You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "Who's that?" the head guard asked St. Briac, his eyes widening at the sight of Aimée's bosom.

  "My, uh, sister," he told him stupidly, wanting to deliver a punishing blow to the leering man's jaw. "The chevalier thought you might enjoy her along with the wine."

  "What a day," cried another of the guards. "Why aren't there more executions?"

  St. Briac was climbing down clumsily from his seat and taking the casks that the mute Gaspard handed him. "Have you cups? I can open one of these for you right here, and my sister and the lackey will take another inside to the rest of the guards."

  One of the men dashed inside and returned with several battered vessels. The head guard succumbed. "Oh, all right. As long as the king's insisted, I suppose we might as well drink a bit."

  In moments the cask had been pried open and cups dipped inside. The guards were so happily toasting the occasion that they barely noticed Aimée and Gaspard passing them with another cask of wine.

  "Wench, hurry back to us," shouted one of the guards. She gave them all a wink and followed Gaspard through the high arched doorway.

  Inside, the pair passed through a vaulted vestibule and then found themselves in the breathtaking Salle des Gens d'Armes, which once had served as a meal hall for soldiers and knights. It was a huge room, divided by columns and piers into four aisles with gothic cross vaults. Torches flickered against columns highlighted with gold and azure, lending an eerily magnificent air to the place. Almost immediately they were greeted by more guards. Aimée explained their mission, assuring the men that not only had the head guard outside given permission for this celebration, so had the chevalier de Chauverge and King Francois himself.

  "You must call the others. It would be unfair to deprive even one man of this morning's pleasure." She gave them a coquettish smile and hoped they wouldn't decide to partake of her instead of the wine.

  The other guards were summoned, and they thundered down a spiral staircase from the great kitchens above. The rest came from the prison itself. More cups were procured from the kitchens, and soon Aimée was dipping them into the red wine and passing them around. When the guards insisted that she join in, she laughed and said she wanted to be alert so that she might share the enjoyment of each of them. Their eyes lit up lustily at this. Gaspard meanwhile slouched against the wall as if he were too stupid to know what wine was.

  Almost in unison, the guards began to yawn and then sit down. Finally, too dazed to realize what was happening, they dropped over against the pillars and one another, sound asleep. Aimée pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Gaspard came forward to slip a ring of keys from one man's hand, and then the two of them were running down the west bay of the Salle des Gens d'Armes toward the corridor that would lead them into the men's quarters of the prison. The passages were lit dimly, and Aimée had to hold up her skirts and dodge rats as she hurried along. Prisoners called to her from the tiny screens in the doors to their cells, but she hardened her heart and rushed onward toward Georges Teverant. She and Gaspard climbed a great circular stairway to the next floor, and by this time the stench was nearly unbearable. Aimée knew the layout of the Conciergerie by heart, though this was her first time inside the place. Teverant was being held in the third cell on the left, and when they called for him through the mesh that covered the square in his door, she saw him rise from his knees as if he'd been praying.

  Pierre had even described the key to her and St. Briac, and so they had to try only a few before finding the one that brought Teverant to freedom.

  "Madame de St. Briac," he breathed incredulously, staring at her improbable costume and wondering whether it actually was she. "I don't understand."

  "Thomas and Gaspard and I have come to rescue you! We cannot talk now, though. Hurry!"

  They ran back down the dark corridor and were starting to descend the stairway, when Aimée saw St. Briac coming toward them. Her heart leaped with joy to realize that he could take the responsibility of this escape from her shoulders, but then a shadow at the foot of the stairs caught her eye.

  "Thomas," she cried. "Behind you!" Of course there would be at least one guard who had declined to celebrate!

  St. Briac whirled around and drew his sword in one smooth movement, lunging forward to prick the other man's chest. The guard held a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other. He brought his long blade up hard and fast against St. Briac's, and the battle was engaged.

  "Well met," Thomas taunted with a laugh. "You'd have been better off with the wine, my good fellow."

