To Serve a King (33 page)

Within seconds of the long song’s last note, Sebastien grabbed her hand and drew her off the dance floor, down the long corridor, and into the inner foyer outside the gray cobbled courtyard
.
Beside the tall glass doors looking out onto the rainy night, he pulled up short, and swung round to face her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her close.

“Are you all right? Has Madame Arceneau threatened you again?” His gaze searched her face.

Geneviève’s bow-shaped mouth formed a stunned, silent moue.

Sebastien gave her a shake. “Tell me, what has happened?”

“No, no, she has not bothered me again.” Geneviève found her voice, surprised by his response. She brought her hands up to her
face, her fingertips pushing on her forehead as if the pressure forced her to think more clearly. “I found you. I searched for you, to ask about her.”

“Me?” Sebastien recoiled. “Why would you ask me about her? I d—”

“She’s gone.” Geneviève silenced his words with her own. “We are not sure when she left, but she has left court. For good.”

Sebastien’s hands fell from her as she told him the entire story, repeating the words in the note the mystic had left with her sister. Her tale done, he sniffed a laugh as he pulled her into a tender embrace, arms circling her waist, hands rubbing the curve of her lower back evocatively.

“How wonderful,” he cooed in her ear. “All your troubles are over.”

Geneviève closed her eyes to the tingling sensation of his breath through her curls. “I thought … I meant to ask …”

“To ask?” he encouraged, kissing her forehead languorously.

She lowered her head, modestly chagrined. “I thought perhaps you were responsible for her sudden … departure.”

“What a silly thought.” He turned her around to face the rain-speckled glass, curling his body around hers, nuzzling his warm lips against her neck. “I have not an inkling of what the woman looks like. Perhaps she has acquired that home in Paris she desired so much, and needed nothing further from you.”

Geneviève’s hand faltered as it rose up to grasp his head, frozen inches away from the luxuriant waves of black hair. Had she mentioned Paris to him? Did she tell him Madame Arceneau craved a home in that city? She could not remember, and the question plucked at her as the scullion plucks the feathers from the slain chicken.

“Whatever has taken her from here, I am grateful for it.” His tongue traced a line of fire from her ear to her shoulder, drawing down the edge of her gown to reveal the snowy whiteness of her flesh, plying his lips and his tongue to the sensitive skin.

Her legs quivered, her resolve weakened at the sensual assault; she became fluid in his arms. His mouth lifted, his grip grew tight, and he spun her around.

Sebastien looked down with true fire and passion burning in his eyes. “I will serve you, Geneviève,” he said, his voice thick and husky. “I have made it my mission, but it has become my destiny.”

His mouth ravaged hers, as if he fought against all he felt for her, and she was defenseless at its onslaught.

She closed her eyes, relinquishing her body to his kisses and caresses, but she could not release the questions from her mind.

22

Who naught suspects is easily deceived.

—Petrarch (1304–1374)

T
he two long-legged men circled the courtyard; the king with his hands clasped behind his back, Monty with his own crossed upon his barrel chest. These two childhood friends had ruled their country for decades, and yet the friendship had not survived as well as the land. So many disputes had wedged themselves between them, but they were ever united in their devotion to France.

“This is the second time in as many months we have encountered problems with our correspondence to Spain.” The choler in François’s voice belied the pleasant smile on his face, the public form he offered to the courtier-filled terrace.

The heat of the parched summer had at last broken, with a crash and a thwack and a thunderous lightning-filled storm that raged for two days. In its wake the air was fresh and clean, free from the ponderous humidity, but pleasantly warm. The court reveled in the stirring climate, finding every excuse to be out of doors. Men and women frolicked like children, playing a game of
l’escaigne
in one corner, hitting the large inflated ball with a stick shaped like a stool, the legs filled with lead. Across from them,
courtiers fired darts at a wooden target affixed to the stone wall of the castle. The afternoon had taken on a festive atmosphere, a spur-of-the-moment fair in celebration of the crispness of autumn, and the king would not allow his agitation to besmirch the enjoyment of his people.

