“In part… the moon and thoughts of you.” Aimée perched beside her.
“I’m sorry. Don’t worry about me. You should be giving your attention to your family.”
“I have love enough for all of you,” she replied warmly. “Will you tell me why you are still awake?”
“I try to sleep, but Bernard is in my dreams. It’s very hard.”
“I have some news that might cheer you up,” Aimée said suddenly.
“I would be so grateful!” replied Micheline earnestly. “I long for escape from this melancholy. It is like being lost in the woods, endlessly…”
“Perhaps my news will provide a way out. Thomas and I have decided to join the court at Fontainebleau for the winter, and we insist that you accompany us. You’ve never been to court, have you?”
“No.” Micheline had always thought that she wouldn’t enjoy court life, but deep inside her she realized that had only been her way of hiding her disappointment when Bernard did not invite her to accompany him.
“It’s all quite gay!” Aimée declared brightly. “There is so much to do. You’ll have new gowns and new friends…. There will be little time for sadness. I know it will be good for you.”
She stared out to the moon-drenched courtyard. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it would be the best thing for me.” She paused, then turned to search her friend’s face with eloquent iris-blue eyes.
Aimée reached out to touch Micheline’s cheek, her own eyes swimming with tears. “It won’t be easy, but if you have courage, you’ll discover pleasure in living again.”
“Do you truly believe it is possible?”
“Absolutely! I can’t promise that you’ll find your proper path at Fontainebleau, but I am convinced that it exists—and at its end lies happiness and fulfillment that you have yet to even imagine.”
Chapter Four
Chateau de Fontainebleau
December 16, 1532
Late-afternoon sun gilded the great trees of the forest. Oak, hornbeam, wide-girthed chestnut, and birch had shed their autumn finery to begin the long rest through winter. Naked gray branches arched toward the sky, impervious even to the thundering hooves of horses, packs of tired hounds, and fine-looking gentlemen riders returning from yet another successful hunt.
Bursting from the forest, the hunting party made for the palace gates, above which shone imposing high-roofed sandstone pavilions set in rhythmical order, their ornaments, pilasters, and capitals decorated with François I’s bold F.
The king’s horse galloped first through the gateway, hooves clattering over the cobbles of the magnificent Oval Courtyard. As grooms rushed forward to relieve the men of their horses, the king stole a private word with his old friend St. Briac.
“That was a fine hunt, mon ami, but I am dusty. Let us have a cold plunge before we sup.”
St. Briac had been craving the company of his wife, but one look at the bold, determined profile of the king made him sigh inwardly and reply, “I am at your service, sire.” To guard their three-decade-old friendship, Thomas had never accepted favors or rank from François, yet one did not refuse the king when he made requests in a certain tone of voice.
They walked leisurely across the cobbled courtyard toward the arched doorway that would lead them into the new appartements des bains. The Chateau de Fontainebleau was in the midst of a series of elaborate transformations. Ever since the king had decided to spend more time near Paris, this hunting lodge had been the focus of dramatic changes. For several years it had been noisy and dirty, filled with scaffolding and workmen, but slowly the grand new Fontainebleau was emerging.
A new wing had been added to the keep which so far housed the king’s dreamed-of baths. Upstairs a long, splendid gallery was being constructed, and François had already begun to recruit the finest artists from Italy to ensure its perfection. He was extolling the virtues of Rosso and Primaticcio to Thomas when a familiar figure appeared on the stairway next to the appartements des bains.
“You go on, Thomas,” the king murmured. “I’d like a word with Madame Tevoulere.”
St. Briac arched an eyebrow, but left his friend alone to greet Micheline.
When she reached the bottom step, François exclaimed as if surprised, “If it isn’t the loveliest lady in all France! How do you fare this afternoon, madame?”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” Micheline flushed slightly and dropped her eyes. Clad in a simple gown of dark blue silk which was properly modest for a widow, she nonetheless felt his hazel eyes sweep the curves of her body. Eager for distraction, she produced a book from the folds of the cloak she carried. “I hope you won’t mind, sire. I took you at your word and borrowed this from your splendid library. I thought I might read in the garden.”
