To Serve a King (27 page)

Returning to Fontainebleau proved the greatest elixir prescribed for the king, and he rebounded, taking part in every celebration, both day and night.

Rushing past the women, François seized an abandoned shield and crossed in front of them. “Stay behind me as much as you can, but grab those oranges. We need weapons, my soldiers!”

His enthusiasm was infectious and the women jumped into it, scooping up any fruit not smashed open on the cobbles or the stone walls. Jecelyn gave hers to the king, who launched them with incredible accuracy. Arabelle and Geneviève hurled those they gathered at the opposing team, closely following the king as he cut a swath toward the “enemy” with great guffaws of laughter and whoops of delight.

More who wore the red arm bands joined in their siege, and Arabelle and Geneviève fanned out from the king to cover more ground. From the right Geneviève caught sight of three or four blue bands and swiveled toward them. Lisette, Sebastien, and two other members of the opposition fell in her sights as they tried to flank the red team.

Geneviève cocked back her arm.

Jecelyn stepped up to the king with more oranges, jumping directly between Geneviève and her shot at Lisette.

Geneviève hesitated, barked a laugh, and launched her weapon.

The juicy orange hit Jecelyn squarely on the side of the head. The fruit burst upon impact. The left half of her face became a mess of stringy pulp. She dropped to the courtyard with a cry of pain and indignation.

“I believe you have hit one of our own team, Mademoiselle Gravois,” the king yelled, but not without a peculiar expression contorting his features.

Geneviève batted her eyes, all innocence and coyness, fighting hard against the volcanic laughter in her gullet as she dodged another hurtled fruit. “Oh dear, have I?”

Beside her Arabelle roared, not able or caring to hide her hilarity at Jecelyn’s expense.

“Did you see her go down?” she howled, doubling up with laughter as she grabbed at Geneviève’s arm. “She dropped like a stone! Marvelous!”

Geneviève turned, allowing the mirth to finally burst forth. The two ran off, weak from laughter and no longer useful. Jecelyn stared
at their retreating backs with pure evil upon her orange-stained face.

François sprawled back inelegantly in his chair, rubbing his large full belly, eyes soft and satiated. Strewn about the chamber in the east wing of the palace were his greatest lords and physicians; his almoner, Jean Le Veneur; and his confessor, his squires, and gentlemen of the chamber. The same pages who had delivered his lunch now cleared the remnants of it away, the clanking of pewter plates and golden chalices challenging the melodic voice of Monsieur du Chastel.

“A little louder, if you please, monsieur,” the king requested, and the bishop of Mâcon raised his beautifully modulated bass voice. Pierre du Chastel had been François’s
lecteur du roi
for the last three years, and these lunchtime readings were atop the list of the king’s favorite moments in a day. Most often of late, he would request something from Rabelais, at other times passages of Roman history or heroic tales of antiquity. Some days it was not such weighty material but a romance instead, and Du Chastel would read from
Destruction de Troie la Grant
or perhaps
Le Roman de la Rose
with his perfect diction.

Beyond the double doors of the main entry at the far end of the rectangular room, a great rumbling of voices coalesced behind the gilded wood, as if an orchestra warmed up for a performance. The king sighed, knowing the time of such midday relaxation drew to a close.

“That will be all for today, I fear, monsieur.” He dismissed his royal reader in midsentence, and the small, cassock-clad man closed his book and retreated with a slight bow.

“I wish to speak to the room before we open the door, La Barre.” The king stopped the
premier gentilhomme de la chambre
from beginning the day’s deputations, the first since their arrival at Fontainebleau, with a raised hand.

The noblemen returned to their seats at the now clean table,
Montmorency and Chabot among them, though on opposite sides of the table. The bitterness between them had reached new heights as Montmorency’s investigations into the allegations of Chabot’s malpractices continued. Like children vying for the love of a parent, the two men jostled for preeminence in the king’s council, though neither gained much ground.

“I have two things to share with you this day,” François announced, his ashy, aging skin glowing with a joy few had seen of late. He rubbed his hands upon the high-gloss mahogany table before him. “First, I would tell you that I have decided to sojourn at this most splendid of palaces for the majority of our time.”

