To Serve a King (8 page)

Geneviève watched the machinations with beguiled interest. Here already she had found a small gift to send to her master.
What would Henry do if he knew of the breach running through the middle of the French court, running so deep it separated the king from his heir?

“Ah, Raymond, this is Mademoiselle Geneviève Gravois. Geneviève, please make the acquaintance of Baron Pitou, another new friend to the court, if I may be so bold as to call you friend already.”

“I would not have it any other way.”

Geneviève bestowed her small grin toward both men, taken aback for a moment by the beauty of her newest acquaintance. His rippling waves of golden hair and eyes the blue of a breathtaking summer sky dared to triumph over the opulence of his indigo doublet and hose and the finely sculpted body beneath. Her heart thudded before such male beauty, such unfamiliarly pretty masculinity.

“Be not overwhelmed by the attention of these scamps.” The nasal twang of Jecelyn du Fabiole caught them all unawares as it screeched above the table’s conversation. “You are the newest bauble at court, Geneviève. Once your novelty and sparkle wear off, they will soon forget about you.”

The smiled faded from Geneviève’s lips and she turned to look at the ungracious woman, a grim stare assuring Jecelyn she would not accept such cruel trifling. “Indeed, I see by the lack of companions by your side how it must be.”

Jecelyn countered with a sneer, as if bitterly pleased by Gene-viève’s brashness.

Raymond was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “Such a beautiful, intelligent addition will never be taken for granted, I assure you.”

“
Merci, mon seigneur,
” Geneviève said quietly, breaking the combative gaze.

As Jecelyn rose, a shallow curtsy of leave-taking offered to the table, Arabelle leaned over to whisper in Geneviève’s ear. “Watch her,
mon amie.
She will not leave it there.”

Geneviève gave her a nod of understanding as she watched Je-celyn flounce away, watched as men clamored to walk by her side. Why such a striking beauty would begrudge a newcomer to court some friendships, she could not imagine, but she would, as warned, be wary of this wily woman.

“Your plate seems so empty, mademoiselle,” Albret chastised. “Look at these beautiful salads and fruits. You do a disservice to the king not to partake of his generosity.”

“I am quite full, I assure you.” Geneviève allowed the knot of tension to release her. This was her first night at a magnificent royal court; she had worked all her life to be here. She could allow herself one night to relish its stately offerings with gusto.

“Then you had better loosen your stays, mam’selle”—Ray-mond laughed as he added more delicacies to Geneviève’s now overflowing plate—“for there are another three courses to go.”

Geneviève’s brows rose precipitously. “Surely not?”

“Ah,
oui,
” Raymond assured her. “But have not a care, it will take hours for it all to be served and there will be much entertainment in between.”

“Your chalice is empty, as is yours, Arabelle.” Albret filled their goblets, drawn by the others at the table whose own cups needed refreshing, and together the group drank a toast.

“
Bonsoir,
monsieur. I hope you are having a pleasant evening.”

Geneviève’s ears pricked as the sound of the duchesse d’Étam-pes’s voice, so tight with vexation, reached her from the end of the table. Though the woman’s words were full of amiability, there was little in the tone to match the sentiments. Slowly, so as not to draw any undue attention, Geneviève turned to see with whom Anne spoke. Anne de Montmorency bowed over the hand of the king’s mistress, his thin lips brushing the air.

Second to the king, as constable and grand master, Mont-morency was the most powerful man in the realm, overseeing operations both military and domestic. He controlled the staff and the running of the king’s household and held the nation’s purse
strings. Most crucial of all, he ensured the safety of the king. Through these protector’s eyes, Montmorency searched for threats to his ruler, no matter if they came from the arms of his mistress.

“Madame Duchesse, you look exquisite tonight.” The kindness of his greeting lived in his words alone, never reaching to put a smile on his lips nor any warmth in his somber eyes.

“And you are dashing, as always, Constable,” Anne replied in a like manner.

The lack of geniality between these two vibrated with every oversweetened sentiment spoken, pleasant tones off-key with terse, discordant notes, like the hollow peal of a cracked bell. Whether it was their constant struggle to be the king’s greatest confidant and adviser, their opposing views on the new religion sweeping their country, or Montmorency’s allegiance to the queen, there were simply too many rifts for their relationship to bridge, and neither cared to try.

