“Did you come to shoot, Sebastien?” She straightened, realizing he had no weapons of his own.
“Ah, no, I did not.” He joined her at the small mound of earth, helping her retrieve her arrows. “Though I would like to pit my skill against yours sometime. I know—” He slapped his muscular thigh with the shaft of an arrow. “You must join a hunt. I insist you be my guest when next we ride. The king would be delighted with your prowess.”
Geneviève racked her mind for some feasible excuse, but as Anne and her ladies often took part in the festivities, nothing sufficiently logical suggested itself. “I look forward to it,” she told him, denying the many ripples of truth in the reply. She would look forward to hunting again. And she would anxiously await a return to this man’s company, though to herself at least, she would pretend otherwise.
“Wonderful,” he announced, stepping intimately close as he put the arrows in her quiver, his chest brushing against her shoulder.
Geneviève inhaled the manliness of him, the leather of his gloves, and the musk of his hair.
“You must return to the château, Geneviève,” he said with reluctance. “Your mistress looks for you.”
Geneviève’s eyes bulged in concern and she grabbed her bow, slinging it with her quiver once more upon her back.
“No need for worry, it was not urgent. But I assured her I would send you along at your leisure.”
“Then I thank you for your errand.” Geneviève gathered her skirts in one hand and set off at a trot.
“Au revoir, Geneviève. I will see you soon, I hope,” he called after her.
Without turning back, she waved her free hand.
As she rushed from his side, Sebastien prowled the top of the knoll, finding every small fragment of the targets the astounding archer had left behind. They were not large pieces nor corners clipped from the edge; they were no more than slivers, the targets smashed into smithereens. Direct hits—hit after hit—produced such complete devastation. He looked up at Geneviève’s fast retreating form as it shrank away from him, no longer a dashing smile upon his lips or a glimmer of charm in his eye.
She sat at the large vanity, the triptych looking glass showing all sides of her face. Diane stared at each of her reflections, looking for impurities, any signs of the age she fought against like a crusader. The graceful line from jaw to narrow chin seemed a tad droopier and she vowed to increase her cold-water soaks from two to three a day.
Henri lay sprawled upon her bed, his youthful beauty framed by the royal blue curtains and tester. He stared as Diane brushed the reddish gold of her long hair. He adored how it looked blond in the sunlight, but then here, in the ochre light of her candlelit chambers, it looked rich and deep, as if he could lose himself in the gently curled locks.
If Diane could know his mind, she needn’t have worried overmuch about her passing years. In Henri’s eyes, she would always be that magnificent woman of thirty and three who had befriended the fourteen-year-old when no one else had. A sullen and stormy youth, he had allowed his petulance to segregate him, not only from the father who had used him so heinously, but from the rest of the court as well. The pugnacious adolescent cared not that France was falling apart, that François had been given little choice in his actions. Diane became the beacon of light in his dark world and he had loved her—with his body and his mind—ever since; she would never grow old in his eyes.
“Did you do it?” His whisper held but a touch of accusation.
Diane swiveled on her embroidered cushion, brush poised in midstroke, and stared blankly at her young lover.
Henri raised himself up on an elbow, his sculpted chest glistening with beads of sweat, lingering evidence of the throes of their passion. “Did you begin the rumor of Anne and Beauville?”
With controlled movements, she placed the gilt-edged brush upon the table and rose, the silhouette of her body visible through her thin shift as she stood in front of the candles, stopping at the edge of the bed. “Do you think I did?”
Henri stared up into her eyes for a brief instant, salacious gaze dropping to the curves tantalizing him so, then shook his head. “No. No, I do not,” he said, and reached out a hand for her.
With a harrumph of relief and irritation, she sat by his side. “The woman plagues me, I cannot deny it. But this was not my work, I assure you.”
He smiled at that, amused by all she did not say.
