You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  Ghislaine stared at him, wondering what was going on between St. Briac and his bride. They'd seemed rather aloof from each other these past days, but the kiss in the gallery would seem to tell a different story. "Of course I care, Thomas. I will always care." She put a hand on his cheek and leaned up to touch her lips to his. "I only want you to be happy."

  Aimée watched them from across the room, tears stinging her eyes. Would this affair never end? She turned her face away and tried to listen to what Anne d'Heilly was saying about the contest that was about to begin in the courtyard between a boar and some dummies. It seemed that the king had longed to fight a duel with the wild boar himself, but Anne had managed to dissuade him.

  Before St. Briac could speak or touch her, Aimée sensed his proximity. She whirled around and almost collided with his broad, steel-covered chest.

  "I apologize for interrupting," he said easily, with a warm smile for Anne, "but I thought I should tell you that I am going to our apartments for a bath. Another minute in this armor will drive me mad."

  "But what about supper?"

  "I just had some food, and to be honest, I'm tired. Perhaps my bath will revive me... Also, there's the matter of Chauverge. He's sure to appear momentarily, and I don't think I could endure being in the same room with him tonight."

  Aimée waited in vain for an invitation to accompany him.

  "So," St. Briac said easily, "I will bid you ladies bon soir. Enjoy your suppers."

  When he bent to graze her cheek with his mouth, Aimée felt as if she'd been burned. "Bon soir, Thomas."

  Anne gave him a hug, too, and poured out another string of compliments for his heroic joust. St. Briac suffered them patiently and then went to bid the king good night.

  No sooner had he disappeared under the vaulted doorway than Chauverge came in through another portal. Armor shed and freshly washed, he wore courtly garb and entered with chin outthrust as if challenging those present to make a derisive comment about the tournament. Accepting a goblet of wine, he walked over to Aimée and Anne d'Heilly.

  "Good evening, ladies. Where is my worthy opponent? Was he exhausted by our match?"

  "My husband has just gone to bathe. He couldn't get away until now." Aimée gave him a cold stare.

  Francois had been on a balcony, watching the wild boar tear the dummies to shreds, but now he and his courtiers made their way to Chauverge. After a few polite words of greeting, the king said, "I'm happy to see that you were not injured as severely as it seemed. I feared that you might have taken to your bed."

  "'Twas but a scratch, sire," Chauverge replied, trying to breathe normally to disguise the sharp pain in his chest. The premier medecin had decided that some ribs had been broken and had bound him up tightly. "St. Briac's supposed strength is an illusion."

  Aimée's eyes opened wide at this, but the king spoke for her. "Was it an illusion when he unseated you with such ease?"

  "He aimed for my chest rather than my shield, sire. Not a tactic of fair play."

  Chauverge's listeners glanced at one another with brows raised.

  "I see," murmured Florange. "That was not the way it appeared to all of us."

  "Really? And how did it appear to you?"

  "It looked as if you were trying to kill St. Briac on that second run, and only his quick wits and skill saved him. He gave you what you deserved, Chauverge."

  The chevalier snorted derisively. "Huh! The man was only making a show for his new wife." The sidelong glance he gave Aimée was so venomous, it made her blood chill.

  Warming to the conversation, Florange retorted, "I do not think St. Briac needs to prove his manhood to his bride. Perhaps it's the other way around? Perhaps you were longing to end his life so that you might slither into madame's bed?"

  Everyone gasped at this, but Florange stared calmly at Chauverge until the latter burst out, "Ridiculous! You act as superior as St. Briac. Let me tell you something. I wouldn't have this woman even if I had killed St. Briac. Everyone knows that she was his whore before he was forced to make her his wife."

  Louder gasps greeted these words, but Aimée was too stunned to make a sound. She felt as if he had struck her too with his lance, unfairly and with malice. Anne quickly put an arm around her shoulders to steady her, while Aimée managed to retain her composure and meet Chauverge's reptilian eyes.

