To Serve a King (47 page)
His mind chewed on the unfathomable tale, now tucked away in his mind, never to be shared with another. He had been the king of a great nation for decades, and yet he had never heard a story like the one Geneviève had told. He knew with a certainty that the voice of his youth, the one who spouted superiority and entitlement, was nothing but a blustering fool.
His heart tore as he watched her and her companion leave him, as their horses brought them to the edge of the forest. In the murky light of a coming dawn, the man’s red hair fairly glowed like a beacon. The only decision had been the right one, hard though it may be. François had entrusted Geneviève’s keeping to his loving care; for with the marquis de Limoges it was love; he had seen it in the man’s face for himself.
King though he may be, he could not escape the pangs of separation. He could not help but feel the loss of a daughter newly found.
As he watched them vanish into the arms of the naked trees, he saw her turn back, knew her gaze found him as it rose up the wall of the castle and searched the windows. He smiled a tremulous smile and she answered with her own. She would know his love, for he would send it often and for as long as he lived, through the ciphers she had learned so well.
The couple disappeared, and he turned from the window with a sigh. There was but one place he longed to be at this moment.
* * *
She turned away from her last glimpse of her king, but did not urge her horse forward, holding back on the reins, her body bobbing in the fringed saddle as the animal shifted its weight. Gene-viève’s violet gaze stared off at the twisting, light-dappled path that lay before them, a bittersweet smile upon her rosy lips.
“Is all well, Mademoiselle Gra—” The marquis de Limoges cleared his throat and dipped his large, pleasant face. “Is all well with you, Madame de Veu?”
Rousing herself from her introspection, Geneviève turned her attention upon her companion. She had often seen that look on Al-bret’s face, his masculine, agreeable features soft with warmth and kindness, and always a glint of something more. She had never been as grateful for it as she was at this moment.
“I often knew I would leave this court, that my days would not end here, but never in my wildest fancy did I imagine such leave-taking,” she croaked in a thoughtful whisper.
Albret’s brow furrowed and a crimson blush broke out on his freckled cheeks. “It is not all bad, is it?” he murmured.
So much lay in the question. Geneviève’s mouth thinned with a tender smile. “It is not bad at all.” She liberated an incredulous laugh. “And upon that I am most surprised.”
With an expert hand, she pulled her reins to the right and her horse sidled over to Albret’s. A shaft of soft sunlight sneaked through the canopy of branches above her head, turning her porcelain skin near translucent; it caught the smudges in the hollows of her face and the circlet of purple around her neck.
“Though I am most sorry for how my path has changed your own.” Her face scrunched in apprehension.
“Fear not,
ma chérie,
for I serve not only my king, but my heart.” Albret reached across the small space between them and placed his wide, powerful hand gently upon hers.
She allowed it to rest there, his flesh warm and welcoming.
“We can never know the path ahead,” he offered, “but we can move forward with hope.”
Geneviève smiled again, and heaved a deep, cleansing draught of fecund forest air. “Then forward, Monsieur de Veu, with hope.”
He clicked the secret door shut and it faded away into the molding of the room. With his long legs, François rushed to the outer door of his presence chamber and threw it open.
The guards spun round, relaxing at the sight of their king, well and unharmed.
“Messieurs, you have done your duty with great honor this night.” The king of France straightened his shoulders and stepped across the threshold. The men swiveled their heads to peer into the room, glances scattering in confusion about the empty chamber, meeting in perplexity.
François smiled but a little. “By your oath.” It was a command and a question.
The two soldiers straightened, faces set firm. “Your Majesty.” They bowed.
The king returned the gesture with respect, spun on his heel, and strode off down the corridor.
Slipping through the empty hallways, he silently passed the guard at her door. With the ungainliness of a large, aging man, he sneaked past the sleeping attendants in her presence chamber, shrugged off his heavy outer clothes, and stealthily slipped into the sheets upon her bed.
Like a nuzzling kitten, Anne turned to him, wrapping her delicate arms around his broad body. “Is all well?” she asked, voice groggy with sleep.
François pulled her embrace tighter about him. “I have had to send Mademoiselle Gravois from us.”
She stirred then, raising her head, a mess with a crown of tousled hair, to gaze upon him with a glimmer of fear and sadness.
“Will we see her again?”
A poignant melancholy tugged at the mighty king’s heart. He would forever remember the brilliance of the violet eyes and the
woman who had spared him his life and helped save his nation, a daughter who had served her king well. He would guard her name as he passed from this world to the next and, in doing so, lift her from out of the grave.
“No, I’m sorry,
ma chérie
. We will not. But we will know she loves us, now and forevermore.”
There is no lighter burden,
nor more agreeable,
than a pen.
—Petrarch (1304–1374)
Though Geneviève and the events of her life are all fictitious, the treachery of her setting, the struggle for power and glory at all levels, is based on fact and only a smattering of the events of the age are touched upon. It was called the century of giants, and the games these royals played with one another were of colossal proportion.
Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, the duchesse d’Étampes, remained by François’s side until the moment of his death. Within days of his passing, rumors abounded that she had been involved in a covert relationship with the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V—that he had paid her with, among other things, a gargantuan diamond. A messenger confessed to carrying secret letters from Anne to the emperor during his stay in France. Such letters, it was said, detailed all the duchesse knew about French military tactics and strategic points of defense.
Though never convicted, Anne’s detractors were merciless. Montmorency, the widowed queen, the new king Henri, and his mistress Diane de Poitiers did everything to humiliate her. She was exiled from court and rejected by her husband. Henri confiscated
all Anne’s holdings—save one—giving them to Constable Montmorency. Her jewels, including those King François had had made to match her green eyes, Henri gave to Diane, who had coveted them so. Hely, this favorite, had loved and been loved by a king for more than twenty years, and will be forever remembered as having betrayed that love. Anne died in such obscurity, the exact date of her death in 1580 is unconfirmed.
From the moment Henri II became king, he elevated his longtime mistress to the rank he believed she deserved. Diane de Poitiers became the duchesse de Valentinois, wherein he restored the duchy that had belonged to her family. What is more, he pronounced her head governess to the royal children and insisted she be present for all meetings of the
conseil des affaires
and the
conseil privé
. Diane had been the single greatest influence in Henri’s life.
After Henri’s fatal wound on the jousting field at the age of forty, Catherine de’ Medici banished Diane de Poitiers from her lover’s deathbed, his funeral, and from court. Catherine ruled as regent for her young sons until the time of her death, becoming one of the most famous, and infamous, rulers in the country’s history.
Despite all of Henry VIII’s fears, an alliance between Charles V and François I never materialized. In actuality, the meeting between Charles V and François I did little to advance the relationship between the two rulers. Military conflicts continued in 1542 and 1544, with England falling in with the emperor. Neither were decisive, Milan remained out of François’s reach, and
status quo ante
was established in 1544.
After the death of his wife, Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and king of Spain, grew weary of struggle and glory, and eventually abdicated all titles in 1556. He died two years later.
Henry VIII died on January 28, 1547. Some rumors claim a great celebration took place in the French palace. François’s public statement professed his grief over the loss of his “good and true friend.” A grand legend has it that the dying king of England sent
a message to the king of France from his deathbed, reminding François that he, too, was mortal. The mythology holds that, in response, François became depressed and fell ill to a sickness from which he would never recover, dying on March 31, 1547.
Perhaps it was the loss of his nemeses that brought about François’s abrupt demise. He was deeply affected by the withdrawal of his two adversaries. There was no enemy left worthy of his attention. Each the equal of the other in pride and ego, the three kings had hated each other with a passion kindred to love, because it drew them together in constant relationships that amounted to a kind of sentimental fidelity. They had been ever trying now to destroy, now to charm one another.
As much is said in praise of François I’s reign as in condemnation. His enormous strides in the arts and humanities and in forging a more defined nationality are tainted by his fiscal irresponsibility, his obsession with war, and his love of lust. He brought his country out of the uncivilized and uncultured Middle Ages, and yet set stepping stones on the nation’s path toward revolution.
François has been called the Renaissance Warrior, for few other rulers can compare in leaving a more notable and lasting cultural legacy. By establishing the
lecteurs royaux
in 1530, François laid the foundation for the Collège de France. His compilation of books evolved into the Bibliothèque Nationale. And, most noteworthy of all, his trove of art became the nucleus of the world-famous collection now held at the Louvre.
This book was written during a time of great struggle; a time to try my soul. In fact, I thought my pen had dried up for all time. Yet it is during the most egregious moments of existence that we see not only our true character, but also that of those around us.
To the many who gave freely of their love, their patience, their understanding, and even their finances, I am eternally grateful.
I stand on two feet,
perhaps not quite as tall as before,
but standing nonetheless.
Or perhaps I have grown taller than ever imagined possible,
Bowed but not bent.
Books:
D’Orliac, Jehanne.
Francis I: Prince of the Renaissance.
Translated by Elisabeth Abbott. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1932.
Grunfeld, Frederic V.
The French Kings
. Chicago: Stonehenge, 1982.
Hamel, Frank.
Fair Women at Fontainebleau
. London: FawsideHouse, 1909.
Knecht, R. J.
Renaissance Warrior and Patron: The Reign of Francis I.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Miltoun, Francis.
Royal Palaces and Parks of France
. Boston: L. C.
Page & Company, 1910. Mott, John Thomas.
The Last Days of Francis the First, and Other
Poems.
London: William Pickering, 1843. Pardoe, Julia.
The Court and Reign of Francis the First
. New York:
James Pott & Company, 1901. Somervill, Barbara A.
Catherine de Medici: The Power Behind the
French Throne
. Minneapolis: Compass Point Books, 2006. Tomlinson, Richard.
The Big Breach: From Top Secret to Maximum
Security
. Global Press, 2001.
Internet Sources:
National Museum at the Château Fontainebleau http://www.musee-chateau-fontainebleau.fr/
Château Royal de Blois http://www.chateaudeblois.fr/spip.php?article5
Oxford Dictionary of Quotations http://www.askoxford.com/dictionaries/quotation_dict/?view=uk
