“There’s nothing to tell,” Micheline struggled to sit up, then pasted on a wan smile. “I just felt a bit faint. Too much exercise, perhaps.”
The chamber door had been left ajar and now it swung open. “Madame Tevoulere, may I have a few words with you?”
Aimée looked up in surprise to find Anne d’Heilly entering the room. Before she could protest, Micheline said numbly, “Oh, yes… Please sit down.”
“Merci!” Smiling brightly, Anne took the chair next to the bed and scrutinized Micheline under lowered lashes. She was pleased with what she saw, wondering if François would be quite so enamored of this pale, pinched-looking girl.
For her part, Micheline was glad for the distraction—from her own consuming pain and Aimée’s questions. She couldn’t tell anyone what she’d learned, ever.
“I have something of great importance to discuss with you,” Anne was saying kindly, “though it is rather personal.”
Aimée made no move to leave them alone, and Micheline merely murmured, “You may speak freely in front of Madame de St. Briac.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Anne straightened her skirts in annoyance. Why did Aimée have to be such a meddler? “The king himself has asked me to raise this matter with you, madame.” She proceeded then to unfold the same tale that she had told François, dwelling on the Marquess of Sandhurst’s attractive reputation, the beauty of England, and the fresh, bright future being offered to Micheline.
“Of course, it’s an honor to have been chosen as the prospective bride to Lord Sandhurst. And, it’s a chance to begin a whole new life, away from the… memories of the past.” Anne paused to give her words time to sink in, then added brightly, “And, as I’ve doubtless mentioned, the marquess is said to be exceedingly handsome and charming. How fortuitous for you that he has a weakness for Frenchwomen!”
Aimée was thunderstruck. She would have spoken her mind immediately, but she was so certain that Micheline would veto these ridiculous marriage plans that she kept silent.
“Can you tell me when and where the wedding would take place, my lady?” Micheline queried instead. She looked rather dazed.
“Mais, oui!” exclaimed Anne. “You would go to England in April, and, as I understand it, King Henry himself intends to attend the ceremony at Aylesbury Castle, in Yorkshire. Of course, King François will see to it that you have everything you could possibly need before you leave France. We’ll have such fun planning your wardrobe!”
Micheline sighed, and Aimée stared at her sharply, a sudden feeling of panic swelling with her. Before she could speak, though, Micheline said softly, “As you wish, then… I’ll accept the marquess’s invitation to become his wife.”
Chapter Eight
February 21, 1533
Dusk was approaching, heralded by a cold, penetrating wind. The forest of Fontainebleau seemed to close in on the two men on horseback.
“I don’t like it, Sandhurst,” complained Sir Jeremy Culpepper. “Not one bit. The whole place gives me chills.”
Laugh lines crinkled the corners of Andrew’s brown eyes. “Too late, my friend! There’s no turning back. Besides, you’ll feel different when you’re sitting before a blazing fire with a cup of wine and a dish of hot supper.”
“In the servants’ kitchen!”
“Now, now,” Sandhurst soothed, trying to smother his laughter. “You never know; they may send me there as well! I’m not at all certain where unknown painters rank in the hierarchy of a king’s court.”
Jeremy was too disgruntled to reply. He glanced over at his friend, who rode slightly ahead, and thought that it was highly unlikely that Sandhurst could ever be banished to the servants’ quarters, even if he actually were a servant! His presence was too splendid to waste. Even now, at the end of a long day, he sat gracefully erect on his horse, his profile half-amused and unmistakably aristocratic, and his body lean and strong in the fawn doublet, breeches, and boots that he wore.
“I’ve just got one thing to say!” Jeremy heard himself shout.
“If I’m going to lower myself and pretend to be your lackey for the next few weeks, you’d damned well better accomplish something to make it worthwhile! Don’t open your eyes at me like that! I’m talking about the girl, and well you know it! If you don’t fancy her, I’d appreciate it if you’d decide that right away so that we can be done with this foolishness and go home! My time is valuable, whether you appreciate that fact or not!” Jeremy’s face was red long before he finished his tirade.
