To Serve a King (15 page)

Passing through the curved archway, the chapel of the monastery opened before her. On the left side of the transept, beyond the long rows of pews, Geneviève spied the closet of the confessional, a boxlike room within this room, much like the stool closets in the palace, save for the crosses carved into the door. Multicolored rays of light streamed in through the stained glass windows of the clerestory’s eastern wall, the ochre and blue like a bloody sky upon the oak pews and granite floors.

Geneviève entered the tiny chamber. In the middle of the room stood one lone chair. In each of the four corners yellow glowed from single-candle torches, the only light in the windowless chamber. There was no screen concealing the chair, there was no
prie-dieu
before it. Geneviève would face her confessor, knees upon the hard stone floor. She had not practiced the sacrament of confession often in her childhood; perhaps her aunt had known it for the hypocrisy it was in a life meant for such iniquities. Geneviève had found neither succor nor blessing in the act.

She perched herself on her knees, gathering beneath them as much of her lavender gown as she could to cushion them. Thankfully, no more than a few minutes passed before the door opened behind her and the man took his place in the hard, armless chair, the wood squeaking in protest as it accepted his corpulence.

“God is listening, my child.” The voice warbled as the words puffed out on thin breath.

Geneviève, head bowed from the moment she had heard the priest enter the room, stared at the floor, brows knit in a wrinkle upon her brow. Was she to give a true confession? She was here to deliver a message, not to bare her soul to this man. But the heavy
silence bade her to confess, having interpreted no signal that the priest would receive her covert communication. Geneviève had no choice but to turn the hard vision of truth inward upon herself.

“I have lied, Father.” Geneviève spoke the ironic honesty. Up to this day, she had committed few acts that God would call a sin. What she held in her heart—the anger and the hatred—were something different altogether, but she felt sure any deity that did exist would absolve her for just cause. “I have thought ill of others.”

“Have you regretted your feelings?” the man asked with little more than a mumble, as if he channeled the voice of God from the far distance of Heaven.

The memory of Baron Pitou, the scourge on his features after her fist collided with his face, the fruitless search for him the next day, came to Geneviève’s mind.

“
Oui,
Father, I regret it most sincerely.”

“Then God will be merciful and forgiving.”

Geneviève lowered her head, scavenging the recesses of her mind for something else to report to this man. One day she may have more to say, may hope to cleanse herself of a bloody stain, but perhaps not. Far more important than the state of her immortal soul, she scavenged her mind for some word that would work magic; some unknown code to turn this priest from confessor to conspirator.

As if knowing she had nothing further to add, the priest leaned over her, chanting the Latin that would absolve her of her sins, forming the cross above her head over and over with a beefy hand.

“Pray tonight, my child,” he told her as he sat back. “Pray to our God in the words of His Son and you will feel His benevolence.”

Geneviève dared to look up then. The tent of his dirt-colored cassock hid the obese body, not a speck of the chair visible beneath him. The heavy jowls of his ashen face hung far below his chin, and vein-laden lids covered his eyes. The dismissal was clear.

Geneviève staggered to her feet, wanting nothing more than to
grab the man by his rounded shoulders and shake him until he told her what she wanted to hear. But his closed expression brooked no argument, welcomed no discourse. On the verge of angry, frustrated tears, she quit the confessional chamber, unable to stop herself from slamming the door behind her.

The clatter echoed through the rafters and she stalked off down the long aisle, balled fists quivering by her sides, feeling the harsh stare of Jesus upon her back from His place on the cross at the head of the nave, but caring little for its denunciation.

“Won’t you give alms for the poor?”

Geneviève scuttered to a stop, nearly toppling forward as her feet came to a halt, but her body continued on with momentum. Bracing herself on the curved, carved end of a pew, she turned round.

Standing in the middle of the nave, the mammoth man who was Father Bernard stood, casting a shadow large enough to rival that of any of the chapel’s statues. In his age-spotted hand, he held out a small, slotted basket.

