To Serve a King (23 page)

Geneviève ground her teeth, wishing to moan aloud at the disobliging information. She had to find out this man’s name; she could not let this opportunity pass.

Without another word for her companions, Geneviève skipped to Anne’s side.

“You have forgotten your fan, madame, and you are flushed with the heat. I will run and fetch it for you,” Geneviève announced, and scampered off.

“It’s not necessary,” Anne called to the swiftly retreating form, but to little avail. Geneviève continued on unabated.

“I’ll be no more than a moment,” Geneviève tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll cut through the kitchens and catch up quickly.” She
disappeared into the small wooden door leading to the kitchens and the quartermaster’s station.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior of the low stone hallway, and Geneviève staggered about, unsure of which direction to travel.

“Oof!”

Bumped into from behind, she hit the wall to her left, scraping the palms of her hands on the rough stone as she braced herself.

“Beg pardon, mademoiselle,” the youthful squire called as he rushed past.

“Of course,” she assured him, brushing the dirt off her hands and silently thanking him for becoming her unwitting guide.

“Can you tell me, please, who is that man in the courtyard?” She trod on his heels like an obedient pet, heading toward the scent of curing meats and the clang of pots and pans.

The youth took the last step out of the confining hallway and into the cavernous kitchen. As large as the great hall itself, the sooty stone walls rose far above their heads. The chamber clamored with frenetic activity. The hundreds of servants who kept the king and court fed and happy, rushed about their work, calling out and talking as they did. The staff of the
paneterie,
who baked the bread in the stone ovens, and the
échansonnerie,
who dispensed the wine, worked beside the butchers and the pastry chefs while the scullions dashed about every which way. Geneviève almost forgot her purpose as her mouth salivated, assaulted by the enticing aromas—the warming dough, the sizzling meat, the juice-soaked fresh fruit—coming from every corner of the room.

“Beg your pardon, mademoiselle?” the young man asked, moving toward the scullery maid who held out the bulging sack toward him.

“The man in the courtyard,” Geneviève repeated. “Can you tell me who he is?”

The squire took the package and stared at Geneviève with ill-disguised suspicion upon his long, horselike face. She forced a kittenish
mask to fall over her features, one she had seen Lisette and the other women adopt so often when they plied all the weapons at their disposal on some handsome gallant.

The kitchen maid wiped her hands on her dirty apron and pushed back the lace-edged cap upon her forehead. “It is Monsieur de La Bretonnière, is it not?”

The young man suffered the loquacious servant a remonstrative gaze, but the damage had been done.

“Ah,
oui,
it is he, Pierre de La Bretonnière, the seigneur de Warthy,” he said reluctantly.

“Merci.”
Geneviève dipped the young man a fine curtsy with a bat of her exotic eyes and he willingly dismissed the departure from procedure. With a wink to the kitchen maid, who smiled broadly back at her, Geneviève rushed from the room before the youth’s mind cleared and any questions came her way.

By no more than a good sense of direction did she find her path through the castle to Anne’s deserted rooms. Locating the seed-pearl-embroidered fan her mistress favored, she composed her next message to King Henry in her mind, so anxious to send the most profound information she had garnered yet. She imagined his happiness, his pride at her work done so well. As she curled the finger brandishing the exquisite amethyst ring, Geneviève wondered if perhaps he would send her another token of his affection. Far better, perhaps he would soon send for her to live by his side, as did his daughters, Mary and Elizabeth.

“This package has been delivered for you, mademoiselle,” Carine said with a flick of her pert nose toward the vanity, as she lay out her mistress’s outfit for an evening at the king’s salon. The maid smoothed the lavender and cream brocade, and beside it the matching bejeweled hood. By the foot of the bed, she had placed the cream, lace-covered shoes with their dainty wooden heels.

Rushing into her chambers with little time to spare, Geneviève pulled up short. This could not be one of her clandestine transmittals;
it would never have been left with such lack of consequence. Yet she could not fathom who but King Henry would send her anything.

