To Serve a King (42 page)

“I am quite well. A bit restless, if truth be told, bored by the idleness of the past few days.” Carine dove into work with enthusiasm, emptying Geneviève’s trunks, separating the gowns needing an airing and a pressing from those soiled beyond repair.

“Shall I have a bath drawn for you, or would you rather rest for a while?” Carine asked.

“A bath sounds perfect, thank you, Carine. I am more sore than tired from so many hours in the saddle.”

“Then be so kind as to tell me all about your trip, mam’selle. What was Calais like? Is it as beautiful as they say? Were the people nice? Were there any handsome men about?”

Geneviève chuckled again, but strove to answer each one of her twittering maid’s questions, removing her own riding boots as Carine worked, too anxious for her toes to be unbound to wait for her maid’s assistance.

“What a magnificent casket. I do not remember packing this.” Carine’s hands caressed the large rectangular box of tooled, thatched leather she retrieved from the bottom of Geneviève’s trunk, the bright afternoon light shimmering on the glossy russet finish. “Did you purchase it in Calais, mam’selle?”

Geneviève lurched up and crossed the room as if thrust by a cannon, snatching the chest from her maid’s hands with rude brusqueness. “Yes … yes, I had forgotten about it.”

Carine stared up at her mistress, empty hands aloft in the air.

Geneviève turned away, shoulders curling over the chest clasped firmly in her hands, like a miser over his pot of gold. She had never seen the unique casket before. It must have been put in her trunk while in Calais; it could be from Henry and no other.

“Perhaps you are right, Carine. Perhaps it would be best if I took some rest after all.” Geneviève placed the small chest on her bedside table and pretended to ignore it as she plopped herself
down upon the bed. “It seems I am more tired than I first imagined.”

Carine came to stand by her, watching cautiously as Geneviève rubbed her forehead.

“Are you well, mam’selle?” she asked tremulously, wary at Geneviève’s abrupt change in temperament.

Geneviève did her best to offer Carine an assuring smile, taking the young woman’s hand and giving it a playful shake. “I am well as can be for someone who has traveled many leagues and back again in a matter of days. The fatigue has come upon me with the relief of homecoming. That is all, I swear.”

“Then I shall leave you to your rest,” Carine agreed, but did not quit the room until she had seen Geneviève tucked tenderly under the soft coverlet and the curtains drawn against the glare of the afternoon sun.

The door at last clicked shut behind her, and yet Geneviève lay utterly inert beneath the covers of her bed, listening to the small fire crackle and pop in the grate and the voices that ebbed and flowed outside her door. If she never moved, if she never opened the chest, then she would never receive his message. Perhaps she could stay thus and hide forever.

But she knew such a fantasy could not become reality; sooner or later her truth would find her and do its bidding.

Geneviève thrust the covers from her body and spun upon the mattress, staring at the casket upon the table as if it were offensive. She imagined throwing it upon the fire, unopened, the leather and all it held disintegrating in the hungry flames. In that moment, the tide of her heart turned toward France and she would sell her soul to the devil to ride it into shore.

Her hands balled into fists as she struggled, but the misguided teachings of her youth and the first wound in her heart ruled victorious. She picked up the box, placed it upon the bed, and opened it.

Leaning over, Geneviève peeked into its depths, inhaling the
smell of leather and wood released from the confines. Two smaller boxes sat within the larger one and on their tops sat a folded golden piece of parchment. She deciphered the message with haste, wanting the deed done. Upon this paper were two lines, one each to describe the contents of the smaller boxes.

Geneviève swallowed back the bitter tears as she retrieved and opened them. In the first, a miniature unsigned landscape of some unknown place, but by the technique of the brushstroke and uniqueness of hue she knew: It was her father’s work. She had seen others like it in her aunt’s home. She laid the palm-sized square gingerly upon the coverlet and reached back into the casket, hand trembling over the second box. Steeling herself, she snatched at it and opened it, as if pulling a binding from an open wound.

The sapphires glittered up at her; one large teardrop suspended by the three round ones. She had seen this magnificent piece of jewelry many, many times; seen the eyes hovering above that matched the color so perfectly, but only in a portrait. This was the very necklace her mother wore in the miniature she had treasured since childhood. One hand caressed the jewels as she would her mother’s face; her head dropped heavily into the other.

When the wave of grief passed, as Geneviève made to hide her new belongings and the casket in which they came, she looked once more into it. On the very bottom of the chest, as if no more than an afterthought, lay another parchment.

With a tired hand, Geneviève transcribed the cipher. With a heavy heart, she accepted the fate awaiting her.

The time to avenge them has come. Take your action while the emperor visits. The blame will fall upon him and his people. Set yourself free. Come to me. Henry R

She fell asleep with her mother’s necklace warm against her chest and her father’s painting clutched in her hand. It was a deep, exhausted sleep.

*  *  *

But the escape of slumber did not last long. Like a jagged edge of shattering glass, the voices in her head began to scream once more, their arguing haunting her as they had for so long now. She sat up, one hand over each ear as if to muffle the incessant screeching. Geneviève would do anything to shut them up once and for all. She would do what she must.

The tide turned back.

30

Shallow men speak of the past;

wise men of the present;

and fools of the future.

—Madame Marie du Deffand (1697–1780)

T
he entire country groomed itself, washing away dirt ignored for years, sprucing up what had grown disheveled, and donning itself in its best finery; there was no greater urgency for tidying up than the anticipation of visitors.

King François dictated every facet of the preparations with a meticulous eye, but his body failed to keep up; the weakness laid him low once more and tethered him to his bed. He ignored the resurgence of illness as best he could, working from his privy chamber as candles gutted and their light flickered and waved in their last bursts of life.

