All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “Oui,” Gaby replied, “but it is the same kind of beauty that a rotting lily has. To the eye, all is perfection, but beneath the surface one finds decadence and writhing maggots.”

  “You are far more beautiful,” Adam soothed Skye.

  “It is not her beauty that disturbs me,” Skye said. “There is something about her, something wicked. I see it in her eyes.” She looked across the room to where they had left the Duchesse de Beuvron.

  Athenais de Montoire stared boldly back at her, but Skye was not one bit perturbed. Equally bold, she openly surveyed the woman. In defiance of fashion the duchesse wore her gorgeous reddish-blond hair long and loose. It fell in rippling waves down her back like a shining mantle. Her face was a little cat’s face with a high, broad forehead, narrowing into a determined little pointed chin. Her amber yellow eyes were large and round, her mouth long and narrow and painted red. Only her nose might be considered less than flawless, for although long and elegant, it hooked under slightly at the end, spoiling the perfection. She was still a beautiful woman, though as she grew older she needed more of the artifice of paint to catch the eye.

  Gaby put a hand on Skye’s arm, drawing her attention away from the duchesse. “I have heard that Athenais is a member of the Queen Mother’s Escadrille Volante.”

  “Her Flying Squadron?” Skye cocked her head puzzled. “What on earth is that?”

  “The Queen uses beautiful women here at court to seduce the men she wishes to use and to influence. The women who do her bidding are called the Escadrille Volante, or, as you would say in your tongue, Flying Squadron. More than one hapless man has been lured to his doom in Catherine de Medici’s quest for power.”

  Skye let her eyes wander back to where Athenais de Montoire had been standing, but the duchesse was gone now. The hidden musicians were playing another sprightly tune now, and Adam led her back onto the dance floor. Forgetting about the Duchesse de Beuvron, Skye began to have a wonderful time. She danced with Adam, and his charming half-brothers, and the husbands of his sisters, and his nephew. They all partook of the magnificent buffet that had been set out in the rooms surrounding the ballroom; a buffet so incredible that Skye thought never to be hungry again just looking at the bounty of France spread before her wondering eyes.

  There were pâtés: foie gras from Toulouse, partridge pâtés from Nérac, fresh tunny pâtés from Toulon. There was seafood in profusion: raw oysters, opened cold and fresh by kitchen boys for the diners, mussels in Dijon mustard, sole in white wine, lamprey eel, platters with whole salmon on beds of cress, and with whole carp, both from the Loire River. There were dishes of salted white herring, smoked red herring, and a herring that had been bloated, salted, and smoked. There were silver platters of small game birds: partridge, woodcock from the Dombes, and skylarks from Pézenás. There was roast goose, and capons from Caux in ginger sauce, cooked tongue from Vierzon, Bayonne hams, boar, stag, roe deer, beef, and lamb. There were pies of sparrow and lark, rabbit and hare. There were plates of larded ducks and roasted teal, heron, and whole swans. The greens were few: artichokes in olive oil, bowls of new lettuce, scallions, and radishes. There was fresh bread and rolls, and tubs of butter both sweet and salted, as well as half a dozen varieties of cheese and platters of eggs both hard-boiled and deviled. An entire table was devoted to sweets, the centerpiece being a huge marzipan confection of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, its square complete with the bridal couple as they would appear tomorrow. There were gâteaux of every description, meringues, early apples, Anjou pears, sweet black cherries, large, round golden peaches, and small plump apricots. The wine flowed, both red and white, the entire evening. Catherine de Medici did not stint on the prenuptial feast of a Princess of France.

  After they had eaten, and Skye swore that Adam sampled everything on all the tables, a point he vigorously denied, there was more dancing. When the young King of Navarre appeared before the startled de Saville family and claimed Skye for a dance he first made it a point to charm all the ladies. He was courteous and smiling to Gaby and her two eldest daughters. He flirted mischievously with Musette and two of his nieces, Matilde and Marie-Gabrielle. He was charmingly teasing to the youngest girl in the family attending the ball, and little Catherine-Henriette later swore to her mother she would never in her lifetime love anyone else but King Henri of Navarre. Then with a polite bow and a smile to the gentlemen, Henri of Navarre led Skye firmly to the dance floor.

