The Courtesan (37 page)

A commotion at the other end of the hall drew Catherine’s attention from the window. The double doors were flung wide with a flourish to announce the arrival of her son. His Royal Majesty, the king of France. Though she had named the boy for her husband, Henry was certainly nothing like his stalwart father, Catherine thought with a slightly scornful curl of her lip.

His entourage of painted mignons trailing after him, her son toted one of those annoying little dogs of his. Catherine had nothing against dogs, at least not proper-sized ones that served useful functions such as guarding and hunting. But Henry’s whippets reminded her of half-starved rats and did nothing to enhance her son’s masculinity.

Which could have used some enhancing. His braided and pinked peascod doublet set off his slender waist to advantage, but gave him a slightly effeminate look. As did the pearl earrings that dangled from his shell-like ears, and his long black hair swept back from his brow. Still Catherine couldn’t help taking a certain amount of pride in him. His dark Italian looks and total lack of scruples made him seem more of her blood than any of her other children had ever been.

Henry handed off his whippet to one of his lackeys and with a dismissive gesture to the rest of his entourage, he made his way alone to where Catherine awaited him by the windows. She sank into a curtsy, then angled her head to offer him her cheek to kiss. An invitation that Henry pointedly ignored. He stared out the window, pulling a sour face as he observed the progress of the construction for the tourney. Catherine sidled close enough so that she could speak without being overheard by the courtiers at the other end of the hall.

“Still sulking, Your Grace?”

Henry shot her an irritated glance. “If I am, I have reason to be, Madame. It seems that everyone here at court down to the lowest page knew of the Scourge’s return before I did. And all because my mother who had the earliest intelligence of anyone did not see fit to tell me.”

“I saw no reason to disturb you with the information.”

“Disturb me? I am the king. I should have been told that one of my greatest enemies was slinking about Paris. Good God, Madame. You may have forgotten how Nicolas Remy and his ragtag troop of Huguenot rebels once defeated my forces on the battlefield. But I have not.”

“Everyone loses once in a while, Henry dear. Do try to get over it.”

The muscle in her son’s cheek twitched, an unfortunate facial tic that only increased as he grew more agitated. Catherine laid her hand soothingly over his heavily bejeweled fingers resting on the windowsill.

“I was slow to inform you of Captain Remy’s return because I feared you might do something rash.”

“Like finish what we started on St. Bartholomew’s Eve?”

“Yes, precisely. Except for some minor skirmishing, we have achieved a delicate balance of peace with the Huguenots that I intend to preserve. You already created more than your share of martyrs that night.”

“At your urging, Maman,” Henry growled. “Sometimes I don’t think I would have participated in the slaughter at all if I hadn’t breathed in that strange incense you burned.”

“Don’t fool yourself, my son. All men are violent by nature. They require no spell being laid upon them in order to kill. And there was nothing in the least magical about my incense. Anyone would think you had begun to lend credence to those absurd rumors that your mother is a witch.”

Henry said nothing, merely arched his plucked eyebrows and cast her an odd look. Drawing his hand from beneath hers, he drummed his slender fingers on the sill, sunlight striking rainbow patterns off his rings.

“Very well. I will admit it might be less than politic to kill the Scourge. But do explain to me why you felt it necessary to honor the wretch by inviting him to participate in
my
tourney.”

Henry looked as petulant as a child being forced to share his toys and Catherine had to resist the urge to give him a sharp smack. Her son was ostensibly the king of France. An inconvenient fact but one that Catherine needed to remember. Curbing her impatience, she explained in the careful tones of one reasoning with a backward child.

“Ever since the death of your dear father, jousts have become much more controlled, tamer affairs. But tourneys are often full of surprises, Your Grace. It is still possible for a dreadful accident to occur.”

Henry regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Ah, so that’s your game. Well, it won’t be as satisfying as taking the bastard’s head myself, but I suppose whatever accident you’ve arranged for the Scourge will have to serve.”

Henry thrust himself away from the window. His dark de Medici eyes so like her own glinted down at her. “However, I do want to make something clear to you, Madame. You’ve had three sons who were king. My brother Francis was sickly and weak. Charles was just plain mad. I am neither. I intend to rule without my mother constantly intriguing behind my back.

