By Honor Bound (31 page)

Honneure let her heart, her instincts, guide her. After crossing the entrance piers she turned to the left, and they entered the de Medici gardens. The autumn planting had been done, and the meticulously cared for beds were rich with the colors of bronze, yellow, and a deep, dark, fiery orange. While the sun sank in the sky, they strolled the paths and did not speak. Honneure did not think a silence had ever been so full.

For almost an hour Honneure retraced the paths of their childhood. Though no word had yet been spoken, she knew they shared the same memories. From time to time they paused, reliving a special moment. Then a glance at one another, and they moved on. They walked down the aisle of the long, low stone barn. There were fewer horses, but the smells were the same, the fragrances of dust and horsehide and straw. Dusk approached and a fitful breeze stirred, scraping branches on the roof. They walked into the early evening shadows.

From the stables they crossed the lane and entered the woodlands of the park surrounding the estate. They passed the handsome home where Claud and his father had once lived. Honneure wondered if a new steward lived there now. She had seen so few people around the château. It was almost as if they inhabited the world all by themselves.

From the steward’s house they walked through the Diane de Poitiers’s gardens. The sun had slipped below the horizon, leeching the color from the blooms, but their scent was heady. Honneure let her fingers trail along the tops of a row of blossoms, and their touch was like velvet to her skin. She looked up at Philippe and saw the ghost of a smile touch his lips. They had made many memories here as children, chasing through the winding garden paths. Honneure could almost hear Jeanne’s voice calling them to come in for supper.

The Cher lay ahead. They could hear its murmur, but they could not yet see it. Drooping willow branches obscured their view. Still hand in hand, they walked down the gentle slope to the water.

The surface of the river was dark. The sun was gone, but the moon and stars had no light yet to give. Though they stood side by side, Honneure and Philippe could barely see one another. Honneure laid a hand lightly on Philippe’s chest.

“Will you sit with me for a while?”

She felt, rather than saw, him nod. She could also feel the tension in him, the grief. With a slight tug on his hand, she sank to the grassy bank, skirts billowing around her.

An owl hooted, and something scurried in the bushes on the opposite side of the river. There was a soft splash as a fish jumped. Then silence.

It was so quiet Honneure heard the sound of Philippe’s tears as they fell on the leather of his boot. She raised her hand to his cheek. A sob caught in her throat.

Philippe covered Honneure’s hand with his own, capturing it and holding it against his face. “I … miss them … so much.”

The sob escaped her. Her own hot tears gushed from her eyes. “I know,” Honneure murmured. “I know.”

Her other hand slid around Philippe’s neck. She pulled him to her, and he buried his face against her shoulder. His body shook as he wept.

Honneure did not even recognize the agonized moans coming from her as the sound of her own voice.

Time became lost to them. They held each other, rocked each other, and spent their tears. Night moved on, and a half-moon rose in the sky. Night birds called, and a winged, black shape was briefly silhouetted against the stars. They heard the flapping of wings and then nothing. Honneure brushed the last, lingering tears from her face. Exhausted, she sagged against Philippe.

“There will be many … arrangements to make tomorrow,” he said softly, as if to himself. “We should try to get some sleep.”

Honneure didn’t reply. For a moment she wanted to deny the ending of this time they had together. Then she realized, somewhere deep in her soul, that their time was not over at all. Gracefully, without a word, she rose.

Philippe unbent his tall frame and stood beside her. Their fingers twined at once. Walking in step, they headed in the direction of the château.

Honneure had been given a bedchamber on the first floor. She paused at the door and looked up at Philippe. He returned her gaze, unblinking. Moments later, without taking his eyes from hers, he reached around her and turned the door latch.

The room was Diane de Poitiers’s bedroom. Two Flemish tapestries of considerable dimension flanked the chamber. Between them stood the massive chimney by the eminent French sculptor Jean Goujon. Honneure stared at the initials of Henry II and his wife, Catherine de Medici:
H
and
C
. Intertwined they could form the
D
of Diane de Poitiers, the king’s mistress. Honneure would never forget the day she and Philippe had sneaked into the elegant chamber to see the infamous monogram.

They stood before it, together, again. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, clearly illuminating the initials.

The bedchamber of Diane de Poitiers, the king’s lover. The irony was not lost on Honneure. She turned once more to Philippe.

“I love you,” she said simply. “I have always loved you, and I
will
always love you.”

Philippe started to speak, but something caught in his throat. Years of futile longing, perhaps. A love so huge it was amazing to him that a mere frail human body could contain it.