Her innards quivered with excitement as she took those few steps back toward him.

“The poor are in greater need than ever. I will personally see your donation put into the proper hands.”

Geneviève’s eyes fluttered closed in a moment of relief. Here at last was the prayer she had come to hear. She grappled for the small drawstring bag dangling from her wrist, grabbing the small folded square of parchment and a few coins, and dropped them all into the basket.

“Thank you, my child.” Father Bernard’s cloudy blue eyes, as pale as a winter’s sky, caught hers and in them, she glimpsed a smile.

Geneviève took his hand and bowed over it.

“I am most privileged to do my part.”

10

Distance is nothing;

It is only the first step that is difficult.

—Madame Marie du Deffand (1697–1780)

“Y
ou can do this, Geney. Give it a nother try.” Arabelle looked up at her friend, her eyes wide and hopeful yet not without a shadow of doubt. She stood poised by the horse’s side as if ready to catch Geneviève should she tumble from the mount, again.

As instructed, Geneviève wrapped her right leg around the front of the curved pommel while her left leg hung down the side of the horse. She held the reins in her gloved hands as if she hung on to the very thread of life. Already the bruises on her derrière ached where it had collided with the gravel of the stable courtyard, and she had no wish to feel its brutal hardness once more.

Never had she ridden a horse upon a sidesaddle. In all the days of her youth, she had ridden astride while hunting, hidden by the forests surrounding her aunt’s modest château, or upon a
sambue,
as befitting a lady. Though there was little control while upon one of these chair-shaped platforms, which forced the rider to remain turned outward, body perpendicular to the horse’s own, she had long since mastered the art of traveling upon one. To learn a new skill set, here and now, as the entire French court surrounded her, as spiteful courtiers gazed upon her, was proving a frustrating chore.

With mumbled words, Geneviève cursed the name of Catherine de’ Medici. Though the Dauphin’s wife was a pale presence at court—and only a desperate one to be pitied, at that—she had brought the newfangled means of feminine saddlery to France and therefore was deserving of all of Geneviève’s curses.

Three short blasts of the heralds’ horns sent her already skittish mount into spasms, and Geneviève reached down and clung to the chestnut mane.

“Hold still, you ungodly beast,” she hissed, ignoring the mare’s angry neighed response.

“We must hurry,” Arabelle urged. With agile deftness, the graceful woman stepped into the stirrup hanging from the lowered horse’s back, and launched herself upon the saddle. “It is time to leave. We must take our place with Anne at the front of the line.”

“If you cannot ride, then perhaps you should find room in one of the wagons, Geneviève.” Jecelyn rode up beside them, her body barely moving with the little effort it took her to stay upon her mount, a formidable stallion as black as her hair.

Geneviève clung tenaciously as her horse sidled haphazardly, jerking her long head up and down as if to pull the reins from Geneviève’s hands, nervous at the feel of a diffident rider upon her back. As she found herself about to tumble to the ground once more, Geneviève shifted her hips beneath herself, her teeth grinding with the effort, and found a modicum of balance.

“I am obviously not so experienced as you in riding playful beasts.” Geneviève pulled left on the reins, and her horse came alongside Jecelyn. She found herself received in her enemy’s world, and with such acceptance came a return of her natural fortitude. “I do believe I have the hang of it now,” she said with an innocent batting of her eyes.

Ignoring Arabelle’s snicker, Jecelyn’s thin red lips cut a swath across her pale face. “Make sure you keep in that saddle, Gene-viève. Rest assured, if you fall, you will be left behind. The king waits for no one. Do I not speak the truth, Arabelle?”

With a cluck of her tongue and a snap of her rein, she cantered off, caring not about any response.

Arabelle shrugged one shoulder at Geneviève. “Unfortunately, she is correct. When the king is on progress, he is a determined traveler. The duchesse will not look kindly upon you if you cannot keep up.”

