The men glared at each other across the short expanse, their discourse at an impasse.
Henry’s lips curled into a snarl, beefy hands gripping the carved arms of the chair, knuckles blanching with the grip. How often in his life had the question of eminence risen among the three kings? He refused to fall by the wayside; such a thought tormented him.
“Very well,” he grumbled with a dismissive wave at Cromwell. “Call her to us.”
A smirk slithered across the minister’s face and he bowed, backing out of the chamber before the king changed his mind.
With long, purposeful strides, the Duke of Suffolk rushed to the king’s side, leaning down upon the throne’s arm. “Are you certain, Sire? I fear this action will only bring the wrong sort of alliance, for you and for our country.”
Henry reached up to squeeze the beefy shoulder of his lifelong friend and adviser. “It would seem I am forced to act. But it shall not be my only maneuver.”
Brandon answered him with nothing more than a quizzical expression.
A devious light sparked in Henry’s eye. “Send the message, Charles.” The king breathed the decree as a priest would whisper the last rites. “Give the final order … to them both.”
Brandon blinked as if in defense, a small tick the other advisers in the room could not see. He whispered as well, his words for the king alone.
“I have been your man for all my life. I have been your hand of justice, staining my own in your name.” Brandon crouched low, his eyes level with Henry’s, his stare penetrating the king’s, laying bare the haunted shadows lingering within them. There could be no question, no second guessing. “This time, above all others, I would question you, and beg you to consider for a moment more. Only if there is no hesitancy in your mind, should you tell me again.”
If Charles Brandon thought to see a glimmer of doubt in Henry VIII’s eye, he could have more readily asked for the moon.
Henry leaned over, his head no more than inches from the duke’s. “Give the command, Charles.” Henry waggled his large head, jowls set firm. “If this plan should prove successful, it may save me from this woman and all who would rise against me.”
With a hard swallow, but a deep obeisance, the Duke of Suffolk rose and strode from the room, set upon his master’s course.
The king of France himself stood upon the steps of Fontaine-bleau, waiting to greet them as the entourage of women and guards returned home. Servants fanned out on each side, poised to relieve the tired travelers of their possessions and their horses. As the procession turned onto the approaching lane, his shoulders straightened and his smile spread, brightening his pale face as the sun did the earth when thrust from behind a gloomy cloud.
The duchesse rose in her saddle, stretching her hand into the sky to beckon to him, as anxious to return to her lover’s arms as he was to have her there. She nudged her horse forward and the mare broke into a spirited canter, the horses around them taking up the pace, large nostrils flaring as they smelled the scent of home. Before Anne’s mount had ceased its clomping, the king was by her side, pulling her down and into his arms. In silent reunion, they held each other, unmindful of the many eyes observing them.
Geneviève’s lips twitched as she gazed upon the scene; whatever rumors prevailed of these two eccentric lovers, their devotion to each other was to be admired … and coveted. She lifted her gaze and searched the crowd gathered in welcome, daring to seek out the one face offering but a taste of what these paramours had shared for decades.
There, in the gathering of soldiers beyond the massive doors, she found him. His twilight eyes twinkled at her, his dimples flashed for a split second. It was not the embrace the king gave to his mistress, but it would serve. Turning shyly away, Geneviève basked in the warmth of Sebastien’s greeting, succor for her forlorn soul, and stepped up to stand obediently behind her mistress.
“Your sister sends her fondest regards, Your Majesty,” Anne said, released from the king’s firm embrace, though he refused to release the small hand in his. “She bids you prepare for her for she will arrive shortly.”
The king’s happy countenance glowed. “She will be here for the emperor’s visit?”
“Indeed she will,” Anne assured him with a tender smile. “I have much else to tell you, Your Majesty, but I would rest awhile first, if I may?”
François raised the tiny hand enveloped in his large one, and brushed his lips across its soft flesh. “There is nothing that cannot wait, madame. I would have you rested and well, above all else.”