It did not matter he could not speak. There were no words anyway to say what he felt. He could only show her. The rightness, or wrongness, of it did not matter either, just as it had not the first time. For this brief time, lovers’ time, they were not of the world but beyond it.

Honneure lifted her face and closed her eyes to receive his kiss. The touch of his lips, the feel of his flesh, and the scent of his breath were exactly as she had imagined them in a thousand dreams. Her very soul quivered with the intensity of her yearning.

Philippe wanted to crush her to him and devour her, but he also did not want the moment to end. He kissed her again, softly, and moved his hands to the buttons at the back of her gown.

It took a long time for Philippe to unfasten the long row. All the while Honneure was pressed gently against him. His nearness was almost unbearable. She let her fingers trace the contour of his strong jaw and trail down to the hollow of his throat. She started on the buttons of his shirt.

By the time Honneure’s gown had dropped to the floor, Philippe’s shirt beside it, they were breathing in short gasps, lips parted. As Philippe removed Honneure’s underlinens, he noticed the brightness of her eyes, the glow and glint of her passion. He felt himself swell and throb and ache for her.

Philippe had removed his boots. Naked, Honneure knelt to pull his trousers down and away. The sight of his manhood thrilled her in an unnamable way, and she was irresistibly drawn to it. She buried her face in the dark, dense fur surrounding the object of her desire and inhaled his masculine musk. Something shivered in her heart. Philippe groaned and lifted her to her feet.

Honneure and Philippe stared at one another for a long moment. Through their eyes they each entered the other’s soul. And in that instant a spiritual bond was forged between them more certain and strong than the necessity of life itself.

Philippe bent his head slowly to his love. He pressed his mouth to hers and felt her hands glide over the muscles of his upper arms to his shoulders until her fingers laced together behind his neck. He flicked his tongue against her lips, and they parted to receive him. He lifted her then and carried her, cradled against his chest, to the wide bed.

Honneure was in such an ecstasy of loving passion, she was barely aware of being borne to the bed or laid upon it. She yearned for Philippe so greatly it felt as if her entire body, every cell, every pore, was straining to draw him inward. There was no knowing, no reality, no rational thought until he entered her … and she was whole.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dawn’s light stole slowly over the windowsill. Bright, happy birdsong accompanied it. Honneure lay without moving, eyes closed, for a long time. Philippe had risen earlier, before first light. But not before he had made love to her again. And whispered in her ear, over and over again, the depth of his love for her.

Honneure stretched, as slowly and luxuriously as a cat. Her entire body felt adored and caressed. She did not know what the future held, did not even want to think about it. She wanted only to hold on to now, this moment.

Reality, however, poked at her uncomfortably.

There were arrangements to be made, although not as many as she had thought. Unbeknownst to her, at the time, Philippe had attended to many of the preparations. While they had been out walking, their parents’ bodies had been washed and shrouded by a local woman who was also the community’s midwife. Honneure was glad she had not known. They had now only to say their last good-byes and return husband and wife to the earth.

Honneure rose and quickly dressed in the gown she had worn the night before. She brushed her waist-length hair until it crackled, wound it into a chignon, and pinned it at the nape of her neck. She washed and brushed her teeth and pinched her cheeks to add some color. A glance in the mirror had shown her how pale she was, pale and drawn with grief in spite of the satiation of her soul.

Following memory’s path without thinking, Honneure started toward the kitchen. At the threshold, however, she stopped herself.

Jeanne and Paul would not be there. They would never be there again. She did not want to see the empty spaces or change the landscape of her memories. She turned and headed to the front door.

“Mademoiselle Mansart?”

The servant girl from the day before popped her head from the door of the study.

“Yes?”

If anything, the girl looked more frightened than she had previously. She leaned forward, hands braced against the doorframe, apparently unwilling to leave the room she was in and enter the corridor.

“Monsieur Mansart had to … had to leave,” the girl said in a small, timid voice. “He said to tell you to stay here and wait for him, and he’ll … he’ll contact you.”

A sliver of fear lodged in Honneure’s heart. “Where did he go?” she demanded. “Do you know? Did he tell you?”

The girl hesitated, then nodded quickly. Her eyes were so wide Honneure could see a rim of white all the way around the irises.

“He’s gone to his home,” she said suddenly, in a rush. “There’s pox in the countryside. A messenger came this morning … his family …”

Honneure did not wait to hear more. She whirled, ran to the front door, tore it open, and dashed into the sunlight. She looked around desperately, as if she might see Philippe riding away up the lane. But there was no sign of him. He was gone … gone to his family, his wife and stepson. The beautiful, damaged young woman she had seen in the doorway. The innocent child she had borne after an act of savagery.