“Mind? Have I not told you that all I have is yours for the taking?” François smiled at his own subtle wit, then leaned forward to read the title of the volume Micheline had chosen. “Roman de la Rose! An inspired choice. ’Twill do you good to read of romance. I’ve worried that you might have forgotten such pleasures!”
Micheline hardly knew how to reply. When the king reached for her hand and kissed it, the uneasy flush in her cheeks intensified. “I mustn’t keep you from your bath, sire. Au revoir.”
François watched as Micheline walked under the archway leading to the elaborate gardens. The sight of her hair, gleaming in the sunlight, and the gentle sway of her hips made him sigh. Finally he turned and went to join Thomas inside the bathing room. Quickly the two men shed their soiled garments and walked down the flight of wooden steps that led to the great square pool. It was five feet deep, with two spouts that provided hot and cold water. Priceless paintings and statuary decorated the perimeter of the room.
“Ah!” exclaimed the king. “Could heaven itself be sweeter?”
St. Briac ducked his head under the water and emerged to shake the cool droplets from his hair. “I must agree, sire, that God Himself would doubtless be content here.”
Servants appeared with jeweled goblets of strong red wine and plates filled with crusty bread, oysters from Cancale, strawberries from the king’s greenhouses, and tempting little wedges of Auvergne cheese. The men, hungry after their exercise, ate contentedly.
“I feel that life is finally settling into place after the changes of recent years,” François reflected.
St. Briac watched him plunge into the water and swim across the pool. Indeed, there had been changes. Two of the king’s young sons, who had become hostages to Emperor Charles V in place of their father, had been ransomed in 1529 after three years. The negotiations for their release had been effected by two women, one of whom was Louise de Savoy, the king’s mother. “The Ladies’ Peace” had ended years of war, but in return for the safe return of his sons, François had to reconfirm his marriage by proxy to Charles V’s sister Eleanor.
François had paused to rest against the gilded edge of the pool beside his friend.
“The death of my mother continues to grieve me,” he said suddenly.
“Yes, sire. But it has only been a year, and she was your trusted advisor. You continue to adjust.”
At length, François remarked more jauntily, “I do find myself intrigued with this subject of change. How boring life would be if nothing ever changed. Take women, for instance….”
Biting back a smile, St. Briac waited, knowing what was coming.
“Here at court,” the king continued between bites of strawberry and cheese, “the women change like the seasons and most are forgotten. A few, however, stand out like roses in a field of daisies.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“One lady in particular…”
“Micheline?” he wondered innocently.
“Oui!” François averted his eyes, and took a long drink of wine. “Micheline has made an entrancing change in the court. Apparently you lust after your wife alone, my friend, but even you must admit that Madame Tevoulere is a female of exceptional loveliness.” He sighed, smiling. “Most
astonishing, however, is her mind. I can discuss even Roman history with Madame Tevoulere! My own complaint is that she continues to maintain a certain level of reserve when in my company. Could it be possible that she is immune to my charms?” He laughed at such a ludicrous notion, but his tone took on a low urgency. “Thomas, couldn’t you speak to her? Assure her that I only wish to know her better?”
St. Briac’s amusement waned. “Sire, if you imagine that I can intercede, I must dispel that notion. Aimee is trying to help Micheline recover from the shock of her husband’s death, to learn to enjoy life again. She would not want her heart broken, even by her king.”
“How can you suggest that I could harm so glorious a creature as Madame Tevoulere?”
“It might be a matter of circumstances more than intention, sire.” Suddenly the water felt cold and tiresome and he longed to be elsewhere. “You know as well as I that you are married. For my Aimée, that would be obstacle enough, but there is also the matter of Anne d’Heilly, who has been your favorite for many years. It would not be an easy matter to displace her, even if you wanted to, and I doubt you truly could want that.”