Mixed responses met his pronouncement, most of surprise, few of pleasure. Those nobles who would travel with the progress to check their lands, would now need to do so on their own; it was costly to travel, though far more costly to be away from court. Many had foreseen the king’s decision; his desire to lead a less nomadic life had been instilled in him by his mother and her family. François was at last bringing their desire to fruition.

“It is not only for the pleasure of the hunt in this bountiful forest surrounding us, but for the beauty and splendor that is Fontainebleau.” The king opened his arms in a wide gesture, offering the marble, gilt, and art of his own room as evidence.

The great kings of France had long since made a home for themselves on this magical spot. Legend held that here a babbling spring and the goddess who watched over it had been discovered by a hunter name Bilaud. The fecund spot, washed by the spring, became known as the fountain of blue. What had begun as a primitive castle in the twelfth century, oval in shape with a gatehouse, a square keep, and flanking towers, had become the pinnacle of French architecture. François had torn down all of the original structure save the old dungeon, rebuilding it in its current variation, one of the greatest palaces in all of Europe, envied by kings far and wide.

“I can think of no better place to rule our great nation, to bring
to bear the full force of our nation’s strength, than here at Fontainebleau.” François grew more serious; some feared his words hinted at war, which they could neither afford nor support. “This brings me to my second announcement. But perhaps I shall let Monty tell you, as it was his work and guidance that has led us here.”

Montmorency narrowed his small, bag-rimmed eyes at the king, perplexed; to take credit could bring one great acclaim, or make one the scapegoat if the plan should fail. Monty shrugged off his diffidence; his efforts were well-known. He could not very well turn from them now.

“We have heard from the emperor.” His pronouncement set off a riot of shock and sound; the cries filled the room to the top of the vaulted, frescoed ceiling. “Indeed, it is true.”

“Bretonnière has at last returned?” Chabot petulantly asked about the king’s first messenger, finding no delight in his rival’s success.

“No, he has not, though he should have, and days ago. I have sent others out in search of him,” Monty replied. “No, this message came by way of La Forest. Our ambassadors have been hard at work and their efforts have not been in vain.” The chancellor stuck out his weak chin, holding his words until the silence held them all captive. “Charles, the king of Spain and the Holy Roman Emperor, will be the guest of France and its great king within a few months’ time.”

François sat back in his chair, a wicked smile of triumph on his wide mouth, as a cacophony of jubilation rose up around him.

“How?” Chabot asked, one of the few quiet voices among the raucous many.

The king leaned in, anxious to tell. “We had learned the emperor soon needs to reach the Netherlands. What swifter path to take than through our lands? Monty saw it for the opportunity it is and began the negotiations. I will issue the formal invitation this very day.”

“But what of Henry?” Chabot continued as the voice of cynicism.

“Ah
oui,
Henry.
Mon ami
Henry,” François said with the far-off look of introspection. “How much I feared him. Once. Now I fear him not at all. He is far too busy killing off his wives and his own people. He cannot see how much it weakens him.”

Chabot would not let it lie. “But if he and the emperor align, it could be catastrophic. We have not the arms to defend ourselves, nor the funds to build such arms.”

François looked upon the admiral with a closed face of skepticism. “The chance of our most pious Charles taking the hand of the sinner Henry is beyond reason.”

“But there is a chance,” Monty interjected. “And all the more reason to court Charles, all the more reason to look upon the emperor’s coming visit as a great triumph.”

Most in attendance agreed, and the acclamation wafted through the room; some men clapped each other on the back, while others broke out in applause. Chabot bit his lips; he had offered Mont-morency fodder for his own cause, something he had not intended to do.

A laughing king gave a nod to La Barre. “I think we are ready,” he instructed, and the chamberlain opened the door.

The horde of those who would hope for the ear of the king congregated far beyond the door and the long staircase leading to it, their fetid body odors, heightened in the heat of high summer, entering the room first. But the pleadings of the door today were unlike any the gentlemen of the court had ever seen, as the king called more and more of the plaintiffs into the chamber, allowing them to approach and beg their case while in the same room.