  The king spoke first, his voice cold and clear. "You have gone too far this time. If St. Briac were here, he would surely kill you for the insult you have delivered. As it is, I must remind you of what you know full well—that I have always sworn that any man who would be so crass as to reflect on the honor of one of the ladies of my court would be hanged." Francois paused, narrowing his eyes at the smaller man. "If you wish to avoid that fate or a worse one when St. Briac hears of your words, I suggest that you remove yourself from my court immediately."

  Chauverge put his nose in the air and was about to reply, when a scream rang out. Everyone turned in horror to see the wild boar charging straight into the royal apartments.

  Chapter 27

  July 1-2, 1526

  It appeared that the boar, which seemed to be mad, had demolished the barricades that had been erected around the courtyard and had stormed up the stairway. Members of the court rushed toward the nearest wall, chair, or table in mad confusion; only the king remained unperturbed. As the beast roared into his apartments, Francois circled back toward the steps, away from the others, and calmly drew his sword.

  Pausing only briefly to study his adversary, the boar bared his tusks and charged. With seeming ease, the king sidestepped the long snout and razor-sharp tusks and drove the point of his sword home. The boar snorted in surprise before falling, neatly spitted, at the feet of Francois. The massive, hairy form rolled heavily down the steps and landed in the courtyard below.

  In the wild scene of acclamation that followed, Aimée slipped out of the room. She felt dazed, more by the behavior of Chauverge than by that of the boar. Walking toward the apartments she shared with St. Briac, she wondered whether to tell him what had happened. There seemed no graceful way to do so, since the bulk of the confrontation had concerned her. Should she whine that she'd been insulted, forcing her husband to take up arms once again against a foe who didn't warrant his merest glance? No, and if Chauverge was indeed absent from the court after tonight, the problem would be erased.

  She brooded about his words. Did people think she was merely a wench St. Briac had been forced to make his wife? Did the entire court whisper behind her back?

  Their bedchamber was empty, but Aimée heard voices in the etuve, the small chamber where they bathed and performed other duties relating to cleanliness. She sat down on the bed in a position that offered a view through the narrow doorway. St. Briac's broad shoulders and dark chestnut hair were visible above the high, sculptured cuve. Aimée watched as Gaspard poured a large ewer of clear water over his master's soapy head before turning to notice her.

  "Sacre bleu!" exclaimed the little man. "Your wife is here. I'd better go."

  "Why?" St. Briac queried in seeming irritation. "She's not bothering you."

  "It's not my place," insisted the valet. "Besides, we're finished. You didn't want me to dry you off?"

  "Of course not! Go on, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

  On his way out, Gaspard bowed and mumbled a greeting to Aimée before hastening toward the door. She couldn't help wondering which her husband dreaded more: his valet's departure or the thought of being alone with her.

  "I hope you didn't cut your evening short on my account," St. Briac said after a minute's silence.

  "No. Actually, the boar that was providing entertainment in the courtyard stormed the king's apartments."

  "Really!" St. Briac swiveled to peer at her over the cuve, water dripping from his neat beard. "Why don't you come in here and tell me about it?"

  Uneasily, she complied. Perched on a low stool, Aimée scarcely could concentrate on what she was saying, so overwhelmingly consciou
s was she of her husband's nearness. Her eyes drank in the sight of his glistening, naked chest and shoulders, the strength of his neck, the aristocratic shape of the fingers that curved around a wedge of soap.

  St. Briac listened with interest as she related the tale of the boar, all the while soaping muscular calves covered with crisp dark hair. To Aimée, even his feet were beautiful.

  "So," he commented when she had finished, "'twould seem that I am not the only hero at Amboise today. Thank God."

  Her smile answered his as she watched him reach across to a nearby chair and retrieve a large folded linen towel. Aimée panicked as she realized he was about to get out of the water. During the first days of their marriage, she had often bathed with St. Briac, but those times now seemed part of a silly romantic dream. There was not supposed to be such intimacy between them anymore.

  "Well," she said, choking, "I'll leave you now."