“Egad!” exclaimed Andrew, the barest quirk of his mouth betraying his amusement. “You’re hungrier than I thought! And that speech was very impressive, but I can’t promise to obey any of your commands.” Gently he nudged his horse with his knees and, as it eased into a canter, glanced back in Jeremy’s direction and added, “I must admit that I don’t hold out much hope regarding the outcome of our undertaking.”
“What!” Culpepper yelled in disbelief.
“I mean, what kind of woman would agree to marry a man she’s never even seen? Not my sort, I fear.”
*
As it turned out, a hot meal and several mugs of wine did go a long way toward improving Sir Jeremy Culpepper’s outlook. He sat alone at the long scrubbed table in the kitchen, nearly oblivious to the pandemonium that surrounded him. Supper was being prepared for the king and his court, but the head cook had been sympathetic and hadn’t made Jeremy wait for his. He found the pain moullet, a soft bread made with milk and butter, extremely soothing to his voracious appetite. The bread accompanied a steaming dish of rabbit stew flavored with green peas and carrots, and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and fresh herbs. Jeremy had never eaten anything quite so flavorful in all his life.
In a different part of the chateau, Lord Sandhurst, now known as Andrew Selkirk, was standing in the long expanse of King François’s unfinished gallery. The shell of it was complete, but the planned frescoes and carved paneling would take years. The king himself stood off to one side, reading a letter that had been sealed with the Marquess of Sandhurst’s crest.
To His Majesty, the King of France:
The bearer of this letter is Andrew Selkirk, a very accomplished painter who has created masterful portraits of members of my family. He brings you an example of his fine work, a likeness of my sister, Lady Cicely Weston.
It is my hope that you will give Selkirk a place at your court during his sojourn in France. Your Majesty’s fine reputation as a patron of the arts leads me to believe that you will find Selkirk’s visit an enriching one.
Most Respectfully,
Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst
François looked up from the sheet of parchment, scrutinizing the handsome man who waited nearby. “How do you like my new gallery, m’sieur?”
“I’ve just been admiring the portions of paneling that are completed, Your Majesty. Very impressive.”
François found himself warming to the Englishman. “I understand that your king Henry uses much gilding in his houses, whereas I use little or none. I prefer timber finely wrought with diverse natural woods, such as ebony and brazil.”
“I admire your taste, sire. I agree that these woods are richer than gilding, and doubtless more durable as well.”
“My sentiments exactly.” The king beamed. “I bid you welcome to my court, M’sieur Selkirk. I think that we shall deal well together.”
“Your Majesty is both kind and generous.”
As they walked together through the gallery, François inquired casually, “The Marquess of Sandhurst is your patron?”
“I have made some paintings for him.”
“May I ask your opinion of the man?”
“I am not really qualified to judge, sire,” he said. Somehow, his inner amusement with the conversation allowed him to remain outwardly serious.
“Please, I urge you to be frank. You see, Lord Sandhurst is betrothed to one of the ladies of my court, and I would see her happy.”
“Betrothed, you
say? How interesting! Well, that’s a surprise. In answer to your question, I can only say that it would be difficult for this lady not to be happy in a marriage with Lord Sandhurst. He has a great deal to offer! Perhaps it would be more to the point to wonder if this lady will make him happy.”
François stared in consternation. “M’sieur, I can assure you that Micheline Tevoulere could make any man happy! She is a particular favorite of mine, and I confess that I am loath to relinquish her to your countryman.” His hazel eyes were distant. “In fact, perhaps you should start your efforts here by painting her. I would like to be able to gaze at her likeness after she departs from France.” The king stopped and met Andrew’s neutral gaze. “There’s no reason to tell her that you know Lord Sandhurst. In fact, the less said about him the better. I still entertain the hope that she may yet change her mind….”
