You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  The manor house was dark and quiet when Aimée finally thrust back the covers and got out of bed. She lit a fresh candle in the embers of her fireplace, donned a soft shift, and wandered restlessly down to the great hall. She moved from chair to window, unaware of the passage of time. The arranged wedding to Armand Rovicette was not something she cared to think about, yet how could she not. Was it possible that she might learn to accept an existence as his wife, share his bed, bear his children, and live with him until death?

  Swept by revulsion, Aimée tried to redirect her thoughts to the light banter she had exchanged with St. Briac, but the gloom would not be dispelled. Recalling the seigneur's parting words of encouragement, she began to weep. "Fight," he had said, but how? All the power belonged to her parents, and it was obvious that Eloise would never allow Gilles to be swayed by any plea his daughter might make.

  Dawn was breaking, gray and drizzly in contrast to the previous day, when Aiméee sank down in a chair padded with leather. "Dear Lord," she sobbed, "I beg you to show me some escape from my predicament. Do I not deserve a life of happiness and love?"

  It was only moments later that a quiet knock at the door roused her from her misery. Not even the servants were astir yet, and so she crossed the stone hall and opened the door. There stood a page, richly garbed in green satin.

  "I've a message for Mademoiselle de Fleurance."

  "I am she," Aimée murmured dazedly.

  She had just begun to break the seal when the boy added, "It's from King Francois. He asks you to reply immediately."

  The fog cleared from Aimée's brain as she realized that the note was meant for Honorine, not her. Yet instinct caused her to smile at the boy and open the sheet of parchment.

  Your wish to see Chambord is granted, if you will be generous enough to grace my Court with your lovely presence. I apologize for not speaking to you, and your parents, directly, but I beg you to understand that time is short. We leave for Blois tomorrow morning, little more than one day from now, and I would have you with us. You shall want for nothing in your future life; neither shall your family. I beg you to be kind to your king. I shall be desolate if I cannot look upon you, a perfect rose among the simpler flowers of my Court ladies.

  F.

  Aimée's thoughts turned fleetingly to her sister, who seemed to possess every skill necessary to succeed in the world they inhabited while Aimée herself was invariably out of step. Was this God's answer to her prayer?

  She looked up at the page and gave him a dazzling grin. "You may tell the king that Mademoiselle de Fleurance accepts his invitation with great pleasure."

  "I'll be back to fetch you tomorrow at this same time, mademoiselle. You can bring everything you own if you care to. The court does not travel light."

  After the page bade her good day and Aimée closed the door, a storm of doubts assailed her. What about the king's contempt for her? What of Honorine? Quickly she convinced herself that somehow she could manage to avoid Francois long enough to make good her escape. And once he realized what had happened, it was likely that he would send for Honorine after all. They would both win in the end.

  And what of her parents? She brushed away her feelings of guilt; her mother had been cruel to force her, and wasn't their main objective to get her out of the house and thrust her into adulthood? They would have their wish sooner than any of them had anticipated.

  Suddenly Aimée began to yawn. She climbed the stone stairway just as the servants began to open doors below. Dropping her shift on the floor, she snuggled back under the covers. But before falling into a deep, peaceful deep, one last thought made her smile mischievously.

  Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, had not seen the last of her after all.

  Chapter 5

  April 27, 1526

  In the hours before she departed her family home, Aimée was too worried about what might go wrong to spare a thought for later problems. She became convinced that someone in the manor would awaken and discover her before she could leave with the page. During her few hours of fitful sleep Aimée dreamed that Francois himself had arrived to fetch his beautiful new mistress; a nightmare ensued as he woke everyone, raging over the trick a peasant wench was trying to play on him.

  In the end, though, all went smoothly. Aimée and her two trunks of possessions—including the gowns from Armand Rovicette, which she had packed with a grin—departed with the young page while the entire household slept.

