You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  She wore breeches and a doublet of sage-green velvet that made her eyes look even greener. The white fraise of the shirt disguised the delicate shape of her neck. Aimée pulled on one of the two pairs of boots Fanchette had brought and declared them a perfect fit.

  "You look like a beautiful girl dressed up as a boy," said St. Briac's aunt. "Have you forgotten your breasts, cherie? They are more noticeable than ever these days."

  "Parbleu!" Aimée gasped. "Thank you for reminding me."

  "I'll leave you to bind them and pin up your hair. You should find a hat or two among Thomas's things that will serve. He never wears them, so it's time they saw the light of day."

  "Mille mercis, Tante Fanchette. What would I do without you?" Aimée put her arms around the older woman and was relieved to feel her reciprocate with feeling.

  "Godspeed, my dear girl. I'll keep you and Thomas in my prayers until you return."

  A few minutes later, Aimée was in the etuve, staring into a mirror as she drew on a velvet plumed hat she had never seen before. 'Twill serve, she thought. The strips of cloth that flattened her breasts under the shirt and doublet were uncomfortable but not unbearably so. She was ready to gather up her things and leave, when Honorine burst into the bedchamber.

  "Aimée? Aimée! I must talk to you. I have to confess!" She began to weep with such force that she barely noticed her sister's appearance when she emerged from the etuve.

  "Don't waste your breath. I already know everything. You've betrayed not only me but my husband, and I'll never forgive you for that, Honorine."

  "Oh, Aimée, please listen to me. You must! I felt that you had betrayed me when you took my place with the court. When M'sieur Chauverge came to Nieuil and urged me to journey north with him, there was a great deal of bitterness inside me. I had just heard that you were married to the seigneur de St. Briac, the most magnificent man I'd ever seen in all my life. I was so filled with envy. I thought that if I had come with the court instead of you, he would surely have married me."

  "Oh, Honorine..." As ridiculous as that thought was, Aimee could understand why she had entertained it.

  "Chauverge said that your wedding had taken place under strange circumstances and that Thomas did not really love you. He said that he had reasons of his own for wanting to cause trouble for St. Briac and that if I would help him, he would see to it that I occupied a place of importance at court. I was so bored and unhappy with Maman and Papa at Nieuil. Worst of all, Armand Rovicette began hovering around me after you left."

  Aimee sighed. "We must save this conversation for another time." She started toward the door.

  "Wait, don't leave! Just let me say that I have come to regret everything I've done. Walking back from town today, I determined to tell you all in the hope that there might be some way to salvage the situation. Aimée, I love you and need you. I want to be your sister, if you'll have me."

  She closed her eyes for a long moment and then turned to stare at Honorine. The torrent of words reminded her of all the speeches she had wanted to make to St. Briac after Chambord, begging for his forgiveness. She'd never worked up the courage, but Honorine had, and she admired her for that. More important, Aimée wanted a sister.

  "All right, let us forget about everything that's happened since you arrived here. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt until you do just one thing that makes me suspicious." She paused, picking up her bag of belongings. "You know, you've been a fool, Honorine. You've endangered Thomas's life for nothing. Chauverge couldn't get you even a position on the kitchen staff at court. If he dares to show his own face to the king again, he'll be hanged."

  "But he was with His Majesty and Louise de Savoy at Nieuil. He's one of the foremost Gentlemen of the Chamber!"

  "Not any more. But I haven't time to discuss it. I have to find my husband before Chauverge does."

  Honorine caught her arm. "So that's why you're dressed that way. I feared as much. Aimée, I beg you, let me come with you. You may need my help."

  Aimée took a breath and made up her mind. Since she was with child, her sister's presence might be of help. If Aimée felt more than a twinge of pain, she'd feel like a murderess to keep on riding. The chances of that happening were small, but if it did, the repentant Honorine could go on in her place.

  "All right." She gestured toward the bed. "There ought to be some clothes there that fit you. Get dressed, put on the other hat that I left in the etuve, and meet me in the stables." At the doorway, Aimée turned back to add, "Hurry! And don't forget to bind your breasts. You'll find strips of my petticoat on the bed."

