To Serve a King (32 page)

With a long, lithe finger, he summoned her around to his side of the desk, and opened the book before him. “Have you ever seen a book with such text?”

Geneviève looked down at the formation of the letters on the page, anchoring her loose pale curls behind both ears. The text was a unique style, with long extending lines and small interior spaces. “No, Sire, I have never seen it. It is quite pleasing to the eye.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, grinning. “Garamond has created it especially for my books.”

He fell into a heavy silence, save for the rasping of his dry skin as his hand rubbed circles on the page.

“Our words, our stories will live long after we’re gone.”

Regret drenched his words; his sorrow held Geneviève captive. He turned and looked upon her, all his truth laid bare. This was not a king, just a man.

“Like you, I find sleep elusive.” He pulled out the chair beside
him, and Geneviève sat, no other action conceivable, and he leaned in close, his chair creaking as he shifted his large form. “The ghosts, they keep me awake.”

“G … ghosts,” Geneviève sputtered, eyes wide, mouth agape. She could well believe the palace was possessed; she had often felt the oppression of angry spirits in the halls, late at night, heard their footsteps or felt the rush of air as they passed her.

He nodded and pushed back the strands of black and gray hair falling across his face. “I have led a selfish, greedy life, and my greed has given birth to them.”

He turned back to the book, began to turn the pages, as if he saw a ghost on each surface, and recounted them.

“The friends I lost in the war and in prison”—he flipped a leaf—“my sons’ youth”—he turned another. “Semblançay groans at me.” He spoke the name of a man he condemned to death. “My strong and proud François.” This one he named for his son, not long dead, poisoned by an Italian. “My … my darling Lily.” His voice broke; his hand trembled on the thin sheet of parchment.

He closed the book with a hard snap and thrust it from him. “Every one of them dead, because of me.” François turned to her as if she would confirm or deny it, his face twisted and malformed, scourged with grief, eyes flooded with tears.

Please stop,
she wanted to beg him.
Do not take me into your confidence, do not take me into your heart, for my own cannot bear it.

“You did your duty as a king to his country,” she whispered, compelled.

He shook his head back and forth so hard his whole body moved with the force. “No, no. It was my need for my own brilliance, to feed my own ego. Greed made me weak and my weakness infected us all. My country would have prospered had I simply treated it with loving care.”

He pushed against the arms of his chair as though to stand, looking as if he would run from the room, ghosts snipping at his
heels. His hands slipped from the perch, his shoulders curled and slumped, and he dropped back upon the seat.

“Lily, oh my Lily.” He whispered his daughter’s name, his Madeleine whom he called his flower, Lily, dead less than two years, a weak and sickly woman who lasted no more than a few months after her marriage to the king of Scotland, after leaving her father’s court for the coldness of her husband’s land. “She was so fragile. I knew it was wrong, knew it. I do not think I can bear to live without her.” He grabbed the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as if he would break off a piece of it, hanging his head between his trembling arms.

Geneviève turned from the ravaging sight, her own frustration pounding in her head. Would that a father trembled with love for her, that such a man existed, willing to give away his life for her own. The pain of the wanting dug a hole in her gut and tears for them both filled her eyes. A sob stuck in her throat.

She turned back to the grieving man, his shoulders shaking with his sobs, his hands trembling upon the varnished wood. Little by little, she reached out and laid her fingers upon the age-spotted skin. His fingers clutched at hers, the lifeline of a drowning man, and held.

21

If you grant to your soul all the things it covets,

it will pay you back in your enemy’s satisfaction.

—Ignatius de Loyola (1491–1556)

A
nne sat at her writing table; haphazard piles of parchment, unanswered letters, and lists of tasks to prepare the palace for the visit of the Holy Roman Emperor covered the top of the finely carved
bureau-plat,
mounted on the H-shaped stretcher. The duchesse stared vacantly down at the chaos, her gaze vague and unfocused, her ladies’ questions ignored and unanswered.

“I need to speak with Madame Arceneau,” Anne said, an un-tethered remark that silenced all other conversation.

