François’s gaze flashed from her hand to her face, brows knitted thunderously across his wide forehead. “Oui. It was so near King Henry’s structure, we feared for his safety.”
She didn’t release her unpardonable breach of propriety on his royal person; she could not. “King Henry’s encampment? You say the fire was at the English camp? Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite sure,” he sniped. “I may be old, my dear, but I have not yet become completely senile. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Monty and I, Chabot as well, as I recall, dressed in haste, and with a large contingent of guards set off to assure Henry’s safety. What we found …” All malice evaporated. François’s large head fell upon his chest; his gaze fell away and filled with sadness. “The smells, the chaos …”
Geneviève dropped her hold upon him, tumbling backward, crashing against the wall behind her. He spoke the truth; it lay bare upon his naked expression, resounded in the grief of his words. He would have no cause to lie to her, not to Geneviève Gravois. But how could it be? She had been told, time and time again, that the fire had been in the French camp, that she and her family were there, that her French father had been a member of the king’s envoy, that the fire had been set by this man’s orders. Yet two truths of the same event could not exist.
“Oh, mon Dieu.” The king rushed forward, grabbed her by the arms, and kept her from falling. “What have I done? How callous I have been to speak of it thus. I did not think. I am sorry. I became lost in the horrific memories, but they can be nothing compared to your own.”
But Geneviève did not hear him, did not care one whit for his apology. His words had torn her world asunder, had thrown the truth of her life—of her very existence—upon a blazing fire.
The words of her aunt screamed in her head and she threw her hands upon her ears, but she could not block the sound out.
He’s a liar and a murderer. Never forget what he has done to you. Never forget who he is. And yet Geneviève could not deny all she had learned for herself about this man, how open his broken heart had become. Did a fissure await the sharp, cold tip of her dagger?
“Henry did all he could for his people. He tended to the wounded himself. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Henry, King Henry, her Henry. He had done so much for her, but had it really been for her? The bud of suspicion broke ground, the voices screamed, but she knew not which to listen to. The time had come to listen to her voice alone.
“You must not think of it anymore.” François whispered to her as he would a frightened child. With great tenderness, the powerful man pulled her into his embrace.
It was the perfect opportunity, his nearness the perfect opening. Before her jumbled thoughts could delay her any longer, Gene-viève slipped the hard, cold handle of the dagger down into her palm, the glinting blade protruding and ready to strike as she lay her head against the wide, welcoming chest, as his arms held her tight, as his hands rubbed her back with slow, soothing gestures. He mumbled words of sympathetic consolation in her ear.
She half listened as she took a step backward and created space between them, as she raised her hand and the dagger. She would do this; she could do this. The darkness that had always lived within, urged her on, as if its own existence depended on it.
And it did. Geneviève knew it did. Knew that if she killed this man now, it would not rid her of her hate, but bind her to it eternally. It would devour her whole.
“I know your sorrow for my own. You have lost your parents and I my dear children,” he crooned in her ear, raw emotion in his voice, soothing them both. “But God has seen to bring us together, perhaps for that very reason. He would give me back a child, and … and you a parent.”
He grew shy and timid, craning his neck to look down at her. This man who had conquered kingdoms lay vulnerable to her in a way no one had ever been.
“Perhaps, if you would let me, if your heart could allow … I could be your father? Mayhap you will let me love you, as a father?”
The words thrust a sword up into the darkness, and the sharp foil cut the soft underbelly of the dragon, slaying it once and for all.
In her mind’s eye, two kings stood side by side; each wore only the clothes she herself had seen them don. In that instant, she knew which was true.
Geneviève gripped the weapon in her cold hand, blood rushing from her fingers, limb shaking with the fierce grip … and shoved the blade back up into her sleeve.
Relief flooded her like a crashing wave. She sagged against the king, tears allowed at last to fall, shoulders quivering.
The king’s jaw fell; he did not expect such a reaction, especially from her. He held her tighter, with not a word, rocking her in his arms until the silent sobbing passed into sniffling.
“I can only hope those are tears of joy,” he said as the emotion ebbed, “or I would throw myself upon my sword in mortification.”
She laughed through her tears then, laughed at the irony of his words and the comical, embarrassed expression upon his face. She could not tell him of the long journey that had brought her to this place, but she would tell him of what lay in her heart—the truth of it.
Geneviève stepped back so he could see her as she spoke.
“All my life I have longed for a father, lived each day as if I could create one. I have longed for nothing as I have longed for a place to belong.” Geneviève listened to her revelation, hearing it as he did. “And here I find both, where I least expected. I am most grateful to God and to you. Your love is the greatest gift I have ever received.” She dropped herself into the deepest curtsy, her quivering legs bent until her knees touched the ground.
King François’s sharp chin quivered and his eyes shined bright. He held his hand out without a word, for there was none worthy of this moment. Both so intent within the moment, neither saw or heard the man as he slipped from the edge of the corridor. Gene-viève took the king’s hand, gladly, eagerly, accepting the fate it offered. In this fulfilled, exhausted silence, they returned together to the end of the gallery, to the threshold of his door.