Together they turned and made for the tall doors, Anne’s ladies but a few steps behind.
The king looked over his shoulder at them. He tilted his head in a dashing nod to Arabelle; to Geneviève he offered a smile and a tender, “Welcome home, my child.”
She felt the warmth of it upon her cheeks and she beamed with all absence of guile and disguise. And yet she hesitated, trudging feet growing heavier, as she mounted the stairs; this palace was her home and yet it wasn’t; she longed for it and to run from it with equal yearning. Her gaze roved over its splendid façade as if to see her truth upon it.
A curtain moved in a second-story window and her eye jumped up. Looking down at the warm scene of homecoming, lips puckered with bitterness, stood Queen Eleanor. The stalwart figure by her side, as ever, none other than Catherine de’ Medici. These two women, more than most, would recognize the resentment burning in her heart, the unrequited, opposing existence with which she must grapple. Yet she could not bring her trepidations to share at their table; she could share her true heart with no one.
“Look at you.” Carine stood with arms akimbo just inside the door to the chamber. “You are a mess. Mademoiselle d’Aiguillon did not take as fine care of you as she had promised.”
Geneviève shook her head with a chuckle. She need not miss a mother, for here one stood, her maid’s nagging as fine as any pestering parent could offer.
“Arabelle was a wonderful maid to me, as I was to her.” For all Carine’s frenetic energy, Geneviève was gladdened to see her servant. “But pray tell me, is this how you greet your returning mistress?”
Blushing and contrite, Carine bobbed a deep curtsy. “Pardonnez-moi, mam’selle. Welcome home, of course.”
“And a good day to you, Carine. You look well.”
Geneviève pushed farther into her chamber, happy as well to see the familiar furniture and most especially the thick, silk-covered mattress; how she had longed for it through the many sleepless, uncomfortable nights on thinly stuffed and smelly ticking.
“I am quite well. A bit restless, if truth be told, bored by the idleness of the past few days.” Carine dove into work with enthusiasm, emptying Geneviève’s trunks, separating the gowns needing an airing and a pressing from those soiled beyond repair.
“Shall I have a bath drawn for you, or would you rather rest for a while?” Carine asked.
“A bath sounds perfect, thank you, Carine. I am more sore than tired from so many hours in the saddle.”
“Then be so kind as to tell me all about your trip, mam’selle. What was Calais like? Is it as beautiful as they say? Were the people nice? Were there any handsome men about?”
Geneviève chuckled again, but strove to answer each one of her twittering maid’s questions, removing her own riding boots as Carine worked, too anxious for her toes to be unbound to wait for her maid’s assistance.
“What a magnificent casket. I do not remember packing this.” Carine’s hands caressed the large rectangular box of tooled, thatched leather she retrieved from the bottom of Geneviève’s trunk, the bright afternoon light shimmering on the glossy russet finish. “Did you purchase it in Calais, mam’selle?”
Geneviève lurched up and crossed the room as if thrust by a cannon, snatching the chest from her maid’s hands with rude brusqueness. “Yes … yes, I had forgotten about it.”
Carine stared up at her mistress, empty hands aloft in the air.
Geneviève tur
ned away, shoulders curling over the chest clasped firmly in her hands, like a miser over his pot of gold. She had never seen the unique casket before. It must have been put in her trunk while in Calais; it could be from Henry and no other.
“Perhaps you are right, Carine. Perhaps it would be best if I took some rest after all.” Geneviève placed the small chest on her bedside table and pretended to ignore it as she plopped herself down upon the bed. “It seems I am more tired than I first imagined.”
Carine came to stand by her, watching cautiously as Geneviève rubbed her forehead.
“Are you well, mam’selle?” she asked tremulously, wary at Geneviève’s abrupt change in temperament.
Geneviève did her best to offer Carine an assuring smile, taking the young woman’s hand and giving it a playful shake. “I am well as can be for someone who has traveled many leagues and back again in a matter of days. The fatigue has come upon me with the relief of homecoming. That is all, I swear.”