Béatrice was the first to react. At last recovered from the illness that had plagued her through the summer, she was anxious to be of service to her mistress once again. “Of course, madame, I will accompany you.”

“No, no, bring her to me,” Anne commanded brusquely. “I have no time to scamper about the palace.”

Béatrice dropped a quick curtsy at the harsh imperative and ran for the door, Sybille fast on her heels.

“Thank you,
ma chérie”
Anne called, recanting her own callousness. Béatrice replied with a grateful smile upon her gaunt face and the two women scuttled from the room.

Geneviève squeezed the needle in her hand; not one stitch had she taken since the mention of the soothsayer. She scoured her mind for any reason to be gone from the chamber before the mystic made her appearance, but nothing of any credence came to mind. She and Arabelle alone remained with the duchesse. Jece-lyn and Lisette were already off on Anne’s errands—delivering a lengthy note to the
grand maître de d’hôtel
concerning the menu for the finicky Charles V, asking the
maréchaux des logis
about the state of the visitor’s rooms. Geneviève had no choice but to remain should another such task crop up; she prayed that one would, and soon.

Anne knew the queen would be busy with similar arrangements, certain that in many cases their instructions would contradict each other. She also knew with confidence that hers would take precedence, and the success of this visit weighed heavily upon her slim shoulders. There was little question who was the mistress of the king’s heart and his castle.

Geneviève stuck the needle into the thick fabric of the pillow coverlet; Anne had launched the project to make gifts for the emperor, and the ladies stitched night and day to complete the task in time. If current negotiations held, the emperor would arrive in less than two months. Geneviève pulled the thick magenta floss through the sumptuous ecru fabric, her stitches crooked and awkwardly plied. She jumped at the sound of every footstep as it neared the door, cringed at every voice slithering through the cracks.

“Where in heaven’s name are they?” Anne’s patience had thinned with every tick of the clock, so many had sounded since the cousins set off on their errand. She slapped her hand upon the table, papers flying up in the breeze, Arabelle and Geneviève recoiling in fright.

“Madame Arceneau does not move very well.” Arabelle made the excuse, a flimsy one at best.

Anne gave it no consideration. “Geneviève,” she barked, “see if
you can find my mystic and my maids. Perhaps you will have better efficiency in seeing to my wishes.”

All the moisture in Geneviève’s mouth evaporated and her tongue caught on the dryness. She gave herself a mental kick, chiding herself to be careful what she prayed for, always. “I … uh …
oui
… but—”

“Madame!” The door burst open, pounding against the inside wall with a stony crack.

Béatrice grabbed it as it dared to kick back upon her and her sister, hanging onto it as she gasped for breath. Sybille hung upon her sister’s arm, her other hand on her heaving chest.

“What? What is it?” Anne rushed forward; only bad news came on such panting tongues as these.

“She’s … gone …,” Béatrice groaned.

Anne’s face puckered. “Gone? Who is gone?” Her green eyes gaped with comprehension. “Madame Arceneau is gone? Gone where?”

“No one knows, madame,” Sybille said, recovering faster than her sister did. “All her clothes, all her possessions, are gone as well. Her room has been stripped clean.”

Arabelle and Geneviève exchanged stunned glances. Gene-viève dropped her stitching, squeezing her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white.

Béatrice picked up the story. “She has moved on with but a cursory note to her sister that she is well, that everything has worked out as she hoped, but she has chosen to start a new life in another town.”

“Which town? Where?” Anne prodded, disbelief and aggravation a double edge in her tone.

“The note did not say,” Sybille replied.

Anne stood immobilized, a seething statue.

“How very bizarre,” Arabelle mumbled as she leaned toward Geneviève.

Her own mouth agape, her tongue vacant of coherent speech,
Geneviève nodded in agreement. The woman who posed the greatest threat to her had now vanished, and in such a way as to bring none of the mystic’s threat to bear. It was astounding, too astounding. Geneviève tried to imagine all the possible explanations, but one word—one name—rang out again and again. Sebas-tien.

