Dear Readers, if readers here remain:
Thank you for your support of the story! I have been a long time away, but always thinking on it. Here's the next bit. If you would like to see more, do please comment. I promise I would get more chapters up quicker!
For Constance, it had proven to be a long week at court. Now this Sunday afternoon she lingered in the mahogany antechamber between the receiving room and the queen's bedroom. While Queen Marie finished changing from her church frocks, the choicest courtiers awaited her reception. Constance could see just their silk and taffeta between the gaps in the door's hinges. She perched on the edge of her seat, not wanting to wrinkle her own gown of periwinkle silk. She would receive Her Majesty first, once the queen had finished dressing, and escort her to the audience. In the meantime, she could not help overhearing what the ladies said.
"Well, you know why they brought her here," the pert blonde Countess Saville whispered. "Because she has had no proper upbringing at home. With a dead father and a hysterical mother, she learned none of the social graces." A chill crept into Constance's chest. The whispers were about her, as they were so often these days.
"She has made rapid improvements in her short time here," said another. It was the Countess Deaux, Constance thought, one of the few kind ladies to be found in Hautefort. "She will be a great credit to the family, and to the Her Majesty."
Another lady scoffed. "Do not forget the influence Her Highness wields over the girl, Countess Deaux. Constance Laurent is properly descended from noble blood, at least on her mother's side. But I am sure the princess will encourage in her a dereliction of duty. It will not be long before she returns to the farms. She will be no credit to the family who is trying so hard to groom her for something better."
Tears sprung to her eyes. "Constance?" the queen called from her bedchamber. In an instant, Constance willed away her tears. As she curtsied deeply before Queen Marie, who sat upon her duvet, a smile stretched across her face.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," Constance said. She had sunk to the ground. Resting on her haunches, she took the queen's hand in hers, and kissed it. The queen traced her finger down the bridge of Constance's nose before catching her chin in her palm, coaxing her to stand.
"You are the loveliest little creature, Constance," the queen said. "You are nothing like the crones and harpies we must from time to time endure."
"Are you tired today, Your Majesty? You need not trouble yourself if you do not feel inclined."
The queen sighed. "Constance, I have felt this way, on and off, about sitting since I was your age. Never have I had less of an excuse for being absent. I can nod off and remain above reproach, and I have you for company."
Constance handed the queen her cane, and led her from the bedroom. As they entered the boudoir the ladies all fell silent, and rose to curtsy.
King Francis's study had changed little in the twenty-five years since he had used it primarily as the outpost from which he maneuvered his only son's life. The walls were still emblazoned with red silk and diplomatic flags. Ministers and sentinels still scuffed along the polished floor. The King's dealings, much like Queen Marie's courtesies, had largely passed to the next generation, to other rooms and other actors. But for the first time since Prince Henry could remember, an ornate decree – marked with the red insignia of the Pope's ring – lay unfurled on the table, and beside it, several pieces of correspondence. Prince Henry watched as his father studied the parchment. His father, the lion who had begun to trudge into winter, roared again as in the days of old.
"They are planning to deny me the title of Holy Roman Emperor," King Francis said, and with a whiff of accusation, added, "and give it to Charles V of Spain."
The prince exhaled a sigh. "Father, you mustn't feel slighted by this. This decision is about many things" - with prepossessing ease he rattled off a list – "a reward to the Spanish for founding the Society of Jesus and staving off the Protestants, their service to the Papal State in the Italian Wars. And Charles is a man of nineteen! His life is just beginning. His vigor is great. You have done many services to God and country – it's this fellow's turn now." He sidled up to his father and added, in a compassionate whisper, "It is known about that your health is declining."
Prince Henry, poor Prince Henry! How his working knowledge of law, art, war, commerce had shifted since the days when his father would drag him to this room for a good scolding and a lecture. And yet after a quarter of a century he had not learned that his father, much like himself (though this also remained a mystery to him), could not be confronted with a painful truth head-on without feeling threatened. King Francis looked his son straight in the eye. A tic pulsed through his right cheek.
