Chapter Nine
February 21-28, 1533
Before Sandhurst could contrive some means of meeting Micheline Tevoulere, the king came up to them and put a possessive arm around Anne’s waist.
“I’m pleased to see that my Anne has been entertaining you.” He smiled. Clad in cloth of silver, black velvet, diamonds, and ermine, François cut a splendidly royal figure. “We shall sup shortly, but first…” He scanned the crowd distractedly. “First I would like to introduce you to your first subject.”
“Ah!” smiled Sandhurst, feigning surprise. “Very thoughtful of you, sire.”
As if the king had sent a silent message, Micheline became visible among the chattering assemblage.
“Madame Tevoulere!” François called. The sound of his raised voice caused others to fall silent, and Micheline looked around immediately. “Will you join us?”
When she came smiling out of the crowd, Sandhurst thought that she was even more radiantly beautiful close up than she’d appeared to be on the distant stairway.
“How may I serve Your Majesty?” she inquired respectfully.
The king was satisfied that Micheline truly wanted to go to England and marry the Marquess of Sandhurst, but he hadn’t liked the shadows that had appeared under her eyes and in her manner these past few days. Anne assured him that it was probably just a case of nerves, so François hoped now that the fresh new presence of this artist might lighten her mood.
“I would like you to meet a guest at our court, ma chere,” he told her kindly. “Allow me to present Andrew Selkirk, a gifted painter from England who has agreed to make some portraits while he is with us.” Turning to Sandhurst, the king smiled. “M’sieur, you have the honor to meet Micheline Tevoulere, a true gem among the ladies of my court.”
“It is a pleasure, m’sieur,” Micheline murmured. For the first time in days she was conscious of something penetrating the fog that surrounded her: Andrew Selkirk’s compelling gaze.
“The pleasure, I can assure you,” he said smiling, “is all mine.” Lifting her slim hand, Andrew pressed a kiss to her fingers, wondering at the sudden flutter of her pulse.
“Perhaps you would sit with M’sieur Selkirk when we sup,” François was saying to Micheline. “Since he’s just arrived, he knows no one else.”
“Certainly, sire,” she replied obediently. For some reason her cheeks felt flushed, and she glanced downward so that the stranger from England would not misunderstand.
*
The boards had been laid and the court wandered over to be seated. The sight was impressive. The huge hall was paneled in walnut and hung with panoramic tapestries depicting King François during various triumphant moments throughout his reign. Servants were lined up beneath the tapestries, holding flaming torches, wine vessels, and golden dishes. The sound of musical French voices filled the air as the splendidly garbed lords and ladies found their places.
Sandhurst took it all in with his usual casual curiosity. He’d supped with King Henry at various castles in England, so his sense of awe had melted away long ago. A servant poured wine into his silver goblet from a pewter vessel with a long spout. Sandhurst sipped it and turned to look at the girl everyone meant him to marry. She had placed her fingers on the stem of her goblet but did not lift it. Instead, she stared into the distance, seemingly at a torch on the far wall, her utterly beautiful blue-violet eyes filled with secrets.
“Will you raise your glass with me, mademoiselle?” he queried softly.
“Oh! Of course, m’sieur!” Hastily Micheline turned to meet his smile. “You will pardon me, I hope, if I seemed rude. I… haven’t felt quite myself lately.”
“Then let us drink to the rebirth of your high spirits.”
She nodded and they lifted their goblets and sipped together. High spirits, she thought ironically. How long had it been since she had been acquainted with such pleasure?
“And now,” Sandhurst continued, “I would like to make a more selfish toast—for luck.”
This time she didn’t have to remember to smile. “By all means, m’sieur.”
“Will you drink with me to France?” Micheline had already raised her goblet, but he held up his hand. “Wait, there’s more!”
“I didn’t think that sounded particularly selfish,” she heard herself remark lightly.
“That was just the preface!” Andrew laughed. “We must drink to a happy sojourn for me in France.”
“Excellent,” she approved.
The goblet had almost touched her lips when he added, “And to new friendships… for both of us.”
