To Serve a King (46 page)

Hardships fell away with the echo of each step, and yet the path before her remained shrouded and unclear. How she would extract herself from King Henry’s employ, she did not know. One misstep and she may well yet reach the ultimate end, but for now she would revel in this triumph. She would allow the embrace of reprieve, allow herself serenity in the quiet…

The quiet. Geneviève stopped. The weak echo of her clicking heels died away. Her head tilted and she listened. The silence in the castle matched the silence in her mind … the voices were gone.

She raised her hands to her face, tingling with astonishment and
joy. She skipped then, like a schoolchild on the way home, and turned the last corner onto the last corridor.

“Geneviève.” The whisper found her as the man stepped out of a patch of darkness, a void between two torches where their light could not reach.

She slipped as she flung her body back, a cry of surprise and fear escaping her throat.

“Be not afraid,” he said, turning his head with an odd smile. A veil of pale light found one deep dimple.

“
Mon Dieu,
Sebastien,” Geneviève grumbled, one hand flattened against her palpitating heart. “You almost frightened me to death.”

“I have been waiting for you.” He offered no apology. “We mus—”

“Never mind, never mind.” Geneviève gave him no pause, flinging herself into his arms. “Seeing you, having you here, it is perfect, perfect.”

She stood on her toes and ravaged his face with her kisses, her hands caressing his arms, his chest, as if feeling him for the first time, mumbling with incoherent happiness. “Everything is different now, do not ask me how, but trust it. What I feel for you—all that I feel—I can allow. There is nothing to stop me, not even myself.”

Sebastien looked down at her, brows furrowed, accepting her affection with neither struggle nor contribution.

Geneviève pulled back, saw his face, and laughed, a low throaty chortle that spoke of lustful amusement. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I make no sense, I know.” She brought her curved mouth closer to his, her body brushing against him with slow, provocative movements, her lips caressing his as she spoke. “But know this: We have much to celebrate, so let us begin.”

She kissed him then, all restrained passion liberated, as if the laces binding her heart had been ripped away. Her tongue fought
to conquer his mouth and, with a ravenous groan, Sebastien surrendered.

His hands wrapped around her waist and squeezed; the air rushed from her lungs as he yanked her against him, his hardness mastering all her soft roundness. Their clamorous breathing grew loud in the quiet, their bodies damp. Sebastien’s mouth ravaged her—her lips, her face, her neck—he took her with a brutal passion she had never felt, as if her enticement had freed a beast buried inside him. The passionate onslaught brought her to heights of exhilaration she had never known or imagined, as it mingled with lascivious danger.

With arms clenched as thick and hard as steel bands, he picked her up and thrust forward, shoving her back into the stone wall.

Sebastien’s chiseled body trapped her against the cold rock; any air left in her body rushed out, until she gasped with pleasure and fear.

“Sebastien … Sebastien, wait,” she wheezed, trying to contain his frantic onslaught, her hands thrust upon his shoulders.

But he heeded her not. His hands tore at her bodice, grabbed at her breasts as he buried his face in the deep hollow between them, his mouth nipping painfully at her soft, pliable flesh. Alarm overtook arousal and Geneviève wanted it to stop, wanted him to stop. She clamped one hand on each side of his head and yanked.

Geneviève felt a scream rise in her throat at the face unmasked. Lust burned naked in his eyes, but so did something else, something sad and brutal and terrifying she had never seen before. She shut her eyes to it and Sebastien plunged his mouth onto hers, pressing his lips upon hers until they shred upon her teeth and the foul, acidy taste of blood burst in her mouth.

She shook her head, struggling until she freed her mouth.

“What is this madness, Sebastien?” she entreated. “What are you doing?”

His hard jaw thrust forward, his hands tore a path upward from her breasts.

“Why did you not do it, Geneviève? It would have been so easy. We would have had such a life together, but you’ve changed everything.”