"And do you know what else is known about?" King Francis roared. "That my son renounced his duty to form a lasting peace with Spain, and thus with the papacy, and that he instead chose to remain home and marry a woman from the hills!"
The four of five other souls in the room froze but, like good subjects, recovered and showed no reaction to these words. Prince Henry, however, could not ignore his father's insult. He believed King Francis had truly grown to love his wife, her pragmatism and constancy. But his father was still a man of the ancien regime, and perhaps once every five years, when he felt very low, his misgivings about his son's union flared up.
"No, father, you will not do that," he said in a cool bass voice so different from the impassioned tones of his youth. "Just because you have deceived yourself and have been disappointed does not give you the right to insult Her Highness. Twenty-five years ago, you yourself blessed our union. She has given me more instruction in the kingly arts than I believe even you have. She has brought a poet's wit to our court and an arbiter's heart to our affairs, and she has produced for you three accomplished grandsons who will take your philosophy and values throughout the Continent. You do not get to belittle her in the presence of any faithful Frenchman, and especially not in front of me."
In a quarter of a century, Prince Henry's argumentation skills had developed and the king's mental stamina had diminished at about the same rate. The son's eloquent response had cut the father to the quick. His face sagged. His hands trembled. "Forgive me, Henry," he said, his voice now below a whisper. "You have learned a great deal since I promised you to Spain. I believe and I pray you will be a more successful king than I. You were the child whom I longed for and whom I feared for many years I never would receive. I have often placed far too heavy expectations upon your shoulders. But I am frightened now to look back from my years and realize, despite my crown, how very little turned out the way I reasoned and planned. If I could not ascend to the Holy Roman Empire in my lifetime, it ought to have been yours."
The prince grasped his father's hand. "We have riches and power and influence enough, even without this honor."
"If you concede that, then what else is left to strive for?" the king asked.
"Knowledge, father. I am determined to devote the rest of my life to the pursuit of knowledge. I believe I will never have enough of that. Nor will the country. That is why the success of the university occupies my mind. We have had enough of war with the world. Now is the season to reflect and learn at home." The son King Francis raised would have responded not with knowledge, but with pleasure. Prince Henry was no longer that boy. Now he was the man a highly unusual lady had married and molded and healed after twenty years of the king's abuses. In his heart he asked Princess Danielle for forgiveness and offered her his thanks. But he was not contented with Henry's complacency.
"What better source of knowledge could you wish for than the Holy Roman Emperorship? You would receive not only knowledge, but divinity. No, my son, this I believe would be the making of you, and a new era for France. I shall not let it slip from my fingers."
The prince restrained another sigh. He would need to dissuade his father from his preposterous scheme with subtlety. It was the greatest challenge left in front of him before he could properly be considered ready for his father's throne. His first reaction was to shirk from it, but he would have to press on. It was not the difficulty that dissuaded him, but rather the knowledge that this would probably be the last time he tested his wits against his father's. He prayed for a long affair. As ever, he had no idea what he wished upon himself.
At the Manor de Barbarac, Lady Jacqueline enjoyed the beauty of the spring afternoon with a rare walk through the orchards and grounds. She held the arm of Sir Adrien for support as they strolled with Sir Adrien's mother, Madame LeTorneau.
Sir Adrien had become one of the best friends of Captain Laurent just as the Captain had begun courting Jacqueline de Ghent. By then, Prince Henry's marriage and his assumption of greater royal duties had taken the Captain farther from the roving ways of the Royal Guard. Sir Adrien remembered what Jacqueline had been like then: voluptuous, apple-cheeked, shy until provoked. She and Captain Laurent were matched so well, Sir Adrien supposed, that life after her husband's death could never recover its vim and purposefulness.
For now Lady Jacqueline appeared gaunt. Her lustrous black hair had frayed and gone brittle. The world held little delight. But when Sir Adrien and his mother had paid this call, they had been begged by Lady Jacqueline to go out. From the moment they crossed into the orchard, she grew animated again.
"Just the way the light is, just the way the air is - this is exactly the way it was when Captain Laurent and I last walked out," Lady Jacqueline said.