The sputtering light cast unbecoming shadows on Montmorency’s unattractive face as he stood at the king’s bedside, the heavy velvet navy blue curtains drawn back and tied with gold tas-seled ropes. Monty’s tight jaw flinched with growing impatience.

“You are sure the instructions were clearly writ and properly dispersed?” François asked for the fifth time that day, his legs rustling under the silk linens, hitching himself higher upon the blue and gold bolsters at his back.

Montmorency bit the inside of his cheek—better that than to
roll his eyes. “I am quite sure, Sire. I wrote them with my own hand and entrusted them to our very best riders.” He heaved a heavy sigh, for a moment abandoning the gnawing impatience with his sovereign; the strain that the illness and the stress of the moment had placed on his childhood companion wrought undeniable sympathy. He reached out and clasped the king by the shoulder, feeling pliable flesh and bone where there had once been hard muscle. “You have arranged all to perfection, François. Have no fear.”

Tired eyes rose gratefully to the minister’s face, and in them, a touch of regret. Ruling a nation would always strain those who held the reins of power, and these two had not been exempted from the fracturing acrimony of divergent principles. The last few years had found stiff wedges thrust between them—the religious conflict, the investigation into Chabot’s malpractices, and, most especially, Anne. François wanted only for his greatest companion and adviser to love whom he loved; that Montmorency did not, had become the hardest wedge of all.

“Merci, mon ami,”
François whispered, lament touching his words. “I could not have done this without you.”

Montmorency answered with a squeeze, his small mouth set firm with the unpleasant taste of the angst living between them. “It is my duty and my honor, Your Majesty.”

A light knock upon the door broke the intimacy of the moment, and the two men turned to it ruefully.

“May I come in?” Anne poked her head round the edge of the door.

“Of course,
ma chérie
.” Small bursts of color brightened the king’s ashen face at the sight of his mistress.

Anne dipped a formal curtsy, paying tribute to the formalities in the presence of the minister, but her simple, pearlescent gown was not meant to be worn for long.

Montmorency bowed stiffly. “By your leave, Sire, I will return in the morning.”

François nodded, gaze full with the sight of his love.

The duchesse passed the minister, exchanging a cool greeting, no more than a polite, ghostly gesture of tolerance. Anne watched covertly over her shoulder as the lumbering man crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. The instant the latch clicked into place, she climbed upon the king’s bed, burrowing herself beneath the soft covers and into the crux of one of his large arms, purring like a satiated cat.

François smiled, lowering himself into her nuzzle and further down upon the softness of his bed, his body cumbrous with age and illness. He was too tired and weak to do more than hold her, and she knew it, but it was enough for them both.

“Charles will speak against my continued relations with Suleiman and the Turks.” It was the king’s most pressing thought, now that the moment of the Holy Roman Emperor’s visit was upon them.

Anne spoke from the sanctuary of his embrace. “You must listen to his intentions carefully. He may well rail against such an allegiance, but what will he offer to abolish it? That is the most important question.” Anne hitched herself up on one elbow, lifting her head out of the crook of his arm and placing one hand softly upon his heart. “This is
your
moment,
mon cher
François.”

François closed his eyes, chest filling and rising with his deep indrawn breath. When he opened them once more, they sparkled, clear and focused.

“This is
the
moment.”

Charles V, king of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor, entered France with a small retinue of ministers and servants in the south, near Bayonne. There to greet him were the king’s two sons and Constable Montmorency. The country welcomed him as the great dignitary he was, but what is more, they courted him, plying him with the best food and wine the nation had to offer, each town showering him with costly bribes wrapped as splendid presents. In
Poitiers, he received a silver sculpture of an eagle and a lily on a rock, in Paris a life-sized silver statue of Hercules holding two pillars.

King François joined the cavalcade in Loches, arriving in the city by way of litter. Mustering his strength to mount his great white warhorse, he then traveled with the emperor under a bannered and tasseled canopy. Their public conversation, surrounded by servants and ministers, consisted of no more than pleasant plat-itudes—a dialogue between any two educated men of the age, filled with talk of art and the great explorations taking place, the expeditions revealing more of the New World on the other side of the ocean.

From Loches the itinerary led them northward, a circuit specifically devised to display the artistic achievements of François’s reign. Charles visited Chenonceau and from there Chambord, the
château
Madrid, the Louvre, and on to Fontainebleau in preparation for Christmas celebrations. At each stop along the route, great festivals and galas were held in his honor, but none so great as the one awaiting him at the grand palace.

Garlands of holm oak leaves, ivy, and bay festooned the pale stone corridors and pillars throughout the castle like layers of necklaces on a magnificently dressed lady, the red berries bright like jewels on the deep green leaves that linked them. Outside, a dusting of snow had fallen, a sprinkling of sugar clinging to the gardens and buildings. All had been made ready for the emperor, now comfortably ensconced in the Pavillon des Poêles, specifically decorated for him by Rosso and Primaticcio. From his window, the king of Spain could look down into the vast Cour de la Fontaine, and the tall pillar erected in honor of his visit. Upon his arrival the pinnacle flame had been lit, burning day and night while water and wine flowed from the sides of its base.

Geneviève rushed into Anne’s presence chamber, throwing her back against the door as if barricading against a rampaging beast.

“It is utter madness out there,” she breathed, but if she had hoped to find sanctuary here, she was soon disappointed.

The ruckus of preparation throughout the palace matched the commotion within this room. Not a woman looked up at her as they fussed and preened over gowns and fans, lace and ribbon. Every one of the ladies of Madame la Duchesse was present, and their twittering rivaled that in a dove coop at mating season. Jolly laughter vied with lilting trills; a song of anticipation and celebration. The castle now hosted some of the world’s greatest thinkers and diplomats, artists and musicians, all brought together in honor of the meeting, and the women tingled in anticipation of the festivities.