You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  * * *

  The mood of the court was so festive that Aimée almost forgot her despondency. Francois was especially jovial, for the wild boar he had skewered so heroically the night before was the centerpiece of their supper. The beast had been grilled over the fire on a huge gridiron, larded with foie gras, flamed with fine fats, and doused with the fullest-flavored wines. It was being served in one piece, head and all. Wine flowed freely up and down the boards. Aimée found herself drinking liberally as more and more time passed with no sign of St. Briac.

  When at last he did come in, everyone greeted him enthusiastically. His dark, freshly washed chestnut hair gleamed in the torchlight, and he looked especially splendid in a doublet and haut-de-chausses the color of dark Burgundy wine. However, as St. Briac worked his way around the table to his own place next to her, Aimée couldn't help thinking that he seemed preoccupied, that he was going through the motions with his friends, just as he had been doing with less success when the two of them were alone.

  "I do hope you'll pardon me, sire," he said, settling down next to his wife.

  "What have you been doing all afternoon?" the king asked.

  To Aimée's total surprise, St. Briac reached for her hand under the table. When he began to reply to his friend's question, she understood why. "Believe it or not, I've been asleep in our chamber. I suspect I might be a bit ill; I haven't felt like myself since last night." Long, hard fingers squeezed Aimée's delicate ones in warning. "I did want to make an appearance, though, since this will be our final supper with all of you—"

  "You and your charming bride must travel to Fontainebleu this autumn," Francois interrupted in a tone of royal command. "I can't hunt without you, Thomas, and that will be the best hunting of the year."

  "Well, we'll see." The sight of the king's eyebrows flying up made St. Briac smile. "Probably."

  "Definitely. I shall be expecting you."

  "Barring any unforeseen circumstances, you may do so." A servant brought St. Briac a plate of food and some wine. He made properly impressed comments about the size and ferocious appearance of the boar and then inquired casually, "Where is Chauverge? He's not so rude as to be late, I hope."

  Francois made a face at his friend's sally and then exchanged barely perceptible glances with Bonnivet, Florange, and even Aimée. She could see that the men had reached the same conclusion she had: Only trouble would come of relating last night's incident to Thomas.

  "Chauverge's left, I think," Florange put in between bites of artichoke.

  "Left! Why?"

  "Perhaps he didn't feel wanted," he suggested laconically. From across the table, Bonnivet contributed a sage nod.

  St. Briac knitted his brows but kept his tone light. "Don't tell me he's finally seen the light."

  Everyone laughed, more wine was poured, and the evening wore on. Aimée's mind was in a whirl. They; were all telling each other lies, yet her instincts told her that St. Briac, in spite of his nonchalance and innocent manner, knew a great deal more than anyone else about what was going on. The question remained: What was going on?

  "I do hope," Thomas said as the sweetmeats and strawberries were being served, "that you all will understand if I retire early. I feel a bit of malaise lingering on, and I want to be fit to travel tomorrow."

  Aimée's heart sank. "But what about the ball?" she cried impulsively.

  He turned to meet her eyes. "You must stay and enjoy it."

  "Oh, no, I'll go with you." All she yearned for was his nearness.

  Once again St. Briac caught her hand as if they were lovers, and once again the pressure of his fingers warned Aimée to keep silent. "I insist. This may be your last ball for a long time."

  She tried valiantly to smile. "If you're certain you don't mind." It was a test of her love to play along with his game, whatever it was, and Aimée hoped he appreciated her efforts on his behalf.

  * * *

  She soon found an excuse to leave. If Thomas was ill, Aimée explained to the king, she should at least spare a moment from her own pleasures to check on him.

  Her feet fairly flew down the stone corridors. A guard by the stairway leading to the royal apartments only blinked as she passed, but upon reaching her own door, Aimée found that it would not open.

  "Monseigneur is ill. Go away," cried Gaspard when she knocked.

  "Open the door, Gaspard. It is I, Madame de St. Briac."

  He opened it a few inches and stuck his nose out. "I cannot. Go back to the ball."