  “Have you missed me, chérie?” he laughed down into her face.

  “How could I miss you, monseigneur? I do not even know you,” was her cool reply.

  His arm tightened about her waist. “We must remedy that oversight, madame, for you have enchanted me with your Celtic beauty.”

  “You would do better to contemplate the beauty of your bride, monseigneur.”

  Henri laughed at the severe tone of her rebuke, and bringing his face close to hers, he murmured, “You have a mouth that was meant for kisses, chérie. How can you be so cold to me when I burn for your touch, for a kind word?”

  Skye turned her head to the left as the pattern of the dance dictated, and then she deliberately stamped upon her partner’s foot. “Mind your manners, Monseigneur de Navarre!”

  He winced as her little pointed heel dug into his foot, but he could still not resist a chuckle. “Your coldness inflames me, chérie,” he said with disturbing intensity, “for I know that beneath the icy hauteur of your words is a passionate woman. The softness of your lips gives you away, as does the adorable little pulse in your beautiful white throat that is beating so frantically at this very moment.”

  Skye was momentarily disturbed. He was too young a man, this King of Navarre, to know so much about women; but gathering her wits, she replied calmly, “The pulse in my throat beats quickly because the pace of the dance is swift, monseigneur.”

  Henri smiled knowingly. “You have a quick mind, cherie. I like a woman who can offer a man more than just beauty.”

  “I have offered you nothing, monseigneur, nor do I intend to. I will be quite frank with you so that there is no further misunderstanding between us. My impending marriage is a love match. I would never betray Adam de Marisco in any way. Now that you understand this, Monseigneur de Navarre, I know you will cease this futile pursuit of me.”

  “The pursuit of love and beauty is never futile, cherie,” was his answer.

  Skye was becoming annoyed with this spoiled young king. “Monseigneur, I do not doubt that this room is filled tonight with women who would kill for the honor of sleeping in your bed. I, however, am not one of them!” she said.

  The dance had come to an end, and to her relief there was Adam at her side. Skye curtseyed low to the King of Navarre, and taking her betrothed husband’s arm, she allowed him to lead her away. Adam was chortling softly beneath his breath. “From the look on the face of M’sieur de Navarre, sweetheart, you have just given him a severe setdown.”

  “What an impossible boy!” Skye fumed. “His attitude is that he is irresistible to women!”

  “It is his reputation, Skye.”

  “He cannot understand the word no, Adam.”

  “It is not, I imagine, a word often tendered him, sweetheart.”

  She stopped and, looking up at him, said, “Aren’t you even the tiniest bit jealous, Adam? The King of Navarre wishes to seduce me!”

  “In truth, sweetheart, I am enraged, but I must think of our future. If Elizabeth Tudor refuses to recognize our marriage and we cannot return to England, France is our refuge. We cannot, however, remain safely in France if I have killed or wounded a royal prince of the blood in a duel. Therefore I must remain outwardly calm, Skye. But believe me, I am not calm. I stood and watched Henri of Navarre with his hands all over you, and his bold eyes mentally undressing you, assessing your finer points. I would have enjoyed putting my hands around the elegant throat of that puppy and squeezing the life from him!”

  Skye smiled up at him, sweetly satisfied. “Do you think your mothe
r would think badly of us if we went home now? We could send the coach back for them. It is not far.”

  “Now why, sweetheart, would we want to leave such a gay gathering?” he teased her.

  “Because my mouth, which, the King of Navarre assures me, was made for kisses, longs to taste yours. Because, mon mari, I long to feel your hands on me. Because I am a totally shameless wench, Adam de Marisco, and I am hot for your loving!”

  He felt a bolt of desire tear into his body at her provocative words, her smoldering look. Heedless of how it might look, he yanked her none too gently into an alcove of the ballroom, and his arm tightened about her as he looked with blazing eyes down into her face. “What sorcery is this you work on me, you Celtic witch?” His lips were dangerously close to hers, and Skye felt a weakness in her legs, which threatened to give way beneath her.