Sir Adrien blushed. Over the eight years since Captain Laurent's death, he had never known whether his presence cheered or discomfited Lady Jacqueline. He wasn't certain whether she recognized him these days as her husband's good friend, or just as any other gentleman shown up at her door. He had never any great facility for speaking with females anyway, which did little to inspire much correspondence with Lady Jacqueline. Now she seemed to prefer an almost stupor-like solitude to the company of anyone, even Madame LeTorneau. She tired quickly, and the three turned back. The ramblers were just returned to the yard when a black carriage, led by the Royal Guard, rolled through the gate. Constance had arrived for her Sunday visit.
The carriage halted in the dooryard. Sir Adrien approached. The postilion recognized him at once and made obeisance. Sir Adrien returned with the proper salute. He seized the handle of the carriage door before a royal attendant could intervene. The heavy wooden door gave way. Constance's shimmering face and brown eyes glowed before him. She blinked and refocused in surprised delight. She was the rare one who never recoiled upon seeing his grim face, even in the first visceral moment of recognition. He felt his heart lift, though he stifled his smile.
"Sir Adrien," she said, beaming. He proffered an arm, covered by his worsted wool coat. She alighted.
"Mother," she said, rushing to her mother's side to kiss her cheek and take her hand. Her mother did not gaze in her daughter's direction, nor did she return any affection. "Hello, my darling," she said, "so good of you to come."
They proceeded inside and sat before the fire.
"You look weary, Constance," said Lady Le Torneau. "How is life at court?"
"I am kept ever-so engaged," she said. "Every morning, from six until seven, I sit for a portrait with Master Gustave. He is to be the new Artist-in-Residence and Her Highness desired the commission." She added, as if wary to come across as boastful, "I believe she wanted him to take on a challenge, to prove himself worthy."
Madame LeTorneau smiled, "I know a bit about art, Constance, and I believe the only challenge he has is to capture your animation in any way that would do you both credit. I'm not sure it could be flattened and conveyed with canvas and paint."
Constance blushed. "Thank you, madame. I do also fidget quite a bit. And he says I sit quite tensely sometimes."
"Do your duties suit?" Sir Adrien asked. He wished to draw her out. Sitting there with Lady Jacqueline and her daughter, he detected for the first time the unhealthy dynamic that he had heard the courtiers whisper about. Lady Jacqueline all but refused to receive Constance's great affection, and Constance seemed to denigrate herself before her mother.
"I adore Her Majesty, and I am grateful for her attentions. I am adjusting still to the temperament and the points-of-view of her privy council and attendants, Sir Adrien. Such people I have never known before. I do sometimes feel vulnerable."
He narrowed his gaze at her. "Why vulnerable?"
She balked. "I suppose because I am young, and new, and ill-acquainted with their customs," she said.
This was trouble, Sir Adrien thought, or as near as Constance would admit to. And who would help her? Her own mother, it seemed, cared naught for her existence. The Queen, though truly fond of Constance, was ailing, and so accustomed to the hazards of court life that she likely did not perceive Constance's struggles. He would entreat Prince Henry to watch out for her somehow. Or better still, perhaps he would be so bold as to seek audience with Princess Danielle.
Sir Adrien sat brooding. The conversation lulled. Finally, the soldier's mother said, "Adrien, why don't you take Constance about, while Lady Jacqueline and I converse? The finer points of the politics of our circle will not interest you, and goodness knows Constance now knows more of these matters than she probably ever wished to." Madame LeTorneau smiled at the girl. Encouraged, Constance rose, and Sir Adrien led her from the room.
Without words, they decided to trudge back to the LeTorneau stables, saddle Crow and Piper, and trot leisurely through the forests. The late April air chilled them, but the bright blue sky confirmed that spring had arrived. They came across a lush stretch of open field and cantered for a quarter mile. The only sound to be heard was the occasional breaking of twigs beneath the horses' hooves.