  * * *

  For thirty-six long hours Aimée, Honorine, and their groom, Pierre, traveled with only the briefest pauses for food and sleep. Tante Fanchette had packed three bags with provisions that could be eaten during pauses to water, feed, and rest the horses. Aimée and Honorine had succumbed to fatigue around midnight the first day and slept on blankets under a grove of rustling, golden-leaved birch trees. Aimée couldn't sleep for long; she was too tense. Knowing St. Briac, she had to assume that he was setting a punishing pace for himself. If they ever were going to catch up, their own pace must be even more rapid.

  Honorine frequently looked as if she wanted to complain, but she rarely followed through. One look at her sister's resolute expression squelched her bone-deep fatigue. If it took this torture to prove herself to Aimée, Honorine was determined to meet the challenge and win.

  Pierre, a young, fair-haired man of around twenty, had ridden several times to Paris with St. Briac and knew every auberge the seigneur preferred. They tried them all. On the morning of the second day they found one in the tiny village of Montoire. The innkeeper confirmed that St. Briac and Gaspard had indeed slept there the night before, but they had left in a hurry before dawn.

  They rode on down long, flat, narrow roads lined with plane trees or oaks, their leaves bright against the crisp blue sky, over rolling hills still carpeted in green, and through charming hamlets that tempted the trio to pause and sample hot food and enjoy friendly conversation. Aimée's resolve never wavered, however, and her companions could only match her pace in silence.

  Finally, at about ten o'clock on the second night, they drew up before a half-timbered auberge in the village of Illiers.

  "I'll wager that he's here, madame," declared Pierre. "We've rested here often in the past, and it's just the right distance from his last bed if he's been riding hard."

  Aimée swung down from Mignonne's back and handed the horse over to a stable hand. "Have a care with her. She's very precious to me and has put in a long day." She slipped the boy a coin. Her heart pounding with nervous anticipation, Aimée went into the auberge. There were still men quaffing ale and wine before the fire, but St. Briac was not among them. Of course, he would not waste precious time so frivolously, yet she steeled herself for disappointment.

  "M'sieur," she said to the innkeeper, trying to lower her voice convincingly, "I am in search of my brother. He is the seigneur de St. Briac. Do you know if he is staying here tonight?"

  "Mais oui!" exclaimed the old man, peering at her curiously. "He went to bed long ago."

  Aimée almost smiled at his expression. The poor fellow must have wondered how St. Briac could have such a frail, effeminate sibling. "Well, he's expecting me. I'll just go up if you will point out his door to me. Also, could you provide rooms for my two companions?"

  "Certainement. But wouldn't you like some supper first?"

  "Yes," cried Honorine and Pierre in unison.

  "For myself, I am not hungry," Aimée said gruffly. "I would like to see my brother."

  "Of course, m'sieur. Follow me." The innkeeper glanced back to speak to the other two. "I'll be back in just a moment to will fetch your suppers."

  "Fine, fine," murmured Pierre as he collapsed in the nearest chair. Honorine followed suit, longing to unbind her breasts and take down her hair.

  Aimée followed the old man up a dark, narrow flight of stairs lit only b
y his candle and another that sat on a table on the landing. After pointing out a corner room to her, he turned and descended to attend to his guests.

  She'd hurried all this time as if the devil himself were chasing her, but now Aimée felt her courage ebbing away. What would he do when he saw her? There was only one way to find out, she told herself, and in any case, her longing to be close to St. Briac was even more potent than her fear of his temper.

  Slowly, Aimée eased the latch up and pushed the door open. The chamber was spacious and moonlit; instantly her eyes went to her husband, asleep in a comfortable-looking bed. Her heart turned over as she was reminded of the last time she had tiptoed into his chamber while he slept. He looked much the same now, brown and hard and splendid against the white bedclothes. It surprised Aimée that her entrance had not wakened him, but then she remembered the long hours he had ridden for two days and realized the depth of his fatigue.

  Nearing the bed, she saw that he had one arm outflung toward the other pillow, the one which usually was occupied by her. Tears pooled in her eyes.

  "Thomas."

