To Serve a King (28 page)

As she entered the circle of Sebastien’s arms, as she felt the thrill found there—the memories they invoked, the promises they offered—Geneviève’s stare followed the stick-thin, angular ambassador about the great hall. How adulterous she felt as she danced with the dashing guard, as if she betrayed Henry by finding pleasure in another man’s arms, as if having the Englishman in their midst would reveal her perfidy to his king, or behavior she perceived as perfidy.

There had been other such moments for Geneviève and Se-bastien since the first magical night beneath the tree, and yet her agony over her actions would not yield. No matter how often she argued with herself that pleasure had little to do with loyalty, the nagging guilt pecked away at her like a crow upon a dead, rotting carcass along the side of a deserted road. Her feelings for Se-bastien, her loyalty to Henry, her changing impressions of François raged a battle within her, the war the most rampant when alone at night, and she found little ease in slumber.

“Would you care for some wine,
ma chérie?
” Sebastien asked with a bow as the rousing
volte
came to a close.

Geneviève began to nod, but the motion became a shake as the orchestra struck the slow, ponderous notes of a somber
pavane
.

“Will you pardon me, Sebastien?” Already she walked away from him. Rumor held the Englishman was not much of a dancer and only took part in the less vigorous of dances. Here was her chance and she would not let it pass. “I have promised the duchesse to partner the ambassador, and I see he is at his leisure.”

Montmorency and the queen had stepped away from Cheney, and for the moment, he stood alone. Geneviève scampered across the room before another captured his attention, Sebastien’s words of regretful forgiveness fading away behind her.

“My lord,” she called out in that most English of greetings as her prey began to step away.

The tall man stopped and turned, eyebrows rising on his pasty white face.

“Mademoiselle?” He bowed as he spied Geneviève’s flustered approach.

“Gravois,” she informed him. She did not expect him to know the name. Her identity was secret to all save the king, Henry had assured her time and time again, and the convoluted streams of communication between them—cryptic messages passed between four or five hands before reaching each other—guaranteed it. “Would you care for a dance, sir?” Geneviève curtsied as she reached him, hiding the flush of her forward actions.

Taken aback, Cheney sputtered with an inelegant accent to his simple French. “I … well … I … but, of course, if you wish. It will be my pleasure, Mademoiselle Gravois.” His whiny tone made it clear that it was not his pleasure at all, but it would be unseemly to deny a lady of the king’s court.

The odd pair strode onto the dance floor and took their place at the end of the slow-moving line of couples. The stiff ambassador led her through the simple steps—three forward then one back, one forward then two back—with little grace.

“You have recently come from your own court, monsieur?” Geneviève asked with all the feigned casualness she could muster.

“I have,” Cheney responded, pale blue eyes fixed upon his feet and the intricately configured parquet floor, as if to move his gaze would surely send him spilling upon the multicolored wood squares.

“And how is your king? Well, I hope?”

“King Henry is not much himself these days,” Cheney responded without thought, too distracted by his own awkwardness to guard his tongue.

Geneviève frowned at the nebulous response. “Whatever do you mean?”

The ambassador shrugged his pointy shoulders. “Do not misunderstand me, mademoiselle. King Henry is a powerful ruler who has done a great deal for his country. But I am afraid his health and his recent … disappointments have left him in foul temper. To say he takes it out on his courtiers would be to state the case mildly.”

“You mean to say he treats them badly?” Geneviève wanted to stop where they stood and shake the man until he gave her details. Then she remembered he was a diplomat, a master of speaking much and saying little.

“I would never say such a thing at all. But he … he keeps us on our toes, demanding no less effort than that which he is willing to give himself.” There was more to his prettily phrased words; it rang in the sudden sharp edge in his voice.

“I am sure his insistence is to honor a worthy cause,” Geneviève said as the pair dipped at the end of the line and turned to the left, where the couple before them had gone right, to return to the beginning of the promenade.

“A king’s glory is always considered a worthy cause, at least by the king.”

Geneviève fell silent as she mulled his words.

