“That will be all for today, I fear, monsieur.” He dismissed his royal reader in midsentence, and the small, cassock-clad man closed his book and retreated with a slight bow.
“I wish to speak to the room before we open the door, La Barre.” The king stopped the premier gentilhomme de la chambre from beginning the day’s deputations, the first since their arrival at Fontainebleau, with a raised hand.
The noblemen returned to their seats at the now clean table, Montmorency and Chabot among them, though on opposite sides of the table. The bitterness between them had reached new heights as Montmorency’s investigations into the allegations of Chabot’s malpractices continued. Like children vying for the love of a parent, the two men jostled for preeminence in the king’s council, though neither gained much ground.
“I have two things to share with you this day,” François announced, his ashy, aging skin glowing with a joy few had seen of late. He rubbed his hands upon the high-gloss mahogany table before him. “First, I would tell you that I have decided to sojourn at this most splendid of palaces for the majority of our time.”
Mixed responses met his pronouncement, most of surprise, few of pleasure. Those nobles who would travel with the progress to check their lands, would now need to do so on their own; it was costly to travel, though far more costly to be away from court. Many had foreseen the king’s decision; his desire to lead a less nomadic life had been instilled in him by his mother and her family. François was at last bringing their desire to fruition.
“It is not only for the pleasure of the hunt in this bountiful forest surrounding us, but for the beauty and splendor that is Fontainebleau.” The king opened his arms in a wide gesture, offering the marble, gilt, and art of his own room as evidence.
The great kings of France had long since made a home for themselves on this magical spot. Legend held that here a babbling spring and the goddess who watched over it had been discovered by a hunter name Bilaud. The fecund spot, washed by the spring, became known as the fountain of blue. What had begun as a primitive castle in the twelfth century, oval in shape with a gatehouse, a square keep, and flanking towers, had become the pinnacle of French architecture. François had torn down all of the original structure save the old dungeon, rebuilding it in its current variation, one of the greatest palaces in all of Europe, envied by kings far and wide.
“I can think of no better place to rule our great nation, to bring to bear the full force of our nation’s strength, than here at Fontainebleau.” François grew more serious; some feared his words hinted at war, which they could neither afford nor support. “This brings me to my second announcement. But perhaps I shall let Monty tell you, as it was his work and guidance that has led us here.”
Montmorency narrowed his small, bag-rimmed eyes at the king, perplexed; to take credit could bring one great acclaim, or make one the scapegoat if the plan should fail. Monty shrugged off his diffidence; his efforts were well-known. He could not very well turn from them now.
“We have heard from the emperor.” His pronouncement set off a riot of shock and sound; the cries filled the room to the top of the vaulted, frescoed ceiling. “Indeed, it is true.”
“Bretonnière has at last returned?” Chabot petulantly asked about the king’s first messenger, finding no delight in his rival’s success.
“No, he has not, though he should have, and days ago. I have sent others out in search of him,” Monty replied. “No, this message came by way of La Forest. Our ambassadors have been hard at work and their efforts have not been in vain.” The chancellor stuck out his weak chin, holding his words until the silence held them all captive. “Charles, the king of Spain and the Holy Roman Emperor, will be the guest of France and its great king within a few months’ time.”
François sat back in his chair, a wicked smile of triumph on his wide mouth, as a cacophony of jubilation rose up around him.
“How?” Chabot asked, one of the few quiet voices among the raucous many.
The king leaned in, anxious to tell. “We had learned the emperor soon needs to reach the Netherlands. What swifter path to take than through our lands? Monty saw it for the opportunity it is and began the negotiations. I will issue the formal invitation this very day.”
“But what of Henry?” Chabot continued as the voice of cynicism.
“Ah oui, Henry. Mon ami Henry,” François said with the far-off look of introspection. “How much I feared him. Once. Now I fear him not at all. He is far too busy killing off his wives and his own people. He cannot see how much it weakens him.”
Chabot would not let it lie. “But if he and the emperor align, it could be catastrophic. We have not the arms to defend ourselves, nor the funds to build such arms.”
François looked upon the admiral with a closed face of skepticism. “The chance of our most pious Charles taking the hand of the sinner Henry is beyond reason.”
“But there is a chance,” Monty interjected. “And all the more reason to court Charles, all the more reason to look upon the emperor’s coming visit as a great triumph.”
Most in attendance agreed, and the acclamation wafted through the room; some men clapped each other on the back, while others broke out in applause. Chabot bit his lips; he had offered Mont-morency fodder for his own cause, something he had not intended to do.
A laughing king gave a nod to La Barre. “I think we are ready,” he instructed, and the chamberlain opened the door.
The horde of those who would hope for the ear of the king congregated far beyond the door and the long staircase leading to it, their fetid body odors, heightened in the heat of high summer, entering the room first. But the pleadings of the door today were unlike any the gentlemen of the court had ever seen, as the king called more and more of the plaintiffs into the chamber, allowing them to approach and beg their case while in the same room.
They would talk of the change in the king and the events about to take place at every table and every salon. Many would learn of it, and they, in turn, would tell others.