  Instantly on guard, he sat up and reached toward the sword that always remained propped at his bedside. Then St. Briac narrowed his gaze in the moonlight. The figure leaning over him appeared to be that of a boy, but there was no mistaking the piquant face and petite form he knew so well.

  "Aimée! Non. It can't be you," he moaned.

  Chapter 32

  September 20, 1526

  "This must be a dream," St. Briac said to himself. "That's it, a bizarre dream. If I just lie down and go back to sleep, this apparition of my wife will disappear." He dropped back onto his pillow and covered his face with his hands.

  Aimée smothered nervous laughter. "Thomas."

  "I'm asleep."

  Wincing, she leaned down and pried his hands away. Turquoise eyes stared up at her in the starlight.

  "Tell me you're not real," he begged.

  "I'm very real, I'm afraid."

  "I cannot believe it. It's impossible!" St. Briac bolted upright again and grasped her wrists. "In the name of God, Aimée, why? Why couldn't you behave yourself and stay put, just once? Must I chain you to our bed?"

  "If you will only listen to me, you'll understand that I had no choice. I had to—"

  "And what are you doing in those ridiculous clothes?" St. Briac interrupted. "At first glance I thought you were a boy. Where are your breasts?"

  "Let me speak. I can explain everything."

  He put his head in his hands and made a low sound of frustration. "I must be losing my mind. All right, go on. I'm listening."

  Hastily, Aimée related all that had happened at home in the hours after his departure, including the story of how Chauverge had lured Honorine to Chateau du Soleil so that she might attempt to cause trouble between the newlyweds and keep St. Briac's mind off Georges Teverant.

  "You forgave her?" he exclaimed, incredulous.

  "I had to, Thomas. I think this experience has made a change in Honorine. She seems to have grown up overnight. All these long hours that we've been traveling to reach you, she's held up heroically." She paused. There was a look in her husband's eyes that told her he wasn't really listening. His thoughts were focused elsewhere. "What are you going to do about Chauverge?"

  "There's nothing I can do. We'll go on as planned. I'll just have to proceed with even greater caution now that I know he will be lying in wait for me. Under a rock, no doubt."

  "Thomas, you must tell me now what is going on. You owe me that much."

  He stared at her. "Yes, I suppose you are right, but don't imagine that I've forgiven you for tearing across France on this insane chase. Next time send a servant or even Christophe with a message for me."

  "I wouldn't have trusted anyone else to find you in time. No one else cares the way I do."

  St. Briac's heart melted when he heard the raw emotion in Aimée's voice. He gathered her into his arms and smiled when she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. There were tears on her lips.

  "I've missed you so, Thomas. It seems that we've been apart a year instead of less than two days."

  "I've missed you as well, miette. I've been aching for you."

  Their mouths came together again, tasting, speaking in a language that had no words. Finally, Aimée fitted herself cozily into St. Briac's embrace and said eagerly, "Now, tell me all about Teverant."

  "First we must dispose of that ridiculous plumed hat and take down your hair." He longed to feel it against his face, and so he removed the offending chapeau and hairpins himself.

  "As for Teverant, he's been imprisoned in the Conciergerie for over a month now. You remember why, I'm sure."

  "Louise de Savoy has been trying to make him a scapegoat for the Baron de Semblancay."

  "That's right. After I learned of his arrest, I sent Gaspard to Paris to find out what he could. He returned to say that a date had been set for Teverant's execution: the twenty-fifth of September. So, you see, it was Chauverge's job to see to it that I was kept occupied at St. Briac until then. When I learned that Francois actually had approved an execution, I decided to write to him. He's been in Paris lately, staying of course at the Palais du Louvre. I thought he would listen to reason, but when Gaspard arrived with his extremely slow reply, I saw that Louise has truly exerted her will in this case."

  "What did Francois say? He has always seemed to be the epitome of a just man."

  St. Briac sighed harshly. "He replied that there had been too much talk about Semblancay and his helpers getting away with their crimes. He's decided that an example must be made so that the other money men will not think they can slip their hands into the till and go unpunished. Also, there's the related matter of Jean de Poitiers, seigneur de Saint-Vallier."