“Any word of Bretonnière?” he asked Monty, concerned both as a king and as the messenger’s friend.

The constable’s jowls trembled when he shook his head. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Merde
,” the king swore under his breath. “I do not understand it. We must assume he has been found out and captured, though I cannot surmise how his identity could have been revealed. The secret survived for so many years. But it is the only possibility.”

“I agree,” Monty mumbled.

“A missing messenger, missing and altered messages. What is plaguing us?” The king demanded answers.

“I have been making quiet inquiries,” Montmorency stated with unnatural casualness.

“You have?” François turned a foreboding gaze upon his chancellor. “Why have you not told me?”

“I did not want to make any report until I could offer a complete one.”

“Your desire for thoroughness is to be commended, sir, but I would have been appeased to hear that action, any action, was under way.”

Montmorency took the rebuke with a silent frown.

“Well,” the king prompted impatiently, “what have you found?”

The statesman turned his round face to his king, a flush of color rising on his grizzled cheeks. François had not often seen this opinionated man as hesitant to speak as he was at this moment, and the councilor’s silence frightened him more with every moment it devoured.

“There can be but one answer,
Majesté.
” Monty’s voice dropped to a cavernous octave. François hung on every syllable. “There is a spy in our midst.”

The king stumbled, tripping over a stone as well as the calamitous concept, faltering at the thought of such a threat to his nation. He reached out to his friend and colleague, grasping Monty’s arm to right himself, then dropping the hold before others witnessed his weakness.

“You are certain?” He hissed the question, the words tasting foul upon his tongue.

“It has been suggested by more than one source,” Monty confirmed with irrefutable gravity. “Though my investigation is newly begun, there is more than one indication that it is the only plausible postulation.”

François’s feet shuffled to a stop, and he turned to look out upon the courtyard and the throng of playful courtiers. He knew each and every one by name, their faces as familiar as those of his own children, both living and dead. That one of them might have betrayed him so grievously sent bile burning up his throat. His hands trembled and he clasped them beneath his arms, holding himself as if to guard against the painful sedition.

“Find him, Monty.” His voice trembled with violent wrath. “Find him and kill him.”

The news of a subversive infested the palace, slithering through every crack and crevice like the unseen poison of the plague. At the king’s bidding, Montmorency had let the news of his investigation slip, hoping to draw the illicit emissary out, forcing him to make a pernicious mistake. Gossip turned into mania and the courtiers looked upon each other with suspicion and fear. The court became a festering nest of mistrusting vipers, and Geneviève gasped for every breath she took inside it.

“Where’s the lavender silk?” She sat at her dressing table, watching the sunset through her window, watching it blaze with magnificent colors—taking its last flourishing bow—before departing the stage of the day. Earlier and earlier, the light bid
adieu
to the day; more and more the darkness overpowered the light.

Would she exit this world with the brilliance of a setting sun?
Thoughts of the gallows had possessed her mind from the moment the rumor had reached her ears. Geneviève thought of little else save escape, but upon that path lay nothing but fear. If she ran, if she simply disappeared, there could be no greater indictment of her guilt, and the search would begin; they would hunt her down. She could not hope for a successful retreat without the help of King Henry. To stay, to continue the façade, might be the only way to stay alive, but the pressure it put upon her was more than she believed bearable. Geneviève saw herself clearly for the first time in her life; not in the mirror, but in life’s reality. How different was truth from the reflection.

Carine fussed over the saffron gown spread upon the bed. “I’m afraid the gown had grown rank. I could not in good conscience allow you to wear it again.”

Geneviève turned dispiritedly; she had asked for her favorite gown, to encase herself in the familiar dress and its safety.

Like all of the incredible couture worn by nobles the world over, this one had fallen to the frequent wearing, overuse of perfumes, and the inability to wash such fragile garments. Most women rarely noticed as one gown disappeared and another took its place, but Geneviève refused to dismiss her favorite with ease; she felt its loss and it showed on her face.