  Only a hint of amusement lit his eyes as he stood up, dripping, and watched her hurry from the etuve. After drying off with the first large linen towel, he reached for a dry one and applied it vigorously to his hair. When it was barely damp, St. Briac ran long fingers through to brush it away from his face and then walked naked into the bedchamber. Aimée stood by the fireplace, eyes averted and cheeks flaming. She expected her husband to make a caustic remark about her embarrassment, but he remained silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him drawing back the counterpane before he slid between the sheets with a sigh.

  "You are going to bed?" Aimée asked in surprise.

  "That does seem to be the case."

  "But isn't it rather early?"

  "I am tired, and there is nothing else to do, is there? Why don't you go back and have your supper."

  "I don't want any. Actually, I had enough to eat during the tournament. Probably as much as you had afterward, and I certainly was not as famished as you must have been." She tried to smile politely, to pretend that they were having a normal husband-wife conversation. "You must have worked up an enormous appetite. Jousting looks like very hard work."

  St. Briac's only response was to lift both eyebrows as if to mock her mindless chatter.

  "Well, I suppose I'll go to bed, too," Aimée announced with false brightness.

  "Not on my account, I hope."

  Her step faltered, and then she turned to unlace the front of her gown, trying to blink back hot tears. St. Briac cursed himself but couldn't help turning his head to watch as she undressed. Off came the complicated layers of clothing: gown, shakefold, petticoat, corset, and finally chemise. In the dim candlelight Aimée's body was exquisite, delicately curved and with the hue of a soft pink rose. When she crossed to place her discarded garments in bureau and chest, St. Briac caught a tantalizing glimpse of her high, sweet breasts. Under the covers, his ache became a maddening torment, and he turned his face away before the full view of her approaching the bed drove him past the brink of control. Just the sensation of the bed sagging slightly as she got in made him shut his eyes tightly against the pain of her nearness. The fresh scent of violets teased the air.

  "Are you asleep?" she queried hesitantly.

  "No," St. Briac said through gritted teeth.

  "Oh." She sighed audibly, wishing she could find the courage to touch him, to weep against his broad chest and tell him how desperately she loved him. The fear that he might reject and despise her held Aimée back.

  Seeking to distract himself, St. Briac said abruptly, "We're going home day after tomorrow."

  "Home?"

  "Yes, to St. Briac. Our home, remember?"

  Aimée felt like a dull-witted child. "Of course I remember. I just thought, well, that is, thank you for letting me know in advance. Suzette will have to pack."

  "You knew that I wanted to be home before the end of June. I've only lingered this long because it seemed the king might need me."

  "You're a considerate friend," she answered, wanting to cry, What about me? What about my wishes? Is that really going to be my home or will I live there as a barely tolerated guest? Don't my needs deserve the same care you devote to the king's?

  "I feel a certain obligation to be available to him if I can, especially during times like this, when he has problems that involve all our futures."

  Something broke inside of Aimée. She turned her head to look at him, and it seemed the intensity of her gaze forced St. Briac to meet her eyes. "Thomas," she whispered finally, "are we going to go on together like this always?"

  He blinked and then swallowed almost imperceptibly. "Madame, you spurned me for the last time while we were at Chambord. I won't make love to you again until you tell me that it is your own desire to be my wife in every way for the rest of our lives. I will not be turned aside again."

  Before she could answer, St. Briac swung his legs over the side of the bed. Muscles flexed in his back and buttocks as he rummaged through his bureau for shirt, breeches, and hose. Aimée watched him dress, struck dumb by what he had said and what he was doing. Pulling on his boots, St. Briac gave her a look that was unreadable.

  "I suddenly find that I'm not tired anymore. Bon soir."

  * * *

  Outside, St. Briac took hard, deep breaths of the cool night air. In spite of the exertions of the tournament, new energy surged through his veins. He strode through the high vaulted archways that led to the gardens. Lanterns hung from the chestnut trees that lined the flower beds, bobbing and flashing in the starlit summer wind. At the fountain, Thomas splashed cold water on his face. He retraced his steps and climbed up to the ramparts, three stairs at a time.