King François frowned, displeased by his friend’s words. Only from St. Briac would he tolerate such a conversation. Besides, he was not at all certain at that moment that he would not have given Micheline Anne’s place at court and in his heart. Micheline seemed unobtainable, and for the King of France, such a challenge was virtually irresistible.
*
François was not the only person at Fontainebleau who contemplated Micheline Tevoulere. Even as he and St. Briac were talking, Anne d’Heilly sat at her writing table in her private chambers, worrying and planning. She was frankly scared. For years she had been secure in her position at court. The king might take other women, but they meant nothing; even this new queen, Eleanor, meant nothing to him. Why, François could scarcely bear to sleep with his own wife! Night after night he came to Anne instead.
She was proud, too, that he trusted her judgment. Since the death of Louise de Savoy, Anne had gradually taken over for the king’s mother, giving him advice in her place. Anne d’Heilly had more power than any other woman in France. That very autumn François had taken her to Calais and Boulogne for the meetings with Henry VIII—while Queen Eleanor had remained behind.
Putting down her quill, Anne glanced distractedly at the pages she had just written, then rose to stare at herself in the mirror. Everyone said that each year increased her beauty, and she believed them. Fair curls brushed her brow while her wide eyes seemed bluer than ever. Her figure remained diminutive, its curves sweeter and more feminine than they had been when she first met King François, at age seventeen.
“Micheline Tevoulere is no lovelier than I!” she whispered aloud.
That was the crux of her dilemma. Anne had instantly sensed the king’s attraction to the newest member of his court, but after a fortnight’s brooding she was no closer to finding a solution that she could effect alone. Micheline did not appear to covet Anne’s place as mistress to the king—in truth, she seem to have no interest in François at all beyond that of respectful subject. At last Anne had realized that this was the basis of the girl’s appeal. Micheline Tevoulere was the first woman in years who was not his for the taking.
Anne knew now that the only solution was to remove Madame Tevoulere from the king’s sight, from the court itself. Returning to her writing table, she thanked providence for allowing her to become friends with the king of England so recently. She dipped her quill into the ink and finished her letter by subtly reminding Henry VIII that she would repay any favor he might grant her. The English monarch was eager for François I to intercede with the pope regarding his divorce and impending marriage to Anne Boleyn.
“I am a romantic,” she wrote Henry in closing, “and it warmed my heart to see the love between you and your Anne. I hope that the two of you can be married… and I shall do everything in my power to persuade my king to share my view if that happy event comes to pass.”
*
As Anne d’Heilly was signing her name to the letter to Henry VIII, Micheline Tevoulere had been joined by Aimée in the gardens below, and they strolled aimlessly, unaware that others who wielded control were contemplating Micheline’s future.
Even in December Fontainebleau was a place of unrivaled beauty. In winter the garden’s hedges were clipped to form artful green tunnels that led into dormant flowerbeds, punctuated with urns and sculpture. Micheline did not regret coming here. The constant activity was a welcome change from the period of darkness following Bernard’s death. During the day she rode or walked with Aimée or one of the other ladies of the court. Meals were events, attended by hundreds of people, and nearly every night there was entertainment of some sort. Lovely new gowns had been made for Micheline, and she enjoyed the warm admiration of nearly everyone she met—especially the men. However, in spite of the invitation in their eyes, she could not bring herself to respond. The thought of even being kissed by anyone but Bernard remained forbidden.
“I saw you talking to the handsome Chevalier d’Honfleur last night,” Aimée ventured after a few minutes of companionable silence.
Micheline smiled and shrugged slightly, reading her friend’s mind. “Guillaume is very nice,” she allowed. “I agreed to go riding with him tomorrow.”