Geneviève scooped up the small square wrapped in periwinkle silk and untied the scarlet ribbon as she sat with a thump upon her embroidered stool. Carine bustled about, done with her work on Geneviève’s clothing, flitting like a hummingbird over to the dressing table with forced insouciance, and taking great interest in the organization of Geneviève’s brushes and perfumes. Geneviève smiled at her maid’s obvious curiosity; Carine would make the clumsiest of spies.

Geneviève curled her shoulders and spun away, out of no grave concern to hide what lay within but to tease her exceedingly inquisitive maid.

Her small, bow-shaped mouth fell open as she revealed the dazzling pair of amethyst earrings sparkling upon the small swath of black velvet; the teardrop-shaped stones as large as the pad of her thumb hung from clasps of perfect white gold. She fingered them with timid awe and took up the folded square of parchment.

Mademoiselle Gravois,

Though I can never thank you for the life of my son, I offer these as a small token of my esteem and gratitude. I have had them wrought especially for you. As beautiful as your eyes, I thought they would be the perfect complement to the ring I have seen you wear so often.

François

Carine gave an astounded gasp, unable to restrain herself from peering over Geneviève’s shoulder. “They are exquisite, mam’selle. You have garnered the best of the king’s favor.”

Geneviève turned with agitation; Carine had dared sneak a look at the gift and read its accompanying missive as well. Geneviève brushed aside her annoyance for the meaningless irritant it was,
while Carine attached the jewels to Geneviève’s ears. She turned to face the looking glass and laughter snagged in her throat. The earrings did indeed perfectly match the ring on her finger, as if they were created simultaneously.

“How exceedingly considerate of the king,” Carine remarked.

Indeed it was, and yet Geneviève could not reconcile the gesture with the man who had made it.

Carine laughed as she glimpsed the bewildered amazement on Geneviève’s face. “You
are
pleased,” she cooed. “What a wonderful gift.”

Was it wonderful? Geneviève was unsure. She knew only that life was a twisted journey, and hers more than most. Irony was assuredly God’s deranged sense of humor.

Silks, satins, brocades, and velvets lay draped upon every available surface of the duchesse d’Étampes’s audience chamber; iridescent primrose silk fell across the settee, crimson flowed over the ottoman, royal blue velvet hid the corner chairs.

Like half-blossomed roses, the women pranced about, scantily clad in frilly petticoats and shifts as the maids measured them for their new gowns, tossing the yards of exquisite fabrics around their shoulders to see how the color might highlight their own particular beauty. No one could choose before the duchesse herself had discarded any selection, but there was more than enough fabric to please all of her attendants, to send them twittering with squeals of delight as the contingent of merchants brought out each new bolt of cloth and each new style pattern.

Federico II of Gonzaga had returned from his latest visit with his mother, Isabella d’Este, and his trunks overflowed with Italy’s most current fashions and cosmetics. François loved for the ladies of his court to be adorned with nothing but the finest couture the world had to offer, and he made sure the Italian brought them on a regular basis.

A knock at the door brought scarcely a notice, and little more as
the adolescent serving girl opened the door to the messenger. She took the parchment he offered her and closed the door quickly. The mousy girl stepped sprightly through the dithering throng and delivered the small square with the red wax seal into Geneviève’s surprised hands.

A pang of fear gave Geneviève’s heart a squeeze, but she cast it off. No message from King Henry would be delivered in such a public manner; she need not fear exposure.

Unfolding the parchment, she was well aware of the prying eyes and the women who grew closer about her, but she wanted them to see, wanted the normal events of her life to appear as transparent as possible.

“Hmm. Very well then,” she said as she finished the message. Her reaction, though genuine, was nothing more than diluted surprise.

“What is it, Geneviève?” Monique asked, having not been able to read the complete missive, though she had craned her neck the most.

“My aunt has died,” Geneviève said as if she reported the condition of the weather.

“Mon Dieu,”
the woman responded. “I am so very sorry.”

Arabelle and others rushed to her side, ready to make a fuss, to either join her or support her as she fled into the dramatic bliss that could be mourning at court. But Geneviève would have none of it.