Carine frowned at her mistress’s disappointment. “But I have saved the jewels, mam’selle, of course.”

The maid knelt at Geneviève’s feet, taking her hand, opening the palm, and gently dropping the purple stones into it, closing Geneviève’s fingers upon them. “We will have another made.”

“I thank you, Carine.” Geneviève shook her head imperceptibly as she stared down at the sparkling amethyst stones in her hand. “But we can never go back.”

“Perhaps it is true that we can never go back,” Carine said thoughtfully, “but we can always begin again.” She smiled with all her innocence and hope.

Geneviève raised her gaze to her maid’s face. “Have I told you how grateful I am to have had you on this journey?”

Carine tilted her head, taken aback by such words of endearment from her aloof mistress, and by their tone of fatality.

“And will continue to be,” she affirmed.

“Yes, yes of course.” Geneviève nodded with a pale smile. “Come, help me into this beautiful dress.”

The inner court dined quietly tonight, a subdued supper for no more than fifty of the king’s intimates—his
gentilshommes
and his
petite bande.
Truffles and cheese preceded pheasant and quail, followed by marzipan biscuits and pine-nut cakes. But the main course of the meal was talk of the spy, and every mouth chewed upon it with great relish.

“I know that Monsieur de Brumagne has spoken contentiously for many months,” the fastidious Guillaume du Bellay hissed to his neighbor, failing to inform the other man of his territorial dispute with the House of Brumagne.

Admiral d’Annebault leaned close to La Rochepot, Mont-morency’s brother, but did little to obscure his words. “Poncher has acquired
another
château. Certainly his own coffers cannot support such an acquisition. I’ve heard it said that spies are well compensated.”

They bandied names about with cruelness, malicious and ambitious courtiers using the occasion to propel themselves up the ladder of the court with particular deftness. Geneviève strained to hear every name they passed across the table like platters serving up the next sacrifice. It appeared she clung to the gossip for the sake of salacious satisfaction, but she listened for no name but her own.

With studied nonchalance, she turned to the niggling feeling coming from her right. She found Sebastien’s eyes locked upon her as he stood guard at the door. For a fleeting moment, Gene-viève saw something alien in their depths, something frightful in the blue gaze, but it passed so fleetingly she wondered if she had imagined it. She threw back a gulp of hippocras, berating herself for seeing condemnation in every face. Sebastien’s lips flickered
with the scantest of smiles and one eye ticked with the flash of a wink; Geneviève relaxed at the affectionate gestures and took a bite of her dessert, finding further solace in the sugary treat.

“Might I have a word, Mademoiselle Gravois?” The gruff voice of the constable did little to support the politeness of his interruption.

Geneviève stared up at the tall man towering over her, throat pulsing as she swallowed the rush of moisture in her mouth. “Ah … yes, of course, monsieur. You will excuse me, Arabelle?” She began to rise, but her companion jumped up first.

“No, please, I wish to avail myself of more of those delicious tarts.” She gestured to her empty plate and her now vacant chair. “Please, sir, have a seat. I will return shortly.”

Arabelle cast a faint smile at Geneviève over her shoulder as she left.

The powerful man heaved his hefty form into the high-backed leather chair and sat back, sipping upon the small cordial held in his large hand. “You have become comfortable with your new life here at court, mademoiselle?”

Geneviève nodded, unsure where this conversation might lead, fearing the worst. “I have, monsieur, thank you. The duchesse is a good and kind mistress.”

There was no mistaking the grimace of disagreement on the man’s puckered face. “Be that as it may, I have been meaning to tell you how impressed I am with you.”

Geneviève pointed a finger at her own chest, eyes wide with surprise. “Me?”

“Indeed,” he said with sedate alacrity. “You are not like many of the other young females at court. You appear withdrawn, aloof at times, but I think not.”

“No?” Geneviève asked with genuine curiosity as she leaned forward.

“No.” Montmorency mirrored her motion, closing the space between
them. “I believe you are simply more intellectual and intuitive than these other”—he waved his hand at a bevy of giggling girls at the center of the room—“ladies.”