Carine brought the tray into Geneviève’s room and placed it upon the small table by the bedside. Stars glimmered beyond the windows in a sky long fallen to night; a diminutive fire crackled and spit in the grate.
“Are you sure I cannot attend you further?” She tutted with obvious disapproval; no other maid in the palace was as unused as she, and she thought her mistress’s independence annoying indeed. “There is no need to bathe yourself.”
As if arriving on cue, four more maids entered the chamber: two hefting a large open-topped wooden cask between them, two others lugging buckets of steaming water. They placed the barrel before the fire and poured in the hot liquid with a splash.
“Merci, no, Carine. I shall be fine, I assure you.” Geneviève rubbed her forehead, wanting nothing more than a soak and some solitude.
Carine waved the other women from the room, muttering beneath her breath, “Self-sufficient nonsense, if you ask me. That aunt of hers did not teach her the ways of a civilized lady.”
Geneviève dropped her head back upon her shoulders, smiling up at the plain painted ceiling. “Good night, Carine. Sleep well.”
“Bonne nuit, mademoiselle,” Carine called with little pleasure.
Before the door closed behind her, another young maid rushed in, a thick, folded linen towel in her hands, her modest white cap bobbing as she ran.
“To dry yourself, mam’selle,” she said as she laid the white material on the bed.
“Merci,” Geneviève thanked her dismissively.
As the latch clicked behind the girl’s scampering form, Geneviève stripped off the last layers of her clothing, leaving the smelly shift in a heap on the ground. She had had no opportunity to freshen herself before attending Anne, and the rigors of the morning and the duties of the day had left their stain and their residue upon her undergarments.
With a deep, contented sigh, she lowered herself into the tub, surrendered herself to the soothing, steaming, lavender-scented water. She closed her eyes in bliss, her body finding its ease, her mind wandering to the events of the day.
How good it had felt to shoot again, and yet already the muscles along the back of her arms ached. Geneviève vowed to practice more often, to keep up her skills, for the satisfaction and exercise it offered. She needed to stay as ready as ever, both in mind and body.
Hearty voices and merry laughter ebbed and flowed, the sound slinking through the crack under her door; footsteps advanced and receded as courtiers made merry. Geneviève’s thoughts skipped to Sebastien. She could not deny her attraction, nor could she risk indulging it. He was the king’s guardsman and thereby her enemy. And yet he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his masculine handsomeness far outshining that of the pretty Pitou, and worthy of her most lustful fantasies. In the stables of her aunt’s château, in the arms of the lads who toiled there, Geneviève had learned much of the pleasure shared between men and women, but she had undertaken those lessons as dutifully as all the rest. Her body tingled as her thoughts strayed to the charm of Sebastian’s smile, to the pull of his warrior’s physique. She knew there would be nothing dutiful about pleasure found in his arms.
She soaked until the water turned tepid and her ardor cooled. Rising up, the fluid dripping from her body like rain into a bucket, she stepped out and grabbed the linen, unfurling it with a snap to wrap about her body.
The small round package flew out of the linen and sailed across the room. For a moment, Geneviève stared at it, dumbfounded.
“Mon Dieu,” she cried with delight as understanding dawned.
With
great haste, she swathed her moist body, dripping hair matted against her face and back, wiping the water from her eyes with an impatient, trembling hand. Her bare feet left wet prints as she rushed to retrieve the box. Her legs curled beneath her as she dropped on the spot and grabbed greedily at the parcel. Smaller than her fist, a plain hemp string bound the thick, buff-colored ball of velum.
Geneviève laid the package gingerly in her lap, untied the string, and opened the package with the tips of forefingers and thumbs. Her curled lips formed a silent O of delight as the treasure revealed itself, as she found the ring within, and beneath it, the small square of parchment. She brought the ring up before her eyes; the square amethyst jewel mounted upon a simple band of white gold twinkled in the candlelight. Geneviève held it to her, clasping it in both hands, holding it against her chest, feeling the heavy thudding of her heart beneath skin jeweled with beads of water. She kept the trinket imprisoned in the palm of her left hand, the hard metal biting the tender skin, as she deciphered the message.