She watched him drink then, raising his eyebrows at her over the rim of his goblet. Unaccountably her cheeks were warm again, but somehow she managed to sip her own wine.
Before Micheline could wonder if she was ill, distraction appeared, in the form of a peacock that was arriving at the table in full plumage. It was set down amid a flourish of trumpets and the applause of all present. The bird’s beak was gilt, its tailfeathers spread brilliantly, and it rested on a mass of brown pastry painted green to represent a field. Eight banners of silk were arranged around the peacock, which towered above the other appointments of the table.
“Very impressive,” Sandhurst murmured.
Detecting a note of satire in his voice, Micheline glanced over in surprise. A funny, unfamiliar bubble of delight rose inside her and Andrew gave her a fleeting wink. Truly flustered now, Micheline turned her attention to the food. Suddenly she felt as if she’d been dropped into some foreign place and filled with completely unknown sensations. Was she ill? It couldn’t be Andrew Selkirk’s fault; he’d done nothing except smile at her, converse in a friendly manner—and look at her in a way that made her suspect he could see into her very soul. The latter was a product of her imagination, Micheline decided now as she tasted the peacock. The man simply had quite magical eyes. Probably the old woman he bought his eggs from blushed when he smile at her. Charm could be a dangerous gift, especially for its recipients.
There was much more to eat besides the peacock. Micheline nibbled at sturgeon that had been cooked in parsley and vinegar then covered with powdered ginger, boar that had been grilled and larded with foie gras, tiny ortolans, and juicy breast of heron. The next course was a salad that consisted of raw greens mixed with vegetables and red poultry crests.
Conscious of the silence between her and Andrew Selkirk, Micheline inquired politely, “Does our food compare favorably with that in England, m’sieur?”
He drew his brows together in mock seriousness and replied, “Oh, yes, mademoiselle. Most favorably.” Andrew leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Can you keep a secret?”
She nodded. Her heart was pounding, and she was certain he had noticed the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Why should this man’s proximity affect her so?
Apparently oblivious to Micheline’s inner turmoil, Andrew whispered, “I’ve never eaten peacock. You’ll think me a peasant but the truth is that I normally dine on only three courses.” His eyes sparkled as he leaned closer. “Are you shocked?”
Micheline heard helpless feminine laughter. Was it hers? “No, m’sieur! And I will tell you a secret in return.” The way he inclined his head in anticipation was so captivating that her heart seemed to skip a beat before she continued. “I am not accustomed to peacock either. I grew up near Angouleme, and though my father is seigneur of our village, we lived simply. After I married, my life was simpler still, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. I am only here at all because my dearest friend, Madame de St, Briac, thought that the excitement of court life would help to dispel…”
Sandhurst sensed that she’d never meant to reveal so much, but he wasn’t about to let her stop there. “Yes?”
Though her eyes had clouded, she finished softly, “My husband died this past summer, m’sieur, and I have been in pain of one sort or another ever since, it seems.”
He blinked. Micheline Tevoulere was a widow! The fabric of this arranged
marriage was taking on some unforeseen wrinkles….
“I am sorry, mademoiselle—or, I should say, madame—to hear of your loss, and for the carelessness of my first toast this evening.” Without thinking, he put his hand over one of hers. “Take heart, though. You are young, with your whole life before you. One never knows what lies ahead.”
Micheline, gripped by sadness a moment earlier, now felt a little flutter of hope as she looked at the hand that covered hers. Andrew Selkirk’s skin was golden, even in winter. His hand was well-shaped, square, and strong, yet the fingers were long, and she had already noticed the particular deftness that marked their movements. More important, Micheline felt a warmth and energy that seemed to flow from his hand to hers.
A servant set a dish of Loire salmon sliced with eggs before her, and she freed her hand even as her heart beat madly.
“I—I appreciate your sentiments, m’sieur. Merci.” She stabbed a morsel of salmon with her fork, a utensil that had been unknown to her before Fontainebleau, and gave him a weak smile.
Sandhurst mind went around and around. If Micheline was as ingenuous and heartbroken as she seemed, why would she agree to marry a stranger from a strange country? Could it be that she didn’t know of the proposed betrothal?