They slowed to a walk, and riders and steeds regained their breath. Constance reined in beside her guide. "Do the dead visit your dreams, Sir Adrien?" she asked with an ease that startled him. "I know you have seen much suffering and death. My father often occupies my dreams. He is older than I remember him. I dreamed of him yesternight. We talk and talk. By the time I open my eyes I have forgetten all of what he said. I am left only with the memory that I was surprised by how much he knows of what transpires here."
"I sensed that court life is strenuous," he said. And because Sir Adrien rarely intervened in business not his own, Constance would know he was concerned. He knew her to be perceptive to great delicacies.
She swallowed. "I have dreamed of my father for years. It began long before I moved to Hautefort. You have endured so many hardships, Sir Adrien. Your work is not at all easy: farming, traveling, trading. I shan't complain of days in opulent and perfumed chambers."
He halted Piper, and Constance turned around to face him. He looked into her eyes. "You are lonely," he said, and the tone with which he said it – so compassionate, so discerning, so direct, so knowing – made tears roll down her cheeks. Alas the tears she had pent up all week were outed, not by the pain of shame but the relief of recognition.
"Not now. Never when I am with you," she replied. As she wiped away the tears she said, by way of excuse, "That canter was exhilarating, was it not? I have not had my heart stirred so in a long time." She smiled and nudged Crow back to a walk, leaving Sir Adrien to follow her.
They wended through the foothills around the Manor de Barbarac. Not another word was spoken between them, but Sir Adrien sensed no hostility from Constance. To him, as well as to her, he was certain, this was pure joy: to hear the shrill whistle of the falcons and to brush away the low hanging boughs of the plane trees for a glimpse of the trail ahead, which seemed to evolve into a new world with each passing season. Here spring emerged in brilliant green before them. How many had Sir Adrien seen in these hills now? And still this one seemed like the first. Perhaps it was new.
Perhaps, he thought, he should arrange to marry Constance. Even he could no longer deny their shared affection. But she might yet grow into a courtier; surely all ladies struggled at first. Her plight might just be temporary. And soon he would set sail for the Near East, where his mercantile business would keep him occupied for many months, perhaps years. He would merely change her from a lonely maiden to a lonely bride, and how could that secure her happiness?
About a half mile before they returned to the estate, Constance stopped Sir Adrien on the bridle path, interrupting his thoughts. "In three days, Sir Adrien, the court will hold the May Day Feast. Will you accompany me there? If you pity me, as if I were a child left out in the cold, refuse my offer. But if you understand that I would rather go alone than beside anyone else but you, that I am happy when I am near you, then please say yes."
He experienced a shock of dread and happiness commingled, unlike anything he had ever known. To spend three quarters of an hour in the company of this sparkling lady was a comfort otherwise foreign to him. Here was a man who wished the world would look not on him. And yet even he realized that each additional encounter he had with Constance's sweet, bright eyes made him anticipate their next gaze all the more. She radiated care and kindness. He despised the Royal Court, which lacked the subtlety of Constance's discernment, but he accepted her invitation, because he felt he could be useful. His intuition told him that this lovely soul was threatened by someone or something at Hautefort. He would protect her by any means necessary, even if he could only deflect their treachery from her onto himself.
"Yes, of course. And back to Hautefort now, if it pleases you. I am to see His Highness today." He dismounted in one graceful swoop, and took Crow's bridle as Constance did likewise. Her two small feet bounced off the earth.
"It pleases me," she said, and they returned to the manor to bid their mothers farewell.
As promised, Sir Adrien returned to Prince Henry's study, far more willing than he had been just a week before to discuss Constance's situation. Ever the plain speaker, Sir Adrien wasted no time telling the prince of his concern for the young lady's well-being at court, and some of the episode that transpired at the Manor de Barbarac that afternoon.
Sir Adrien could not resist knowing more. He said, "Pardon me, Your Highness, you know the gossip of the kingdom concerns me not. But I am bewildered by the way Lady Jacqueline treats her only child. She has all but renounced her, by my observation. Why is it?"
The prince ran a hand through his hair. "To speak truth, it is confounding. It is some strange symptom of Lady Jacqueline's bereavement. I hardly understand it. But I have seen something very similar: Lady Jacqueline's mother rejected her husband's child, once the husband died unexpectedly."