Once more, the words spoke of gratitude and blessing. Her king compared the purple jewels of her eyes to the purple jewel in her hand. Leaning her back against the corner post of her bed, Geneviève read the message over and over, closing her eyes to memorize its every word, those which gave instruction on how next to send a message, and those conveying Henry’s care and tenderness.
Exhaustion crept upon her with the stealth of a thief, and in the half-conscious state—in the strange world between sleep and wakefulness—Geneviève’s dreams took flight. Her father came to her, alive and magnificent, bearing gifts. If he were alive, he would have done as the king did, showering her with his love through thought, word, and deed.
In the last hazy moments perched on the precipice of sleep, Geneviève tossed the king’s message upon the embers, watching it burn, without regret. She needed no paper to remind her of his fealty. She had his gift and his love; she needed nothing more.
13
It is better to act and to regret,
Than to regret not to have acted.
—Mellin de Saint-Gelais (1491–1558)
There was no mistaking the genuine gladness upon the king’s face as his son cantered into the cobbled courtyard of the stable. It was as apparent as Anne’s disgust when Diane de Poitiers rode in beside him, Montmorency and two members of the House of Guise in their company. The duchesse wiped the revulsion from her face as with a thick, rough cloth when the king called out brightly, “My son joins the hunt,” and turned to her with his broad smile.
“What a wonderful surprise,” she said loud enough for all to hear, and a rousing cheer rose up from the large gathering of courtiers.
Geneviève mopped the thin film of sweat forming on her forehead. At its apex in the brilliant azure of the afternoon sky, the sun glowed like a ball of flame while cicadas buzzed in a heat that was more like midsummer than late spring. She studied the heir apparent with a squinty-eyed gaze.
There was little denying the beauty of the Dauphin, his black hair glinting like steel in the bright light, his black eyes dazzling and dangerous. In his early twenties, he was at the peak of his manhood and it exuded from him with every movement, with every brooding look. How hard he fought to strut and flaunt his gloom for the sake of resistance itself, always struggling to maintain the control over his own existence that had been lost to him as a child prisoner in Spain.
“Father.” He dipped his head at the king, bearing little resemblance to François or his happiness. But the child’s coldness could not dampen the father’s spirit.
“I am pleased to see you, my son. We shall have a fine day of sport.” His words reached for his child, though the young man lay forever out of his grasp; the father he was now, had not yet—and perhaps never would—replace the father he had been. “Madame.” François greeted Diane with a turn of his black stallion, the jewels encrusted upon the saddle blanket and bridle sparkling as did his smile.
The pale beauty was the perfect foil for her lover’s dark good looks; together they formed both ends of light’s spectrum.
“Majesté.” She rose up on the stirrups of her saddle and bowed to the king, not acknowledging Anne with either word or gesture. Anne’s eyes turned deep emerald as she stared at her rival, as she watched Diane interact with the king, always leery of any form of discourse between the two.
Diane’s father had been a part of the Bourbon affaire; her husband had been among those who revealed the treason to the king. From that moment, Diane had known a bud of hate for her husband from an arranged marriage. It soon eclipsed any affection burgeoning between them, and her marriage’s demise brought the angst of her father’s action upon her twofold. Was her guilt, in truth, enough to impel her to the king’s bed, to beg for forgiveness with the most precious commodity she had to offer … herself? Most of the court believed it to be true. Neither had ever denied it.
“You have picked the perfect day to join us.” Sebastien chuckled as he pulled his horse up beside Geneviève’s; the animals neighed and tossed their heads as they recognized each other. He followed her gaze to the two couples at the center of the congested courtyard. “There will be all types of sport today.”
Geneviève averted her eyes, but could not keep the conspiring grin at bay. “I made you my promise, sir, and it is my pleasure to keep it.”