“And as for this tourney, I may have a surprise of my own to offer.” With a sly smirk and a mocking bow, Henry left her to rejoin his entourage.

Catherine watched him go with a heavy scowl. She had always been able to easily read all her children’s eyes. This was the first time she had ever been stymied by one of them and it left her more than a little unsettled.

A surprise? At the tourney? He intended to rule without his mother’s intrigue? Exactly what did Henry mean by all that? If Catherine didn’t know better, she might fancy that her son had just had the impudence to threaten her.

Chapter Sixteen

T
he grounds of the Louvre had been transformed into something out of the tales of Camelot, colorful tents erected, pennants snapping in the breeze. Knights sprouted instead of flowers, stalwart young men in various stages of donning armor called greetings and taunts to one another while their squires flew about polishing weapons.

The sun beating through the canvas promised that it would be a warm day’s work. Remy paused to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow. Hunched over his king, he fastened the straps of Navarre’s arm harness. No easy task, as the king was not inclined to stand still and Remy felt more than a bit edgy himself.

Crowds continued to pour through the palace gates, mounted horsemen mingling with the throngs of the more common folk arriving on foot. Coaches drew up to disgorge silk-clad nobles and their ladies. At the glimpse of each gown spread over a farthingale, each veiled headdress, Navarre strained forward only to slump back with disappointment.

Remy feared he was just as bad. It did not help his tension in the least to realize that he and the king were both eagerly awaiting the arrival of the same woman. Remy wrenched the straps holding the plate of armor into place with a fierce jerk, eliciting a gasp from Navarre.

“Damnation, Captain. What are you trying to do, batter me before I even take to the lists?”

“Sorry, Your Grace,” Remy muttered.

“And why so blasted glum, man?” the king demanded. “Your expression could curdle milk. This is a tourney we are attending, not a funeral.”

“Let us hope not, Sire.” Remy gritted his teeth as he concentrated upon fitting the king’s spaulder into place on his shoulder. “I confess I do not like the thought of your hazarding your person in the joust.”

Navarre barked out a laugh. “What hazard?
Combat à outrance
has been outlawed in France for a long time. The most I will risk is a few bruised ribs. The rough and tumble days when a tourney meant real sport are long gone, more’s the pity. Now it is all mere prancing and showing off for the ladies.”

His dark eyes twinkling, Navarre teased. “I am sure there is many a lady here at court who would swoon to see your stalwart physique in action, Captain. Shall we see if we can find you some armor so you can run a course or two?”

“I thank you, Sire, but no.”

Navarre chuckled. “I forgot. You never were one for games. Even during my youth when you helped to train me, you were always so deadly earnest.”

“That is because war is a deadly business.” Remy shifted position to fasten the armor plate to Navarre’s other shoulder. “I could not participate in the tourney in any case. I am neither a noble lord nor a knight.”

“Oh, I can take care of that fast enough. Just kneel before me. A knighthood is the very least I could confer upon you for the service you have done me.”

“I have not helped you to escape yet,” Remy said in a low voice.

Navarre smiled and replied just as softly, “I was referring to your other service with regards to the lady, Gabrielle.”

Remy’s mouth tightened. He focused on the armor fastenings to avoid making eye contact with the king. Navarre had been mighty pleased with Remy when he’d told him he’d secured Gabrielle’s promise to wed. His Grace still had no idea of the turmoil that raged within his loyal captain, that Remy was consumed with finding a way to keep Gabrielle from the king’s bed.

Several of Navarre’s gentlemen in waiting approached to display an array of lances and swords for the king’s selection. Remy welcomed the respite to put some distance between him and Navarre. He was finding it more and more difficult to play his part in this farce, to keep his own feelings regarding Gabrielle firmly in check.

Remy stalked out of the tent, taking refuge beneath the welcoming shade of an enormous oak. All around him a festive atmosphere prevailed but the excitement left him untouched. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree, arms locked across his chest, observing the bustle with a scornful eye.

