“Oui, in another hour.”
He bowed and started off, but on impulse, Geneviève grabbed his hand and held him back, amused to see the riot of freckles as thick on the back of his hand as on his pleasant face. “Take good care of yourself, Albret.”
The wiry red brows knit upon his forehead. “I’m not leaving yet, silly one.” He laughed and chucked her softly under the chin. “You will see me yet. Mayhap we can all share a toast once Se-bastien has joined you.”
Geneviève responded with no more than a shadowed smile, and watched him walk away from her as the music wound to a close.
The emperor returned his sister to her chair, forsaking his own beside her. Instead he shuffled to the next table, where sat the king and Admiral Chabot and the duchesse d’Étampes, as well. Ignoring the others, he came to stand by the king, silent but commanding, until the room stilled and every eye fell upon the scene unfolding at the front of the room.
François heaved himself up from his gilded blue velvet chair, the legs scraping against the cool stone beneath. He smiled with grace at his guest but not without a crinkle of uncertainty in the corner of his eye.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” Charles announced with his thin, lilting accent. “I have never been made to feel more welcome than in your beautiful land. I wish to thank Constable Montmorency, Cardinal de Lorraine, and of course, my dearest sister, for their magnificent hospitality.”
A rousing round of applause met his proclamation, though from the duchesse d’Étampes, having been left off his list, acclaim was not as enthusiastic. The emperor raised his hand; he had more to say. Geneviève took no greater part than that of witness; to conclude her business in such a scene would be a bold and decisive statement, but the thought was no more than madness. She must wait for another time, another place.
“To the great François, my brother, I am most grateful. He has opened his doors and his arms to me, and I bask in the warmth.”
François bowed gallantly amidst the applause, raising his golden goblet by the jeweled stem. “You honor us.” He bowed to the emperor and turned outward to the assemblage, most of whom raised their chalices. “To King Charles,” he coaxed.
“To King Charles!” came the rousing reply, and in the anonymity of the ruckus, Geneviève escaped.
He threw open the door, gaze cast downward, intent upon the gold buttons of his doublet, hands working furiously to undo them as he rushed forward. The last undone, Sebastien shrugged off the heavy vestment, revealing the thin cambric shirt and muscular physique beneath, and made to discard the uniform upon the bed.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried as he stumbled back, startled by the ethereal form perched upon the bed in stony silence.
“Geneviève.” He breathed her name. “What are you doing here? I was hurrying to change and come find you at the fête.”
With legs tucked under her chemise, her pale hair unpinned and flowing in an iridescent cloud around her, she looked like an angel come down to earth to pay a visit upon the pitiable mortals.
“Are you not pleased to see me?” she whispered.
A lustful grin played upon his lips. Sebastien slithered up to the bed with the stalking, graceful gait of a panther sneaking up on its prey. “I have never been more pleased to see anyone.”
His strong legs scaled the foot of the bed and he came to her on his knees, towering above her. Sebastien reached down and captured her face in his hands, lowering his lips upon hers. Geneviève sighed with pleasure, hands brushing up along the back of hard thighs and buttocks, to tangle in the shirt. Sebastien groaned. His mouth … his touch grew masterful and rough, demanding and wanton. Geneviève’s hands came round to the pearl buttons of his shirt, to the tawny skin and hard muscles beneath. Sebastien moved one wide hand up her back, another to her neck, and lowered her slowly upon the bed, sinking down into the bliss beside her.
The candles gutted, their flames extinguished in the pooled molten wax. The fire in the small arched hearth had dwindled to no more than glowing embers; only moonbeams danced with the dust motes.
Geneviève watched them twirl above the bed, listening to Se-bastien’s sure and steady breathing from beside her. Her legs quivered with satiated exhaustion, but her hands felt bound by the ties of deception. By force she must cast off both, and rise to the purpose of her life.
She turned her head, silky hair shushing against the pillow fabric, and studied the man who lay so near. In sleep as in wakeful-ness, his beauty was undeniable. There was but one way to leave such a gift behind.
With the stealth of a thief, she raised the coverlet and slipped her legs around to the side of the bed. Hitching forward, her feet searched the dark abyss for the floor below.
“Where are you going?”
The groggy whisper held her fast, toes poised an inch above the wood.
Geneviève cringed, unable to face him. She had wanted nothing more than to slip away from his arms and his life without another word between them, a coward’s retreat. “Dawn beckons. I must make ready to attend my mistress.”
A rumble of a chuckle met her words. “Your mistress will be in the king’s bed for many more hours to come. Won’t you stay in mine a bit longer? It is warm and welcoming here.”
The promise of his words was undeniable, and it plucked greedily at her, but she must away.
Geneviève spun round and threw herself upon him. In her kiss burned all the heartbreak of separation. She kissed him until she could bear the taste of him no longer. She pulled her lips from his, hesitating as their moist, warm flesh brushed with hers. With eyes closed, she whispered, “Adieu, cher Sebastien.”
She thrust herself off his chest and off the bed, two steps away …
He jumped to his knees, bed linen falling in a low puddle at his waist, chiseled torso revealed in all its glory, as one powerful hand reached out to grab her arm and pull her back.