François faced her. “I feel as if I shall sleep deeper and sweeter than I have in a very long while.”
Geneviève sniffed a laugh. “None of nightmare’s ghouls will bother either of us this night, Your Majesty.”
He looked old and worn, and yet there was a light in his eyes that had not been there an hour ago, a light she herself had lit.
He reached up with a large, clumsy hand and wiped one last tear from her cheek. “Sleep well, ma Geneviève. Ma fille.”
33
Men are always wicked at bottom
unless they are made good by some compulsion.
—Desiderius Erasmus (c. 1466–1536)
How often had she walked these corridors late at night, shadows as her sole companions? No more light illuminated the passageway than on any other night, and yet the umber was not so deep and the only shadow was her own. Geneviève had made her choice, her choice, and she recognized this moment as the one where her life began. She turned a corner, making her way to her chamber with a craving for her pillow and a sense of belonging she had never felt, her smile a sweet kiss upon her tear-swollen face.
Hardships fell away with the echo of each step, and yet the path before her remained shrouded and unclear. How she would extract herself from King Henry’s employ, she did not know. One misstep and she may well yet reach the ultimate end, but for now she would revel in this triumph. She would allow the embrace of reprieve, allow herself serenity in the quiet…
The quiet. Geneviève stopped. The weak echo of her clicking heels died away. Her head tilted and she listened. The silence in the castle matched the silence in her mind … the voices were gone.
She raised her hands to her face, tingling with astonishment and joy. She skipped then, like a schoolchild on the way home, and turned the last corner onto the last corridor.
“Geneviève.” The whisper found her as the man stepped out of a patch of darknes
s, a void between two torches where their light could not reach.
She slipped as she flung her body back, a cry of surprise and fear escaping her throat.
“Be not afraid,” he said, turning his head with an odd smile. A veil of pale light found one deep dimple.
“Mon Dieu, Sebastien,” Geneviève grumbled, one hand flattened against her palpitating heart. “You almost frightened me to death.”
“I have been waiting for you.” He offered no apology. “We mus—”
“Never mind, never mind.” Geneviève gave him no pause, flinging herself into his arms. “Seeing you, having you here, it is perfect, perfect.”
She stood on her toes and ravaged his face with her kisses, her hands caressing his arms, his chest, as if feeling him for the first time, mumbling with incoherent happiness. “Everything is different now, do not ask me how, but trust it. What I feel for you—all that I feel—I can allow. There is nothing to stop me, not even myself.”
Sebastien looked down at her, brows furrowed, accepting her affection with neither struggle nor contribution.
Geneviève pulled back, saw his face, and laughed, a low throaty chortle that spoke of lustful amusement. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I make no sense, I know.” She brought her curved mouth closer to his, her body brushing against him with slow, provocative movements, her lips caressing his as she spoke. “But know this: We have much to celebrate, so let us begin.”
She kissed him then, all restrained passion liberated, as if the laces binding her heart had been ripped away. Her tongue fought to conquer his mouth and, with a ravenous groan, Sebastien surrendered.
His hands wrapped around her waist and squeezed; the air rushed from her lungs as he yanked her against him, his hardness mastering all her soft roundness. Their clamorous breathing grew loud in the quiet, their bodies damp. Sebastien’s mouth ravaged her—her lips, her face, her neck—he took her with a brutal passion she had never felt, as if her enticement had freed a beast buried inside him. The passionate onslaught brought her to heights of exhilaration she had never known or imagined, as it mingled with lascivious danger.
With arms clenched as thick and hard as steel bands, he picked her up and thrust forward, shoving her back into the stone wall.
Sebastien’s chiseled body trapped her against the cold rock; any air left in her body rushed out, until she gasped with pleasure and fear.
“Sebastien … Sebastien, wait,” she wheezed, trying to contain his frantic onslaught, her hands thrust upon his shoulders.
But he heeded her not. His hands tore at her bodice, grabbed at her breasts as he buried his face in the deep hollow between them, his mouth nipping painfully at her soft, pliable flesh. Alarm overtook arousal and Geneviève wanted it to stop, wanted him to stop. She clamped one hand on each side of his head and yanked.
Geneviève felt a scream rise in her throat at the face unmasked. Lust burned naked in his eyes, but so did something else, something sad and brutal and terrifying she had never seen before. She shut her eyes to it and Sebastien plunged his mouth onto hers, pressing his lips upon hers until they shred upon her teeth and the foul, acidy taste of blood burst in her mouth.
She shook her head, struggling until she freed her mouth.
“What is this madness, Sebastien?” she entreated. “What are you doing?”
His hard jaw thrust forward, his hands tore a path upward from her breasts.
“Why did you not do it, Geneviève? It would have been so easy. We would have had such a life together, but you’ve changed everything.”
Geneviève’s mouth fell, words and thoughts a tumble. “What are you talking about? What do you me—”
A tear formed in his eye, one ray of sadness in the face of a fiend. His hands moved up farther, the long fingers wrapping around her throat.
“I have no choice now, Geneviève, don’t you see that?” With slow fatality, his hands began to squeeze. “Above all else, I must serve my true king—my cousin.”