“This can go on no longer.” Giuseppe stood with arms akimbo before the gathering of musicians that included his brother, his foot tapping with flagrant impatience.

Geneviève tossed her gaze his way, balking with surprise. The young handsome man appeared as normal, pale skin topped by raven curls, but this night his lips were black, as if he had decided to try his hand at cosmetics, with disastrous results.

Eliodoro batted innocent eyes as he clamped his lips between his teeth, fighting against the laughter bubbling in his throat at the sight of his brother’s indignant, comical face.

“I do not know of what you speak,” he managed to eke out, but the blush across his ruddy complexion told another tale.

“You have inked my wine!” Giuseppe launched himself across the chairs at his annoying sibling.

Eliodoro jumped to his feet, chair flying out behind him, fists raised, ready to defend himself. “You stole my clothes!” he countered with his own indictment, and lunged.

Fellow musicians jumped between them, pulling the brothers apart before the fight was engaged.

“Behave yourselves,” the hautbois player admonished with a roll of his eyes, as if he were their appalled parent.

On any other night Geneviève would have delighted in the antics of the feuding siblings, would have pulled up a chair to watch them as she would any of their other performances, but not tonight. Tonight she could think of nothing but finding Sebastien, to learn if he had anything to do with the disappearance of Anne’s mystic.

She had not seen him in many a day, their duties keeping them apart, but she could wait no longer. She wanted answers, desperate to know if he had had anything to do with the disappearance of Madame Arceneau. It was like a gift from God, but Geneviève’s cynicism feared the ease of attainment and did not trust it, feared the price such a lagniappe would reap. If Sebastien had done anything to precipitate the woman’s leave-taking, his actions might serve to exacerbate the situation, and Geneviève feared what repercussions they would bring.

Geneviève searched the packed room, circling the perimeter like a soldier on parade, then skirting between the tables, swerving between the hundreds of courtiers grouped together, eating and drinking, their laughter raucous in her ears like the condemning caw of perturbed crows.

“Monsieur!” Geneviève shrieked a bit as she found and grabbed onto the arm of Sebastien’s friend Dureau. “Have you seen Se-bastien?”

“
Bonsoir,
Geneviève.” The young cavalier bowed in genuine greeting, but Geneviève would not be deterred by pleasantries.

“Is Sebastien here?”

Dureau nodded, head swiveling about on broad shoulders. “
Oui
. He was standing right here.” He rose on tiptoe to search above the heads of the crowd around them, amber eyes flitting from face to face. “Ah, there he is.”

Geneviève followed the man’s outstretched finger, seeing the dark hair and ruddy complexion of the face she had searched for at the far side of the room.

“
Merci,
Dureau,” she said with another grateful squeeze of his arm, but scurried off without awaiting his reply.

Geneviève tumbled through the crowd, the hunter intent on the prey through a thickly treed forest.

“Sebastien!” she called at the very moment the mischievous musicians surrendered their petty bickering and struck up a rousing song. Her voice was lost in the crescendo.

She neared him and he turned, as if sensing her approach, and his face broke into an expression of pure joy—eyes crinkled, dimples deepened as his mouth spread wide.

“Geneviève!” He held out his hands and she caught them. “How wonderful to see you. I have missed you so.” He kissed her on both cheeks, impervious to the prying gazes of the courtiers around them or the crestfallen expression of the marquis de Limoges by his side.

The opening chords of the song gave way to the melody, and a cheer rose up through the crowd.

“A
farandole,
” Sebastien cried. “Come. We must dance.”

Geneviève shook her head, pulling back on the strong arms leading her to the center of the vast room. “No, Sebastien. I must speak with you.”

“Yes, of course.” He smiled dashingly. “After.”

Geneviève tried to resist but failed, unwilling to cause a scene by running off the dance floor. They clasped hands with the people beside them and launched into the spirited circle dance. Geneviève completed the steps with precision, as she always did, but with little joy. Sebastien’s grin slithered off his face when he saw the furrow between her eyes, the downward turn to the delicate curve of her lips.