* * *
The knock upon the door roused her from an afternoon’s slumber, and Geneviève muttered a mild complaint as she crossed to the door, irked at the interruption. Sleep had become an elusive companion, and she felt slighted to have it chased away by a visitor. She opened her door but there was little welcome in the gesture.
“My, but you look a bit of a mess.”
“Lodovico!” Annoyance vanished and Geneviève burst with joy at the sight of her friend. The artist had not made the same journey to Fontainebleau as she, having been sent by the king to capture the image of his sister in Navarre, whom he had not seen in a while.
“Ah, that’s better.” Lodovico laughed as he took her hand, bowed over it, and presented her with an enthusiastic smooch.
Geneviève bobbed a quick curtsy. “I am so pleased to see you. When did you arrive? Will you be staying long?”
She had indeed missed the artist and the flighty, untroubled distraction he afforded her.
“I fear I have come with some disturbing news.” The stick-thin young man barreled his way into her chamber, and plopped himself upon her bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“What? Tell me. Are you to be sent away again?” Geneviève rushed to follow, confused by the strange expression on his narrow face.
“I’m afraid you must resign yourself, cara.” He looked up at her with a sad gaze, but a smile broke out across his lips as bright as the morning sun. “I have officially become an artiste du roi.”
“Oh, how wonderful, Lodovico. You must be so very pleased.” Geneviève took his hands in hers and gave them a fond squeeze, trying to deny how delighted she herself was, trying not to allow another bittersweet bond to form, but the moment to steel herself had long since passed. She released their embrace and took herself to her vanity chair. “Tell me of your journeys.”
The young man rolled his big eyes camouflaged by the crop of shaggy hair grown bushier since last she sa
w him. “Ah, cara mia, every court is a mirror of the other—the intrigue, the gossip. The music may be different but the song remains the same.”
His laughter died away on empty air. Lodovico’s lips pursed as he stared at her.
“How do I find thee, Geneviève? I have been so busy posturing about my own greatness, I have yet to ask after you. Have you been unwell?”
Geneviève shook her head and turned away, busying herself with a sudden necessity to straighten the bottles and potions upon her vanity. “No, no, I’m fine. It is … it is a difficult adjustment to this way of life, always on the move, always bustling here and there. It is far different from the life I’ve always led.”
“A better one?”
“How could such a life not be? There is nothing but the finest of everything at the court of King François.”
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, brown eyes scouring her face as he leaned close. “You have become a courtier.”
Geneviève thought to obfuscate, but abandoned the notion; it was not easy to hide from the discerning eye of one who captured the essence of life with brush and paint. “I have. It was what I was sent to do.”
Lodovico straightened, a troubled line forming on the smooth skin beneath the tousled bangs.
“Si, it is, but make sure you do not lose yourself in the process.”
“Now that you have returned, I have no fear on that score.” She spun to him then, a sudden thought dawning. “Will you grant me a favor, Lodovico?”
He smiled his charming, boyish smile, pleased to see his friend cheered once more. “Anything for you, cara.”
“Will you paint my portrait? A miniature?”
He plunked his hands on his hips, eyes sparkling. “I have been waiting for you to ask.”
* * *
Through the many and varied courses, through the astonishing performances, through every moment of the great gala, Geneviève had followed every move of Thomas Cheney, the English ambassador, newly arrived at court. It was in his honor the banquet was named, though all knew it was a celebration of the king’s negotiations with the emperor that lay behind the most splendiferous of events the court had seen in many a month.
Far more dazzling than any great hall, as majestic as the most imperious cathedral, the ballroom of the Château de Fontaine-bleau dazzled the eye; it was the supreme context for the world’s most glamorous nobles. Styled in the manner of an Italian loggia, the open arches covered by rich, colorful frescoes and intricately carved stuccoes, were topped by a coffered ceiling the color of rich chocolate. Though dressed in their finest, replete with jewels, the courtiers were but bits of ornamentation in this exquisite chamber.
As she entered the circle of Sebastien’s arms, as she felt the thrill found there—the memories they invoked, the promises they offered—Geneviève’s stare followed the stick-thin, angular ambassador about the great hall. How adulterous she felt as she danced with the dashing guard, as if she betrayed Henry by finding pleasure in another man’s arms, as if having the Englishman in their midst would reveal her perfidy to his king, or behavior she perceived as perfidy.
There had been other such moments for Geneviève and Se-bastien since the first magical night beneath the tree, and yet her agony over her actions would not yield. No matter how often she argued with herself that pleasure had little to do with loyalty, the nagging guilt pecked away at her like a crow upon a dead, rotting carcass along the side of a deserted road. Her feelings for Se-bastien, her loyalty to Henry, her changing impressions of François raged a battle within her, the war the most rampant when alone at night, and she found little ease in slumber.
“Would you care for some wine, ma chérie?” Sebastien asked with a bow as the rousing volte came to a close.
Geneviève began to nod, but the motion became a shake as the orchestra struck the slow, ponderous notes of a somber pavane.
“Will you pardon me, Sebastien?” Already she walked away from him. Rumor held the Englishman was not much of a dancer and only took part in the less vigorous of dances. Here was her chance and she would not let it pass. “I have promised the duchesse to partner the ambassador, and I see he is at his leisure.”