  Aimée was aware of the size of the court that traveled with the king, having witnessed his entry into Lyons in July 1515, just before his first, more successful invasion of Italy. She had been only eight at the time, but her memories of that occasion were still vivid. Francois's approach had been greeted by a ship towed across the Saone by a white stag.

  The gateway to Lyons had been decorated with the king's familiar salamander image and along the processional route girls were perched on columns, each holding a letter of his name. The high point of the day, aside from their glimpse of the proud young king, had been the performance of a mechanical lion designed by Leonardo da Vinci for his friend Francois.

  What Aimée remembered now, though, was the feeling that one could become lost easily in such a court. Thousands of people and thousands more horses traveled with the king, apart from the enormous baggage train that carried furniture, tapestries, and all sorts of precious ornamental objects. The ladies of the court traveled together in a procession of coaches.

  Aimée found herself being handed into one of these by the young page. There was no sign yet from the hunting lodge of either the king or St. Briac, and she settled back against the leather upholstery with a relieved sigh.

  No sooner was her mind at ease, however, than the boy was opening the door and announcing, "Someone here to see you, mademoiselle, from your home."

  She sat up with a gasp, her heart pounding so that she thought it might burst. She was certain of doom until Suzette's familiar face appeared in the rectangular opening.

  "Suzette, what are you doing here?"

  "Only my duty, mam'selle. You could not go to the court without a proper servant." The girl giggled then, her rosy cheeks and bouncing dark curls aglow in the sunrise.

  "Did you say that you wished to be free of my family?" Aimée asked sarcastically.

  Suzette put her head farther into the coach. "That's part of it, but to be honest, I've grown quite fond of one of His Majesty's squires."

  "You'll be faithful to me through all of this?"

  "Did I make a sound when I heard you leave before dawn?"

  "I appreciate that, but I do believe your motives were partly selfish. You really must give me your word."

  "You have it, mademoiselle. I've always loved you best and I'll do whatever I can to help you."

  Aimée laughed. "Merci! And in return, I shall help you, within reason."

  "Can I ride with you then?" Receiving a nod from her mistress, Suzette climbed in and took the opposite seat. "You know, mam'selle, you're quite a sight. I almost didn't recognize you!"

  Aimée wore a headdress belonging to her mother. Gable-hooded, with long lappets folded back from her cheeks, it concealed her black hair completely. Her gown was a stylish lapis-blue taffeta, but it too was nearly concealed by a voluminous dark cloak. "I couldn't take a chance on anyone knowing that the king's newest lady is supposed to be fair-haired," she murmured absently. She drew the window curtain back a bit to observe the busy crowd readying the court train for departure.

  "Suzette, was everyone still asleep when you left?"

  "Oui. Don't fret. Even if they are awake now, they'll never guess that you've run off. Just as likely, you'd be out for an early stroll in the woods."

  "What if someone discovers that all my things are gone? Your absence is another problem. When my mother finds both of us gone, she may suspect—"

  "Suspect something perhaps, but not that you would escape to the French court. It does not sound like an adventure to which you would be suite
d, mam'selle. Your sister, perhaps."

  Aimée scarcely heard her. Her eyes were fixed anxiously on the open door to the hunting lodge as she scanned each person who came out. Most of the court, she knew, had found lodgings in the village or with noble families in the area. Only those closest to the king had been assigned one of the few chambers within the chateau itself. Now she watched Marguerite d'Angouleme emerge, holding the arm of her slow-moving mother. Louise paused en route to their sumptuous coach to greet a man with a weasel's face whom Aimée recognized from the night before. They whispered; she nodded and then smiled as he bent to kiss her hand.

  A moment later her breath caught at the sight of St. Briac. Nearly tall and broad enough to fill the door, he wore a sage-green doublet, tan breeches, and boots with casual grace. Aimée imagined that she could see his eyes twinkle in the early morning sunshine as he turned back to speak to the manservant who had interrupted them in the woods. The little man shook a reproving finger at his master as the two of them walked toward a familiar horse. St. Briac took the reins from the groom, swung onto the stallion's back, and then laughingly reached down to tweak the servant's button nose.

