You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "Can this be the great strong seigneur-chevalier who rides into the thick of battle without blinking an eye in fear? Does the stalwart knight require rescuing from a pair of silly women who look like greyhounds? And is it possible that I, usually the object of scorn and the recipient of insults, have been chosen to do the rescuing?"

  "Aimée, I am in no mood for your sarcasm," St. Briac warned.

  "What a pity." She moved to resume her prayers.

  "What do you want from me? Must I beg you to help me drive those two away? That mother's sly mind gives me the chills. I would be able to turn them away much more easily if they were men; as it is, I must tread more carefully, and the problem is far thornier."

  "Very well," whispered Aimée. She bowed her head, and thick lashes cast crescent-shaped shadows on her cheeks. "I will postpone my departure until you have safely eluded Madame Dagonneau's snares. I will not approach the king about my overwhelming desire to enter a convent before he leaves for Cognac on the morrow. I shall, however, continue to lay the groundwork for my plan and will carry it out at the first available opportunity." Hearing St. Briac emit a small groan that mixed exasperation with relief, Aimée concluded, "I'm certain that such a strong, intelligent man as you are will have no trouble at all solving this minor though vexing problem. I will keep silent for a few more days, and by then I trust that Madame and Mademoiselle Dagonneau will have left Blois and I will be free to do likewise."

  What St. Briac did not reply, Aimée cast a sidelong glance at his splendidly masculine profile, which was set off by the pleated fraise of his shirt and the mellow light that poured through the stained-glass windows. After a moment, dark brows arched high above pained eyes, and he sighed in surrender.

  Chapter 17

  May 13, 1526

  On the morning of the king's departure for Cognac, the courtyard was a hive of activity. Most of the nearly six hundred members of the royal household would be attending the progression southward, and St. Briac had to maneuver among them as he slowly headed toward the council chamber. Wagons and coaches were being loaded with everything from furniture and tapestries to gold and silver plate.

  The council chamber, located at the juncture of the Francois I and Louis XII wings, was a magnificent hall with a high vaulted ceiling. St. Briac identified various members of the king's entourage by the official colors they wore as they milled about, concealing Francois from view. There were archers in red and blue, Gentlemen of the Chamber wearing white, the guard of honor with fiery salamanders on their surcoats, officers of the crown clad in the velvet, silk, and fur of officialdom, and the first chamberlain in his clothing of red and gold. Near the chamberlain, St. Briac glimpsed the bold profile of his royal friend, whose costume, of course, was the richest of all.

  "Thomas," the king called out over several heads, and in the next instant the crowd parted so that he could pass.

  "Good sire," St. Briac greeted him with a short bow. As usual when on the brink of an adventure, Francois was in high spirits. The feathers in his velvet hat bobbed jauntily above his merry eyes, and a smile gleamed in his dark beard. One of the pet monkeys from the royal menagerie lounged in the crook of his arm, wearing a jeweled collar and nibbling on a preserved plum.

  "You are looking forward to your journey?"

  "Oddly enough, yes," the king replied. "I welcome the diversion, which confuses even me, since I was so anxious just a dozen days ago to reach the peace and solitude of Blois. I would seem to be restless; 'tis an affliction I cannot control."

  "No affliction, sire," St. Briac said with a smile, "but a facet of your dynamic character. You are not one to loll about."

  The two men had wandered toward the wide doorway that opened onto the courtyard, and Francois looked pleased as he digested the compliment. "I shall miss you while we are away, Thomas, but it eases my mind to know that you will be here to look after things." His gaze wandered over St. Briac's fitted dark-blue doublet and breeches, which were minimally embellished by black velvet at the wrists, collar, and waist. Instead of jewels, he wore black boots that suggested plans for outdoor recreation-later in the day.

  "I realize that you will be kept occupied by Mademoiselle de Fleurance and the Dagonneaux, but I might suggest that your time would also be put to good use by having some new clothing made. Were it not for the great physical beauty of your face and form, you would not be admitted to my court clad thusly." He gestured with a flourish toward the courtyard. "Regardez. Why, even my pages and grooms and squires are garbed more lavishly than you."