Sir Adrien furrowed his brow. "That is to say, Lady Jacqueline's mother rejected her?"
"No," the prince corrected, "Lady Jacqueline's mother rejected Princess Danielle."
The merchant looked away from Prince Henry. "I am sorry, Your Highness. I did not mean to pry."
"You did not, Sir Adrien, I spoke my piece freely."
"I care only inasmuch as I can discover who can be relied upon to protect Constance," Sir Adrien explained.
"I know," replied the prince, "and I am looking at him."
Sir Adrien began to pace the turret room, his hands interlaced behind his back. "I have news on that front, Your Highness. Of her own volition, Constance invited me to the May Day Feast."
Prince Henry beamed. "You will ask for her hand there, then?"
"I hesitate, Your Highness, to do so. I swear to you I love her. And I do believe there is natural sympathy between us. But she is yet so young. She is just sixteen. I believe we should let the matter rest for two more years. She would better know her heart and mind. And if I survive my journeying to the Near East, and return prosperous and in good health, I would ask her for an honest answer. She ought not know this connection between her father and me, at least not until then."
The prince considered this a moment. "In light of what you say, Sir Adrien, I agree it seems rash to force her into this decision now. I fear I have whipped up this anxiety needlessly. If you are willing to wait, and it is quite admirable, we will proceed as you advise. I will be sure my mother and my wife keep Constance safe here, and insulate her from the harm that would hinder her growth. In the meantime, I encourage you to nurture the affection you share with her. She is a most adorable young lady, and she will reciprocate your confidences, because she admires you. I know of no man better qualified to receive her rare tenderness."
The door to Prince Henry's study flung open, and in marched a page followed by His Majesty. Sir Adrien made obeisance, while the prince could only gape.
"Ah, Sir Adrien LeTorneau," acknowledged the king, "how long has it been since last we spoke? It is auspicious for me to find you, the valiant soldier, here."
"Your Majesty," Sir Adrien replied. It was almost a question.
The king turned to his son. "Henry, I have decided. I will offer military support to the Italians in launching a strike on the papacy. I am counting on you to begin planning: martial the troops, organize your generals, arrange for provisions. I am sure Sir Adrien will be an invaluable help to you in this."
Sir Adrien stood, his composure falling away in the face of such stunning news. Not only did he find himself in the middle of a private conference between the two most powerful men in France, but he seemed to be the first civilian to hear a declaration of war.
"No, he will not, Father," the Prince declared. "Nor will I be of help in such foolery. Nor will I risk the blood of my sons, or the innocent sons of France! Abandon this scheme of gamesmanship. Who will you entreat to lead your army if your family stands against you?"
The king's nostrils flared. "Do you dare to defy me, both your father and your ruler? Do you dare embarrass me, by forcing me to sidestep my own flesh and blood and give command of my army to another."
"You will find no other, father, who can perform what you propose."
A wicked grin, a victorious grin, crossed King Francis's face. "You forget John Stewart, then." King Francis had set a trap, and lured his son right into it.
Sir Adrien bit his lip. John Stewart, Duke of Albany, was a valiant and randy warrior from Scotland and heir to the Scottish throne. He had married a French cousin, now dead, and took up residence at Amboise, all but hiding there until the time should come to claim the Scottish crown. While half the kingdom admired the derring-do of John Stewart, those with any sense saw him to be an opportunist with no true alliances. It made no more sense that the King would trust this fellow than it did for France to launch a needless war.
Prince Henry soon corroborated Sir Adrien's private thoughts when he responded, "I beg you make your inquiries of him, father, though it should be sad evidence of your present desperation."
The king stormed out, and the page slammed the door behind them.
Sir Adrien and the Prince shared a knowing look, not one of ruler and subject, but of brother comrades.
"I have missed some news, then?" Sir Adrien asked.
"Yes," Prince Henry responded, clasping an arm around his shoulder. "Let us seek privacy in the gardens. I will tell you all."