Geneviève’s legs bumped against the bed, but no more would she yield.
Sebastien stared at her, a deep furrow forming between his brows. “Adieu? You bid me adieu?”
“I must, Sebastien. I fear I must.”
He shimmied closer, pressing his flesh against hers, no more than a thin layer of brushed silk between them. “No, we do not say adieu.” He shook his head resoundingly. “To you I will only say à demain, for I will see you tomorrow and the day after that.” He kissed the tip of her nose and the apple of each cheek, his voice an impassioned whisper. “And if I may hope, if all should go well, every one of the days to come after.”
Geneviève closed her eyes to the emotional onslaught and lowered her forehead against his, allowing the tip of one finger to caress a dimple and the strong, square jaw.
Without a word, she rushed from his embrace, grabbed the heavy brocade robe from the floor, and ran from the room.
Sebastien fell back upon his haunches, helpless to do more to stop her. He could only watch with a determined and pleased expression as the door swung shut behind her.
32
‘Twas then I warned thee to beware,
Of one as false as she is fair.
—John Thomas Mott, The Last Days of Francis the First, and Other Poems
“There is little for me to rejoice about,” Franç ois wh ispered from the abyss o f the deep-cushioned chair drawn close to the mammoth hearthside, the warmth of the crackling flames reaching out, warming his pale cheeks until they flushed red.
“I disagree, Your Majesty,” Montmorency murmured.
They spoke discreetly, as if they would guard the secret of their words from those around them. But in truth, the room was preter-naturally empty; after last night’s soirée, few courtiers possessed enough energy to attend an evening’s salon. A few of the king’s closest advisers and companions slumped about the perturbed sovereign—Chabot, though his influence had begun to wane, Lorraine and others of the Guise family with him—but most were there out of necessity, not out of any desire for social intercourse.
Anne curled at he
r lover’s feet, her head upon his lap, lids fluttering against the onslaught of fatigue. A smattering of female courtiers drooped about the room—those who had passed the darkest hours of the night in bitter loneliness, and craved company to dispel it and the disappointment of a party ending without an assignation.
Geneviève sat unaccompanied in the small grouping of chairs not far from the king. She had not come to banish isolation or from any duty to the duchesse or the king of France, nor did she come to hear secrets worthy of passing along. The time for messages and codes and ciphering had ceased. She had packed her bag and hidden it in the garden. She had drawn her path on the map, to the address given her with King Henry’s last message. She came to finish what had started all those years ago, to finish it decisively once and for all. Her dark-circled eyes fixed upon François like the drawn arrow locked upon the heart of the target, chin tucked to chest as she sipped a heavily watered mug of wine.
The emperor had not stepped one foot from his chambers at any point in the day, adding fuel to the king’s frustration as he ruminated on another missed chance for negotiations.
“These days with the emperor have done much to solidify the friendship between you.” Monty continued to plead his case.
François stared at his minister, lips clamped in a tight white line, nostrils flaring as though assaulted by the scent of something grievously distasteful. “Friendship? Do you think I have done all this for the sake of friendship?”
“It can on—” Monty began, hands raised in supplication.
“You assured me inroads would be made.”
“And I believe they have been,” Montmorency countered. “Your conversations with the emperor have brought accord on many topics.”
François waved a spotted hand with agitation, as if to brush away a pesky insect. “Oh oui, we have talked of the Turks and his disapproval, and we have gone on ad nauseam on matters of faith, but there has been not one word of Milan.”
“I’m sure gi—”
“Not one word!” François banged a fist on the arm of his chair, his vehemence startling the sleepy Anne at his feet and the others gathered around him.
“I am sorry, ma chérie,” François muttered apologetically as he gave her silky hair a caress.
Anne shook off his regret with a tender pat on his knee. “I think I will take to my bed, though, if it would not displease you.”
“Not at all, dearest.” The king rose with arduous effort and pulled her up. With a chaste kiss to the forehead, he sent Anne off, her lady Monique not far behind to attend her.
“You may retire at your leisure,” the duchesse said to Geneviève as she passed, though Geneviève had not come to attend her.
Geneviève had stood with the royals, as had all the room’s populace, and offered Anne a quick curtsy. “Bonne nuit, madame,” she replied, but made no move to leave the chamber.
Geneviève turned to the full chalice on the small, round, claw-foot table, giving it far more attention than it deserved, her mind conjuring any excuse to speak with the king alone, ready to offer her body if need be, though certain the gesture would disgust François as much as it would her.
François stood in silent argument with his constable; he did not release the man from his side and yet he spoke not a word, simply glowered at him with arms akimbo.
Chabot yawned noisily behind him. “My apologies, Your Highness.”
François spun round, remembering the others in the room. “No, it is I who should apologize. I have kept you all overlong. To your beds, everyone.”
With sleepy salutations and dragging feet, the courtiers filed from the room, heading east, to the double doors that opened onto the main corridor. At the very tail, Geneviève shuffled along, her head turned upon her shoulder to keep the king in her vision.
François stared down at the fire as if he ruminated upon all the regrets of his life in the orange and blue flames. A log popped, and it seemed to break the hypnotic hold of the blaze. With a slump of his shoulders, he turned to the west end of the room, toward the door to his privy chamber and the two guards flanking it.