“Please do not concern yourselves.” She stood and busied herself with hunting among the fabrics once more, as if to put a punctuation mark on her feelings. “She had been sick for a very long time. It was to be expected.”

“But she raised you,” Sybille insisted with a frown. “You spent your entire childhood with her. Will you not miss her?”

Geneviève gave the question a moment’s thought. The passing of Madame de Montlhéry did affect her profoundly, though not in any predictable manner. With her aunt’s death there was no one in the world who knew her true identity—the person she had been
born as—save for the king of England. There was something liberating and yet surreal in the notion.

Geneviève turned to Sybille with a straightforward violet stare. “She did her duty by me and for that I shall always be grateful.”

Her dispassionate candor astonished more than one woman, but only Béatrice made to remark upon it. “Will you trav—”

“Madame, madame!” Lisette rushed in on her little feet, crashing the door open in her haste to find her mistress, cutting off all other conversation.

“Here, Lisette,” Anne called, stepping out of the cloth being held against her and away from the bevy of servants surrounding her, put on guard by the urgency of her lady’s tone.

“Oh, madame, you … will … not … believe …” Lisette struggled with words and shortness of breath. She gained Anne’s side, bending in half, one hand on her chest as it heaved to find air while the other reached out for her mistress’s arm.

“Bring her a drink.” Anne snapped her fingers. “Some ale, please.”

The women jumped to her bidding, crashing into one another as they moved in a different direction. Arabelle was the first to latch onto the jug of ale and sloshed some into a pewter mug.

“You will excuse us?” Anne tossed a pointed look toward the merchants posed before their wares, ears and eyes as wide as their lidless trunks. “We will call for you again in a moment.”

With reluctant bows the men took their leave, disappointment evident on their polite expressions, frustrated they would not be present to hear what astounding news the diminutive lady would impart.

Lisette threw back the beverage and gulped, drew a huge draught of air, and suppressed an unladylike belch with one fisted hand.

“Now tell me, Lisette”—Anne wheedled like a parent to an overstimulated child, but with a distinct lack of patience—“what is the matter? Is anyone hurt? Is the king well?”

“I’m sure the king is fine, madame,” Lisette finally said and, as
one, the women inched forward to catch every word. “Though he may be embarrassed by what has happened to the queen.”

“What has happened?” Anne beseeched her, pulling her roughly by the arm and throwing them both upon the settee, the others gathering close around them, the lustrous fabrics and ingenious patterns forgotten like yesterday’s stale bread.

Lisette’s round cheeks flushed with high color. “The queen and her train had finally reached Nice and the day had dawned for her to meet with her brother.”

“Yes, yes, it was to be three days ago.” Anne spurred her on, having little tolerance to receive information she already knew. “But no word has yet come from the encounter.”

“Oh, but it has, madame.” Lisette giggled. “And it is most delicious.” She took the last swig of ale, keeping her captive audience on edge for as long as she could.

But Anne tired of her drama. “Lisette,” she growled, and the silly girl needed no further prodding.

“The day was rather fine.” Lisette launched into her story with hands thrashing theatrically. “And the emperor decided to wait for his sister at the end of the dock in Nice. Much show was made as the queen’s boat pulled up to the pier. There was music playing, and the emperor stood there accompanied by his guards.”

Here Lisette turned to the women hanging on her every word. “You know how handsome those Italian men are. I can only imagine how debonair they must look in their uni—”

“Lisette!” Anne barked, patience stretched to the breaking point.

Geneviève was grateful for the duchesse’s intervention. Had she not stifled Lisette’s aimless prattle, Geneviève was quite sure she herself was about to pummel the flighty woman.

“Oh, ah,
oui,
madame,” Lisette mumbled, contrite. “They had erected a fine wooden ramp with unique railings, especially for the queen, to make it easier for her to disembark. You know how ungainly she can be. And they had moved it up to her boat. The music grew louder as she descended, three of her prettiest ladies
behind her. The emperor waited patiently, himself splendid in velvet and gold, or so I was told. He reached out his hand, the queen and her ladies stepped onto the dock and … and …” Lisette took a deep breath, her mouth open, the words hanging in the air.