  One side of St. Briac's mouth bent upward in a smile. "I find lavish clothing to be a hindrance when I am not engaged in lavish pastimes, sire, but I shall endeavor not to disgrace you with my shabby appearance in the future."

  The king laughed, glancing down at the monkey who was wriggling to be set free. There was no need for him to protest that Thomas never looked shabby. His clothing, however plain, was unfailingly well tailored and immaculate. Just a few more gems, a bit more fur...

  "It looks as if they are nearly ready for you," St. Briac remarked. "Before I bid you farewell, I would ask one question."

  Alert to the solemn tone of his friend's voice, Francois put the monkey down and straightened to meet keen eyes. "I am listening."

  "I realize that I have no right to press you on this matter, but knowing that you are going away, I cannot help feeling concerned about Georges Teverant. I don't trust Chauverge, and since I won't be with you to balance his influence, I must beg you not to be swayed into making any decision against Teverant without discussing it first with me." St. Briac almost winced as the sentences poured out in a rush. No one had the right to speak this way to the king of France, implying that he might be misled like some witless fool. "I realize that you already are aware of Chauverge's capacity for causing trouble, but I just had to speak to you about this for my own peace of mind."

  "Chauverge will not be going with me, so you needn't worry that I will be led astray without your steadying influence," the king said in an acid tone. "How have I ever managed to rule France without your help, St. Briac? What disasters will overtake this land after you and your new wife return to your chateau to live?"

  "I apologize if I was impertinent, sire, and I pray that you will allow me one more impertinent question."

  The king's only response was to tighten his mouth and wait.

  "I really cannot explain why I am so concerned, except that I had the strangest dream last night about Teverant. Please reassure me that no action can be taken against him without your assent, sire."

  "I don't know why I allow you to waste my time with this trivial nonsense when I can think of nothing except the fate of my beloved sons and the treaty which I cannot agree to. If I refuse to sign it, they may die! And you continue to rant at me about Teverant."

  "Sire, I assure you that I am very sensitive to the important worries that plague you now, but I beg you to understand that that is exactly the reason why I am concerned that Chauverge might be able to take advantage of you. Catching you in a moment of distraction—"

  "I've already told you that he is staying here," Francois nearly shouted.

  St. Briac inhaled harshly. It was impossible for him to tell the king that his suspicions about Chauverge applied equally to Louise de Savoy, who would not remain at Blois. Besides, why was Chauverge electing to stay here? Obviously Louise and Chauverge had decided to split up and use their ingenuity in different areas for the time being; he could only hope that his warning to the king would lessen chance of a decision being made about Teverant in a moment of distraction. As for St. Briac, he would pretend to amuse himself with his current feminine diversions while keeping a close eye on Chauverge at all times.

  "I am sorry for upsetting you, sire. I beg you to accept my apology and bid me adieu with a smile of friendship. You know that I do not intend to offend you." St. Briac paused, the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkling. "Had I more time, I would have been able to draw those few ru
de sentences into hours of conversation that would have seemed completely innocuous."

  The king had to laugh, "I realize that you did not mean to insult me, but you were quite successful all the same."

  The crowd had begun to move toward the courtyard. Squires held prancing horses, and pages were opening carriage doors.

  "I suppose I must say my good-byes," St. Briac said quietly. "I wish you great success with the resolution of the treaty and will hope to see you here again soon."

  "Within a month, I hope. You have my permission to marry before that if you absolutely cannot wait, but I do yearn to be present for that ceremony, Thomas."

  The two men walked together into the sunny courtyard just as Anne d'Heilly and Marguerite stepped off the circular staircase. Thomas bade them all farewell and left the king with his ladies.

  The duc de Roanne nodded to St. Briac when they passed in the third-floor corridor. It was a shame that Marcel was going off to Cognac with the court train and Thomas would not be able to take advantage of his mistress's freedom, yet a part of him was relieved. He had been too busy to mull over the evaporation of his feelings for Ghislaine, but they obviously had changed.