“Madame…” he ventured at length, “you’ll pardon me, I hope, if my curiosity has caused me to dare too much, but I have to ask.”
“You may dare, m’sieur,” she said recklessly.
“It may have been only a rumor that I heard, completely untrue, but I was under the impression that you were betrothed to the Marquess of Sandhurst.”
“Oh.” She hardly knew what to say to him concerning that piece of strange reality.
“I understood that you were going to England in April to be married to Lord Sandhurst,” he pressed. “Am I mistaken?”
“No… no, you are not mistaken.” Micheline held out her goblet to a passing wine squire, then drank of it. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Andrew Selkirk’s compelling gaze. “However, I do not wish to discuss this matter with you, m’sieur.”
“Hmm.” Lifting his eyebrows, he gazed at his dish of salmon and eggs and sighed. “Well, I will respect your wishes, madame, but—” Now Sandhurst raised his eyes to Micheline’s slightly averted profile. In the torch and candlelight her hair seemed to sparkle, and her features were exquisite. “I like you, and we may become friends. You see, the king has asked me to make my first painting in France one of you.”
Micheline swiveled to stare at him, her mouth an O. “I don’t understand!” she finally exclaimed.
“His Majesty holds you in high esteem. It seems that if he cannot have you present in the flesh, he would at least keep your portrait as a reminder.”
Hot blood suffused her cheeks again, and she looked away, only to discover not just François I but her friend Aimée staring at her from across the table. What was happening?
“Look,” Sandhurst said gently, “we’ll make a pact. Since we must spend a great deal of time together until the portrait is finished, I promise not to speak of your late husband or your betrothed unless you raise the subject first. How’s that?”
Dishes of figs, dates, walnuts, red sugar plums, and pear pastry were being presented, along with a sweet dessert wine. Micheline selected a sugar plum and took a tiny bite, wondering at the affinity she felt for this stranger.
“All right, m’sieur,” Micheline told him, thinking that she hardly had a choice, “I agree to your pact. And I am grateful for your friendship.”
*
It was long past midnight when Sandhurst returned to the modest chamber he would share with his “valet,” the erstwhile Sir Jeremy Culpepper. There had been entertainments after supper, mainly jugglers and tumblers who cavorted among the rushes and fresh herbs strewn over the tiled floor, but Andrew had not been greatly entertained. Anne d’Heilly had claimed him as soon as they left the table, holding his arm a bit too tightly as she led him around to meet other members of the court. Occasionally Sandhurst had caught a glimpse of Micheline through the crowd. She stood off to one side with a lovely, dark-haired girl, smiling absently as her friend acted very gay. When at last he was free, Andrew went to the place where Micheline had been. He made the acquaintance of the enchanting wife of the seigneur de St. Briac, who told him that Micheline had pleaded fatigue and gone to bed. They had talked for a bit, but in his disappointment Sandhurst was too distracted to notice the appraising way that Aimée stared at him. At length, as the revelry continued unabated, Sandhurst also excused himself.
Sighing now, he opened the door, half hoping that Jeremy would be asleep so that he could think.
“At last!” an annoyed voice exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been playing my part with the king and his court,” Sandhurst replied shortly.
“Oh, yes! A real hardship, I’ll warrant! You were forced to eat all that food I watched the cooks preparing… and drink all those fine wines! How was the peacock?”
He had to smile at that. “Adequate,” he pronounced dryly. “Why are you in such a state?”
Jeremy sat up in his narrow bed, his cheeks crimson now. “Perhaps I can’t sleep on this frightful straw mattress! Your bed doesn’t have one, by the way. You’ve got goose down!”
Unlacing his shirt and doublet, Sandhurst couldn’t resist lifting an eyebrow and saying reasonably, “I deserve it, don’t you think?”
“Are you itching for a fight? I’d be glad to oblige you, solely on the basis of the name you christened me with when you presented me to the head chamberlain!”