  Love. She didn’t say the word aloud, but rather mouthed it, and so tempting were her soft lips that, unable to resist, he kissed her passionately. Skye slipped her arms up around his neck, pressing her practically naked bosom against the soft velvet of his elegant doublet. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and he groaned softly against her mouth, licking the corners of it suggestively. “Take me home, Adam,” she whispered to him against his lips.

  He drew a deep breath, and said, “You will have to give me a moment to collect myself, sweetheart, and it would be best if you untangled yourself from me and stood quietly.”

  Her blue eyes were twinkling as she stepped back, and folding her hands demurely, she waited for him to regain his composure. She said nothing, but her lips were twitching with her suppressed amusement. How she loved this big man! He reminded her of—Skye’s eyes grew wide with the sudden realization—he reminded her of Geoffrey! In face and form they were nothing alike, yet there was similarity of spirit that could not be denied.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” He had seen her face, heard her unconscious intake of breath.

  “Geoffrey,” she said. “For some reason, at this moment you remind me of Geoffrey Southwood.”

  “We were cousins,” Adam reminded her.

  “Yes,” Skye said slowly. “I remember your telling me that the Southwoods were the legitimate branch of the family, and the de Mariscos the illegitimate branch.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Geoffrey and I both descend from the original Geoffroi de Sudbois, who came with William of Normandy to England. He springs from Geoffroi’s wife, Gwyneth of Lynmouth, and I from the line of Geoffroi’s mistress, Matilde de Marisco. In fact his Southwood grandfather and my de Marisco grandmother were brother and sister, for over the years the family did intermarry. Whenever the Southwoods had a spare younger daughter and a little dowry they married the girl to the heir of Lundy, thus keeping the family ties strong.” Adam sighed. “There will be no more heirs to Lundy,” he said sadly, “and the de Marisco line dies with me.”

  She put a comforting hand on his arm. “Take me home, mon mari. My greatest sorrow will always be that I cannot give you a child, but as the Blessed Mother is my witness, Adam, I will love you till death and even beyond as no one has ever loved you before!”

  “Then I shall be the luckiest of all the de Mariscos in the last five centuries, Skye,” he said gallantly; and taking her arm, he led her from the ballroom of the Louvre and to their waiting coach.

  Chapter 14

  THE wedding of Marguerite de Valois, Princess of France, and her very distant cousin, Henri, King of Navarre, a Huguenot, was a most controversial match. It had been engineered by her mother, Catherine de Medici, over the protests of the Holy Catholic Church. The Pope had refused a dispensation, but that would not be known until after the marriage, for the Queen Mother knew that the Archbishop of Paris would not marry her daughter and Henri of Navarre if he learned of the Holy Father’s refusal to cooperate.

  Catherine de Medici had come to France as the bride of François I’s second son, Henri. With the death of her brother-in-law four years later she found herself the future Queen of France. Her husband despised her, finding her physically unattractive. He was not intelligent enough himself to discover that behind the plain face was a highly developed mind. Catherine de Medici bided her time, ignoring the insults of the mocking court. Her husband’s mistress was an astoundingly beautiful woman some twenty years his senior, and to Catherine the greatest offense of all was that Diane de Poitiers was in sympathy with her.

  How the charming beauty strove to be kind to the dumpy little Florentine. How she defended her against baseless slanders! That, to Catherine, was the unkindest act of all, for she wanted to hate this woman who had stolen the heart of her husband before Henri even knew that Catherine de Medici, daughter of the Duke of Urbino, existed. It was six years before Diane could persuade her lover to consummate the marriage he had made for France, and afterward he only came to his wife’s bed when forced. It was eleven years before Catherine bore her first child, the future François II. Two daughters followed.

  One sickly boy was not enough, and Henri II, King of France, took to visiting his wife’s bed on a more regular basis. These conjugal sojourns became embarrassing and emotionally painful for Catherine, for although she had never known any man intimately except her husband, she somehow sensed that there should be more to their coupling than there was. Each time it was the same. Henri would arrive announced in his wife’s bedchamber. He would say but three things to her, and they were always the same. Arriving he said, “Bon soir, madame.” Beginning his legal assault upon her body, he would cry, “For France!”; and shortly afterward he would say in parting, “Adieu, madame.” Catherine was pregnant a total of eleven times, and bore seven live children, four of them sons.