Geneviève’s mouth fell, words and thoughts a tumble. “What are you talking about? What do you me—”

A tear formed in his eye, one ray of sadness in the face of a fiend. His hands moved up farther, the long fingers wrapping around her throat.

“I have no choice now, Geneviève, don’t you see that?” With slow fatality, his hands began to squeeze. “Above all else, I must serve my true king—my cousin.”

Beautiful face contorted with devastation, Sebastien brought his lips to her ear.

“I must serve King Henry.”

One moment of crippling incomprehension … shattered upon horrific realization. Geneviève kicked her legs, banged her fists upon the arms squeezing the breath from her. She had always fought. Now she must fight for her life. She tried to push forward, to reach down to the dagger returned to the leg strap, but he jerked her backward.

I am always with you, I am always watching.
How many times had King Henry written those very words? This man had been his eyes, his presence. He was her keeper, her lover, and now her executioner.

“If only you had done what you were meant to do.” His hands shook as they tightened their grasp upon her throat. Tears slipped from his eyes and down his cheeks. He shook his head, as if he denied the act he committed. “We could have married and lived under my cousin’s love. But now it cannot be. I must do what you could not. And then I can never go home. Never!”

Stars burst in Geneviève’s eyes. Rushing blood thrummed in her ears.

“You … love … me.” The words croaked out of her closing throat, their certainty irrefutable.

Sebastien’s hands quivered. For a fleeting instant, Geneviève hoped.

“Of course I love you.” The words of pure anguish fell from his lips. His head dropped under the weight of it. His whole body shook.

Geneviève made her move. She dropped her hands to the wall behind her and pushed.

But he did not yield.

Sebastien pushed back, his grip tightened, her throat closed.

“I am sorry,” he sobbed as he choked her.

Geneviève’s vision blurred. The face before her swam in the darkness that had come at last to swallow her, as it had threatened to do her whole life.

She felt her body slipping down the wall, felt herself rising above it, and she reached out to grab at the release.

34

Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry,

And in pleasure many a grief endure.

—Louise Labé (c. 1524–1566)

T
he whirring hum of the dagger cut through the air; the squish of spurting blood and fractured bone screamed in answer.

Sebastien’s eyes flew open, his jaw slumped, as the dagger sank into his flesh and found his heart.

But Geneviève did not see it, did not feel it as her assassin’s body fell forward and to the ground with her own.

At the cornerstone of the corridor, King François’s arm dropped to his side. He had killed and knew it, but was it too late?

Like the three guards behind him, he broke into a run. He reached them first; the bodies splayed upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim light. François grabbed the body of his once loyal guard and tossed it aside with the brutal force of his youth.

“Geneviève, Geneviève.” He chanted her name as if he prayed to God.

Two guards grabbed the flaccid body of Sebastien and flung it over with disrespectful viciousness as the third kept his sword point fixed on a spot in the center of the man’s chest. One felt for breath as the other checked for pulse. They found neither, with a condemning sense of delight.

The king held Geneviève’s limp body cradled in one arm, rocking her as he gently patted her face, as he shook her as if to impel the life back into her.

“Dear God,” he prayed, “please do not take her. Do not ply my punishment upon her as well.”

He dropped his forehead onto hers and there he felt it. Breath. Her breath, tickling his face ever so lightly with its faint vapors. But it was enough.

“Loosen her laces,” he commanded, and the closest guard dropped his weapon to the floor with a thunderous clang, dropped to one knee, and untied the laces along the side of the prostrate woman’s gown.

Geneviève sucked the air into her lungs with a rattle; her eyes fluttered as they struggled to open.

François raised his gaze heavenward, a silent, rushed prayer of gratitude. He muttered as the deathly white skin on her face flushed with the palest pink blush. “Something compelled me to return to you, to make sure you were all right. Thank the good Lord. Thank you, God, for bringing me here.”