“But why so many questions about my king, mademoiselle?” Cheney asked, daring to take his eyes off the dance floor.

Geneviève smiled her muted, courtly smile. “Would you believe I saw him once? Oh, it was a very long time ago.” She had expected the question and had the answer well rehearsed, yet she had not foreseen how hard she would have to work to keep the disappointment from her voice. “I was a very little girl at my father’s side at the field where my king met yours, where the great golden tents rose up in the air. I remember your king.” Here she giggled with practice. “Though I suppose I remember his grandness and bright hair the most—they would be the most memorable to a wee child.”

“A delightful story.” Cheney was charmed, as intended, with no more thoughts as to the bounds of her curiosity.

The slow song came to its end and Geneviève dropped his hand before the last note faded away.

“Thank you, monsieur.” Geneviève dipped a shallow curtsy, hands fisted into tight balls by her side, and turned on her heel. She left the ambassador bewildered by her brusque dismissal, but she paid him no further heed. She had come to him in search of the fortifying testimony she craved, for the words of a regal and righteous king to bring her back into focus. Instead, she had gotten nothing but more confusion, and the company of this festive crowd chafed her like a scratchy wool cloak. She quit the room with imprudent haste, under more than one concerned and discerning gaze. At this moment, Geneviève longed for nothing so much as to be gone from this court, this life, this world, and she ran as if to escape it all.

19

A slight flame comes out of the emptiness and

makes successful that which should not be believed in vain.

—Michel de Nostredame (Nostradamus) (1503–1566)

“W
hat do you mean, I cannot see the king?” The duchesse d’É tam pes stood toe-to-toe with the m amm oth halberdier who stood at the door between waiting room and council chamber. Though the man had no doubt seen the ravages of many a battlefield, he squirmed beneath this powerful woman’s wrath, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.

“My apologies, Madame la Duchesse, but the king has insisted he not be disturbed.”

Anne crossed her thin arms over her chest, porcelain skin mottled by fiery splotches. “I am quite sure the order did not extend to me.”

The soldier pinched his lips as if to seal them forever. “No one is to disturb him. Those were my orders.”

The heat of outrage wafted off the woman in waves, as if to scorch everyone around her. Thwarted, Anne snarled once more at the soldier—bestial, with dire threat—and huffed over to the small grouping of chairs, dropping onto an embroidered cushion like a stone.

With a shared roll of their eyes, Geneviève, Arabelle, and Sybille
took their posts around their infuriated mistress, knowing if she did not find satisfaction soon, they would feel the sharp edge of her ire.

“Oh, good Lord,” Sybille muttered, and her company followed her gaze to the room’s entry.

On the threshold stood the Dauphin; by his side, as always, Diane de Poitiers.

Anne rose to her feet, as she must to greet Henri, though it pained her greatly.

“Bonjour, Majesté.”
She dipped him a fine curtsy.

“Madame,” Henri countered with a graceful side tilt and short bow of his head.

The women’s gazes met, equally impervious. Without a word, each gave the other a most perfunctory obeisance.

“I wish to see my father.” Anne forgotten, or perhaps ignored, Henri approached the guard, as had the duchesse.

With a bow, the soldier—by now cursing the name of the man who put him on duty that day—turned the king’s son away as he had the king’s mistress.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, but the king insists he not be disturbed. By anyone.”

Henri scowled, as he had most of his life.

“Madame la Duchesse already awaits him,” the soldier offered, as if to deflect any further reprimands from the Dauphin.

Diane’s eyes flashed with a devious glint. “Then we should wait as well.” She leaned toward her lover as if to speak confidentially, but it was intimacy for appearance’s sake; she wanted Anne to hear.

With a nod of agreement, Henri followed her to the settee across from Anne. There was little mistaking the salacious grin of satisfaction on Diane’s face. Tension choked the room; Geneviève opened her fan, unable to breathe in the stifling air. Like combatants across a battlefield, the two groups sat, neither attempting to breach the silence with polite conversation.

