Wildblossom (57 page)

Biting back a smile, St. Briac waited, knowing what was coming.
 

"Here at court," the king continued between bites of strawberry and cheese, "the women change like the seasons and most are forgotten. A few, however, stand out like roses in a field of daisies."

“Ah. Yes.”
 

"One lady in particular…"

"Micheline?" he wondered innocently.

"
Oui
!" Francois averted his eyes, and took a long drink of wine. "Micheline has made an entrancing change in the court. Apparently you lust after your wife alone, my friend, but even you must admit that Madame Tevoulere is a female of exceptional loveliness." He sighed, smiling. "Most astonishing, however, is her
mind.
I can discuss even Roman history with Madame Tevoulere! My own complaint is that she continues to maintain a certain level of reserve when in my company. Could it be possible that she is immune to my charms?" He laughed at such a ludicrous notion, but his tone took on a low urgency. "Thomas, couldn't you speak to her? Assure her that I only wish to know her better?"

St. Briac's amusement waned. "Sire, if you imagine that I can intercede, I must dispel that notion. Aimee is trying to help Micheline recover from the shock of her husband's death, to learn to enjoy life again. She would not want her heart broken, even by her king."

"How can you suggest that I could harm so glorious a creature as Madame Tevoulere?" Francois protested in outrage.

"It might be a matter of circumstances more than intention, sire." Suddenly the water felt cold and tiresome and he longed to be elsewhere. "You know as well as I that you are married. For my Aimée, that would be obstacle enough, but there is also the matter of Anne d'Heilly, who has been your favorite for many years. It would not be an easy matter to displace her, even if you wanted to, and I doubt you truly could want that."

King Francois frowned, displeased by his friend’s words. Only from St. Briac would he tolerate such a conversation. Besides, he was not at all certain at that moment that he would not have given Micheline Anne's place at court and in his heart. Micheline seemed unobtainable, and for the King of France, such a challenge was virtually irresistible.

* * *

Francois was not the only person at Fontainebleau who contemplated Micheline Tevoulere. Even as he and St. Briac were talking, Anne d'Heilly sat at her writing table in her private chambers, worrying and planning. She was frankly scared. For years she had been secure in her position at court. The king might take other women, but they meant nothing; even this new queen, Eleanor, meant nothing to him. Why, Francois could scarcely bear to sleep with his own wife! Night after night he came to Anne instead. She was proud, too, that he trusted her judgment. Since the death of Louise de Savoy, Anne had gradually taken over for the king's mother, giving him advice in her place. Anne d'Heilly had more power than any other woman in France. That very autumn Francois had taken her to Calais and Boulogne for the meetings with Henry VIII—while Queen Eleanor had remained behind.

Putting down her quill, Anne glanced distractedly at the pages she had just written, then rose to stare at herself in the mirror. Everyone said that each year increased her beauty, and she believed them. Fair curls brushed her brow while her wide eyes seemed bluer than ever. Her figure remained diminutive, its curves sweeter and more feminine than they had been when she first met King Francois, at age seventeen.

"Micheline Tevoulere is no lovelier than I!" she whispered aloud.

That was the crux of her dilemma. Anne had instantly sensed the king's attraction to the newest member of his court, but after a fortnight's brooding she was no closer to finding a solution that she could effect on her own. She couldn't fight the girl; Micheline did not appear to covet Anne's place as mistress to the king—in truth, she seem to have no interest in Francois at all beyond that of respectful subject. At last Anne had realized that this was the basis of the girl’s appeal. Micheline Tevoulere was the first woman in years who was not his for the taking, and that was the very reason he wanted her.

Anne knew now that there was only one solution to her problem. Madame Tevoulere must be removed from the king's sight, from the court itself. Returning to her writing table, she thanked providence for allowing her to become friends with the king of England so recently. She dipped her quill into the ink and finished her letter by subtly reminding Henry VIII that she would repay any favor he might grant her. The English monarch was eager for Francois I to intercede with the pope regarding his divorce and impending marriage to Anne Boleyn.

"I am a romantic," she wrote Henry in closing, "and it warmed my heart to see the love between you and
your
Anne. I hope that the two of you can be married... and I shall do everything in my power to persuade my king to share my view if that happy event comes to pass."

* * *

As Anne d'Heilly was signing her name to the letter to Henry VIII, Micheline Tevoulere had been joined by Aimée in the gardens below, and they strolled aimlessly, unaware that others who wielded control were contemplating Micheline's future.

Even in December Fontainebleau was a place of unrivaled beauty. In winter the garden's hedges were clipped to form artful green tunnels that led into dormant flowerbeds, punctuated with urns and sculpture. Micheline did not regret coming here. The constant activity was a welcome change from the period of darkness following Bernard's death. During the day she rode or walked with Aimée or one of the other ladies of the court. Meals were events, attended by hundreds of people, and nearly every night there was a ball or a masque or entertainment of some sort. Lovely new gowns had been made for Micheline, and she enjoyed the warm admiration of nearly everyone she met—especially the men. However, in spite of the invitation in their eyes, which was sometimes voiced aloud, she could not bring herself to respond. The thought of even being kissed by anyone but Bernard remained forbidden.

