To Serve a King (41 page)

“I … don’t … think …” Geneviève began. “Oh God, no …”

She ran, lifting her skirts, heedless of the leg she revealed. She ran, leaving Arabelle calling out behind her, struggling to catch up. She ran, until she could see the face for herself.

In death, the old woman’s purple scars were no longer visible; her putrid skin was nothing more than an ill-begotten memory. The wind pitched and the body spun on its tether, the rope creaking as it twisted back and forth. The breeze brushed Geneviève’s face, and only then did she feel the moist tracks upon her cheeks. One shoddy slipper had fallen to the ground below the body, the exposed foot petite, the toes perfect and bluish white. The crate she had used as a weapon against herself, lay overturned and
cracked, perhaps kicked as the woman’s last thoughts railed against her own assault.

“We must cut her down,” one man called to the paralyzed crowd huddled around the woman’s feet.

“Does anyone know her?” a woman sobbed from the cradle of a strong man’s arms.

“I do,” Geneviève said, but it was an incredulous whisper, and no one heard it. She felt as if she had known this woman, not as one person passes a stranger along the divergent path that is the road of life, but as though a connection existed with her, albeit one too intangible to comprehend. She meant to make her way forward, felt compelled to speak for the woman, but her grief shackled her to the spot.

Arabelle tumbled into her from behind, breath ragged, gaze frozen on the lifeless body as she grabbed onto Geneviève. “Is that …”

Geneviève nodded before she finished. “I must tell them who—”

A cry rang out. “The king comes!”

The crowd parted, all eyes turned from the appalling sight to the powerful ruler, as King Henry barreled into the square.

In a simple black suede jerkin and trunk hose, he looked no less imperious as he took in every facet of the grisly scene with one sweep of his intent gaze. He circled around the tree until he stood beneath the hanged woman, an arm’s reach away from Geneviève.

“Who is she?” he barked, his indignation sweeping the crowd with a hard bristle.

Arabelle nudged Geneviève’s back, hissing in her ear. With a stern, tight shake of her head, Geneviève pushed against it; she could not speak to him, not now, not of this.

“She is one of your staff, my lord.” A pudgy bald man stepped forward; his fine dress and distinctively accented English revealed him as man of Calais, and one of some import. “A scullion, I am told, with the name of Hainaut.”

Henry gave the man a hard stare in reply, jaw muscles convulsing on a hard cast face.

An adolescent page ran up to the chubby man, thrust a torn and ragged piece of parchment into his hand, and melted back into the crowd.

Before the man looked upon it, Henry snatched it from his hand and lifted the parchment closer to his eyes, squinting at the scrag-gly writing in the dim light. Geneviève inched closer, pushed against an obstructing shoulder, and rose on tiptoes to see over the king’s shoulder. A few English words sprawled across the page:

I cannot live, if I am already dead.

The bizarre inscription was no less troubling than the self-destructive act itself.

King Henry dropped his hand, the note clasped within it, his piercing gaze scanning the expectant crowd around him. His head swiveled on his short, thick neck, and he scrutinized those behind him. For a fleeting instant, his glare snagged on Geneviève’s face and she gasped at the hard touch of it. It moved on in a flash and she wondered upon it; so much of this moment stank of delusion.

The king turned back to the paper in his hand, and without a glimmer of remorse, tore it in half, and in half again, tore it until it was no more than shredded scraps of nothing.

“Cut her down,” he barked rancorously. “Cut her down and bury her.”

Geneviève shivered from the cold radiating from this harsh man. This woman was nothing to King Henry, a nameless, faceless kitchen servant—he could have no animosity for her, and yet he showed nothing but rancor toward her, though death be her master. How starkly his actions compared to those of King François, whose heart had been torn asunder by the execution of someone convicted of betrayal against him. There was no resolving the divergent behavior and Geneviève’s mind screamed with the disparity.