  "Ah, Thomas," the duchesse exclaimed when he appeared in her open doorway. Still in bed, she lay swathed in silky covers that did little to disguise the curves of her naked body. Her hair was drawn back neatly into a chignon. "Marcel has gone with the rest of the court to Cognac. Won't you join me?"

  St. Briac perceived the tense undercurrent in her light-hearted invitation and felt a pang of regret. "I wish I could, cherie, but—"

  "I was only teasing, silly," she broke in hastily. "But do come sit with me and tell me all that has been happening. How is that charming girl everyone thinks you are going to marry? Have you found a resolution to that problem? And Thomas, you must tell me about those two women who have come from Burgundy. I've been hearing the most incredible rumors."

  Relieved, St. Briac let a smile spread over his face and sat on the edge of the bed. After kissing Ghislaine lightly on her brow, he said, "You anticipate me as always. Aimée and those two women are the reasons for my visit."

  Ghislaine listened as he told her all that had occurred since the arrival of the Dagonneaux at Blois. At the end of the story, St. Briac paused, and she waited, aching inside.

  "So, you can see my dilemma. I had hoped to have Aimée gone by now, and if these two women had not appeared, she probably would have left today." He laughed without humor and brought a forefinger up to rub a crease from the bridge of his nose. "As much as I long to see the last of Aimée, I need her now to ward off the advances of Blanche Dagonneau and her dear Cecile-Anne."

  Ghislaine gazed out the window pensively. "The girl has a ready wit," she mused. "Her sense of whimsy will stand her in good stead."

  He gave the duchesse a quizzical glance before replying. "It's not always at the forefront of her qualities. When last we spoke, I was more struck by Aimée's stubbornness and insolence."

  "Your wife would need both to survive a lifelong relationship with you, Thomas."

  "You are spouting madness," he burst out, and then continued with more restraint. "I have said again and again that Aimée and I will never marry. It is all part of the plan, first to get her away from the court without gracing the king's bed and now to keep me safe from the schemes of the Dagonneaux, mother and daughter. She is as unhappy about this new development as I."

  "And you aren't in love with Mademoiselle de Fleurance?"

  "In love? With Aimée?" St. Briac laughed loudly. "That question is so ludicrous, I won't even bother to reply."

  Ghislaine lifted her perfectly curved eyebrows but didn't argue the point. "I suppose, then, that all this means you will have to stay close to Aimée and far away from me until Madame Dagonneau and her daughter become discouraged and return to Burgundy. I am disappointed. I've been anticipating our time alone."

  Hearing her voice grow husky on the last word, St. Briac knew that he would have to kiss Ghislaine or she would be certain that he was in love with Aimée. The last thing he needed now was her pestering him about actually wedding that green-eyed vixen.

  "You cannot be half as disappointed as I, ma belle." St. Briac's tone was sincere, for he dearly wished that he were speaking the truth. How much simpler life had been when the warm, lighthearted passion he and Ghislaine shared had been his primary romantic outlet. She was turning now in the bed, tugging at the side of his doublet, and St. Briac saw the gleam of sadness in her blue eyes before he lifted her into his strong embrace. They kissed for a long, bittersweet minute, so poignantly that sparks of desire nearly caught fire. He thought he tasted tears in Ghislaine's mouth, but then a noise in the hallway distracted them. She pulled the silky coverlet back over her breasts, while St. Briac sprang up to look out into the corridor. He'd forgotten that the door was ajar.

  "Was there someone there?" Ghislaine asked anxiously.

  "I saw a man's back disappear onto the inner staircase, so at least we know it wasn't Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau. With Aimée in the midst of her pre-nun charade, the last thing I need is to be seen kissing a married woman. I'd never get rid of those two."

  "The court has left? It couldn't have been Marcel?"

  "I heard them riding off as we spoke. Besides, it wouldn't have come as a terrible shock to him, would it? He's always known and as far as I can tell hasn't much cared! With me to keep his wife warm in bed, the duke has been free to concentrate on his position at court." St. Briac crossed to the bed as he spoke, but he didn't resume his position.