  There was a clash of swords and it quickly became clear that the guard's skill was no match for St. Briac's. He circled with lithe strength, his eyes sparkling and the corners of his mouth upturned as if this were an amusing diversion. The guard, meanwhile, looked confused as he struggled to parry and thrust well enough to keep from being run through by the old man who no longer looked stupid or feeble. On the contrary, he moved lightly, quickly, easily countering every attempt the guard made to gain the advantage. Breathing hard, the man realized that his death was at hand. As St. Briac's rapier sped toward him, he cast his own weapon aside.

  "Please, m'sieur, don't kill me!" he cried desperately.

  St. Briac flicked a brow up and slowed his sword so that it came up short just before piercing the guard's heaving doublet. "God's death, that was too easy. What sport was that?"

  "Do not kill me!" he begged again.

  "Softly, man." St. Briac gave a short shake of his head. "You are too pitiful to kill."

  Taking the keys from Gaspard, he held his sword to the guard's back and prodded him upward toward Teverant's empty cell.

  Moments later Aimée sensed rather than heard her husband as he drew up alongside them in the vestibule. He and Teverant embraced briefly, exchanging broad smiles, and then St. Briac caught Aimée up against him with one arm and pressed his open mouth to hers.

  "I love you, miette," he told her, his voice sincere and merry all at once.

  "And I love you, monseigneur!"

  "I'm certain I've asked you not to call me that!" St. Briac grinned before taking her hand and pulling her through the doorway that opened onto the sunlit Quay de l'Horloge. The quartet of guards was sprawled across the steps, sound asleep, half-full cups of wine tipping in their hands.

  "There's no time to move them," St. Briac said tersely. "Climb in. We're away!"

  Sebastien and Mignonne pulled the wagon. Earlier, they had played their parts to perfection, looking as lazily vacant as their driver, but now they took off at a gallop. Deftly, St. Briac maneuvered the pair through the gathering crowds and the crush of vehicles.

  He had planned to return to le Chien Rouge, but the sight of a heavy coach advancing toward them altered the situation drastically.

  "It's Chauverge," Gaspard shouted from his perch among the wine casks.

  Teverant was hiding among them, and for an instant St. Briac thought it might be possible that Chauverge would not recognize them. However, the sight of the weasel-faced chevalier leaning out and pointing while screaming wildly at his driver quickly dispelled those hopes.

  "Sangdieu!" St. Briac swore under his breath, and then turned the horses north, over the bridge to the Right Bank.

  Chapter 34

  September 25, 1526

  The Quay de l'Horloge was crowded with spectators eager to watch the condemned man being led to his death, and so Chauverge's coach lost precious time turning around. As St. Briac urged his horses across the bridge, Gaspard cried, "Ha! There's a herd of swine blocking the other end of the bridge. We're safe!"

  "I wouldn't count on that," St. Briac muttered. He guessed that Chauverge would know where they were bound. Thus, rather than taking a roundabout route in the hope of losing him, he counted on their time advantage to see them through. "We must see to Honorine first. She may be hurt."

  They lost all sight of their pursuer before reaching Chauverge's auberge. St. Briac breathed a sigh of relief on spotting Honorine coming ou
t of the doorway, leaning heavily against Pierre. His relief turned to alarm when he got a closer look. Her gown was torn and her hair bedraggled, and there was a dark, puffy bruise spreading over one side of her jaw.

  "Honorine," shouted Aimée. "Here we are!" She began to get up, but her husband held her down. "Thomas, look at her. What's that monster done to my sister?"

  "I fear we'll have to leave the questions for later, miette." St. Briac began to climb down, but Georges Teverant was already in the street, rushing forward to catch the swooning Honorine.

  "There's room in back for her to lie down," he said quickly.

  "I... I'm all right," protested Honorine. Although still dazed and aching, she could not help instinctively noticing the good looks of her gallant savior. "Are you Monsieur Teverant?"

  "Don't try to speak, mademoiselle." With St. Briac's help, Georges carefully placed her in the back of the wagon and climbed up after her.

  "You're safe," she whispered. "I'm so glad of that."