As cold and immobile as stone, Geneviève stood and watched as men cut down the body of Millicent de Hainaut and carried her away. Like a stalwart boulder in the midst of a rushing stream, she moved not a step as the crowd dispersed around her. As the square emptied, she moved, stepping forward to pick up the discarded, forgotten slipper. She would take it with her. Whenever she looked upon it, someone, somewhere would remember this woman.

29

My lord, if it were not to satisfy the world and my realm,

I would not do what I must do this day for none earthly thing.

—Henry VIII (1491–1547)

“Y
ou pester me, Master Crom well.” Henry turned h is back on his drably clad minister and lim ped aw ay. The jou rney had done much to aggravate his illness-plagued body and his fiery disposition; he looked eagerly to his familiar throne and its promise of relief.

“And for that I do humbly apologize.” The dour-faced adviser bowed deeply, but dared to shuffle forward nonetheless, raising his eyes to his ruler, who glared thunderously down at him from the dais. “But the situation grows dire with every passing moment, Your Highness. The evidence of collusion between the emperor, the pope, and the French king has become more resolute and powerfully incriminating.”

“They have taken no firm action against us.” The hard-edged pronouncement came from Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, the diamond-patterned lead windows at his back, arms folded across his hard chest, silhouette enlarged by the fur mantle set about his powerful shoulders.

Cromwell spun to his adversary with his lip curled in an expression of distaste. The tension between them grew as thick as a
bear’s fur as winter’s hibernation drew near. “They have withdrawn their ambassador for a second time, and the emperor travels to France in a fortnight. Your own spies confirm it.”

“A visit means nothing. Our king’s recent travel confirms it.” Suffolk scoffed at the minister’s argument. “The entire visit was a sham, intending to obfuscate any hint of our own agenda. For all we know, François does the same, a magician’s sleight of hand.”

“We know the French king will do anything for the Italian territory. Who knows how far his longing will take him. And we know that Cardinal Pole has paid King François another visit. There can be no greater condemnation.”

“England has nothing to fear,” Suffolk barked. “The queen of Navarre and the duchesse d’Étampes made it very clear.”

“And a marriage to Cleves would bring with it the financial and military support of the Schmalkaldic League. They have made it very clear. A triumvirate such as the one that forms across the channel would be extraordinarily powerful,” Cromwell argued. “England would be powerless against such an alliance, on its own.”

The men glared at each other across the short expanse, their discourse at an impasse.

Henry’s lips curled into a snarl, beefy hands gripping the carved arms of the chair, knuckles blanching with the grip. How often in his life had the question of eminence risen among the three kings? He refused to fall by the wayside; such a thought tormented him.

“Very well,” he grumbled with a dismissive wave at Cromwell. “Call her to us.”

A smirk slithered across the minister’s face and he bowed, backing out of the chamber before the king changed his mind.

With long, purposeful strides, the Duke of Suffolk rushed to the king’s side, leaning down upon the throne’s arm. “Are you certain, Sire? I fear this action will only bring the wrong sort of alliance, for you and for our country.”

Henry reached up to squeeze the beefy shoulder of his lifelong friend and adviser. “It would seem I am forced to act. But it shall not be my only maneuver.”

Brandon answered him with nothing more than a quizzical expression.

A devious light sparked in Henry’s eye. “Send the message, Charles.” The king breathed the decree as a priest would whisper the last rites. “Give the final order … to them both.”

Brandon blinked as if in defense, a small tick the other advisers in the room could not see. He whispered as well, his words for the king alone.

“I have been your man for all my life. I have been your hand of justice, staining my own in your name.” Brandon crouched low, his eyes level with Henry’s, his stare penetrating the king’s, laying bare the haunted shadows lingering within them. There could be no question, no second guessing. “This time, above all others, I would question you, and beg you to consider for a moment more. Only if there is no hesitancy in your mind, should you tell me again.”

If Charles Brandon thought to see a glimmer of doubt in Henry VIII’s eye, he could have more readily asked for the moon.

Henry leaned over, his head no more than inches from the duke’s. “Give the command, Charles.” Henry waggled his large head, jowls set firm. “If this plan should prove successful, it may save me from this woman and all who would rise against me.”