Geneviève drew in each breath with deliberation, her body pulsing once more with life. Her filmy gaze scoured the scene before her … the king of France, the man she was raised to kill, had become her savior. She raised a weak hand to his face, to touch him with her thankfulness. François thrust the hand to his cheek with his own and closed his eyes. Geneviève turned her regard to the guards, the bloody body of Sebastien lying within arms’ reach, and all she had forgotten returned.

She struggled to sit up, but François held her back. “No, do not move. I do not know how badly you are injured.”

She shook her head, writhing as she clamored for breath to speak.

“… speak … you …”

“Do not talk, Geneviève. Just breathe.”

But she would not calm, would not stop. She grabbed the king
by the clothes upon his chest, and yanked him toward her with unaccountable strength.

“I must … speak to … you.” Her gaze beseeched him, the imperative transparent.

He opened his mouth to argue, but in the end, acquiesced with a frown and a nod.

“Help me,” he said, as he struggled to his feet, struggled to pull her up beside him.

The men jumped forward, two of them wrapping each of Geneviève’s limp arms around their shoulders. With a contemptuous look, François ticked his chin angrily at the body of Sebastien.

“Dispose of him,” he demanded of the remaining guard, and began to lead the others away, back down the corridor toward his own chambers.

“No no, wait,” Geneviève said, no longer gasping for breath, but her voice was the feeble bark of a sick dog and her throat burned with the flames of hell. The whites of her eyes were red with broken veins, and a purple necklace of bruises weaved around the porcelain skin of her neck.

“Please, Geneviève, we must get you to a physician.” François chastised her as he would any of his children in his care.

Once more she reached out for him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward her until her lips grazed the flesh of his ear.

“Swear them, my lord. Swear them all to secrecy. You … must.” The weakness threatened to overwhelm her, but she would not release him.

The cloak of fear he had thought to dispel wrapped itself about his shoulders once more. There was much afoot here, the king knew it now for a certainty; he would question her no more.

“You are all sworn to secrecy,” he brayed, “by your lives.”

The three men bowed, soldiers’ hard faces set in a pledge of honor.

“Your Majesty,” they intoned, the two holding Geneviève bowing their heads, the third thrusting his fist to his chest.

Geneviève released herself to the soldiers’ arms and allowed them to rush her down the corridor, the king at the prow, her feet dragging along the stone floor.

At his chamber, the king flung open the door and took Gene-viève in his arms.

“Allow no one entry.” He flung the command over his shoulder. “Tell them nothing.”

“Your Majesty,” the men repeated, each taking a stand on either side of the door, impenetrable statues at guard.

“I have been told of a disturbance in the castle. I must see the king. I must ensure he is well.” Wrapped in an unattractive chartreuse silk evening robe, Montmorency rushed toward the king’s door, blustering with anger as the guards stymied his admission.

“The king has ordered that no one shall pass.”

“What?” the constable barked, with unmitigated annoyance. “You speak nonsense.”

“What is this of nonsense?” Chabot joined them and Cardinal Lorraine as well, all dressed for sleep, sleep bloating their faces, roused by servants whose tongues twittered with nefarious rumor.

“This guard refuses me entry,” Monty told the men, pointing at the soldier as if he were an insolent insect at their feet.

Admiral Chabot stepped up, hands on hips. “I order you to allow us entry, sir. We must see to the king.”

“No one shall pass.” The soldier kept his eyes straight ahead, fixed on an empty spot before him.

Chabot bristled with anger. “I said, I order—”

“No one shall pass.” The other soldier took up the chant with a growl. “The king demands it.”

For all their power, these ministers and councilors knew defeat when they tasted it.

They began to trudge away, when Montmorency swung back, a finger pointed at the soldier like a threatening dagger tip. “You will come for us the instant the king allows.”

The soldier said nothing, answering with a stiff bob of his head. As the fuming contingent crawled off, he dared a shift and a roll of his eyes to his companion, who answered with the tick of a smile.

François stood at the window, thick thighs pressed against the embrasure, one long hand pressed against the cool glass. A gray glow glistened on his moist, wrinkled face; tenderness and longing showed in the sad tilt of the almond eyes.