  Time was short. St. Briac lost not a moment springing back up beside Aimée, who was craning her neck to check on her sister. Returning to Le Chien Rouge was impossible, and so he steered the horses through the labyrinth of Paris streets. Finally, they turned into a drive next to a tall, narrow house and found themselves outside some rather dilapidated stables.

  "Gaspard," called St. Briac immediately. "Take this wagon and the horses and find another stable some distance away. We'll call for them before dawn. Chauverge is certain to look for us here." He glanced toward Pierre. "Go with him and then return here separately. We'll see if we can't persuade my sister to provide some food and wine."

  "At once, monseigneur," Pierre cried eagerly, while Gaspard moved to obey just as quickly but with far less enthusiasm.

  Nicole Joubert and her husband, Michel, lived with their daughter and baby son in a narrow wooden house four stories tall. Once the bottom floor had been a shop, with the merchant living above and the workmen occupying the higher floors. Now, although it was owned by just one family of greater wealth, the narrow front remained. It was a common problem in the walled city of Paris where houses were extended in every possible direction.

  Nicole's home conformed to this pattern, but she had made it charming, bright, and cozy. The first thing Aimée noticed when they came into the kitchen through the courtyard door was that flowers seemed to be everywhere. A tall, slim young woman with glossy sable curls swept up on her head was kneading dough at a rustic table. She wore a snowy-white apron over a plain blue gown, and at the sound of their approach she turned to display an elegantly beautiful face smudged with flour.

  "Mon Dieu! Thomas, darling brother!" Her large blue eyes shifted to Teverant, and Nicole gasped. "Georges, I cannot believe this."

  St. Briac stepped forward to embrace her and apologize for the intrusion. Then he led Aimée over to meet her sister-in-law. Greetings had to be kept brief, for he feared that Chauverge might burst in at any moment. "We'll talk later, cherie, but for now you must hide us. Have you an appropriate nook or two that might accommodate us until after the chevalier has made his search?"

  Nicole glanced from St. Briac and Aimée to Honorine and Teverant. Her eyes softened at the sight of her ardent suitor from years past, and she was heartened to see that he did not return her gaze. He'd stared for a moment, but now all his attention seemed to be concentrated on Aimée's pretty, trembling sister.

  Michel had gone out to purchase a duck for their afternoon meal, and so they could avoid the awkwardness of that situation for the time being. Her husband and Georges had met just once before, on the night when Nicole had been forced to tell the smitten Teverant that she did not love him. She'd never regretted her choice, but there had been moments when marriage wore thin and she longingly remembered the reverent adoration Georges had displayed.

  Nicole's four-year-old daughter, Therese, appeared and tugged at her mother's skirts. St. Briac came forward immediately to scoop up his niece, carrying her along as they climbed the stiflingly narrow spiral staircase that wound upward through the house. Nicole and Thomas talked on the way. He told her as much as he could in those few minutes, while behind them Teverant solicitously helped Honorine reach their hiding place. Aimée brought up the rear in case her sister might need her for any reason. She couldn't help staring at Georges Teverant, trying to read his expression, wondering what emotions stirred in his heart.

  The young man declared that he would take care of Honorine, and so they were sent into a tiny recess on the third floor behind a half door under the stairway. Inside was a ladder that led down to a small room that projected over the street. Once they'd descended, St. Briac dragged trunks over to seal off the ladder and then closed and bolted the little door.

  "I hope Chauverge gets here before we all go mad closed up this way," he muttered.

  Little golden-haired Therese went first as the remaining quartet climbed up to the large studio that occupied most of the fourth floor. Paints, canvases, and spattered rags were strewn everywhere. Light from enormous windows bathed the room.

  "Pardon Michel's mess," Nicole apologized with a smile. "He's impossible."

  A barely perceptible door was built into one of the paneled walls. Nicole found the groove that would open it and then led the way through a dark, cramped passageway that ran above the courtyard. It smelled of must, heat, and, Aimée thought, mouse droppings. At the other end was the attic. It was filled with boxes and trunks of all sizes plus various pieces of broken furniture, all piled helter-skelter.