"I saw you talking to the handsome Chevalier d'Honfleur last night," Aimée ventured after a few minutes of companionable silence.

Micheline smiled and shrugged slightly, reading her friend's mind. "Guillaume is very nice," she allowed. "I agreed to go riding with him tomorrow."

"Good!" Aimée knew she should choose her words carefully, but, as usual, impulse overruled reason. "I would like to see you encourage
someone
,
if only to
discourage
the king!"

"What do you mean?" cried Micheline. "I cannot feel the slightest stirring of affection for any man I have met here, beyond that of simple friendship—
including
the king! Surely he is perceptive enough to realize that!"

"I would guess that it is that challenge that intrigues him,
ma chere.
Don't fret, though. Francois is a gentleman at heart, though used to having his own way. You simply must continue to show respect for him and nothing more. Any encouragement at all would only heighten his desire... and determination."

Micheline paused to pick a sprig of mistletoe and gazed at it pensively. "I should feel fortunate, I suppose, to have found favor with so many fine men. There are moments, when I talk to someone who is handsome, charming, and accomplished, and I marvel at the total absence of feeling in my heart. I've begun to think that Bernard's death killed something within me." She met Aimée's concerned gaze with teary eyes. "I doubt I'll ever be attracted to a man again."

Aimée opened her mouth, then closed it, aching for her friend. Normally she was never at a loss for words, but at this moment she was speechless. She yearned to fix everything for Micheline, but lately Aimée had come to believe that only God could perform such a miracle. She could only wait and pray.

In London, dashing Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst wakes up with his married mistress, Iris, Lady Dangerfield.  They are soon interrupted by Rupert Topping, Sandhurst's bumbling & obsequious half-brother, who announces that their father wants to see his elder son.  When he goes to meet with the irascible duke, Sandhurst is told that King Francois and King Henry VIII have arranged a marriage for him and the duke has agreed to it!

Chapter 6

London, England

February
5-6
,
1532

Sandhurst's brown eyes were startled. "I must be hearing things. I could have sworn I heard you say that you and King Henry had chosen a
wife
for me!" A half-repressed laugh escaped his lips.

Unable to resist the impulse to toy with his prey for a moment, the duke smiled. "You have only the king to thank on that score. All I have done is set the seal on his plans." Aylesbury's smile widened maliciously.

"Have I no say in this? No voice in my own destiny?" Somehow, he managed to sound calm, though the scar that cut down through his upper lip had gone white.

The duke's smile faded. "You can say whatever you like, but I don't think you'll fight the will of the king the way you've always fought me. It's time you learned that there are more important things than
your
wishes! You have never done the smallest thing to please me, your father, but you'll please me now whether you want to or not!" He let out a hoarse bark of laughter. "For years I've begged you to take an interest in my estates. I've longed to see you married, with sons of your own, before I die. I've encouraged you to make a place for yourself at court, but it seems that the most you could bother to do has been to waste your charm on Henry's favorite ladies. Even the future queen goes doe-eyed at the mention of your name! You're a
fool,
Andrew, and now you're going to pay for it!"

The old man was leaning forward, his face crimson as he railed at his son. For his own part, Sandhurst thought that he must be having a nightmare. Dimly he heard himself say, "Perhaps I've turned away from you because I sensed that your interest was not in me but in the family title. As the future duke it seemed that I was to be molded like a piece of clay, not a person."

"Bah! You needed a firm hand! You still do! If you wanted affection, you should have listened to me and taken a wife years ago. That's what a good woman is for." The duke smiled again, thinly. "You see, I'm doing you a favor! After your French bride begins warming your bed, you'll thank me! The chit probably won't even speak English, which'd be a blessing. If she can't talk to you, there will be just one thing for her to do—spread her legs!"

"This is utter madness," he muttered.

"Tell it to King Henry," the old man shot back.

"What if I were to do just that? I'm not some twelve-year-old who needs a marriage arranged for him."

"You don't seem to be able to arrange one on your own!"

"God's life, why does the king care?"

The duke shrugged. "As I understand it, someone with power in the French court wants this girl disposed of—tidily, of course. A proper English husband who would take her to live across the Channel seemed the solution. Henry was glad to give his aid, because he needs assistance from King Francois in winning over the pope, more than ever now, I'd say, since there are rumors that he and Anne Boleyn were secretly married last month."

"But why was
I
chosen to be sacrificed?"

"Perhaps it was the will of God," the old man suggested with another malevolent smile. "Besides, you're an ideal candidate. You're an eligible, wealthy aristocrat, and the king would seem to have reasons of his own for wanting to see your wings clipped."

"And if I refuse to be a party to this madness? Will the king send me to the Tower and deprive me of my head?"

"Oh, no, we decided that the punishment should fit the crime. If you choose to rebel again, not only against me but the king of England, you'll lose your inheritance. Obviously no one can take your title away from
you..
. and you will be Duke of Aylesbury when I die. But you would receive nothing else. Henry has agreed to make Rupert a baron this year, and upon my death all my wealth and estates would pass to him."

Sandhurst couldn't bear to look at his father any longer. Dazedly he walked to the window, every muscle in his body clenched. Yet through his rage he had to repress an urge to laugh wildly at the sheer lunacy of the situation.