  "No! I insist that you allow me—" Aimée broke off at the sound of a familiar voice around the corner. Immediately she pushed hard against the door, knocking the little valet off balance, and entered the chamber. "Chauverge!" she whispered to Gaspard.

  She strained to hear what Chauverge was saying; he sounded a bit breathless as he spoke to the guard. "Tell me something, won't you, m'sieur?"

  "Certainly, if I can."

  "Do you know where the seigneur de St. Briac has gone? I've been looking for him everywhere."

  Gaspard groaned when he heard the guard's stuttering reply. "Why, uh, no. That is, he's ill, I think. Yes, that's it! In his apartments. You won't want to disturb him." Obviously the man was not a skilled liar.

  "Is he? I did check there already, but his manservant wouldn't let me in."

  "That's because he's ill." The guard was warming to his part.

  "Of course. St. Briac has always been a rather frail specimen. You'll excuse my curiosity, but I could have sworn I saw him stealing down the stairs. I followed, hoping to speak to him, but it must have been a mirage, because there was no one there when I reached the bottom." Chauverge's silky voice was chatty now.

  "Well, there couldn't have been because he's in his apartments. Ill, you know."

  "I remember. Look here, I seem to have a flask of brandy. Won't you join me?"

  "Merci, m'sieur. Very kind of you to offer. My bones do begin to ache standing here all night."

  There was a long pause, during which Aimée turned and scanned the bed she knew would be empty and then shot Gaspard an accusing glance. What in heaven's name was going on?

  Chauverge spoke up again in a conversational tone. "I've heard that there is a tunnel to Manoir du Cloux hidden somewhere in the depths of this chateau. Didn't the king have it constructed during the years when Leonardo da Vinci lived there? I know that His Majesty visited him constantly when he was in residence, and I suppose a tunnel would have made all that much easier. Here, have another drink." He paused, patiently biding his time, while Gaspard let out a smothered moan of worry. "Do you suppose there's any truth to that rumor?"

  "Oh yes, m'sieur," the guard affirmed, proud of his knowledge. "We all know about the tunnel. Sometimes the king still uses it just to go over and look at things that great man left behind when he died. Books and sketches, you know. Even some inventions."

  "Really! That's very interesting. I'd love to have a look at that tunnel, just out of curiosity. Where is it, exactly?"

  The guard's tone changed abruptly. "Oh, I can't tell you that, m'sieur. It's a secret."

  Next to Aimée, Gaspard let out his breath in a great whoosh of relief, while back in the corridor Chauverge's voice turned brittle. "A secret! Ah, well, too bad. I'll bid you good night now. Back to the ball for me."

  "Back to the ball?" Aimée whispered incredulously. "What's he talking about? He can't show his face there. Everyone thinks he's gone."

  "Chauverge's not going to any ball. He's bound for Manoir du Cloux the usual way. No doubt he's decided that would be equally effective now that he's figured out where monseigneur's gone and how—and probably why!"

  "Would you kindly enlighten me, then?" Aimée cried in exasperation.

  "No time for that, madame. You'll have to go and warn monseigneur. I'd do it, but my old legs won't carry me very fast anymore, and we must beat Chauverge. That weasel is doubtless running or even riding with all possible speed. The tunnel's much faster, though." Gaspard threw open the do
or and gave her a quick stare, eyes wide in his wizened face. "I bid you follow me."

  This was obviously no time to argue. Lifting her velvet skirts, Aimée followed Gaspard past the guard and down three flights of stone steps. On the way, Gaspard paused to pluck a torch from the wall before hurrying onward. At the bottom he followed a maze of darkened, narrow corridors before pausing in front of a recessed wall made of great rectangular stones. Aimée watched awestruck as the little man reached out with a pale, wrinkled hand to push at a particular spot on a certain stone. A door swung open in front of them.

  "Here's the tunnel," Gaspard announced, pointing into blackness. He handed her the torch. "You'll need this. Now you must hurry, madame, if you care at all for the fate of my master."