Leaning toward her in his saddle, Sebastien gave her his scintillating, half-dimpled smile. “You are a flower in full bloom today, mademoiselle,” he said, taking in her eggplant-colored riding costume hugging her feminine curves. “But there was no need to bring your weapon.” He gave a nod to the bow and quiver slung across her back. “We will hunt à vénerie today. The mastiffs will bring the beast down. All we need are our spears and our daggers.”
Between the king and his great courtiers, they boasted more than five hundred falcons with which to hunt herons and kites, but today’s sport would be a boar hunt, as preferred by François.
“I always carry my bow when on any hunt,” Geneviève returned with the same jaunty air. “A hunter can never tell what quarry may cross her path.”
Sebastien barked a laugh at her double entendre, the deep, creamy sound rising over the merry tune struck by the musicians of the écurie. The flageolets and trumpets, sackbuts and hautbois trilled a sprightly song befitting the day. The brothers who so amused Geneviève would not be among their number; they would be disgraced to be in the company of the socially inferior musicians of the stable.
From behind Geneviève another horse approached with a playful whinny, Sebastien grinning broadly at the rider.
“Albret, you have returned,” he cheered. “How well it is to see you.”
“And you, Sebastien.” The marquis de Limoges dipped his red head at him and turned his pale blue eyes to Geneviève. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Monsieur,” Geneviève returned with natural ease. “I hope your journey was fruitful.”
“I have found my holdings to be in fair condition,” he replied. “A man can ask for no more.”
“It is all well if it allows you to return to court,” Sebastien offered with genuine delight. “And I am well surprised to find you know Geneviève.” He smiled her way with ill-disguised propriety. “We will make a jolly day of it together.”
Albret forced a smile in return, disappointed gaze moving between the two companions. “The very best of days.”
Geneviève heard the note of discontent in the mammoth man’s voice, and scoured his features. But the large lord offered no more than a wistful smile and she remained puzzled.
Horses chomped at the bit, voices rose in excited clatter, the anticipation grew deep and heavy in the air as the time to begin grew closer. What the common man did to feed himself and his family, these nobles looked upon as their most cherished sport. Lines began to form at the edge of the vast courtyard. In the front rank of the crowd rode the king, flanked by a hundred or more riders, like the lead goose in a
V-shaped gaggle crossing and filling the sky. Riding closest to him, fluttering around him like petals around a stamen, came his fair band of ladies, the chosen group of the most beautiful, most amusing ladies at court. The noblemen and princes sat straight-backed yet with masculine casualness on their warhorses and stallions; the ladies graceful and fine in their colorful plumage.
The hounds came in with a cacophonous braying, straining against the reins and the whippers-in who held them, as if they would choke themselves with the effort to be loose.
“Are you ready?” Sebastien called, but his knowing smile said the question was no more than rhetorical.
Geneviève’s cheeks burned with thrumming blood; she hitched in the awkward saddle she had at last mastered, as anxious to be off as the hounds themselves. She answered with the widest of smiles, dazzling him with her naked joy, all the more astounding for its rarity.
The bells chimed thrice and the beasts were loosed; at least forty hounds surged forward. With a giant yell, the king dug in his heels; his stallion reared and dropped as though he were the flag that began the joust. Like the surge of a tidal wave, the company broke forward, their cries drowning beneath the thunder of hooves.
Side by side Geneviève and Sebastien rode, their horses huffing and snorting. As the contingent broke the field, the assemblage fractured as well, one large party heading off behind a group of hounds, more hunters following another. Geneviève and her companions stayed behind François and his son Charles as they followed the loudest and most aggressive pack, and she felt the surge of the hunt, as if, like the hounds, she could smell the beast.
From the corner of her eye, movement captured her seeker’s vigilance. More riders broke off into smaller parties of two; Geneviève watched their shift for a moment, confused, but turned back to the hounds and the pursuit.
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