They would talk of the change in the king and the events about to take place at every table and every salon. Many would learn of it, and they, in turn, would tell others.

*  *  *

The knock upon the door roused her from an afternoon’s slumber, and Geneviève muttered a mild complaint as she crossed to the door, irked at the interruption. Sleep had become an elusive companion, and she felt slighted to have it chased away by a visitor. She opened her door but there was little welcome in the gesture.

“My, but you look a bit of a mess.”

“Lodovico!” Annoyance vanished and Geneviève burst with joy at the sight of her friend. The artist had not made the same journey to Fontainebleau as she, having been sent by the king to capture the image of his sister in Navarre, whom he had not seen in a while.

“Ah, that’s better.” Lodovico laughed as he took her hand, bowed over it, and presented her with an enthusiastic smooch.

Geneviève bobbed a quick curtsy. “I am so pleased to see you. When did you arrive? Will you be staying long?”

She had indeed missed the artist and the flighty, untroubled distraction he afforded her.

“I fear I have come with some disturbing news.” The stick-thin young man barreled his way into her chamber, and plopped himself upon her bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“What? Tell me. Are you to be sent away again?” Geneviève rushed to follow, confused by the strange expression on his narrow face.

“I’m afraid you must resign yourself,
cara
.” He looked up at her with a sad gaze, but a smile broke out across his lips as bright as the morning sun. “I have officially become an
artiste du roi
.”

“Oh, how wonderful, Lodovico. You must be so very pleased.” Geneviève took his hands in hers and gave them a fond squeeze, trying to deny how delighted she herself was, trying not to allow another bittersweet bond to form, but the moment to steel herself had long since passed. She released their embrace and took herself to her vanity chair. “Tell me of your journeys.”

The young man rolled his big eyes camouflaged by the crop of
shaggy hair grown bushier since last she saw him. “Ah,
cara mia,
every court is a mirror of the other—the intrigue, the gossip. The music may be different but the song remains the same.”

His laughter died away on empty air. Lodovico’s lips pursed as he stared at her.

“How do I find thee, Geneviève? I have been so busy posturing about my own greatness, I have yet to ask after you. Have you been unwell?”

Geneviève shook her head and turned away, busying herself with a sudden necessity to straighten the bottles and potions upon her vanity. “No, no, I’m fine. It is … it is a difficult adjustment to this way of life, always on the move, always bustling here and there. It is far different from the life I’ve always led.”

“A better one?”

“How could such a life not be? There is nothing but the finest of everything at the court of King François.”

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, brown eyes scouring her face as he leaned close. “You have become a courtier.”

Geneviève thought to obfuscate, but abandoned the notion; it was not easy to hide from the discerning eye of one who captured the essence of life with brush and paint. “I have. It was what I was sent to do.”

Lodovico straightened, a troubled line forming on the smooth skin beneath the tousled bangs.

“
Si,
it is, but make sure you do not lose yourself in the process.”

“Now that you have returned, I have no fear on that score.” She spun to him then, a sudden thought dawning. “Will you grant me a favor, Lodovico?”

He smiled his charming, boyish smile, pleased to see his friend cheered once more. “Anything for you,
cara
.”

“Will you paint my portrait? A miniature?”

He plunked his hands on his hips, eyes sparkling. “I have been waiting for you to ask.”

*  *  *

Through the many and varied courses, through the astonishing performances, through every moment of the great gala, Geneviève had followed every move of Thomas Cheney, the English ambassador, newly arrived at court. It was in his honor the banquet was named, though all knew it was a celebration of the king’s negotiations with the emperor that lay behind the most splendiferous of events the court had seen in many a month.

Far more dazzling than any great hall, as majestic as the most imperious cathedral, the ballroom of the Château de Fontaine-bleau dazzled the eye; it was the supreme context for the world’s most glamorous nobles. Styled in the manner of an Italian loggia, the open arches covered by rich, colorful frescoes and intricately carved stuccoes, were topped by a coffered ceiling the color of rich chocolate. Though dressed in their finest, replete with jewels, the courtiers were but bits of ornamentation in this exquisite chamber.