  Chapter 28

  July 2-3, 1526

  Aimée found herself alone at the top of a narrow series of steps that staggered downward into what appeared to be the bowels of the earth. Gaspard had pushed the wall shut behind her, and the torch provided only the frailest comfort. The air was chilly and damp; she was certain she heard rats scurrying at the sound of her approach. Still, there was nothing to do but obey the command of St. Briac's manservant. If her husband was in danger, Aimée would have braved an army of rats to assist him.

  She managed to lift her gown and petticoat high with her free hand, throwing them over her arm and holding them fast with tense fingers. In the next instant she hurried down the stairs, under a brick archway, and into the tunnel. The floor was dirt, as were the walls; only the supporting stones above hinted of civilization. Holding the torch aloft, Aimée could see no farther than the next step she would take, yet she ran on as if her life depended on it. Her lungs began to burn and her legs to ache before she finally came panting to another flight of steps.

  Spider webs tangled in Aimée's face as she started toward what she hoped would be a door. Gaspard had said nothing about another secret entrance. What if she couldn't get in?

  At the top of the stairs there was a wooden portal but no latch. Tears stung Aimée's eyes. "Thomas!" It was almost a shriek. "Thomas, let me in! It's Aimée!"

  To her astonishment, the door swung open immediately, and St. Briac loomed above her, silhouetted against a cozy candlelit background.

  "My God, what are you doing here?" His handsome face was incredulous as he took the torch in one hand and wrapped his other arm around her trembling form.

  She wanted to burst into tears, but swallowed them all and managed to gasp, "It's Chauverge. He's coming. He tried to find the way to the tunnel when he guessed where you'd gone, but then he left, and Gaspard is certain he's coming on the road."

  An attractive, earnest-looking young man rose behind a table in the middle of what must have been Leonardo da Vinci's bedchamber. A massive bed hung with red velvet stood against the far wall, and beside it hung Leonardo's painting of St. John the Baptist.

  "Aimée, this is Georges Teverant. Georges, allow me to present my wife." St. Briac held her close against him.

  They recognized each other from the hunting lodge at Nieuil. Teverant thought back to his friend's reaction that night to the sparkling, winsome maiden. So this was the new bride everyone was talking about! Teverant smiled; he would have enjoyed hearing about what happened between Nieuil, when St. Briac had declared that the girl was to marry someone else, and their own wedding.

  "Bon soir, m'sieur," Aimée was saying. "I have heard a great deal about you. But now you must hide before Chauverge arrives!"

  "It is a pleasure to meet you, too, madame. It makes me very happy to see my good and faithful friend wed to such a splendid woman."

  "Enough charm, Georges." St. Briac laughed. "Let's put you in the tunnel until this business with Chauverge is taken care of."

  Teverant went obediently, accepting the torch that Aimée had brought. When the door swung closed behind him, she saw that it blended perfectly with the carved linenfold wainscoting.

  "I thought Chauverge had left," St. Briac hissed when they were alone.

  "Apparently not. He's been lurking about, watching you, I think."

  "Damn, then he may have seen Teverant this afternoon." Muscles clenched in his jaw. "I'm beginning to wish I had killed him during the tournament. It wouldn't have been terribly difficult."

  "Thomas, what are you going to say when he finds me here? Shouldn't I join M'sieur Teverant in the tunnel? Why don't we all just go?"

  "If Chauverge is on his way here, he's seen the lights by now." St. Briac crossed the room and took some books from a chest beside the bed. "I've no intention of running from him like a scared rabbit. I'll merely say that I was feeling better and you persuaded me to show you Manoir du Cloux before our departure from Amboise." He opened the books across the table. "Come over here and sit down, my brave miette, and try to look interested in these notes and sketches in Leonardo's own hand. Did you know that he came here on a donkey, over the Alps, with three unfinished paintings? This beside the bed of St. John, and also the Mona Lisa–"

  Just then the outer door burst open and Chauverge fairly jumped across the threshold.

  St. Briac was standing behind Aimée's chair, leaning forward as if pointing out something in one of the books. He straightened unhurriedly and arched an eyebrow at the intruder.

  The scene was ended in less than a minute. St. Briac made his explanation without a telltale blink, and the other man had no choice but to accept it. Even Aimée offered some sharp parting words before Chauverge stormed away.