Urging her sorrel mare forward, the creature’s blond mane flapping with each step, Arabelle led Geneviève’s horse, who followed instinctively.

“Why does she dislike me so?” Geneviève asked with a jut of her chin toward Jecelyn’s back.

“You are a new beauty at court,” Arabelle said as if the few words sufficed.

Geneviève shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Beauty comes and goes at court as readily as the wind. You are far more beautiful than either she or I. There must be more to it.”

Arabelle’s fair face bloomed beneath her jaunty mauve riding hat. “
Merci,
Geneviève, but perhaps your beauty, like hers, is so unique, so … exotic. It threatens her more.”

Another three horn blasts rent the air and Arabelle spurred the horses on faster, rushing past the long row of wagons, carts, and carriages lining the lane around the palace.

“There is no more time for this now. We leave!”

Geneviève held on as they rushed forward, not slowing their pace until they could see the standard-bearer who would lead the enormous contingent onward, the gold fleurs-de-lis bright upon the blue background of the banner, the gold tasseled ends dancing in the breeze.

A few short lengths behind the herald, the stately form of the king—resplendent in a royal blue velvet riding costume—sat upon his enormous stallion, his
gentilshommes de la chambre
fanning out behind him like the gaggle that followed the lead goose.

In their wake, the queen’s carriage marked her place, though
she would remain hidden and protected from the harshness of nature for the duration of the journey. Figuring prominently between husband and wife—literally, as she did figuratively—rode the duchesse d’Étampes, surrounded by the colorful petals of her entourage, the dashing cavaliers who forever flocked to her side, and the king’s merry band of ladies.

As Arabelle and Geneviève took their place with these chirping ladies, Geneviève turned in her saddle, gaze following the never-ending line of travelers behind them. As far as the dusty brown trail weaved through the yellow-green countryside, so did the line of people, horses, and wagons.

With each progress—the movement of the court through the kingdom during times of good weather—the king brought his entire household with him. His family, his advisers and courtiers, and every attendant and servant required to keep him, and them, happy … confessors and carvers, secretaries and surgeons, barbers and bread carriers, sumpters and spit-turners, and everyone in between. All fed, clothed, and housed at the expense of the king and those he taxed.

François brought with him not only the people he held most dear, but his most cherished possessions as well. Carts piled high with trunks and chests filled with every necessity, took their place in line; from the most inexpensive trinket to invaluable artwork, all were packed and guarded with the greatest of care. Behind them were the animals attached to the court. Those required for food—the oxen, sheep, cows, and chickens—and the king’s pets—his dogs and birds, and his lynx.

It took more than a hundred men to coordinate the move, to arrange the transport of what was tantamount to a small-sized village, and close to twenty thousand horses to pull or carry. In charge were the
fourrière—
the animal keepers
—
and the
maréchaux des logis,
who supervised transportation of furniture, allocated lodgings, and issued lodging permits. Under the reign of François I the court had grown to nearly ten thousand, and with each progress,
regional courtiers came and went, taking the opportunity to look in on their properties, and any lonely wives left behind.

Geneviève stole a moment to look back at the château as it fell away in the distance. It had been her home for such a short time, less than a fortnight, and yet it had served her well. The kitchen coffers echoed now with emptiness, the castle’s latrines overflowed. The skeleton staff remaining would clean and scrub, refresh and replenish, preparing for the court’s return, whether it be in two months or two years.

As a youth, François had traveled more extensively, though such nomadism was not a result of feudal survival but a desire to keep more apprised of his realm’s condition; it had also afforded the sportsman ample opportunities to hunt in a variety of regions. Times of royal progresses were dictated by the seasons, with little movement taking place during the harshness of winter or in the thaw of early spring, when the roads were little better than quagmires.

The sun was a glowing orb, midway into its day’s ascent, and the château was no more than a fading memory on the retreating horizon, and yet Geneviève’s legs ached with the effort to maintain her posture upon the sidesaddle.