Beautiful face contorted with devastation, Sebastien brought his lips to her ear.
“I must serve King Henry.”
One moment of crippling incomprehension … shattered upon horrific realization. Geneviève kicked her legs, banged her fists upon the arms squeezing the breath from her. She had always fought. Now she must fight for her life. She tried to push forward, to reach down to the dagger returned to the leg strap, but he jerked her backward.
I am always with you, I am always watching. How many times had King Henry written those very words? This man had been his eyes, his presence. He was her keeper, her lover, and now her executioner.
“If only you had done what you were meant to do.” His hands shook as they tightened their grasp upon her throat. Tears slipped from his eyes and down his cheeks. He shook his head, as if he denied the act he committed. “We could have married and lived under my cousin’s love. But now it cannot be. I must do what you could not. And then I can never go home. Never!”
Stars burst in Geneviève’s eyes. Rushing blood thrummed in her ears.
“You … love … me.” The words croaked out of her closing throat, their certainty irrefutable.
Sebastien’s hands quivered. For a fleeting instant, Geneviève hoped.
“Of course I love you.” The words of pure anguish fell from his lips. His head dropped under the weight of it. His whole body shook.
Geneviève made her move. She dropped her hands to the wall behind her and pushed.
But he did not yield.
Sebastien pushed back, his grip tightened, her throat closed.
“I am sorry,” he sobbed as he choked her.
Geneviève’s vision blurred. The face before her swam in the darkness that had come at last to swallow her, as it had threatened to do her whole life.
She felt her body slipping down the wall, felt herself rising above it, and she reached out to grab at the release.
34
Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry,
And in pleasure many a grief endure.
—Louise Labé (c. 1524–1566)
The whirring hum of the dagger cut through the air; the squish of spurting blood and fractured bone screamed in answer.
Sebastien’s eyes flew open, his jaw slumped, as the dagger sank into his flesh and found his heart.
But Geneviève did not see it, did not feel it as her assassin’s body fell forward and to the ground with her own.
At the cornerstone of the corridor, King François’s arm dropped to his side. He had killed and knew it, but was it too late?
Like the three guards behind him, he broke into a run. He reached them first; the bodies splayed upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim light. François grabbed the body of his once loyal guard and tossed it aside with the brutal force of his youth.
“Geneviève, Geneviève.” He chanted her name as if he prayed to God.
Two guards grabbed the flaccid body of Sebastien and flung it over with disrespectful viciousness as the third kept his sword point fixed on a spot in the center of the man’s chest. One felt for breath as the other checked for pulse. They found neither, with a condemning sense of delight.
The king held Geneviève’s limp body cradled in one arm, rocking her as he gently patted her face, as he shook her as if to impel the life back into her.
“Dear God,” he prayed, “please do not take her. Do not ply my punishment upon her as well.”
He dropped his forehead onto hers and there he felt it. Breath. Her breath, tickling his face ever so lightly with its faint vapors. But it was enough.
“Loosen her laces,” he commanded, and the closest guard dropped his weapon to the floor with a thunderous clang, dropped to one knee, and untied the laces along the side of the prostrate woman’s gown.
Geneviève sucked the air into her lungs with a rattle; her eyes fluttered as they struggled to open.
François raised his gaze heavenward, a silent, rushed prayer of gratitude. He muttered as the deathly wh
ite skin on her face flushed with the palest pink blush. “Something compelled me to return to you, to make sure you were all right. Thank the good Lord. Thank you, God, for bringing me here.”
Geneviève drew in each breath with deliberation, her body pulsing once more with life. Her filmy gaze scoured the scene before her … the king of France, the man she was raised to kill, had become her savior. She raised a weak hand to his face, to touch him with her thankfulness. François thrust the hand to his cheek with his own and closed his eyes. Geneviève turned her regard to the guards, the bloody body of Sebastien lying within arms’ reach, and all she had forgotten returned.
She struggled to sit up, but François held her back. “No, do not move. I do not know how badly you are injured.”
She shook her head, writhing as she clamored for breath to speak.
“… speak … you …”
“Do not talk, Geneviève. Just breathe.”
But she would not calm, would not stop. She grabbed the king by the clothes upon his chest, and yanked him toward her with unaccountable strength.
“I must … speak to … you.” Her gaze beseeched him, the imperative transparent.
He opened his mouth to argue, but in the end, acquiesced with a frown and a nod.
“Help me,” he said, as he struggled to his feet, struggled to pull her up beside him.
The men jumped forward, two of them wrapping each of Geneviève’s limp arms around their shoulders. With a contemptuous look, François ticked his chin angrily at the body of Sebastien.
“Dispose of him,” he demanded of the remaining guard, and began to lead the others away, back down the corridor toward his own chambers.
“No no, wait,” Geneviève said, no longer gasping for breath, but her voice was the feeble bark of a sick dog and her throat burned with the flames of hell. The whites of her eyes were red with broken veins, and a purple necklace of bruises weaved around the porcelain skin of her neck.
Donna Russo Morin Page 35
