To Serve a King (7 page)

This man required no heraldic announcement; so noble and majestic did he appear, he would be known as king had he worn rags and worked in the fields. Geneviève recognized him in an instant. Though his trim beard boasted more gray than brown hairs and his long nose hung lower than in her miniature, she knew him unequivocally. This was King François in the flesh.

No matter how she had steeled herself for this moment, she was not prepared. All at once, the fuming anger bred into her blood every day of her life assaulted her like the blow of a sword. Upon
its heels, fear tread, but it was not as strong by half. The wave of emotion was like a tidal force; she quivered with it and the urge to wrap her hands around his thick neck and squeeze—until all life ran from his body—overwhelmed her. She spun from it and him, pretending to busy herself with discarded gewgaws. A light touch upon her arm broke through the haze of murderous fury. Gen-eviève looked up from the delicate hand and into Arabelle’s kind face.

“Be not afraid,” she whispered with a small, generous smile. “Our benevolent king is not to be feared. And it is most likely he may not notice you, though not unkindly meant. When he sees her, he sees little else.”

Bracing herself with a grind of her teeth, Geneviève turned to face the man who haunted her dreams and gave birth to her nightmares.

He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen, standing a head taller than the average Frenchman. Named for the Italian hermit who had prophesized his royal destiny, the king’s stature and bearing proclaimed forthrightly the fulfillment of that divination.

The dark, smooth cap of chin-length hair fell across his face as he lowered his lips to Anne’s cheek, his watery-milk complexion flushing like a schoolboy, his almond-shaped amber eyes filling with an undeniable tenderness.

“Are you ready,
chérie
Hely? Are you as excited as I?” François stepped out of the embrace and raised his arm parallel to the floor, calling Anne by the most informal of nicknames as only her intimates dare.

Resting her hand upon his, Anne smiled up at him. “Very excited, my liege. I have been thinking of nothing else for hours.”

Their words sent a twittering among the other ladies in the chamber.

“The Italian musicians have arrived,” Arabelle explained.
“Tonight will be their first night. It is sure to be a magnificent evening. You have come just in time.”

Behind the grandiose couple, the ladies followed, joined outside the door by some of the king’s
gentilshommes de la chambre;
some were friends, some advisers, a few were both. The Cardinal de Tournon wore his red cassock and four-cornered cap as dashingly as the Admirals Philippe de Chabot and Claude d’Annebault wore their bejeweled and embroidered doublets and trunk hose, decorative swords clanging at their hips.

For all the courtiers’ splendor, the king commanded the stage. His velvet navy blue doublet, encrusted with rubies and sapphires, was perfectly tailored to his large physique; though his abdomen had grown thick with the passing years, the muscular, powerful athlete he remained was very much in evidence. The slashed balloon sleeves revealed the rich red silk shirt beneath and added to the vast width of his broad shoulders. The velvet navy toque, ostrich plumed and jeweled, he wore tilted to one side. Below the navy trunk hose, thick, tree-trunk-like thighs tapered to oddly thin calves covered in the finest red silk stockings.

“Most of the stories aren’t true, you know.” Geneviève’s scrutiny did not go unnoticed, and Arabelle refused to let it continue without remark. “The scabrous tales of his wicked behav-ior—they are no more than deliberate inventions of the writers from the House of Bourbon, all of whom had served the treacherous duc.”

Geneviève would not tell this devoted subject that her opinion arose from knowledge of the king’s true brutal nature, that she had felt the sting of it herself. What concerned her most was that a glimmer of it had shown in her expression. She must gather herself, at once and for good.

“You misread me, I think, Arabelle,” she said in her most gracious voice. “I look upon our king with great deference. All my life I have heard of him. It is so very awe inspiring to see him in the flesh.”

Arabelle glowed with reverent fidelity, and perhaps more than a bit of feminine infatuation. “Once you come to know him, not only as king, but as a man, you will see how truly magnificent he is.”

The king chortled with delight at a courtier’s comment, the sound expanding as it echoed off the palace’s stone walls. Everywhere the signs and symptoms of François’s all-encompassing renovation work spewed into their path, but he stepped unmindful around piles of stone and wood.