“Then I shall leave you to your rest,” Carine agreed, but did not quit the room until she had seen Geneviève tucked tenderly under the soft coverlet and the curtains drawn against the glare of the afternoon sun.
The door at last clicked shut behind her, and yet Geneviève lay utterly inert beneath the covers of her bed, listening to the small fire crackle and pop in the grate and the voices that ebbed and flowed outside her door. If she never moved, if she never opened the chest, then she would never receive his message. Perhaps she could stay thus and hide forever.
But she knew such a fantasy could not become reality; sooner or later her truth would find her and do its bidding.
Geneviève thrust the covers from her body and spun upon the mattress, staring at the casket upon the table as if it were offensive. She imagined throwing it upon the fire, unopened, the leather and all it held disintegrating in the hungry flames. In that moment, the tide of her heart turned toward France and she would sell her soul to the devil to ride it into shore.
Her hands balled into fists as she struggled, but the misguided teachings of her youth and the first wound in her heart ruled victorious. She picked up the box, placed it upon the bed, and opened it.
Leaning over, Geneviève peeked into its depths, inhaling the smell of leather and wood released from the confines. Two smaller boxes sat within the larger one and on their tops sat a folded golden piece of parchment. She deciphered the message with haste, wanting the deed done. Upon this paper were two lines, one each to describe the contents of the smaller boxes.
Geneviève swallowed back the bitter tears as she retrieved and opened them. In the first, a miniature unsigned landscape of some unknown place, but by the technique of the brushstroke and uniqueness of hue she knew: It was her father’s work. She had seen others like it in her aunt’s home. She laid the palm-sized square gingerly upon the coverlet and reached back into the casket, hand trembling over the second box. Steeling herself, she snatched at it and opened it, as if pulling a binding from an open wound.
The sapphires glittered up at her; one large teardrop suspended by the three round ones. She had seen this magnificent piece of jewelry many, many times; seen the eyes hovering above that matched the color so perfectly, but only in a portrait. This was the very necklace her mother wore in the miniature she had treasured since childhood. One hand caressed the jewels as she would her mother’s face; her head dropped heavily into the other.
When the wave of grief passed, as Geneviève made to hide her new belongings and the casket in which they came, she looked once more into it. On the very bottom of the chest, as if no more than an afterthought, lay another parchment.
With a tired hand, Geneviève transcribed the cipher. With a heavy heart, she accepted the fate awaiting her.
The time to avenge them has come. Take your action while the emperor visits. The blame will fall upon him and his people. Set yourself free. Come to me. Henry R
She fell asleep with her mother’s necklace warm against her chest and her father’s painting clutched in her hand. It was a deep, exhausted sleep.
* * *
But the escape of slumber did not last long. Like a jagged edge of shattering glass, the voices in her head began to scream once more, their arguing haunting her as they had for so long now. She sat up, one hand over each ear as if to muffle the incessant screeching. Geneviève would do anything to shut them up once and for all. She would do what she must.
The tide turned back.
30
Shallow men speak of the past;
wise men of the present;
and fools of the future.
—Madame Marie du Deffand (1697–1780)
The entire country groomed itself, washing away dirt ignored for years, sprucing up what had grown disheveled, and donning itself in its best finery; there was no greater urgency for tidying up than the anticipation of visitors.
King François dictated every facet of the preparations with a meticulous eye, but his body failed to keep up; the weakness laid him low once more and tethered him to his bed. He ignored the resurgence of illness as best he could, working from his privy chamber as candles gutted and their light flickered and waved in their last bursts of life.
The sputtering light cast unbecoming shadows on Montmorency’s unattractive face as he stood at the king’s bedside, the heavy velvet navy blue curtains drawn back and tied with gold tas-seled ropes. Monty’s tight jaw flinched with growing impatience.