“Monty, my good fellow, would you tell them we will soon be ready for our entertainments?” the king called kindly to his constable, using the nickname so long ago adopted to save Mont-morency any embarrassment caused by his feminine, given name. The irony that the king’s mistress and his constable shared a name was not lost on many.

With grace, Montmorency tipped his head, though not without a degree of relief to be done with his duty toward the king’s mistress. “Of course, Your Highness. I will send a page to fetch the musicians at once.”

“
Merci,
Monty.” François rose, forsaking the head table to draw near his mistress.

Geneviève saw no acknowledgment by the king of the tension between his two dearest intimates, but whether he was blind to it or refused to see it, she could not fathom.

“Ah, finally, huzzah!” Albret’s rousing cheer sent the entire table to squirming. “The Italians are on their way.”

From the side door, a long line of instrument-wielding musicians
filed out and took their place in the corner of the room, sitting with their lutes and hautbois, their violas and a spinet; to their right gathered a choir in velvet robes. Poised dictatorially before them stood two men, one in the robes of the choir, one in doublet and pansied slops, tambour sticks in his hand—similar faces, relatives of some sort, distinguished by the short curly hair of one and the shoulder-length waves of the other. These were newest members of the
chapelle de musique
, the musicians of the royal household.

“They are quite handsome, are they not?” Arabelle giggled to Geneviève behind a cupped hand.

“Which ones?” Geneviève asked.

“All of them,” Sybille and Béatrice answered with harmonious twitters of their own.

“They are Italian,” Béatrice confirmed as if that were explanation enough. Pointing to the two leaders, she educated the table with a smug whisper. “The taller man is Giuseppe, and the other his brother, Eliodoro.”

Under the reign of François, so many Italians had become permanent fixtures at court. Italian blood pumped through his own veins, bequeathed by his maternal great-grandmother, Valentina Visconti. Yet François wished it were more; but it was not an oddity, a Frenchman who longed to be an Italian. So many of the French had adopted the more formal, polite manners of the Italians. Diplomats and ambassadors had always abounded, but the king had chosen to fill his household and chamber with the Mediterraneans as well: doctors, a steward or two, musicians, and a few
écuyers du roi,
the simple men of the household. Nor was the infusion limited to men. Frenchmen returning from Rome and Venice brought with them the day’s most popular and coveted adornment, the Italian woman, and their influence infested the court with a greater sophistication and a tendency to extravagance. Such profligacy required dependency on the king and his munificence, and such reliance on a ruler who demanded such extravagance found the nobles incurring the ridicule of the satirists.

As the discordant noise of tuning instruments halted and the rapturous sound of a chanson began, all hushed to bask in the melodious music. As the first few measures rang out, instruments blending with voice in a joyful sound, applause greeted the performers. Clément Janequin’s “La Guerre” was the king’s favorite composition, written in honor of François’s magnificent triumph in the Battle of Marignano. Light, fast, and rhythmic, it had distinct short sections, oft repeated, rousing the crowd to heights of stimulated enjoyment.

Before the last notes slipped away, François leaped to his feet, rushing forward to pay his respects to the musicians. The brothers rushed to accept the accolades, one jostling the other to be the first to greet the king.

“Bravo, bravo,” François bellowed with sincere appreciation, Anne applauding by his side.

“Grazie, mille grazie
,
Vostre Maestà
.” The beaming pair bowed low before their patron and benefactor.

“We are so very happy you are pleased,” said Giuseppe.

“And we are so very grateful for the magnificence of our new home,” intoned Eliodoro, in proficient if oddly accented French.

As musicians of the chapel, they would receive not only the benefit of a room in whatever palace the king resided, but all their meals, their clothing, and a small stipend as well.

“It is I who thanks you,” François assured them magnanimously. “You are a marvelous addition to our court.”

Indeed their presence was a coup for the French king, having stolen them from the emperor’s Spanish court. Such competition for artists was an important component of the cultural rivalry existing between the great kings and their courts. François had won a small battle with their acquisition.

“La volte, la volte,” the king cried. “Such is our pleasure.”

The musicians ran back to their places as the dance floor filled with courtiers, all eager to do their king’s bidding.