As they neared the great hall, enticing aromas of roasted meats and freshly baked breads assaulted their senses, reaching out to them, as did rousing conversation punctuated by bursts of provocative laughter.

At the end of the corridor, the queen and her cortege awaited. Releasing Anne’s hand with noticeable reluctance, the king approached the queen and took hers.

Indistinguishable as the queen consort of the land, the small, pale redhead curtsied, no more than a shadow of a smile on her pouty, prim lips. Her simple gown of mauve silk, modestly sprinkled with encrusted jewels along the neckline and matching headdress, did little to foster a majestic mien. Not a word or gesture passed between them that spoke of the synergy of a husband and his wife; indeed, there was little of a marital relationship binding them. Eleanor, the king’s second wife, was the sister of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, one of François’s greatest rivals.

Twenty years ago, as each young man came into his ruling maturity, Charles had won the bid for Holy Roman Emperor, a seat both had clamored for with the same fanaticism. His deeper purse and beneficial family connections had snatched the prize from François’s eager grasp. The bitter emptiness in the Frenchman’s hand had never stopped burning his skin and he scratched at it like a perpetual itch.

Later, as Charles’s prisoner for over a year, his country falling apart in his absence, François had little choice but to offer his
young sons in exchange for his own freedom, compelled as well as a widower, to marry the emperor’s widowed sister. Charles had been the master, could have shown mercy and asked for other tokens, ones not so dear. But he had not, and what François now felt for him would forever be tainted by lingering resentment.

Such umbrage had stained the union of Eleanor and François from the onset, as surely as ink stained the scribe’s hand. Eleanor had known it with great surety, as if it had been written long before the day she met him, his mistress standing by his side. From the first, François could not forsake Hely for his wife, could not sleep with Eleanor, and she had soon given up any attempt to compete with the woman touted as the loveliest of the learned, the most learned of the lovely. François needed no children from his second wife, having many already from his first, though few survived. Eleanor was a needless necessity and she acquiesced to the role without rebellion.

With the king and queen leading the way, the duchesse close behind, the procession turned a corner and the soldiers posted at the archway snapped to attention, their halberds pounding upon the stone floor with one sharp, cohesive crack. Before the sound died away, heralds took up their horns, blasting the arrival of the king.

Geneviève shrank into her haven of anonymity. Ready to don her persona, prepared to take on all that it entailed; tonight she would do her best to watch and witness, intending for this night to be one of study and speculation.

Tr y as she might to foster a mien of dispassion, she felt reduced by the grandeur she witnessed. Encompassing nearly the entire wing of the palace, the great hall of the Château Vieux overflowed with courtiers, and the cries of “Votre Majesté” rang up and filled the air of the massive vaulted ceiling, the wind rattling the three-story panes of glass separating the chamber from the courtyard beyond. Rich fabric rustled as every attendant bowed or dipped in obeisance, but the king brought them upright with a free and generous swing of his arm and a call of
“Mes amis, bonsoir!”

Astounded by the breadth of the assemblage and the opulence of the scene, Geneviève leaned toward Arabelle. “It is remarkable that I should be lucky enough to time my arrival with such a lavish event.”

“Oh, this happens at least once or twice a week.” Arabelle smiled. “The king insists upon it. He believes it is the best way to keep his people happy, to keep them busy and making merry.”

The king escorted the queen through the maze of furniture and courtiers to the long head table and placed her in one of the two vacant chairs in the center of the banquet, with a shallow bow over her hand. He sat beside her, turning to his companions who filled the table to his right. Chabot and d’Annebault sat in the row, as did the king’s youngest children, his son Charles—the duc d’Orléans—and daughter Marguerite, both blossoms of young adulthood. On the queen’s side of the table, Constable Montmorency sat after the Dauphin and his wife.

Two main tables abutted that of the king, perpendicular to his and equally spaced. At one, the duchesse d’Étampes perched herself at the end, nearest to the king, and Arabelle led Geneviève to sit with their mistress, finding a place amidst other courtiers, many of whom looked upon Geneviève with undisguised curiosity.