  "I heard that you had already left Amboise, m'sieur. Perhaps the king will be interested to learn that you are still about."

  His face twitched as he glared at her. Then, spinning on a spade-shaped shoe, Chauverge was gone. When the door had slammed shut behind him, Aimée stood impulsively and leaned against her husband's wide chest.

  "How I detest that man."

  St. Briac allowed himself to gather her into his embrace, and the same wave of emotion washed over them both. Just the feel of his body enfolding hers made Aimée's senses reel.

  "I feel the same way, but keep in mind that he is no threat to us, only a nuisance. I don't mean to sound vain, but I could outwit Chauverge in my sleep."

  Aimée was certain that was true, yet there was always the possibility of an unexpected move on Chauverge's part and the element of his venomous hatred for St. Briac.

  "Can we leave now?" she sighed at last. She hated to let go of him now that she finally was back in his arms.

  "I'm sorry to say it, but I shall have to stay here and finish my conversation with Teverant. I can't explain right now, but I must do what I can to help him. He's not used to the tactics of people like Chauverge and Louise de Savoy and needs me for a bit of advice. They've scared the poor fellow to death."

  "Of course. I understand." Aimée gave him a valiant smile, thinking at the same time of the return walk down the cold, wet, dark tunnel alone.

  * * *

  The last person Aimée needed to encounter was Ghislaine Pepin, but she nearly bumped into her, rounding the corner to her bedchamber.

  "I'm sorry," exclaimed Ghislaine with a friendly smile. "I must not have been watching my steps."

  "But no, madame," Aimée returned coolly. "I was at fault."

  "Well, there was no damage done. We'll compromise and excuse each other."

  Aimée glared at the woman whose calm beauty, wit, and poise had won St. Briac's heart. She was certain he had gone to the duchesse last night when he left their bed, but those thoughts were too painful to entertain for more than a moment. Ghislaine Pepin had a husband of her own; why couldn't she leave Aimée's in peace?

  "I'm very tired. Bon soir, madame."

  The duchesse de Roanne laid a gentle hand on Aimée's arm. "Wait, please. I wish that you would not hate me. I think that perhaps you misunderstand a great deal."

  "Do I?" Her eyes flashed in the candlelit hallway.

  "I bear you no animosity. I think it is wonderful that Thomas has found a wife."

&
nbsp; "As long as that wife is young and stupid enough to tolerate his mistress?"

  Ghislaine began to gasp but then closed her mouth and regarded Aimée for a long moment. She smiled slightly. "You are foolish as well, madame, if you know your husband so little. He is devoted to his marriage now. The reason Thomas was hesitant to wed was that he had grown cynical after observing the activities among husbands and wives and their lovers at court. His heart is as strong and true as the rest of him; when he married you, he made you a gift of it. Betrayal would not enter his mind."

  Bewilderment, joy, and suspicion struggled inside Aimée. Could she believe what this woman said, or was this some sort of ploy? "You obviously do not understand what kind of marriage Thomas and I have. He didn't wed me by choice."

  "Of course he did!" Ghislaine laughed. "How silly you are. He may have needed a little nudge in the right direction, but he wanted to be your husband as much as you yearned to be his wife. The man's in love with you, cherie!"

  Aimée blinked. There was a huge lump in her throat. "Has he told you this?"

  "He didn't need to, and I certainly shouldn't need to tell you. It's been obvious to everyone, even the king, since you first arrived at Blois. Believe me, I would not have let Thomas go so easily if I hadn't known you were the right woman for him."

  "Parbleu. I'm so ashamed when I think of the mean thoughts I've had about you, madame."

  The duchesse smiled and touched Aimée's cheek. "I love Thomas, too. I always will. And because I love him, I want him to be happy. Let me tell you something else that should gladden your heart, cherie, and help explain how I knew you were the one even before he did. Thomas and I haven't slept together since the two of you arrived at Blois. He didn't realize it, but he was in love with you even then." She paused, her blue eyes wistful.

  "You are very generous to tell me these things, madame."