“I shall be pleased to paint this lady’s portrait, sire, and you can rely upon my discretion where Lord Sandhurst is concerned,” Andrew replied solemnly. Inwardly an urge to laugh aloud warred with consternation at François I’s revelations. Was he to assume that Micheline Tevoulere was the king’s mistress?
*
For days Aimée had appealed to Micheline to change her mind. The king would understand, she said. How could Micheline consider marriage to a stranger? One day her heart would heal and she would rediscover love, Aimée insisted. All her entreaties met with her friend’s numb resolve.
“I am simply at my wit’s end, Thomas!” Aimée was exclaiming as she stepped out of her bath and reached for the linen towels that had been warming in front of the fire.
“I’ve noticed,” her husband remarked from the adjoining bedchamber. “Why don’t you come in here and let me distract you?”
Laughing helplessly, Aimée did go in and sit naked on St. Briac’s lap, kissing him deeply. He was half dressed for supper, and the sensation of her soft damp breasts against his bare chest made him forget all else.
“Thomas… please, we can’t—”
“Indeed?” he murmured, holding her near as he blazed a trail with his mouth across one of Aimée’s shoulders and down her tender inner arm. “According to whom?”
She shivered, frankly aroused as he tasted the sensitive bend of her arm. “According to me. For now, at least. After supper we’ll have—” She paused, gasping. St. Briac’s lips had found her wrist, and Aimée knew that next he would lift her hand and savor each finger. She knew, too, that he was well aware of the moist heat between her legs. One more moment and there would be no turning back. Clinging to the thought of Micheline, alone and vulnerable to the cattiness of the court ladies, Aimée wrenched free. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Thomas! I’m thinking of Micheline! You and I have the whole night ahead to romp in bed.”
St. Briac let her go, reaching for his shirt instead. He was aware that there was a part of him that was jealous of all the attention his wife paid to Micheline Tevoulere, and it made him ashamed. Although he was fond of the girl himself, that same selfish part of him was secretly pleased that she was going away to England. Nothing that he and Aimée had tried to do for her seemed to have had much effect, and he wanted his wife back.
Still, guilt made St. Briac sigh and say, “It’s all right. I understand. It’s rather like being pushed aside at the crucial moment in bed because one of the babies is crying. I’m used to it.” Aimée smiled warmly at him from the bureau, where she was removing undergarments, and that smile made him even more magnanimous. “I know your side of all this, miette, but what does Micheline have to say about it?”
“Oh, she says the same thing over and over again until I could scream!” Sparks seemed to flash from Aimée’s green eyes. Tightening the delicate laces of her chemise, she reached almost angrily for her petticoats. “‘There’s nothing for me here,’” Aimée mimicked. “‘I can’t forget the past! At least in England I can attempt to begin a new life!’ That’s what she says!”
“Has it occurred to you that perhaps this would be the best solution? I’m surprised that you aren’t more sympathetic to her plight, since you were once so desperate to escape your own lot that you ran away with the king’s court train.”
“That was different!” Aimée shot back hotly. “I was younger. I didn’t have the opportunities and advantages that Micheline has—and I was being sold off in marriage to that horrible Armand Rovicette! That’s a reason for me to sympathize with Micheline, Thomas! What if this Lord Sandhurst is grotesque? Why, Micheline’s life could be a nightmare! There is simply no reason for her to do something this foolhardy.”
St. Briac watched his wife don a gown of emerald-green satin and went up behind her to lace the back. “My darling, I understand your feelings, but you must allow Micheline to make her own decisions. You of all people must understand how it would make her feel to be pressured, even by a loving friend like you.”
The soft tenderness of his voice brought tears to Aimée’s eyes and she buried her face in his fresh shirtfront. St. Briac’s arms held her near as he stroked the tense length of her spine.