  "Was he the man who was nearly executed?"

  "Yes. After Charles of Bourbon committed treason and joined forces with Charles V to crush France, the scapegoat issue surfaced, much as it has in this case. Francois felt he had to stamp out any embers of a conspiracy, particularly while the country was in danger of invasion from Bourbon's allies. Saint-Vallier was the logical choice for scapegoat, since he'd been a party to the signing of Bourbon's treaty with Charles V, but he was very old and frail. Everything proceeded as ordered, though. The poor man was trembling with fright as they led him to the scaffold. This was in January 1524, as I recall. There was a huge crowd, of course, and Saint-Vallier, his hands tied, begged the headsman to be quick and merciful with his ax. He knelt, the ax was raised, and at that moment a messenger rode up waving the king's reprieve."

  "Do you mean that Francois intended to wait until the last minute?"

  "Exactly. It was his way of punishing Saint-Vallier but still showing mercy. However, now he says that he's been criticized for being too softhearted, not only in that case but also with the heretics who subscribe to the beliefs of Martin Luther. Louise has convinced the king that this time an example must be made and that there is no room for mercy."

  Aimée's brows gathered as she pondered this. When she asked her next question, she already knew what St. Briac's answer would be. "What do you intend to do, then?"

  "Why, I must see to Teverant's escape from the Conciergerie, of course. What else can I do?" Aimée's prolonged nearness had begun to distract him from more serious matters. Now that the story was told, he turned his attention to her clothing. "I must say, I find this very odd," he remarked as his fingers untied the laces of her white shirt.

  "What do you mean?" Aimée could think only of her husband's statement about rescuing Teverant. Worry and fear spread inside her like a dark stain.

  "I've never undressed anyone before who was wearing a doublet," St. Briac replied, laughing.

  He had such a stimulating low, masculine laugh that Aimée was powerless to resist its magic. They were alone together, and the night spread out before them, filled with love and promise.

  It wasn't until much later that Aimée returned to the subject
of Teverant. They were lying together, legs entwined, her face nestled in the place where St. Briac's shoulder curved into his neck.

  "So you are off to Paris tomorrow?" she ventured.

  "Mmhmm." He stroked her hair back with lean, tender fingers and kissed her temple.

  "And I?"

  "Back to St. Briac, of course. Go gently this time."

  "Thomas?" She lifted her face and pressed feather-soft kisses to a spot below his ear that she knew to be particularly sensitive.

  "I don't like the tone of your voice, miette. Why don't we go to sleep?"

  "I cannot go to sleep when all I can think about is how much I need to go with you to Paris. Wait! Don't say no yet. I have the most extraordinary plan, but you can't carry it out without Honorine and myself. If you will just listen with an open mind—"

  "Non! Absolutely not! And that is my final word!"

  * * *

  Two days later St. Briac, Gaspard, their groom, Aimée, and Honorine rode through one of the gates in the walls and ramparts that enclosed Paris.

  St. Briac had succumbed to his wife's pleas against his better judgment, partly because her plan to use Honorine to foil Chauverge was a good one. During their journey from Illiers, his attitude had combined helpless affection with gruffness. It wouldn't do, he told himself, for Aimée to think she could talk him into anything.

  He glanced casually in her direction, and his heart softened once again. The minx was incorrigible but undeniably enchanting. She sat up very straight astride Mignonne, looking silly and adorable in her doublet and plumed hat as she gazed around with excitement. There was little cause for excitement, but Aimée always seemed to find a spark of beauty in the most awful surroundings.

  Paris stank. Thomas recognized the odor when they were still a league away. Once a visitor was trapped within the walls, the reason became apparent. There were no real streets to speak of, only a labyrinth of narrow passages pooled with filthy water and piled with rotting garbage. Houses, mainly of a sordid nature, crowded together and rose up three, four, or even six stories so that virtually no sun could invade the streets below. Paris had outgrown its walls long ago, and the people had been forced to build higher and higher. Even the bridges were piled with dwellings that overlooked a river into which citizens daily added their slop. The Seine provided drinking water for the city; St. Briac thought it was no wonder half the population seemed to be swilling wine so eagerly.