At the opposite table sat the Dauphin’s mistress and her own entourage of ladies and gents.

The king seated and each player to their place, servants flocked through the room, huge silver platters piled with every possible delectable held aloft, the first placed upon the perfumed linens of the king’s table.

With a hearty laugh encouraging everyone to imbibe, the king dug in to the meat course, crowned by a slab of venison from the very stag caught this day. With the venison came partridge, wild boar, and rabbit, succulent and juicy, exquisitely prepared. Sumptuously gowned and groomed courtiers tore into their food, one hand upon their knives while the other picked the food off their plates and popped each tender morsel into their mouths.

Geneviève began her meal, so very aware of how different this
one was from every other meal in her life. Never before had she eaten in the company of so many others, having taken most of her meals alone or with her aunt. Her life of solitude was finding balance in this greatest of opposite extremes.

“Monsieur the duc de Nevers,” Arabelle announced to Gene-viève with a nod of indication to the man beside her. “Next to him is the duc de Ventadour, and the marquis de Limoges is on his right.”

Arabelle introduced her to the many of Anne’s noble league … their names jumbling together. To all and sundry, Geneviève responded in kind, “
Enchanté
. It is my great pleasure to meet you.”

Her lessons echoed in her ears—the repetitive drilling and recitations, the sting of her aunt’s fan had she failed to respond correctly. As her guide offered more names, Geneviève knew their positions … the prince and princesses of the blood, the courtiers and the men of the king’s chamber, and the others who were nothing more than
filles de joie suivant la cour
, those grasping, always hopeful court-followers. With half an ear intent upon the goings-on at the king’s table, the ladies and minor gentlemen of the king’s chamber shared the scrumptious victuals set before them.

“What a magnificent addition to our table,” announced the marquis de Limoges, turning his attention from Jecelyn seated beside him. Geneviève felt the prick of the woman’s black gaze from beyond his shoulder.

“You are most kind, monsieur,” Geneviève assured him.

“Please, mademoiselle, call me Albret.” Picking up his plate, the russet-haired man stood and strode the few steps to where Geneviève sat, and squeezed his thick warrior’s body between Geneviève and Anne’s cousin, leaving behind an agitated Jecelyn. “Why have you not come to court sooner?” His wide smile and laughing brown eyes dimmed. “Tell me you are not married?”

“Not married, no.” Geneviève shook her head, taking another small bite of the meat pie upon her plate. “I have been caring for
an ailing aunt who insisted I come. She has many nurses about her now who can give her much better care than I.”

Albret’s parodied sadness became sincere. “I am sorry for her illness, though thankful it has brought you to our door.”

Geneviève tipped her head to the side, turning her striking eyes upon her new acquaintance, and smiled a small, benevolent smile. The man’s solace seemed sincere and his attention flattering. The marquis smiled back, ill-disguised enchantment upon his ruggedly handsome countenance.

“Who is this marvelous creature?” The deep male voice was a purr, charming and seductive. “I know I am new to court, but beauty such as this I would have remembered.”

As food came and went, so did the visitors to the main tables. With each such visit, Geneviève witnessed the divisiveness of the court splayed out before her; more than one fracture split jagged gaps through the room and those in it. Though years had passed, the
noblesse d’épée
—the nobles of the sword—had not come to terms with the new nobility, those considered the
noblesse de robe
and
noblesse de lettres
, who had been given their nobility—or worse, purchased it. And so the very manner of their nobility divided them. The old nobility in France—the evolution of the chivalric knights—mingled with the new, and tolerated them as they were forced to do by their king, who recruited so many of his friends and advisers from among the newer ranks. But their own superiority they wore as ostentatiously as they did their velvets and jewels.

Within these two groups were another two. Though all showed their allegiance to their king above all others, their private commitments—political and social—lay divided into two camps: one for the king and Anne, and the other for the Dauphin and his mistress. The distinction of cliques was as apparent to the newly arrived as it was to the seasoned courtier, splitting the swirling throng like a butcher cleaves meat from the bone.