Honneure’s heart went out to them immediately. They were ill and helpless. She had to help them.

And Philippe. She was immune. He was not.

Honneure ran to the stables, calling out before she had even reached the doors. But no one was about. They were either hiding, in fear for their lives, or had fled somewhere they felt was safer. She pulled open the barn doors and hurried inside.

Someone was near. The horses had been fed and watered. She called again, but whoever it was elected to stay out of sight. Honneure jogged down the aisle, looking from side to side for a likely candidate.

The chestnut gelding was the last one on the left. He had sturdy proportions and a kind eye. She led him out of the stall and up the aisle to the tack room.

Her fingers were rusty, and it took several minutes to harness the horse properly. When she had finished, she laid the lines over his back and led him out the doors and over to the carriage house. She knew just what she wanted and, in no time, had him hooked to a light, two-wheeled cabriolet.

Honneure climbed into the vehicle and picked up the buggy whip. It felt good, familiar, in her hand. She jiggled the reins on the gelding’s back and clucked to him. He moved forward into a trot, and she guided him onto the lane. When the cabriolet was straight on the road, Honneure raised the whip and cracked it.

The startled horse broke into a gallop. Honneure cracked the whip again, and the gelding extended his neck, ears flattened. Bumping dangerously through the ruts, they sped into the countryside.

Philippe jumped off his lathered horse at the front door of the château that had become his home. As he hurried inside, he noticed that the red geraniums had dried up and blown away.

“Oh, Monsieur Philippe, I’m so glad you’re home!”

Rose, the elderly woman who had cared for Suzanne all her life, stood in the entrance hall and wrung her age-spotted hands. Her plump, normally apple-red cheeks were as white as parchment.

“I came as soon as I got your message,” Philippe replied, pulling off his riding gloves. “How are they?”

As Rose shook her head, her tears spilled over. “Not good, Monsieur, not good.” She followed Philippe as he strode down the hall to the boy’s bedroom door. “I heard my Suzanne call out early this morning, way before dawn, and I went to her. She was burning with fever. And poor little Jacques! I sent the stable boy to Chenonceau with the message for you, but he never returned, so I didn’t know …”

“I’m here … I’m here now. Don’t worry,” Philippe said in an attempt to calm the distraught woman. He threw open the door to Jacques’s bedchamber and crossed the stone floor to the boy’s bed. The bedcovers were in disarray, and the child appeared to be asleep. There were no telltale blisters as yet, but when Philippe put his palm to the boy’s brow, he was shocked at its heat.

“Jacques … Jacques, can you hear me? It’s Philippe.”

The boy’s eyelids fluttered open. “Philippe,” he muttered. “I … I’m so hot.” His eyes closed again.

“I know, I know, Jacques,” Philippe replied gently. “We’re going to do what we can to make you more comfortable. Try to go back to sleep, all right?”

The child appeared to have drifted off already.

Philippe straightened his covers. “Make sure he has plenty of water,” he said to Rose. “When he wakes again, try to make him drink it.”

“
Oui,
Monsieur. Yes, but come. Come now and look at my Suzanne.”

The woman’s tone was so filled with fear Philippe felt his own heart begin to race. He followed Rose to his wife’s bedchamber.

Suzanne was much more ill than her son. Philippe knew it the moment he entered the room. The very air smelled of sickness. He looked toward the bed and saw his wife’s arms and legs akimbo, the sheets tangled in her sprawled limbs. Her nightdress was pushed up to her hips, and she moved her head feebly from side to side, moaning piteously. His heart spasmed, and he tried to steel himself as he crossed to her side.

“Suzanne?”

“She won’t know you, sir. She doesn’t even recognize me. Oh, what are we going to do, Monsieur?”

“Have you called for the doctor?” Philippe asked, knowing even as he did that the question was futile.

“I sent the stable boy there first. But there are so many cases!”

Philippe straightened his wife’s gown, noting the angry red welts beginning to rise on her porcelain skin. Her flesh was even hotter than her son’s. Her eyes were partly open, but all he could see were the whites. He realized that Rose had very good reason to be as afraid as she was.

“What are we going to do, Monsieur Philippe? How can we help her?”

“I’m not sure that we can,” Philippe replied quietly. “We can only try to make her more comfortable. Fetch a bowl of water and some linens.”