  "You shouldn't speak so harshly of those who strive for what has always come easily to you, Thomas," she replied defensively. "You could have anything you want here at court, so the lack of challenge bores you. Perhaps once Marcel attains a few of his goals, he will remember that he has a wife." Ghislaine glared at the sight of St. Briac arching a derisive brow. "Truth to tell, I think that Marcel does care more than either of us ever guessed. Perhaps he feels more secure at court, because he has been paying quite a bit of attention to me lately. You may not believe it, but my husband asked me to come with him to Cognac."

  "Well, then, obviously you should have gone," retorted St. Briac, more annoyed with his own temper than with anything Ghislaine had said. "You should know better than to plan your life around me."

  "Don't flatter yourself, monseigneur. You have never been my reason for living, and you never will be. I have far too much sense to fall in love with a man like you."

  Her eyes, blue and calm as the Loire, deflated his anger. "Yes, I know that, Ghislaine." Kneeling, St. Briac lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to it tenderly. "I never meant to quarrel with you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

  "Of course not, and you haven't. My eyes have been wide open right from the first, Thomas. I've never been your victim." Gazing at his irresistibly masculine face, Ghislaine hoped that he couldn't see how potent her longing was. "I shall be very inconspicuous until you and your Aimée manage to dissuade the Dagonneaux with the evidence of your true love. I can't help wondering, though. What will you do if they are not willing to be convinced? What if they don't leave Blois?"

  St. Briac released her hand and straightened with a ragged sigh. "We'll convince them, no matter what it takes. You can depend on that, Ghislaine."

  * * *

  The chateau was quiet now that the king and most of his court and staff had departed for Cognac. St. Briac dreamed idly of a hard, exhausting ride into the woods that spread westward from Blois as he descended the great staircase on his way to the stables. However, no sooner had he attained the courtyard than voices called out in greeting.

  "Now look! It is the seigneur de St. Briac," exclaimed a woman.

  "Well, Thomas, this is a surprise. On your way to rendezvous with your lovely fiancée, I'll wager." This speaker was male and all too familiar.

  He froze for a moment in dread and then turned slowly to discover Chauverge with Blanche and Cecile-Anne
Dagonneau. The trio stood close together between the shadowed buttresses that supported the massive staircase. St. Briac was reminded of reptiles lying in wait for their prey under rocks.

  Greetings were exchanged all around, but he kept his distance. Chauverge wore a sly, gloating smile that put St. Briac on his guard. Was it possible that the weasel had nothing better to do with his time than plot against him? Unlikely, yet...

  "Shall we see you at the midday meal, monseigneur?" Blanche inquired sweetly.

  "I believe I shall be dining with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. I'm not certain." He tried to smile, but only one side of his mouth curved upward. Cecile-Anne sighed dreamily, thinking how boyish he looked.

  "We shall look for you all the same, won't we, Cecile-Anne?"

  "Oui, Maman!" Nodding obediently on cue, the girl reminded St. Briac more than ever of one of the king's trained dogs.

  "Before you rush off, monseigneur," Chauverge spoke up, "I've been meaning to ask you. What news is there of your good friend Georges Teverant? Very odd, his disappearing from the court train that way. Where did he go, do you know?"

  "No. I regret to say that M'sieur Teverant did not consult me before taking his leave."

  Chauverge wanted to pursue the matter, but Aimée de Fleurance interrupted the conversation. She emerged from the entrance to her wing, wrapped in a dark cloak and wearing the gable-hooded headdress St. Briac disliked so intensely.

  "Good morning, my love," he called, and went to greet her. Through a clenched smile he cautioned, "Guard your tongue."

  Aimée had no room for thoughts of the others. Pleasantries were spoken back and forth, but she barely heard. Her concentration was centered on St. Briac: the tilt of his head in the sunny breeze, the set of his wide shoulders, the sensation of his fingers around her arm. It was as though the longing had built up to a point where it no longer would be denied, or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that nearly all the court had departed for Cognac, and they were alone. The Dagonneaux and Chauverge seemed insignificant, merely sources of amusement for the occasional dull moments.