To Serve a King (34 page)
“Thank you, sir.” Geneviève raised her pale brows in irritation disguised as surprise. “You honor me.”
She studied the other women her age flitting about the room; perhaps she did not giggle enough, or flirt enough. Perhaps her affectation was not as well done as it should have been.
Monty tossed aside her gratitude to return to his purpose. “I know there has been much talk this night of the betrayer in our midst. But I have not heard anything from you.”
The urge to vomit threatened to strangle Geneviève. “I d-do not have anything to say on the matter.”
The man narrowed his gaze. “Is that because you refuse to be a gossipmonger or because you know nothing?”
“Monsieur?” Geneviève’s voice squeaked, unsure of what he asked of her.
“I want to know, mam’selle”—he whispered now—“if, with your keen eye, you have seen anyone suspicious in the company of your lady?”
Geneviève shook her head, unable to conjure the correct answer, the right words to alleviate any shadow of discovery from falling her way.
Montmorency scowled. “Have any newcomers made themselves known to you, perhaps one without family or long-standing connection with the court?” He badgered her now. “Someone with no other family here?”
“No, monsieur, no one comes to mind.” Geneviève thought of nothing but denial. She squirmed in her seat, certain every eye in the room studied them.
The hefty man sat back with an unsatisfied sniff, and took the last sip of his beverage. “Then I would ask a favor of you.”
Geneviève raised her shoulders to her ears. “I am at your service, sir.”
“You will keep your eyes and ears open and tell me should anything of consequence come to your attention.” Montmorency put his empty goblet on the table between them and slipped to the edge of his seat, ready to take his investigation to the next person on his list.
“Of course, monsieur.” Geneviève bowed at the waist, eager for his departure, ready to agree to anything to expedite it.
“Bon,”
he said with finality, rose, and took one step away.
Geneviève took in a great gulp of air. The chancellor spun back and she held it tight in her lungs.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle. I realize something.” He hovered over her like a craggy mountain perched aloft the pale valley. “The very credentials I have applied to the potential conspirator could be applied to you. I hope I have not offended?”
Geneviève glared up at the man. He had called her intuitive, yet she had no idea if his concern was genuine or an intelligent ruse.
“No, monsieur, no offense has been taken.”
“That is well, then,” he said and turned away, striding off without a second glance at her.
Geneviève’s mind screamed with alarm, paranoia tainting every thought. Did the grand master’s words hold some inner meaning? Were they intended as a warning or a test of her reactions? She was certain only of her growing uncertainty.
It was an act of desperation, as illogical as the panic strangling her so decisively. Sending a message to the English king when every eye in France searched for a traitor and a spy was madness, but she was indeed insane with fear. For the first time, Geneviève was grateful for her inability to sleep, for only in the dead of night could she take the time to create her most covert message yet.
It had been little more than two weeks since she had received her last missive from the land across the channel, but she remembered its directives well. The apothecary in the bustling town surrounding
the castle was her next contact; she had thought to bring any message there herself, concealing it amidst a list of articles she wished to purchase, but she did not dare wander from court. No, she would create the message but use one of the many servants of the palace to deliver it and acquire the items; it was an errand they ran many times through the course of every day. It was a natural part of court life and would garner no undue attention.
The message itself was not so simply done; Geneviève had to take every precaution, use all the knowledge of ciphering at her disposal.
As soon as Carine had left her for the night, she gathered the small bottles onto her dressing table, pushing aside the cosmetics and perfumes with a clank and a clatter of glass bottles and ceramic trinket boxes. She would compose the message using the more complex alphanumeric code, and she would do so with invisible ink.
She mixed the small dose of white wine with a few drops of vinegar and a few squeezes of lemon, the acidic odors burning her nostrils. Stirring the concoction with a small spoon, the
click, click, click
of the tiny silver utensil upon the thin glass blared in the hush of the dimly lit chamber. Hunched over the table, Geneviève picked up the water and the dropper and raised her hands over the bottle. She gritted her teeth, willing away the quiver in her hands. Here was the most important step in the concoction; too much water and the message would disappear, too little and it would appear before the intended recipient warmed the paper and turned the invisible words to light brown. She pushed the fear from her mind and focused, taking herself back to the hours she had spent practicing, formulating this very recipe.
Geneviève dropped the instruments on the table and sat back, heaving a ragged sigh. The mixture was perfect; she was certain of it. Now for the message.
She laid the sheets of parchment before her and began to write, first with quill and ink. Here she listed all the ingredients for a
headache remedy, and one to relieve the pains of a woman’s monthly courses. Putting that list aside, she took up another parchment and her concoction, but on this one she used the tip of her little finger to form the triplets of numbers, leaving behind no telltale scratch marks that would alert a vigilant gaze to the hidden message. She filled the parchment with the code, the message reiterating all she had done for the king’s cause and asking for the sanctuary that had been promised, and waited for it to dry, staring at the vanishing wetness, willing the depth of her appeal to imbed itself upon the drying fluid. Once the code vanished, she would camouflage it a second time, writing another meaningless shopping list over the message, but this time, underlining some words to indicate this page held the cipher.
As the words disappeared, faces began to appear in her mind—Arabelle’s and Sebastien’s, those of Anne and King François himself, and she was not taken by surprise to see them. There was loss for her, no matter which direction she turned; she must follow the less dangerous course, though it may be the less desired.
Dirty water will quench fire.
—Italian proverb
T
he pale, bleak light of dawn beckoned and she was grateful for its call. She feared walking through the night as she had done so often in these past weeks, feared her nocturnal prowling would now be taken as some type of evil assignation. Geneviève threw her russet velvet cloak over her simple morning gown of marigold linen and crept from her room, slipping out of the palace as servants stirred, cleaning the refuse from the night before, preparing the food and clothing for another long day, and stoking the fires in the cool grates.