“Yes, Monsieur. At once … oh!” Rose halted abruptly in the door. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“My name is Honneure Mansart. I am Philippe’s … sister. I’m sorry, but no one answered my knock. I’ve come to help.”

Joy, relief, and terror were immediately at war in Philippe’s breast. “Honneure, I … you can’t … you shouldn’t come near. You …”

“I’ve had the disease.” Honneure swept past the old woman. “Philippa and I both had a mild case last summer. We’re immune. What about you?”

Philippe hesitated and then shook his head. Honneure turned to the old woman.

“And you?”

Rose, too, shook her head. Dread was etched into every line of her face.

Honneure sighed. “I’m going to need some help,” she admitted.

“Then it will have to be me,” Philippe responded promptly.

“Philippe …”

“You, of all people, should know I must do my duty. Honor my vows.”

She could not gainsay him. All her life she had lived by honor bound.

“All right,” she said tartly. Honneure turned to the old woman. “Bring linens and water, please, as Monsieur Philippe asked. But a large basin.” She asked Philippe, “Have you any spirits?”

“Some. Some cognac, I believe.”

“I’ll need that, too. And what about the boy? Is he this ill?”

“No, not nearly.”

“Good. Then we’ll go ahead and take care of … of your wife first.”

When Honneure had everything she needed, she dismissed the old woman. “Go and get some rest. Monsieur Philippe and I will take care of them now.”

With a single, distressed glance at the bed, Rose hurried from the room. Honneure allowed herself to gaze for a moment into Philippe’s eyes.

She had been afraid to see guilt there, but she did not. All she saw reflected was his love for her. It was all she needed. She got right to work.

“We must try to get her fever down, Philippe. Help me get her nightdress off.”

When Philippe did not immediately respond, Honneure glanced at him again. A flush rose from his neck to his cheeks.

Puzzled, Honneure cocked her head. “What’s wrong, Philippe? She’s … she’s your wife.”

“I cared for her,” he replied at length, softly, almost apologetically. “I cared for her and the boy, just as I promised her father I would. I did it because I thought you were lost to me, Honneure. But I never loved her. I never … touched her.”

Hard on the heels of the relief that flooded her limbs came a sense of almost overwhelming pity. Pity for a sweet, beautiful woman who would never know what Honneure had known.

She banished the thought swiftly and began working the nightdress up and off of Suzanne’s tortured body. Despite his initial reluctance, Philippe was right beside her.

Deftly, gently, Honneure bathed Suzanne in cool water from head to toe. Philippe turned his wife as Honneure worked and, although she groaned from time to time, she never regained consciousness. Honneure could only pray they had eased her discomfort at least a little.

When they had finished, Philippe found a clean nightdress and offered it to Honneure, but she shook her head.

“I’m going to dampen this muslin sheet and wrap her in it instead. In spite of what we’ve done, she’s still on fire, Philippe.”

When she had shrouded Suzanne in the wet fabric, Honneure wet a linen square with some of the cognac and applied it to the woman’s brow.

“It dries quickly,” she said. “And cools the skin.”

Philippe could only watch helplessly. Suzanne’s lovely face was disfigured by the advancing blisters, and she no longer even seemed to have the energy to toss and turn.

“We’ve done all we can for her now,” Honneure said, laying a hand on Philippe’s arm. “Let’s take a look at the boy.”

To Honneure’s relief, the child was not nearly as sick as his mother. She saw no welts as yet, and though his temperature was high, it was not raging. Still, she bathed him too and changed his linens. He was groggy but able to keep his eyes open, and she gave him some water to drink.

“I’ll make some broth. He’ll be able to take it later. I think he’ll be all right.”

“I … I can’t thank you enough, Honneure. I don’t know what to say.”

Neither did she. The events of the night before seemed a lifetime away. It was difficult even to comprehend that when she left here she still had to bury their parents. She was filled with an immense sorrow, for Paul and Jeanne, Philippe, Suzanne, and a little boy who was probably going to become an orphan. It was all overwhelming, yet she couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest, couldn’t let her guard down. She had to keep going and do all she could to help until the crisis had come to its resolution.

“Say nothing, Philippe. This isn’t over yet. I’m going to sit with Suzanne and watch her. I wish you’d try to rest.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No, Philippe. You’ve been exposed enough. Don’t prolong it. Bathe and rest, and if I need you, I’ll call you.”

He knew the strength in her, the determination. He wished he could tell her he loved her. But it was neither the time nor the place. Without another word, he turned and went to his chamber.