Diane and Henri whispered between themselves, the woman’s laughter grating on Anne’s already strained nerves.

Sybille tried time and again to distract her cousin with conversation, but the frustrated duchesse would have none of it, answering with one-word grunts.

“I hear Monsieur de Gonzaga has returned from his moth—”

The latch clicked, the door inched open, and the anxious bevy in the waiting room jumped to their feet, as if they would rush the door to be the first to enter.

But no one moved, all progress denied in the face of those who came to the threshold.

Catherine de’ Medici wore a smile on her plump face the likes of which few had seen in many a day. Henri stiffened to see his wife leaving his father’s inner council chamber. Any smugness on the haughty features of La Grande Sénéschale’s face disappeared as if scrubbed away with a rough cloth.

“Good day to you, Your Highness.” Catherine curtsied and crossed into the waiting room, her step faltering at the sight of the group awaiting her. It took her but a moment’s recovery for her surprise to turn into hauteur.

“I thank you, Catherine, and you, monsieur.”

Though he was not visible, the king’s deep baritone inched out into the room, full of sincere congeniality and gratitude.

Anne and Henri shared a look of concern; there was enough of a struggle vying for the king’s favor; they had no wish to share it with Catherine or whomever she had brought to meet François.

All such considerations were forgotten when the man stepped into the room. Geneviève felt her breath hitch in her chest, and one quick glance at those around her revealed they felt the same sudden rush of apprehension.

The tall young man wore the all-black cloak of an apothecary or physician, a four-horned black felt hat upon his long face. His presence filled the room, a spirit not to be ignored or denied.

“Husband.” Catherine paid greeting to Henri, ignoring the woman who stood by his side.

The Dauphin responded with a silent bow. “Pray introduce us to your companion.”

“Oh, of course, wherever are my manners,” Catherine responded with effusive politeness. Turning to the man by her side, she gave name to the nobles in the room.

The enigmatic man greeted each with a very deep, very silent bow.

Catherine held the stage with great superiority. “And this is Monsieur Michel de Nostredame.”

The name meant nothing to them, but it seemed as if it should.

“Welcome to court, monsieur,” the Dauphin said.

“
Merci,
Your Highness.” The raspy voice was thick with secrets.

“What brings you to the palace?” There was little polite equivocation to Anne’s query.

The intense gaze turned to the duchesse and Geneviève felt the onslaught of it as she stood beside her.

“I am a guest of the Dauphine’s,” Nostredame replied, giving no real answer.

Henri’s smooth brow crinkled. “I see. And what—”

“Come, monsieur.” Catherine stepped upon her husband’s words mercilessly. “We must be off. There is much to do this day.”

If she had intended her words to incite further concern, the future queen of France could not have done any better.

The apprehensive assemblage watched the odd pair until they turned into the corridor and out of their sight. As if in a dance, all eyes turned back to the king, poised in the doorway; all hearts beat quicker at the enraptured look upon the aging sovereign’s face.

“Bonjour, mesdames.”
The king entered Anne’s spacious presence chamber as the morning sun began its climb to midday, its rays finding no flesh as it streamed in the gaping wall-length windows. The ladies had run from its scorching touch, hiding in the
shadowy, cooler corners of the vast room. The fingers of the fiery orb found nothing more than robin’s egg blue and sunflower tile, matched in the rich fabric on the walls, walls graced by the long, tapering limbs of the caryatids that flanked the gilded artwork.

The royal wing of the château consisted of two pavilions joined by a gallery. Like those of the king himself, the rooms of the duchesse d’Étampes were found in the Pavillon des Armes. François had had them designed to her unique and elegant tastes, and they rivaled those of any queen.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.” The ladies rose and curtsied. Anne moved to her lover’s side, her sage silk and the layers of taffeta beneath rustling as she skittered on her tiny, ribbon-festooned slippers.

“You look luminous,
ma chérie
.” The king bowed over her hand and brushed his full lips across her flesh. “I burn with your touch. It was a night I will always remember.”