With a hard swallow, but a deep obeisance, the Duke of Suffolk rose and strode from the room, set upon his master’s course.

The king of France himself stood upon the steps of Fontaine-bleau, waiting to greet them as the entourage of women and guards returned home. Servants fanned out on each side, poised to relieve the tired travelers of their possessions and their horses. As the procession turned onto the approaching lane, his shoulders
straightened and his smile spread, brightening his pale face as the sun did the earth when thrust from behind a gloomy cloud.

The duchesse rose in her saddle, stretching her hand into the sky to beckon to him, as anxious to return to her lover’s arms as he was to have her there. She nudged her horse forward and the mare broke into a spirited canter, the horses around them taking up the pace, large nostrils flaring as they smelled the scent of home. Before Anne’s mount had ceased its clomping, the king was by her side, pulling her down and into his arms. In silent reunion, they held each other, unmindful of the many eyes observing them.

Geneviève’s lips twitched as she gazed upon the scene; whatever rumors prevailed of these two eccentric lovers, their devotion to each other was to be admired … and coveted. She lifted her gaze and searched the crowd gathered in welcome, daring to seek out the one face offering but a taste of what these paramours had shared for decades.

There, in the gathering of soldiers beyond the massive doors, she found him. His twilight eyes twinkled at her, his dimples flashed for a split second. It was not the embrace the king gave to his mistress, but it would serve. Turning shyly away, Geneviève basked in the warmth of Sebastien’s greeting, succor for her forlorn soul, and stepped up to stand obediently behind her mistress.

“Your sister sends her fondest regards, Your Majesty,” Anne said, released from the king’s firm embrace, though he refused to release the small hand in his. “She bids you prepare for her for she will arrive shortly.”

The king’s happy countenance glowed. “She will be here for the emperor’s visit?”

“Indeed she will,” Anne assured him with a tender smile. “I have much else to tell you, Your Majesty, but I would rest awhile first, if I may?”

François raised the tiny hand enveloped in his large one, and brushed his lips across its soft flesh. “There is nothing that cannot wait, madame. I would have you rested and well, above all else.”

Together they turned and made for the tall doors, Anne’s ladies but a few steps behind.

The king looked over his shoulder at them. He tilted his head in a dashing nod to Arabelle; to Geneviève he offered a smile and a tender, “Welcome home, my child.”

She felt the warmth of it upon her cheeks and she beamed with all absence of guile and disguise. And yet she hesitated, trudging feet growing heavier, as she mounted the stairs; this palace was her home and yet it wasn’t; she longed for it and to run from it with equal yearning. Her gaze roved over its splendid façade as if to see her truth upon it.

A curtain moved in a second-story window and her eye jumped up. Looking down at the warm scene of homecoming, lips puckered with bitterness, stood Queen Eleanor. The stalwart figure by her side, as ever, none other than Catherine de’ Medici. These two women, more than most, would recognize the resentment burning in her heart, the unrequited, opposing existence with which she must grapple. Yet she could not bring her trepidations to share at their table; she could share her true heart with no one.

“Look at you.” Carine stood with arms akimbo just inside the door to the chamber. “You are a mess. Mademoiselle d’Aiguillon did not take as fine care of you as she had promised.”

Geneviève shook her head with a chuckle. She need not miss a mother, for here one stood, her maid’s nagging as fine as any pestering parent could offer.

“Arabelle was a wonderful maid to me, as I was to her.” For all Carine’s frenetic energy, Geneviève was gladdened to see her servant. “But pray tell me, is this how you greet your returning mistress?”

Blushing and contrite, Carine bobbed a deep curtsy. “
Pardonnez-moi,
mam’selle. Welcome home, of course.”

“And a good day to you, Carine. You look well.”

Geneviève pushed farther into her chamber, happy as well to
see the familiar furniture and most especially the thick, silk-covered mattress; how she had longed for it through the many sleepless, uncomfortable nights on thinly stuffed and smelly ticking.