Montmorency and the queen had stepped away from Cheney, and for the moment, he stood alone. Geneviève scampered across the room before another captured his attention, Sebastien’s words of regretful forgiveness fading away behind her.
“My lord,” she called out in that most English of greetings as her prey began to step away.
The tall man stopped and turned, eyebrows rising on his pasty white face.
“Mademoiselle?” He bowed as he spied Geneviève’s flustered approach.
“Gravois,” she informed him. She did not expect him to know the name. Her identity was secret to all save the king, Henry had assured her time and time again, and the convoluted streams of communication between them—cryptic messages passed between four or five hands before reaching each other—guaranteed it. “Would you care for a dance, sir?” Geneviève curtsied as she reached him, hiding the flush of her forward actions.
Taken aback, Cheney sputtered with an inelegant accent to his simple French. “I … well … I … but, of course, if you wish. It will be my pleasure, Mademoiselle Gravois.” His whiny tone made it clear that it was not his pleasure at all, but it would be unseemly to deny a lady of the king’s court.
The odd pair strode onto the dance floor and took their place at the end of the slow-moving line of couples. The stiff ambassador led her through the simple steps—three forward then one back, one forward then two back—with little grace.
“You have recently come from your own court, monsieur?” Geneviève asked with all the feigned casualness she could muster.
“I have,” Cheney responded, pale blue eyes fixed upon his feet and the intricately configured parquet floor, as if to move his gaze would surely send him spilling upon the multicolored wood squares.
“And how is your king? Well, I hope?”
“King Henry is not much himself these days,” Cheney responded without thought, too distracted by his own awkwardness to guard his tongue.
Geneviève frowned at the nebulous response. “Whatever do you mean?”
The ambassador shrugged his pointy shoulders. “Do not misunderstand me, mademoiselle. King Henry is a powerful ruler who has done a great deal for his country. But I am afraid his health and his recent … disappointments have left him in foul temper. To say he takes it out on his courtiers would be to state the case mildly.”
“You mean to say he treats them badly?” Geneviève wanted to stop where they stood and shake the man until he gave her details. Then she remembered he was a diplomat, a master of speaking much and saying little.
“I would never say such a thing at all. But he … he keeps us on our toes, demanding no less effort than that which he is willing to give himself.” There was more to his prettily phrased words; it rang in the sudden sharp edge in his voice.
“I am sure his insistence is to honor a worthy cause,” Geneviève said as the pair dipped at the end of the line and turned to the left, where the couple before them had gone right, to return to the beginning of the promenade.
“A king’s glory is always considered a worthy cause, at least by the king.”
Geneviève fell silent as she mulled his words.
“But why so many questions about my king, mademoiselle?” Cheney asked, daring to take his eyes off the dance floor.
Geneviève smiled her muted, courtly smile. “Would you believe I saw him once? Oh, it was a very long time ago.” She had expected the question and had the answer well rehearsed, yet she had not foreseen how hard she would have to work to keep the disappointment from her voice. “I was a very little girl at my father’s side at the field where my king met yours, where the great golden tents rose up in the air. I remember your king.” Here she giggled with practice. “Though I suppose I remember his grandness and bright hair the most—they would be the m
ost memorable to a wee child.”
“A delightful story.” Cheney was charmed, as intended, with no more thoughts as to the bounds of her curiosity.
The slow song came to its end and Geneviève dropped his hand before the last note faded away.
“Thank you, monsieur.” Geneviève dipped a shallow curtsy, hands fisted into tight balls by her side, and turned on her heel. She left the ambassador bewildered by her brusque dismissal, but she paid him no further heed. She had come to him in search of the fortifying testimony she craved, for the words of a regal and righteous king to bring her back into focus. Instead, she had gotten nothing but more confusion, and the company of this festive crowd chafed her like a scratchy wool cloak. She quit the room with imprudent haste, under more than one concerned and discerning gaze. At this moment, Geneviève longed for nothing so much as to be gone from this court, this life, this world, and she ran as if to escape it all.
19
A slight flame comes out of the emptiness and
makes successful that which should not be believed in vain.
—Michel de Nostredame (Nostradamus) (1503–1566)
“What do you mean, I cannot see the king?” The duchesse d’É tam pes stood toe-to-toe with the m amm oth halberdier who stood at the door between waiting room and council chamber. Though the man had no doubt seen the ravages of many a battlefield, he squirmed beneath this powerful woman’s wrath, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
“My apologies, Madame la Duchesse, but the king has insisted he not be disturbed.”
Anne crossed her thin arms over her chest, porcelain skin mottled by fiery splotches. “I am quite sure the order did not extend to me.”
The soldier pinched his lips as if to seal them forever. “No one is to disturb him. Those were my orders.”
The heat of outrage wafted off the woman in waves, as if to scorch everyone around her. Thwarted, Anne snarled once more at the soldier—bestial, with dire threat—and huffed over to the small grouping of chairs, dropping onto an embroidered cushion like a stone.
Donna Russo Morin Page 21