  "I would be very surprised if he can find the door that leads in here to begin with," Nicole observed, "but you probably should stack some things at this end of the passage just to be safe."

  "Heartfelt thanks, my dear sister." St. Briac smiled. He gave her a hug and lifted her off the ground for a moment. Nicole's delighted expression told Aimée that this was a very old ritual, dating back to their childhood.

  "Will we have time to talk later?" Nicole wondered.

  "Not very much. But we'll make plans for other visits. You must come home soon, you know."

  Little Therese tugged at Aimée's skirt. "Can I stay here with you, Tante Aimée?"

  The child's immediate acceptance of her as part of the family brought tears to her eyes. "I wish you could, cherie, but I don't think so." She bent down and gathered her close all the same.

  St. Briac spared her by playing the villain. "You'll have to wait to spend more time with Tante Aimée," he told Therese in a firm voice. "Now you must go with your mother."

  Nicole smiled and dragged her daughter from the attic; then St. Briac set about stacking trunks and pieces of old furniture in front of the panel that led to the passageway. When he was done, he and Aimée pushed open a window and settled down in front of it to wait. St. Briac had removed his wig and jerkin upon entering the house, but he looked down at his shirt with distaste.

  "I'd give anything for a bath," he remarked.

  Smiling, she brushed the powder from his beard and leaned up for a long, slow kiss. "You look wonderful. Very heroic."

  "Do I?" St. Briac grinned and pulled his wife onto his lap.

  For a moment, gazing at his beloved face that was the center of her world, Aimée was nearly overcome by emotion. His arms were hard yet warm about her; his blue-green eyes were filled with warmth and pride and the ever-present spark of humor. At moments like these she could scarcely believe she could be so fortunate as to be his wife. The thought of life without St. Briac was no longer bearable. Their hearts, souls, and bodies were one now.

  "You were quite heroic yourself today, miette," he told her in a low voice.

  "You aren't sorry that I followed you to Paris?"

  "What a question! If I say yes, you'll never obey me again." Lowering his head, he captured Aimée's mouth and kissed her deeply. His arms held her so tightly that she was breathless, yet she felt blissful as her husband spoke to her with his body. At length St. Briac traced her cheekbone with his lips and then
whispered, "Of course I'm not sorry. Without your help, Teverant might not be free at this moment."

  "Thank you for saying so," she murmured, feeling two hot tears slip from her eyes.

  St. Briac knew why she was weeping. There were moments when he experienced the same urge, times when he asked himself what his life would be without Aimée. It was a thought too awful to bear. He looked back on his initial rejection of her with a mixture of amusement and horror. What if she had believed him when he said he wanted to see her no more? Of course, such acceptance of him at his word was not in her character, thank God. St. Briac knew he could never control her, and that thought filled him with delight.

  He gently kissed away her tears, smiled, and said tenderly, "How precious you are to me, miette."

  The moment was right. "Thomas, I have something to tell you."

  "Hmm." He'd begun to eye the lush curves of her breasts displayed by the gaudy red gown. Even time locked in an attic might be pleasurable.

  "Listen to me!" His expression made her want to laugh. He was gazing at her, pretending to be contrite as a little boy. "I'm not joking now."

  "No? I suppose you have another plan to unveil. Oddly enough, I have one, too, but I can show it to you rather than waste time in conversation."

  His long, tanned fingers caressed Aimée's throat and then slid downward. She nearly gave in and delayed her announcement again, but instinct insisted that this was the time. "We're going to have a baby."

  St. Briac froze in the act of cupping her breast. He stared, straightened his back and blinked. "We're going to... what?"

  "Have a baby," she repeated merrily, amused by his reaction. "It is often the outcome when two people engage in love-making as often as we do."

  He made a choking sound. "A baby!"

  "Is the word unfamiliar to you?"

  Putting a hand over his face, St. Briac peered at her around his tapered fingers. "No! That is, I just hadn't thought..." He closed his eyes and then opened them again. "When?"