A young woman swept up the steps and perched on his lap before looking pointedly at Jean and me. My eyes threatened to fall out of my skull at such a bold and brazen display.
Is this the King’s Throne Room or His Majesty’s harem?
With auburn curls mimicking those of the King, the girl’s mane danced over her shoulders and down her back. A thin silver crown attempted to tame her hair, but succeeded only in making it more wild and beautiful. Her delicate features looked faintly birdlike.
“His wife, the Queen?”
“No, I do not see the Queen.” Jean didn’t look at me. “That is his official mistress, Anne.”
“Would you ever take a mistress?” The words burned on my tongue, and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know the answer. My greatest fear, that of my husband leaving me filthy with syphilis and surrounded by a dozen screaming children whilst he entertained the women of Court and beyond, tightened my throat.
Before Jean could answer, Francis dismissed Anne. The young redhead slinked back down the stairs and disappeared into the throng of people. “Good people, tell me. In this ancient tale, do the gracious, loving French accept these foreigners into their court?”
A drunken cheer of affirmation went up from the partygoers.
“Of course we do,” Francis continued. “After all...” He let the words trail out from his mouth until they fell like a death shroud over the people.
Fear danced down my backbone as I watched the effect this man had over his subjects. It was reminiscent of what aunt Lady Denny had reported from King Henry’s Throne room when he needed to impress his glory and power upon a visitor.
When all mouths were silent, Francis continued through slightly slurred words. “After all, I am the inventor of this tale.” He chuckled to himself at his own private joke before continuing. “And I say anything that gives my cousin King Henry VIII displeasure simply must be welcome in France.”
He raised his glass and, at once, Court sprang back to life. Couples whirled onto the dance floor, music started up from every corner, and the jester flipped across the floor before us. Laughter and chatter filled the stone walls and, with the mood significantly lightened, this place felt almost like home. Almost.
Something in Francis’s spiel gave me pause. Cousin.
Without warning, Elizabeth burst to the forefront of my mind. Was she well? Why had she betrayed my confidence? Had she done so under coercion—or worse yet, under torture?
A prayer to Our Lady, begging her favor for Elizabeth, escaped my lips in a whisper. Despite her Protestantism, Elizabeth would always be my dearest blood relation, and I would always love her as such. All my childhood memories were wrapped up in her. In losing Elizabeth, I also lost a part of myself that could never be replaced.
“Come, my love,” Jean urged, effectively pulling me out of my nostalgic reverie. “The King of France has summoned us.”
A plumed courtier, not as fat as his English counterpart but even more lavishly decorated, stepped in front of us before we reached Francis’s throne. “His Majesty will grant you an audience in his personal study. S’il vous plait, follow me.”
†††
A brandy thickened voice met my ears even before I saw anybody. “Tell me mademoiselle, why would you wish not to be married to a king?”
Jean and I rounded the stone corner and there before us sat King Francis. Only the plumed courtier stopped at his side and turned to face us. “After all, am I not a king? Am I too not worthy of your affections?”
The jovial French king I’d seen outside now bore sleety eyes and a scowl. My knees turned to water as I listed backward into Jean. “Dear God, we’ve walked into a trap.”
Jean’s arm tightened around my waist, and he stepped to my side. Words were not needed to express that he would die to protect me, even if that meant the both of us meeting Our Father tonight on French soil by the hand of King Francis—or his personal executioner.
The courtier and Francis exchanged a glance, then burst into a fit of drunken laughter. After a hearty exchange at my expense, the courtier wiped the tears from his rotund cheeks. “Your Majesty, alas, you are not famous for killing your Queens. Personally, I wouldn’t marry a king like Henry either!”
Jean let go a quiet chuckle in tune with Francis and the courtier, who were both doubled over and laughing as though they didn’t have single a care between them. Perhaps they did not.
I dared a small smile and glanced at my husband. He offered me a wink. “I believe that we are safer here than ever we were in England.”
“Here here,” Francis agreed. “Indeed you are, monsieur. Please, forgive my jocularity. It is not often I get to entertain guests who have absconded from the country of my rival, and I must exact as much enjoyment as possible for myself. S’il vous plait, sit down.”
Once we were seated in plush velvet chairs, Francis continued. “Now mademoiselle, you obviously wished not to marry my cousin and subsequently lose your head. Your desire is to live out your life in peace, no?”
I nodded. Try as I might, I couldn’t help staring at his impressive nose. Instead, I tried to study our surroundings in the quaint study, but still my gaze flitted back to his nose.
Francis appeared not to notice, or was kind enough to ignore my rude stares. “Tell me, how may I be of service to you?”
“Your Majesty,” Jean began, “it seems that you know our business here as much as we do.”
Francis nodded. “Oui. Mademoiselle Bridget’s story is quite clear. However, Monsieur, your presence proves to be a quandary.”
“Oui Your Majesty,” Jean said through a smile. The French part of his rollicking accent was further thickened as he spoke with Francis. “I am Madame Bridget’s husband. Jean St. Bromaine. Formerly, executioner to His Royal Highness, King Henry VIII.”
Francis stared at us in silence. When he spoke, I noticed at once that the jocular tone to his voice had taken leave. “Tell me, monsieur, that I am the brunt of a great joke so that I may laugh with you.”
“No, Your Majesty. We come before you today to humbly beseech your mercy. As you know, it is at your mercy where we find ourselves presently.”
Francis sucked in a deep breath and stroked his thick beard. Slowly, he let it out. “I see.”
The hem of my torn dress had found its way between my fingers. I rubbed and twisted the slick fabric until Lady Denny’s voice shouted in my mind. Don’t fidget, Bridget! Ever slow, I let go of my tattered dress and clutched my hands deliberately in my lap like the true gentlewoman I was supposed to be.
“Women, you see, are one thing, madam. But a man who performs services for a king—this is another matter entirely.” Francis’s words hovered over our heads like a guillotine blade.
After an eternal silence, Francis rose to his feet. Something had clouded his eyes, but they cleared, and he offered me the familiar bright smile I’d seen in the Throne Room. His Majesty extended both his hands to me, which I accepted without hesitation. He pulled me to my feet.
“Ah, young and reckless love. There’s not a man in France who could turn you away, mademoiselle.” He looked at Jean and feigned surprise. “Oh, forgive me—madam.”
Francis’s hands tightened around my fingers, and his dark eyes pored into mine with such intensity, I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended. “After all, Frenchmen are led by feelings of love, are we not? You have won the mercy of the King of France, madam.”
“T-thank you, Your Highness.” I attempted a curtsy, but Francis kept my hands held fast in his.
“Jacques,” he barked.
The plumed courtier appeared beside of us, but I dared not draw my gaze from Francis’s. “Majesty?”
“Show our guests to their room. They are on their honeymoon, no? Give them the Ambassador Suite.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Slowly, Francis raised my hands to his lips and brushed a kiss across each before allowing them to sink back to my sides. Jean rose from his seat and took his place beside me. I was careful not to look at him, for fear my puzzlement at Francis’s display would be met with anger.
“Jacques, these are our most treasured guests. They must be treated as such.” Francis bowed deeply as Jacques ushered us toward the door. “You are both welcome in my country for as long as it pleases you to stay.”
“Merci beaucoup,” Jean managed.
As we stepped out into the stone hallway, I exhaled a sharp breath. “Praise God, Jean—”
The King’s voice interrupted my quiet prayer. “Monsieur, mendicité votre pardo. Might I have just a little word with you? Alone?”