Navarre was right. The time was long past when a tourney served any useful function such as training for combat or an outlet for the energies of warriors between battles. Now it was not much more than a spectacle. The day of the knight and his bold charger was gone. Remy watched two young pages struggling with a recalcitrant mount. A glossy brown gelding, obviously not trained for this sort of nonsense, yanked back on its lead. Ears flattened, it snapped, strenuously objecting to being draped in yards of elaborate trappings of gold and purple velvet.

Remy scarce blamed the poor beast as he reached up to tug at the modest starched ruff that encircled his own neck. He was trussed up in another set of fine new clothes, his doublet and trunk hose of deep forest green. But at least this time he had the comfort of a proper sword strapped to his side.

He needed to be properly attired to dance attendance upon his king, but he still begrudged the cost of all this finery. At least his own. He hadn’t minded what he’d spent to outfit Wolf as his manservant. Despite his tension, Remy couldn’t help smiling as Wolf swaggered toward him, clad in his new livery. A far cry from the ragged street thief who had come to Remy’s rescue on St. Bartholomew’s Eve.

Wolf munched on an apple, his dark eyes darting about him, eagerly drinking in all the colorful sights of the men preparing to play at war. He strutted, carrying his head high as though he fancied he was a noble knight himself. An effect that he ruined as he fetched up in front of Remy and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Ah, monsieur, I have been over to look at the tourney field. You should see the lists and the golden throne built for the king. There is even a mock tower painted to look like stone but fashioned out of wood. And so many beautiful ladies.” Wolf kissed his fingertips. “Such display of wealth. Such fat purses worn so carelessly it would take but the flick of a knife to sever the drawstring—”

“Martin,” Remy growled warningly, interrupting the lad’s excited flow of chatter.

“I was only jesting, monsieur. Even though the temptation is very great. As my Tante Pauline used to say so often, old habits die very hard.”

“You are supposed to be my respectable page.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Wolf fetched a deep sigh. “But respectability can be so infernally boring.”

Remy gave the lad an affectionate cuff to the ear. “I think you had best go see if you can help the king’s squire with the horses. That will keep you out of trouble.”

Wolf groaned. “Ah, monsieur, you know I have never been good with horses.”

“Go!” Remy said sternly. Wolf grumbled under his breath, but stalked off to obey. As he disappeared around the side of the tent, a fine carriage approached pulled by a team of glistening black horses. The curtains at the windows were drawn back, revealing Gabrielle’s lovely profile.

The coachman pulled on the reins and a footman flew forward to open the door. Gabrielle paused in the opening, her golden hair curled beneath a bongrace, the stiff, heart-shaped bonnet framing the ivory perfection of her face. Dainty brocade shoes peeked out from beneath the gold-trimmed hem of an azure blue gown the same hue as her eyes. The neckline was more modest than what Gabrielle usually wore, but the soft silk hugged her bosom tight enough to arouse a man’s hungriest fantasies.

Remy strode forward, intending to hand her down from the coach, but the king was already there before him. Despite the encumbrance of his armor, Navarre had shot from beneath the flap of tent. Grinning up at her, Navarre’s hands spanned Gabrielle’s waist, and he lifted her down. His dark head bent toward hers, engaging Gabrielle in some intimate conversation, perhaps arranging some tryst for after the tourney. The mere thought was enough to make Remy feel like he’d swallowed live coals. It was all he could do to restrain himself from charging forward and dragging Gabrielle away from the king, his duty to Navarre be damned.

Remy’s attention was focused so grimly on Gabrielle and the king, it took him a moment to realize two other women had alighted from the coach as well. One was Bette. The other was a young woman in a simple green gown who drew many admiring glances, the girl’s beauty like the silvery moon in contrast to Gabrielle’s sun.

She was a great deal taller, her once boyishly flat figure rounded with a woman’s curves. But her straight fall of pale blond hair and unusual otherworldly eyes were just as Remy remembered them.

“Miri?” Remy called in disbelief.

Miri spun round at the sound of her name. Gabrielle had been on the verge of presenting her younger sister to the king, but Miri’s face lit up as she spied Remy. Ignoring Navarre’s outstretched hand, Miri gave a glad cry. She rushed toward Remy and flung herself into his arms with a force that made him stagger back a pace. Moved by the unrestrained joy of Miri’s greeting, Remy hugged her as fiercely in return as if she had been his own little sister.