm.
Cromwell stood one step ahead of the others, a row of lords behind his back, the points of their venom no more sharp than if they held daggers against his flesh. Charles Brandon, Audley, Dudley, and more, all loathed him as a grasping parvenu, as disliked as Wolsey, if not more. Only Cranmer, the archbishop of Canterbury,
called Cromwell friend, and yet the elder statesman did little to defend him or his position.
“I assure you, Sire, she is a beauty to behold, though the likeness does her little justice,” Cromwell said, holding out his hands in supplication. “Now is the perfect time to ally ourselves with the German princes. Every day they grow more and more suspicious of François and his vascillating. The pope asks him to act against them and they ask him for allegiance, but he is as irresolute on the subject as ever.”
“No doubt the pope will see such an alliance as an act against him.” Brandon’s voice cut with a sharp edge of derision. “Can we afford to further distance ourselves from the Vatican?”
Mumbles of agreement echoed through the chamber, but whether they were in agreement with Brandon’s contention or desired to speak against Cromwell, it was difficult to tell.
“Have we had any more word on communications between France and Spain?” Henry asked the room.
“Nothing decisive, Sire,” Audley mumbled. “We are sure they are communicating, but the nature of the negotiations remains elusive.”
“We know the Italian princess is magnificent to behold,” Brandon said bawdily, rousing a low but lewd chorus of agreement.
Henry sniffed with a smirk and a nod. “Yes, of that I am sure. But we have not heard from them, either, have we? You can give me no assurances there?”
The councilors and ministers all shook their heads with obvious disappointment.
“My lord, I can assure you—” Cromwell began, anxious to defend his choice for the king’s next bride.
“No one can seem to assure me of anything!” Spittle flew from Henry’s mouth as the full import of his anger fell upon the men in the room like a heavy rain.
Cromwell shook his head, jowls waggling. “Your Highness, listen, I beg you. I am certain both France and Spain are courting the
Lutheran princes. We must align ourselves before they can turn them against us.”
The king’s curved upper lip curled inward, like an angered feral dog. “This is maddening. How can we purport ourselves to be the greatest nation in the world when we have no idea what is happening in it? If you are certain, you will bring me proof.”
“Uh … yes, yes of course, Your Majesty.” Cromwell lowered his shifting gaze.
“Dudley?” Henry called, without removing his scathing perusal from the minister’s blotched countenance.
“My lord?” The young, pointy-chinned Earl of Warwick stepped before his king with a dashing bow.
“How goes our project in France? Is she in place?”
“She is, Your Majesty,” Dudley assured him with a smile. “And first contact has been sent, by you, of course.”
For the first time that day, a genuine grin played upon the agitated king’s lips, and the collective sigh of relief was as loud as any alleluia chorus. Cromwell alone quaked with turbulent emotions.
“And she is with the duchesse d’Étampes?” Henry dropped his hands to the sides of his rotund belly as he climbed the steps of the dais and threw himself onto his throne.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dudley said.
Henry nodded with a cynical but satisfied grunt. “Wonderful. François tells her more than he would ever tell Eleanor. It is our weakness, these mistresses of ours.”
A friendship that can be ended,
Didn’t ever start.
—Mellin de Saint-Gelais (1491–1558)
T
he morning sun did not rise as eagerly as did Geneviève, bounding out of bed, calling for Carine and her gown, rushing from her chamber to that of the duchesse with little time wasted on her grooming. Her plan for the day was full, and she refused to tolerate delay or to be waylaid.
She was not the first to arrive at the room of her mistress; already ensconced by Anne’s side, Anne’s cousins shared in the woman’s morning meal and a conversation unaccompanied by any smile. Four other ladies sat about the room, seeing to their books or their stitching.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Gravois, how nice to see you looking so chipper this morning,” Anne greeted her with a raised goblet. “Have you broken your fast yet?”
Geneviève dipped a curtsy and rushed forward to the small table in front of the windows, bright with the low sun. Fresh, hot bread crusted with cheese, cold partridge, and apple tarts upon silver plates covered the sage linen, and at the table’s center stood a pitcher of hot spiced cider and waiting goblets.
“My apologies, madame. I did not intend to be late for my duties.” Geneviève stood contrite by Anne’s chair.
“Have not a care,” Anne assured her with a dismissive wave. “My troubles found me up before the sun. My cousins and my maids have served me well. Sit down and have something to eat. You look a little green about the gills.”
Geneviève did as bid, Sybille handing her a plate and Béatrice a goblet, without request, resuming their conversation as if there had been no lapse at all.
“By the end of the night the bags beneath her eyes were as low as her chin,” Sybille intoned, popping a morsel of apple tart into her mouth.
“They were not as low as her breasts,” Béatrice tutted snidely. “She really ought to wear a gown more befitting her age.”
“Diane is beautiful, no matter that she is ten years my senior, and we all know it, but I care not one whit for her beauty.” Anne stared past the women seated opposite her, out the window and into the distance beyond, as if her rival stood upon the lawn alongside the row of dark green yew trees. “I care that the number of her adherents, including the Dauphin’s, grows larger every day, and that many in their midst hold the king’s ear.”