  "Now there's a man," sighed Suzette dreamily. "Paul, my squire friend, says every woman at court is secretly in love with the seigneur de St. Briac."

  "I cannot imagine why," Aimée replied as frostily as she was able.

  "Mon dieu, are you blind?"

  "I certainly am not, and I'll thank you, Suzette, to show me the respect befitting our present situation."

  The girl stared at her usually fun-loving mistress and then shrugged. "As you say, mam'selle. I apologize."

  "Ah," Aimée exclaimed with relief, "there's the king. We'll be leaving soon." She was further relieved to see Anne d'Heilly walking by his side. The king's favorite gazed up at him with possessive fondness; it seemed that she would not allow him to stray far.

  There was a moment of panic when Francois paused to speak to the page who had brought Aimée. The boy pointed toward the coach with its curtains closed except for one tiny slit. She was able to breathe easier only after she saw the king smile with satisfaction, slip the page a coin, and continue toward his own coach with Anne.

  Soon the entire court train began to move slowly down the drive to the road that would take them all away from Nieuil. Aimée sank back against the cushion, suddenly exhausted, and laughed.

  "So, Suzette, we are safely away, and the adventure begins!"

  * * *

  The first night of their five-day journey was spent in the village of Gencay. The next day Francois and his court would enjoy the festivities of a royal entry into Poitiers, but now they would rest and make their preparations. Gencay offered only a roomy, clean auberge and a few homes to accommodate the court. Only the lesser members of the train were forced to pitch tents for shelter.

  Aimée was assigned a large chamber at the auberge, sparsely furnished but dominated by a huge, comfortable bed with red velvet draperies. The strain of avoiding Francois all day had nearly done her in, and she retreated into this soft shelter with relish.

  "Suzette, if anyone comes, just say I am indisposed." With that, Aimée drew the curtains and snuggled into feather pillows. She was instantly asleep. There would be time enough tomorrow to think of a way to get through the ceremonies at Poitiers.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Francois had finished a light supper and was seated before the fire with St. Briac and his other trusted friends, the seigneurs of Florange and Bonnivet.

  "I wish we were at Blois now," the king sighed. "I am finding that this travel tries my patience."

  "You are still exhausted from your captivity, sire. I think that after tomorrow's festivities at Poitiers, we should not pause for any longer than necessary until we reach Blois. You need the comfort of your home," advised Florange. Blond, blue-eyed, and possessed of an ironic manner and cool energy, Robert de la Marck had been devoted to his king since childhood. His bravery in battle was legendary, and he well deserved the title "the Young Adventurer."

  "Florange is right," St. Briac murmured.

  Standing to refill their goblets, Guillaume Gouffier, seigneur de Bonnivet, only smiled. He preferred as much jollity as possible if he was going to travel with the court. Bonnivet was another childhood friend whom everyone liked. It had been said that he made love like war and made war like love, and for all his bravery and affectionate devotion to the king, he could not claim an excess of intelligence.

  "It's that cursed treaty with Charles V that has me so on edge," the king exclaimed. "My own sons are being used as pawns, and I know full well that I can never turn over Burgundy, even though I gave the emperor my word—"

  Francois broke off as a tall, thin shadow fell over the trio. "Ah, bon soir, Chauverge," he greeted the chevalier smoothly.

  "I do hope I am not intruding."

  "No, no. My lovely Anne is feeling unwell tonight, so I am forced to substitute the company of these men. Alas," he added, sighing dramatically, "'tis not the same."

  Everyone laughed at this, easing the tension that Chauverge's appearance had injected into the mood of relaxed camaraderie.

  "May I join you?" the chevalier inquired silkily.

  "I beg you to take my chair, Chauverge. I suddenly find that I am far too fatigued to remain another moment." To prove his point, St. Briac produced an elaborate yawn that was as loud as it was false. Rising, he let his twinkling eyes meet only for an instant the mirth-filled gaze of the king. Then he made a low, mocking bow to Chauverge. "Do enjoy yourselves, my friends. I shall fall asleep imagining the riveting conversation I'll be missing."