“You are sure the instructions were clearly writ and properly dispersed?” François asked for the fifth time that day, his legs rustling under the silk linens, hitching himself higher upon the blue and gold bolsters at his back.
Montmorency bit the inside of his cheek—better that than to roll his eyes. “I am quite sure, Sire. I wrote them with my own hand and entrusted them to our very best riders.” He heaved a heavy sigh, for a moment abandoning the gnawing impatience with his sovereign; the strain that the illness and the stress of the moment had placed on his childhood companion wrought undeniable sympathy. He reached out and clasped the king by the shoulder, feeling pliable flesh and bone where there had once been hard muscle. “You have arranged all to perfection, François. Have no fear.”
Tired eyes rose gratefully to the minister’s face, and in them, a touch of regret. Ruling a nation would always strain those who held the reins of power, and these two had not been exempted from the fracturing acrimony of divergent principles. The last few years had found stiff wedges thrust between them—the religious conflict, the investigation into Chabot’s malpractices, and, most especially, Anne. François wanted only for his greatest companion and adviser to love whom he loved; that Montmorency did not, had become the hardest wedge of all.
“Merci, mon ami,” François whispered, lament touching his words. “I could not have done this without you.”
Montmorency answered with a squeeze, his small mouth set firm with the unpleasant taste of the angst living between them. “It is my duty and my honor, Your Majesty.”
A light knock upon the door broke the intimacy of the moment, and the two men turned to it ruefully.
“May I come in?” Anne poked her head round the edge of the door.
“Of course, ma chérie.” Small bursts of color brightened the king’s ashen face at the sight of his mistress.
Anne dipped a formal curtsy, paying tribute to the formalities in the presence of the minister, but her simple, pearlescent gown was not meant to be worn for long.
Montmorency bowed stiffly. “By your leave, Sire, I will return in the morning.”
François nodded, gaze full with the sight of his love.
The duchesse passed the minister, exchanging a cool greeting, no more than a polite, ghostly gesture of tolerance. Anne watched covertly over her shoulder as the lumbering man crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. The instant the latch clicked into place, she climbed upon the king’s bed, burrowing herself beneath the soft covers and into the crux of one of his large arms, purring l
ike a satiated cat.
François smiled, lowering himself into her nuzzle and further down upon the softness of his bed, his body cumbrous with age and illness. He was too tired and weak to do more than hold her, and she knew it, but it was enough for them both.
“Charles will speak against my continued relations with Suleiman and the Turks.” It was the king’s most pressing thought, now that the moment of the Holy Roman Emperor’s visit was upon them.
Anne spoke from the sanctuary of his embrace. “You must listen to his intentions carefully. He may well rail against such an allegiance, but what will he offer to abolish it? That is the most important question.” Anne hitched herself up on one elbow, lifting her head out of the crook of his arm and placing one hand softly upon his heart. “This is your moment, mon cher François.”
François closed his eyes, chest filling and rising with his deep indrawn breath. When he opened them once more, they sparkled, clear and focused.
“This is the moment.”
Charles V, king of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor, entered France with a small retinue of ministers and servants in the south, near Bayonne. There to greet him were the king’s two sons and Constable Montmorency. The country welcomed him as the great dignitary he was, but what is more, they courted him, plying him with the best food and wine the nation had to offer, each town showering him with costly bribes wrapped as splendid presents. In Poitiers, he received a silver sculpture of an eagle and a lily on a rock, in Paris a life-sized silver statue of Hercules holding two pillars.
King François joined the cavalcade in Loches, arriving in the city by way of litter. Mustering his strength to mount his great white warhorse, he then traveled with the emperor under a bannered and tasseled canopy. Their public conversation, surrounded by servants and ministers, consisted of no more than pleasant plat-itudes—a dialogue between any two educated men of the age, filled with talk of art and the great explorations taking place, the expeditions revealing more of the New World on the other side of the ocean.
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