  Amboise was still. It was growing late, after all. St. Briac stared down at the huddled jumble of blue roofs, thinking that their inhabitants were probably a lot more content than those of the king's chateau. Bracing his arms on the stone barrier of a parapet, he narrowed his eyes pensively at the curving sweep of the Loire. It really was the most bewitching river. Just when one imagined that it was sensuous, kind, and lovable, it would fly into a fearful fit of temper and rage over its banks. Yes, it was surely a feminine river.

  Now, however, the water was content, even alluring. A silvery full moon splashed its glistening light over the ripples, and on the far bank a curtain of poplar trees trembled in the breeze.

  St. Briac closed his eyes and rubbed one dark hand over them. Sangdieu, he thought. What does it mean when even my river reminds me of Aimée?

  * * *

  In the morning Aimée awoke to an empty bed. She'd lain awake for the longest time that night, waiting, but must have fallen asleep before St. Briac's return, for his pillow was rumpled. Burying her face in it, Aimée inhaled his scent. She tried to sigh, but emotion swelled and caught in her breast, refusing to be released.

  Suzette helped her mistress bathe and dress, and then they talked over plans for the next day's departure. Finally, after nibbling at a roll and a few slices of orange, Aimée went in search of St. Briac. Outside in the courtyard, a tennis court had been laid out. Her husband was engaged in a spirited match that pitted Florange and him against Bonnivet and Henri de Navarre, Marguerite's suitor. Poor Francois observed from the gallery, sidelined because of his broken arm.

  Aimée watched for a while, conversing with the king. Eventually, when it seemed St. Briac would never notice her presence, she returned to her apartments to supervise Suzette's packing. During the afternoon Gaspard appeared to organize his master's belongings, but there was no sign of St. Briac.

  Although Aimée's mood was far from festive, she made up her mind to enjoy the ball that was planned for that evening. There was no telling how long it would be before she and Thomas would visit the court again.

  St. Briac still had not made an appearance when Aimée began to dress. She chose a gown of soft, moss-green velvet, its puffed sleeves slashed to reveal creamy satin. The girdle that rode just beneath her waist was filigreed gold, sprinkled with emeralds and pearls, and more emeralds sparkled over her golden crispinette. A diamond necklace added a stunnin
g touch. When Suzette held up a looking glass and exclaimed, "Madame, you'll be the most beautiful woman in the chateau tonight," Aimée had to smile. She did look pretty. Perhaps this would be the night when St. Briac would lose his heart to her.

  Finally it was time to go down for supper. Aimée was filled with disappointment. Where could Thomas be? With that woman? Suzette trailed despondently after her mistress, the corners of her mouth drooping in imitation of Aimée's expression. At the door, Aimée reached for the latch. It opened, and Suzette crashed into her mistress's back. She looked up in surprise to discover the seigneur de St. Briac filling the doorway. Aimée was caught between husband and maid.

  "My pardon, ladies." He gave them his usual smile, but it seemed distracted somehow.

  "Monseigneur, we thought you'd never come," cried Suzette.

  Aimée turned and gave her a threatening look. "You may leave us," she said sweetly.

  "Oh. Bien sur." The little maid curtsied to them both. "I'll be going, then. Enjoy the ball." St. Briac stood aside to let her pass, and she couldn't resist a parting remark. "Doesn't madame look glorious? You must be so proud."

  "Very," he assured her, amused.

  When they were alone, Aimée muttered, "Sometimes I could box that girl's ears."

  "I've longed to do the same to Gaspard many times."

  She watched him cross the chamber, noting that his boots had mud on them and that his doublet was streaked with dust. "Where have you been all afternoon? I was beginning to worry."

  St. Briac glanced at her over one shoulder. "How touching." He arched an eyebrow for emphasis. "I was out riding."

  "You might have taken me with you."

  "I thought you were packing. Besides, I needed the solitude."

  Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. How could he be so relentlessly cruel? What could she ever do to mend things between them? "Well, I'll leave you to your bath, then. Will you be joining us for supper?"

  "Yes, in a while." St. Briac watched her go, well aware of the pain in her eyes, and he almost spoke her name. The urge to hold Aimée was overwhelming, but he had to steel himself, just through tonight. For the next few hours St. Briac needed Aimée to stay as far away from him as possible.