  Francois caught St. Briac's sleeve as he passed. "Not so fast, Thomas. I've a craving for even more entertaining company than this, hard as that may be to believe. My thoughts run to our new lady, the exquisite Mademoiselle de Fleurance. Would you be so kind, my friend, to pause at her door on your way to your own chamber and inform her that I shall visit her in, say, a quarter hour to inquire after her comfort?" His hazel eyes slanted merrily upward.

  "You always were a conscientious host, sire," St. Briac muttered dryly. "D'accord. I shall inform the unsuspecting Mademoiselle de Fleurance."

  Walking away, he heard Chauverge whine, "But Your Majesty, there are matters I would discuss with you that are surely more important than a mere maid."

  Francois's reply was muffled, and at any rate, St. Briac's thoughts had turned to Honorine de Fleurance. It seemed a poignant bit of irony that Aimée, whom he found uniquely lovely and whimsically intelligent, had been left behind in the country to marry an oaf while her pretty but unremarkable sister enjoyed the extravagant existence of a court lady. But Aimée would never have been able to conform to a lifestyle that always would make one unswerving demand: Francois I above all else, including oneself.

  Pausing outside Honorine's chamber door, St, Briac felt a twinge of pity for the girl. If she was still a maiden tonight, tomorrow she would be a mistress. However, obviously she had accepted this fate or she would not have chosen to join the court train. He knocked and then lifted both brows at the sound of a great bustling commotion within the chamber. Two different high-pitched whispers could be heard, and one of them struck an unnerving chord in his memory. After a long minute during which his curiosity mounted, the door opened a bit, revealing a flustered, rosy face.

  "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "Suzette, monseigneur. Mademoiselle de Fleurance's maid."

  "I must speak with her."

  "Impossible, monseigneur. Mam'selle is very ill."

  "Indeed? I am desolated to hear that, Suzette, but still I would speak to your mistress. I must take my personal account of her condition to the king."

  Valiantly, Suzette tried to resist his pressure against the door. "I cannot allow it."

  "Truly?" Amusement and impatience mingled under the surface of St. Briac's cool facade. "Pray explain."

  "She can't talk!" The girl pointed excitedly to her own neck. "Mal a l
a gorge."

  "No!" Dark turquoise eyes widened in mock horror. "Suzette, I promise not to inflict any further injury on your mistress's sore throat if you will only be so kind as to open the door."

  "No, no, monseigneur, you must leave. She's asleep."

  "I heard her speaking to you after I knocked, and I doubt that Mademoiselle de Fleurance has dozed off since. Now, child, I must insist that you either stand aside or prepare to be moved."

  Suzette's loyalty stopped short at the risk of physical injury. Sighing, she backed away from the door. "You are a hard man, monseigneur," she said mournfully.

  "A villain, no doubt about it." St. Briac went straight to the bed, where red velvet curtains were drawn tightly all around. "I almost hate to look," he muttered, and then slowly parted the draperies. The occupant of the bed was huddled in a ball, completely obscured by covers.

  "I am desperately ill, m'sieur," came a muffled, pitiful voice from the depths of the bedclothes. "I beg you to leave me to suffer in solitude."

  "I'll be happy to, mademoiselle, just as soon as you show me your face so that I can more accurately describe your condition to the king. He would insist were he here."

  "I—I am too ashamed to let you view me. I am positively haggard!" The voice that emanated from the mound of covers now sounded more irritated than pitiful.

  St. Briac was sorely tempted to turn his back on the entire situation, yet for some incomprehensible reason he could not. It was with acute dread that he grasped the edges of the bedclothes and drew them back. The girl remained curled up, her shapely bottom in the air, her face pressed into the mattress. It was unusual for someone to go to bed clothed, but she wore a clinging silk shift. St. Briac didn't need to see the maiden's face; her abundant ebony curls confirmed his worst fears.