With fists balled in frustration, Geneviève lingered no longer, and made for the door, stamping her feet as if in a tantrum. Time was running out; the emperor would be in residence for another few days at most; if she did not make her move, all would be lost. She had t—
“I would take a turn about the castle before I retire.”
Geneviève skidded to a halt at the king’s words.
She changed direction, scurrying to her chair, picking up her abandoned tankard and tossing back a gulp as though she couldn’t continue without one last drink.
“As you wish, Your Highness.” The large halberdier gave a clipped bow of his head and took a step forward.
The king strolled away, turning back to the guard with a raised hand. “Your companionship is not required. I’m sure I am safe within the corridors outside my room.”
“But, Your Hi—”
“I would accompany you, Majesté.” Geneviève’s voice squeaked with audacity and fear, but she could not let this moment pass. A sign could not be more apparent had it been chiseled in stone and laid at her feet. She cleared her throat and dropped into a deep curtsy. “Though I cannot offer protection, I can offer companionship. If I may be so honored.”
The king smiled with pleased paternal charm. “Nothing would please me more.” François beamed. “But are you not as fatigued as all my other courtiers?”
“No, Your Highness. I believe I took to bed much earlier than most.”
François narrowed his eyes, but the squint did not fail to conceal the keen, amused gleam.
“Then if you will not be bored by such older company”—the king bowed to her as he would to his queen, and held out his hand—“I would be honored to take a turn with you, mademoiselle.”
Geneviève smiled despite them both; it was hard to deny his charm, though there was nothing licentious about it. He had played the lothario long after his body could keep up with his lust, but with her, his intentions had always been chaste. She had been foolish to think it could ever be otherwise.
“I find your company quite inspiring, Your Highness,” she said with blatant candor. “You are as well-read a man as I have ever met and I would discuss great works with you whenever able.”
With her hand upon his, the king of France led Geneviève out into the corridor and turned her toward the gallery, no doubt an oft-trod path.
“I have recently finished The Tales of Priam and Hector, in the Iliad, and would ask your opinion of it,” Geneviève said, her voice slithering up to the top of the vaulted stone-and-beam ceiling of the silent castle, the vibrato growing as the words echoed away from her. Geneviève took her hand from his; she could not let him feel the quaking that shook it, nor the dagger that lay up her sleeve.
She had him alone.
“You read Homer?” François asked with pleasant astonishment as they turned onto the galerie. The long golden arcade stretched out before them like the never-ending road to hell; it glittered with beauty and elegance, silent and abandoned by any other living soul.
He shook his head as he sniffed. “I am most impressed, young lady. Did your father teach you this love of literature?”
Geneviève stumbled upon her skirt. The king’s quick arm movement saved her from sprawling upon the parquet floor. She gathered her composure, reclaiming her arm from his grasp. He could not have asked a more virulent question.
“My parents died when I was very young.” Geneviève spewed the venomous words with a jagged whisper.
François stopped and turned. “I am so very sorry, Geneviève.” His wide mouth drooped; his large Adam’s apple bobbed a swallow. His sentiment was no polite obligation, but undeniable compassion.
Geneviève turned from it.
“I, too, lost my father when I was very young, but I had my mother for many, many years. She was a blessing in my life.” He reached out a large hand and took Gene
viève gently by the shoulder, giving it a benevolent squeeze. “No child should be without a parent.”
Geneviève avoided his gaze, unable to respond. His words mocked her, this man who wore the stain of her parents’ blood, and yet his empathy touched her.
She took herself from his grasp and recommenced their stroll down the vacant hall, forcing her thoughts to the task at hand. In the large, barren passageway, her deed would go unnoticed for many long minutes, more than enough to make her escape via the far pavilion’s stairway, and out into the night.
“How did they die?” he asked.
Her gaze burned holes onto his face, and she longed to cry out You! You killed them! but she could not, not without revealing the monster trapped within her, a fiend about to pounce.
The king pulled back, stung by her rancorous glower. “Perhaps I have overstepped my bounds. Pray forgive me.”
But Geneviève would not allow his umbrage to pass without counter. He would know the truth, in a sense, if for a short time.
“They died upon the great golden field, when you met with the English king. There was a terrible fire and in it they perished.”
François’s eyes bulged and his steps faltered.
Geneviève thought what a great thespian he was. She gave her right arm a discreet shimmy and the tip of the dagger inched lower down her arm, slipping into her waiting cupped fingers, edge sharp against the soft skin.
“Sacrebleu, you astound me, mam’selle.” He stood below the large center chandelier, one hand to his head, as if pained. “I remember that night so well. We saw the blaze far across the valley from our camp. It was as if the fi—”
Geneviève’s hand flashed out like the stinging venomous tongue of a snake, and her fingers dug sharply into the king’s velvet-covered bicep. So abrupt, so intent was the clutch, that the king looked indignantly down at the white-knuckled fingers biting him.
“Across the valley? You … you saw the … the fire from across the valley?” Geneviève stumbled on her words, unable to process her thoughts fast enough.
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