Geneviève stepped out into the Cour Ovale and her breath streamed up from between her lips, thin vapors released into the chilly morning breeze. Throwing the gabled hood over her platinum plaits, she quit the courtyard through the east opening and circled around to the stables and the sloping lawns of the large garden.
Animals stirred in their pens, horses neighed as they nuzzled their morning hay, and groomsmen stretched away the stiffness of the night with great groans. Geneviève wandered along the length of the barns and the tack rooms, mindless of any destination, wanting
no more than to be away from the palace and the thick tension inhabiting every room, the wagging tongues filling the château with their grating noise.
Low fog clung to the ground, unwilling to give way, a reluctant departing lover’s embrace, and Geneviève squinted in the dimness to see the path in front of her. The small, off-kilter, gray wooden door of the back barn came into view at the same time that she heard the creak of its hinges, but she paid little heed, until the petite woman stepped from its threshold.
Traipsing out into the watery light, hands up and rustling in her hair, the well-dressed, curvaceous young lady fidgeted with the pins as she tried to force the plain brown lengths back into the semblance of a smooth coiffure. Geneviève’s steps faltered; she scrunched her eyes, trying to see through the morning fog.
The woman giggled and Geneviève knew without doubt that it was the merry Lisette; her laughter was as brightly distinctive as the woman herself. She opened her lips to call Lisette’s name when thick hands and black hairy arms reached out of the portal to encircle the small woman’s waist and pull her back in.
The name died on Geneviève’s tongue as she watched Lisette lean into the embrace. Geneviève floundered feverishly for a hiding place, her head spinning back and forth, searching for a place of refuge to ogle the woman and her lover without being seen. The face of the statue off to her left pointed in the other direction, and Geneviève took it as a sign. Grabbing her skirts, she scurried away, praying the embracing lovers would not notice her movement.
She threw herself against the far side of the sculpture, took two deep, steadying breaths, and leaned her head ever so slightly around the cold curve of white marble. From this angle, she could see Lisette clearly from behind, lengths of her disheveled hair cascading down her back, and onto her crumpled maroon silk gown. The petite woman stood on tiptoes, her head tilted up, her lips reaching upward for the man who gathered her into his strong
arms. Bent attentively to his lover’s lips, the man’s face remained concealed; only the long, wavy brown hair falling around his head was visible as he leaned over Lisette. Their kiss deepened, passion and tenderness laid bare in every fluid movement of their heads and each brush of their lips and lick of their tongues. With another breathless giggle, Lisette pulled unwillingly away.
“I must go,
mon cher
.” She put her dainty hand upon the man’s chest, unable to retreat without one last caress.
The man raised his head then, and Geneviève beheld her first glimpse of his face. Swarthy and chiseled, his features were masculine, intriguingly handsome. She had never seen him before, she was sure of it, positive she would have remembered such a face had she seen it. He must be a newcomer to court.
Geneviève swiveled back behind the sanctity of the statue, thrust against the cold stone with the force of her discovery. A newcomer, the very sort Constable Montmorency had asked her to look for. But she had no name to give to the chancellor, no person to indict. She could tell him no more than what she had seen, for there was no better defense than the accusation of another. But to do so would implicate Lisette.
With a quick peek around the stone woman who stood guard above her—one swift glance confirmed the lady-in-waiting continued to lavish her affectionate good-byes on her lover—Geneviève turned and ran in the opposite direction, away from the palace and into the woods surrounding the sloping lawns of the garden.
She caught herself up on the fattest tree, resting her back on its far side, leaning against it as she recovered her breath. Geneviève willed herself to calm; only with cold calculations could she make this work without harming innocent people. Her breath steadied and she pushed herself off the tree. Trekking through the foliage, crunching the fallen brown leaves beneath her feet, she conjured her course.
The constable did not seek her out for information, she was sure of it; he intended to gauge her own loyalties by her willingness
to be part of the investigation, and that she would be. If she told him no more than what she had seen, there would be no accusation, only the gesture of a loyal and vigilant subject of the king of France. The chancellor would investigate the man, find nothing, and then both he and Lisette would be free from all suspicion, as would she. Without proof, there could be no prosecution; with her cooperation, there could be no supposition. It was the perfect plan.
Geneviève watched as Montmorency fired arrow after arrow upon the archery butts, each one zinging off the string, the sound piercing the air, and striking its target with precision, shattering the plaster discs into smithereens. His prowess as a statesman had evolved through years upon the battlefield, and the adept soldier he once was echoed in the movements of the aging diplomat. Geneviève had rarely seen the chancellor on the practice ground, though she came often. Two men trained at the far left end of the grassy knoll, while the chancellor stood alone on the right. It was the perfect opportunity, and she seized it.
“Perhaps you might show me your method for such rapid fire, monsieur.” Geneviève approached the constable after a few missed shots of her own; a calculated move.
The beady-eyed man sniffed as he turned from the field. “I find it hard to believe you should look to me for advice, mademoiselle. I have seen you shoot.” There was no mistaking the respect in the man’s voice, tainted though it may be with a hard edge of rancor.
Geneviève shimmied up to the firing line with an insistent shake of her head and said, loud enough for the others to hear, “No, monsieur, I eagerly welcome your tutelage.” As she stepped up beside him she whispered, “I have something I would like to share with you.”
Montmorency heard the urgency in her simple statement; he stared at her agog for an instant, flicking his gaze up to the two men standing at the other end of the line to see if they had heard her furtive whisper.
“Then it would be dishonorable of me as a gentleman not to share my knowledge with you, mademoiselle,” he said, loud and stiff, a bad actor thrust unwillingly upon the stage. “Show me your stance.”