  When Henri II was killed as the result of an accident on the tilting field, his widow’s first act was to send Diane de Poitiers from court; but Catherine was no longer Queen of France; a saucy and beautiful chit of a girl named Mary of Scotland was. Mary was guided in her every move by her mother’s family, the powerful house of Guise-Lorraine, who, because Catherine’s foolish son, François II, was so besotted by his little wife, also guided the king. Catherine gritted her teeth, and moved to block the dangerous and growing power of the de Guises. There could be no challenge to the house of Valois!

  Fortunately, François II died within a year, and Mary of Scotland was quickly sent packing back to her own land where she had not lived since she was six. Charles IX, Catherine’s second son, was but ten, and the Queen Mother ruled for him. This was what she had waited for all these years! Power! It was an incredible aphrodisiac. For twenty-seven years she had stood in the shadow of others, but now Catherine de Medici came into her own.

  She was, surprisingly, a tolerant woman who strove hard to make peace between the two warring factions that threatened to tear France apart. During the reigns of both her late father-in-law and her husband, the Protestant movement had gained a strong foothold in France. Catherine had been born a Catholic, but she was too intelligent a woman to believe in only one possible path to salvation. When the de Guise family put itself at the head of the majority Catholic faction, Catherine subtly championed the opposing side. Religion meant nothing to her, although she followed the tenets of her faith enough to prevent Church censure. Her overriding concern was for France and its ruling family. They must survive, and she would do whatever she had to do to insure that.

  Catherine de Medici had learned a great lesson from her husband’s passion for Diane de Poitiers. A beautiful woman could gain much from a besotted man. Consequently, she began gathering together a small force of the most beautiful women at court, women who needed something from the Queen. Some needed money to maintain their extravagant life-styles. Others wanted favors for themselves or family members or even lovers. Catherine let it be known she was there to help, but once in the Queen Mother’s debt you were expected to repay her by aiding her to manipulate the powerful men of the kingdom. Catherine de Medici’s Escadrille Volante became notorious, but not so notorious that those approac
hed by its beautiful and sensual members did not give in to their demands.

  Catherine was not one to fool herself, and she had seen the handwriting on the wall. François II had never even consummated his marriage to Mary of Scotland, being too ill to do so. The current King, her son Charles IX, had only a little daughter by his wife, Isabeau of Austria, and a bastard son by his mistress, Marie Touchet. Charles was sickly, and subject to fits, however, and there would be no more children, for his latest illness had rendered him impotent. Catherine’s two other sons were not particularly promising. The Duc d’Anjou was disgracefully effeminate, wore an earring in his ear, and consorted with a band of similar young men. The youngest Valois son, Hercule, rechristened François after his elder brother’s death, was also not physically strong.

  The next in line for France’s throne was therefore Henri, son of Anthony, Duc of Vendôme and Bourbon and his wife, Jeanne, Queen of Navarre. Henri de Bourbon, Prince of Navarre, was a big, healthy, ruddy boy who had been brought up to ride hard, run barefoot over the rocky hills of Navarre with the goats, fight, drink, and make love well. He was his grandfather’s pride, and his mother’s source of despair, for Jeanne of Navarre was a strict and militant Protestant. At fifteen, Henri proved, along with his younger cousin, the Prince of Condé, to be the Protestant forces’ salvation. He was, it seemed, an excellent military leader.

  Seeing this, Catherine de Medici decided there was only one course open to her. She had met Henri on several occasions. What had been clear to her was that he was no religious fanatic. This was a realist like herself, and when the time came Henri of Navarre would do what he had to do to gain the throne of France. She was betting that this would not involve trying to force the French to the Protestant faith. After her sons he was France’s hope, and in her heart she knew he would be king, for the house of Valois would die with her sons. This had been told her by a great Parisian fortune-teller, and being a believer in such things, Catherine had decided to marry her youngest child to Henri of Navarre.