“Dance with my son, Anne, would you? Dance with Charles,” François implored her, as he took his seat once more.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she readily agreed with a flash of a beatific smile. Though he enjoyed the vigorous dance, there were often times, more often of late, when the king preferred to watch than to strain his aging body. The memories were pleasing in and of themselves.

Young, vigorous, and full of life, the exuberant Charles jumped to do his father’s bidding. The youngest son, he possessed neither the seriousness of his now deceased oldest brother nor the sullen-ness of the current Dauphin. Having been born third in line to the throne, Charles had never entertained any thoughts of possessing the crown and this nonchalance permeated both personality and purpose. The death of his brother had thrown such dalliance into disarray, and he now donned the itchy cloak of second-in-line without much grace, indeed scratching at it whenever possible.

“We must dance,” Raymond cried, grabbing Geneviève’s hand, hauling her to her feet and onto the floor before Albret could make a counteroffer. With grace, he partnered Arabelle and the couples stood side by side waiting for the notes to begin.

Anne glanced down the row at Geneviève. Her cheeks rosy with excitement, she offered her new maid a smile of encouragement. At the last minute, as the musicians struck the first notes of the stirring song, another couple joined the throng, taking their place beside Anne and Charles. Anne’s smile faded like the glow of the sun behind rushing storm clouds. Alongside his brother, the Dauphin Henri now stood, his partner, the inimitable Diane de Poitiers.

Twenty years his elder, Diane had been Henri’s mistress for the last nine years, since he was no more than fourteen years of age. The rivalry between the mistresses had begun as soon as their acquaintance. And yet this woman, though older, clad as always in black and white, challenged both the beauty and grace of the duchesse d’Étampes. The entire court looked on in vicious delight
as the two feminine powers vied for attention, as they threw their bodies into the dance to outdo the other in agility and mastery of the difficult dance.

The athleticism required for the leaping movements and
entrechats
suited the baron and his young, powerful physique. Geneviève entrusted herself to the strong arms of the nobleman as she had the series of dance teachers Tante Elaine had hired for her. The loss of honor he would suffer at any faltering would hurt him far worse than any physical bruise she might endure. As they swirled about the dance floor, Geneviève watched the duel between Anne and Diane, and the baron watched Geneviève, a dance within a dance until the music reached its climax and the dancers applauded, a glistening sheen of sweat on their faces, the air thick with their body warmth and odor.

“You are a magnificent dancer,” Raymond murmured in Gene-viève’s ear as he led her back to their table, one hand poised with propriety upon the small of her back. The warmth of his palm lingered upon her flesh, as if the moist silk of her gown evaporated beneath his touch.

“I am only as proficient as he who leads me,” Geneviève replied, jumping into the fray that is courtly volleying, with the acumen of a veteran. But in truth, she was inordinately pleased and flustered by the man’s compliments and attention, happy to have him as company as they returned to sit once more with Arabelle and Albret.

The meal resumed and continued for hours, exactly as the men warned: course after course accompanied by intermissions of entertainment. Acrobats and jugglers punctuated the fowl and game course. A solo performance by Il Divino himself
,
Francesco Canova da Milano, introduced the fish. And more dancing preceded the dessert course.

Once more Geneviève partnered Raymond, having taken a turn with Albret and other young courtiers eager to meet the newest of the duchesse’s ladies. She had lost track of time and her feet
ached, yet her lips spread demurely as the
gaillarde
brought them together and sent them pirouetting down the length of the hall, allowing her to place her hands upon his hard, strong shoulders. Only one blemish spoiled the perfection of the evening; or rather, one person.

As she had all evening, Jecelyn did her utmost to remain in Geneviève’s notice, to prove her dominance as she preened. Surrounded by men at all times, laughing loudly, dancing recklessly, she strove to be the center of attention. As the ostentatious woman disrupted the loveliness of the dance’s cohesion, as her disharmonious movements wreaked havoc upon the uniformity of the choreography, Geneviève could not pull her gaze away from the black-haired beauty. Jecelyn du Fabiole was a virtuoso of coquetry and Geneviève hated that she watched her, that she felt what she did—a curious concoction of admiration and jealousy—as if she betrayed herself.