His lips twitched as he sat down to pull off his boots. “You don’t care for ‘Jeremy Playfair’? I thought it had a rather honorable ring to it.”
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been called ‘Playfair’ tonight?” shouted Culpepper. “It’s driving me mad!”
“Have a care, Jeremy. You’ll give yourself an attack.” Tugging off the second boot, Sandhurst sighed. “I do miss Finchley at times like this. A man likes to be looked after at the end of a hard day.”
“You push me too far, you know,” Jeremy growled, looking about for a weapon. “Next you’ll suggest that I play your valet in private as well as in public… and they’ll find you smashed on the courtyard below our window!”
Laughing softly, Sandhurst bent to remove his fawn breeches and hose. Too tired to look for water to wash with, he drew back the covers on his bed and lay down with a contented sigh. “I’m having you on. You do know that, don’t you?”
These moments of sincerity were utterly disarming. The color softened in Culpepper’s cheeks as he muttered, “Yes. I suppose I do.”
“I couldn’t get through this masquerade without you.”
The two men exchanged affectionate smiles. “I’m glad to be here… in a way,” Jeremy allowed. “It’ll be another adventure for us to laugh about later—and if it actually does any good, well, then…”
“I met her tonight. Micheline Tevoulere, I mean.” Staring up at the plain green velvet tester, Sandhurst found that her name tasted sweet upon his tongue.
Suddenly ashamed of the time he’d wasted with his ridiculous outburst, Jeremy rose on an elbow to stare at his friend. “And?”
“It’s a long story and I am exhausted. I’ll tell you all of it tomorrow, but for now let’s just say that the situation holds possibilities.”
Chapter Ten
March 1, 1533
“I can’t go for my walk this morning,” Micheline told Aimée as they finished a light petit dejeuner. Ninon had gone to sit in a corner, where she now rolled a tennis ball for their rambunctious new puppy. Her little rosebud mouth was smeared with honey and bread crumbs, so Aimée moistened a serviette and gave it to Juliette, who proudly went off to play mother.
“Why not?” Aimée returned a trifle absently. If Juliette rubbed Ninon’s face too hard, the two-year-old would start to cry, so half her attention was with her daughters.
“Th
at Englishman is going to begin work on my portrait at eight-thirty.” Micheline didn’t know how she felt about the large amount of time she’d be spending with Andrew Selkirk. The man both tantalized and alarmed her. Most confusing was the realization that she wasn’t alarmed because of anything he had said or done but because of her own reaction to him. All the previous day Micheline had avoided him, until, last evening, his chubby valet had brought her a message. In flawless French Andrew Selkirk had written to request that they meet this morning in the king’s second antechamber to begin work on the portrait.
Micheline stood now to keep that appointment, brimming with a mixture of emotions, not the least of which was a pleasant sense of anticipation.
“Well!” Aimée exclaimed, trying to decide what approach to take. “This should be an exciting experience for you!”
“Sitting still while someone paints me?”
“It’s a change certainly.” Unable to help herself. Aimée added, “And the company of M’sieur Selkirk should prove highly diverting! Is he not shockingly attractive?”
The sound of her friend’s mischievous laughter made Micheline blush. “Aimée, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’re married to the handsomest man at court! As for me, I have no interest in Andrew Selkirk or any other man, and well you know it.”
“Don’t forget the Marquess of Sandhurst,” Aimée said recklessly, then immediately regretted the jab. If Micheline became angry, it would only make her more stubborn.
The younger girl turned away to hide her flaming cheeks. “I’ll be late. Au revoir.”
*
The king’s second antechamber, located in the old keep, had recently been decorated with frescoes and stuccoes by the Italian artist Primaticcio, who was currently at work on the magnificent François I gallery.
At this hour the king was downstairs at his council meeting, so the huge square room was quiet. Micheline entered hesitantly, her eyes immediately finding Andrew Selkirk. He sat at a table that was covered with sheets of heavy paper, an inkhorn, and several white swan’s quills. Sunlight poured through the massive windows, lightly gilding the Englishman’s hair as he bent over one of the papers, appearing to write.
Lords of the Isles Page 37