“Don’t you see, Thomas,” she choked at last, holding fast to her husband, “this is the most important reason why I don’t want Micheline to go through with this plan! She has no idea what she’s missed so far… and what she may forgo for a lifetime if she marries the Marquess of Sandhurst!” Lifting her face, she gazed into her husband’s eyes and said, “Love, real love, between a man and a woman is a miracle. Micheline must search for that miracle, not run to England!”
*
Micheline felt dazed and numb most of the time. It spared her the pain of introspective thought and protected her from memories.
Activity, though distracting, was often fraught with risks. Tonight, as she dressed for supper, Micheline wished fervently that she didn’t have to go downstairs and mingle with the entire court. She lived in fear of hearing the voices from the carp pond, which would mean facing one of the women her husband had made love to. Sometimes, when the court gathered before meals to socialize, Micheline imagined that people were whispering about her. They all knew about Bernard, she realized now, and they must all think her a fool.
But it would be worse to stay in her chamber. So she bathed and dressed each evening and pinned up her curls in the current fashion, then went to supper with Thomas and Aimée, her head held high. Soon enough she would escape France and all its painful memories…
“Micheline, are you ready?”
It was the seigneur de St. Briac, calling gently at her door as he did every evening. Micheline paused to glance in the mirror, appraising the curls that framed her slightly pale yet lovely face, and the elegant gown of golden velvet that she wore. Sprinkled with tiny emeralds and topaz, it nipped in at her waist, while its deep square neckline flattered her bosom. She wore only one necklace, a band of emeralds at the base of her neck, plus earrings of topaz and emeralds that set off her cognac-hued hair to perfection.
“Yes, I’m ready,” Micheline said, and opened the door with a convincing smile.
*
Sandhurst longed to lean against the elaborately carved chimney piece, but the juniper-scented fire kept him at bay. He was fully aware that Anne d’Heilly had been the king’s favorite for years, but here she was, chatting and smiling at him coquettishly from a distance that made him nervous. Another inch and the lady would be kissing him!
Glancing toward the sumptuously garbed men and women that were filling the hall, Andrew said, “I begin to regret the fact that I had no time to put on more appropriate clothing. I fear I shall be rudely conspicuous at supper.”
“Not at all, m’sieur!” Anne laughed. Her eyes swept the fawn doublet and breeches that skimmed his masculine body more appealingly than any amount of velvets, jewels, and furs ever could. “You have just arrived; everyone will understand. Aside from that, you are an artist. Such people may dress as they please.”
“You are very kind, my lady.” Andrew smiled.
“Do, please, call me A
nne….”
His attention had wandered, however, to the stairway at the far end of the hall. An attractive couple was descending, but it was the young lady behind them who caught his eye. Even from this distance he recognized the intelligence and sensitivity in her face, and the glow of her eyes. In the torchlight, the lady’s hair was a mixture of gold and fire, and though her gown was fine, Andrew found himself staring at the graceful curves hugged by the velvet.
“M’sieur!” Anne exclaimed, pretending to pout. “Have you forgotten me?”
“Hmm? Oh no, of course not.” He gave her a distracted smild and inquired, “Can you tell me the name of the unaccompanied young lady who is at the bottom of the staircase?”
Anne narrowed her eyes at Micheline and demanded, “Why do you ask?”
“The lady has an interesting face. It’s not as beautiful as yours, of course, but it might be a challenge to paint.”
“Oh.” She tried to decide if she’d been complimented. “Well, that is Micheline Tevoulere. She’s betrothed to a countryman of yours—the Marquess of Sandhurst.”
“Really!” Andrew exhaled slowly. “That’s very interesting….”
Part Two
The knight knocked at the castle gate;
The lady marveled who was thereat.
To call the porter he would not bin;
The lady said he should not come in.
She asked him what was his name;
He said, “Desire, your man, Madame.”
She said, “Desire, what do ye here?”
He said, “Madame, as your prisoner.”
– William Cornish 14?-1523
Lords of the Isles Page 36