“Good!” Aimée knew she should choose her words carefully, but, as usual, impulse overruled reason. “I would like to see you encourage someone, if only to discourage the king!”
“What do you mean?” cried Micheline. “I cannot feel the slightest stirring of affection for any man I have met here, beyond that of simple friendship—including the king! Surely he is perceptive enough to realize that!”
“I would guess that it is that challenge that intrigues him, ma chere. Don’t fret, though. François is a gentleman at heart, though used to having his own way. You simply must continue to show only respect for him. Any encouragement at all would only heighten his desire… and determination.”
Micheline paused to pick a sprig of mistletoe and gazed at it pensively. “I’ve begun to think that Bernard’s death killed something within me. There are moments, when I talk to someone who is handsome, charming, and accomplished, and I marvel at the total absence of feeling in my heart.” She met Aimée’s concerned gaze with teary eyes. “I doubt I’ll ever be attracted to a man again.”
Aimée opened her mouth, then closed it, aching for her friend. She yearned to repair Micheline’s heart, but lately she had realized that only God could perform such a miracle. Aimee could only wait and pray.
Chapter Five
London, England
February 5, 1533
Dawn had scarcely colored the eastern sky when the noise of the River Thames coming awake disturbed the slumber of Iris, Lady Dangerfield. She frowned slightly, still half-asleep, forgetting for the moment that she lay in the Marquess of Sandhurst’s bed. His town house was fashionably situated on the Strand and overlooking the river, but this daily commotion on the water could become tiresome.
Iris opened one eye to find her bed partner still sleeping a few inches away. Clearly, Sandhurst was used to the clamor. Her irritation melted away as she gazed at him, lost in the spell he cast so effortlessly, even in his sleep.
Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst, would become one of the wealthiest men in Britain upon the death of his elderly father. Not only would the coveted title of Duke of Aylesbury be his, but also vast estates in Gloucestershire, and Aylesbury Castle in Yorkshire.
The mere thought of such riches and prestige made Iris ache inside, for she had married Timothy, Lord Dangerfield barely two months before meeting Sandhurst at Hampton Court. She’d been satisfied with Timothy until then, but the instant she glimpsed that proud head across the garden and felt the heat of his compelling brown eyes even from a distance, Iris lusted for him. Then the Marquess of Sandhurst had slowly, casually, made his way to her side. When he reached out with strong, agile fingers
to lift her hand to his mouth, she’d burned for him, nearly fainting.
That had been four years ago, and the force of her ardor seemed almost to amuse Andrew. He was fond of her, but Iris knew that even if Timothy should die Sandhurst would not marry her. He did not seem to want to be bound to anyone except himself. Naturally he would have to marry one day to produce an heir. Iris tried not to think about that. The idea of another woman having what she burned to possess was torture.
Longing to touch him now, she stared instead. Her gaze lingered on his tousled hair, which curled slightly against his brow and along the nape of his neck. As a child, Sandhurst had been fair, but he was thirty-two now and his hair had darkened to a rich deep brown. Iris thought him the most splendid, masculine creature alive, and there were few women who would disagree with her. His face could have been sculpted, particularly the cheekbones and aristocratic nose. Just above his upper lip, on the left side, was a scar that cut down into the firmness of his mouth—this obvious flaw made him doubly captivating.
“My dear Iris,” he murmured suddenly in a voice husky with sleep, “you are a woman of breeding. Were you never taught that it is rude to stare, especially at this uncivilized hour and at such length?”
There had not been even the flicker of an eyelash to betray his consciousness. Iris blushed, but whispered, “Forgive me, my lord. I only was staring because I could not touch….”
“Why not?” One side of Sandhurst’s mouth quirked slightly, brown eyes opened lazily, and he was turning on his side to reach for her.
Even in winter his skin was golden brown against Iris’s pale flesh. Leisurely he traced her breasts with one fingertip, smiling as he gathered her closer and breathed the scent of roses in her coppery hair.
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