Gen-eviève looked up from the delicate hand and into Arabelle’s kind face.
“Be not afraid,” she whispered with a small, generous smile. “Our benevolent king is not to be feared. And it is most likely he may not notice you, though not unkindly meant. When he sees her, he sees little else.”
Bracing herself with a grind of her teeth, Geneviève turned to face the man who haunted her dreams and gave birth to her nightmares.
He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen, standing a head taller than the average Frenchman. Named for the Italian hermit who had prophesized his royal destiny, the king’s stature and bearing proclaimed forthrightly the fulfillment of that divination.
The dark, smooth cap of chin-length hair fell across his face as he lowered his lips to Anne’s cheek, his watery-milk complexion flushing like a schoolboy, his almond-shaped amber eyes filling with an undeniable tenderness.
“Are you ready, chérie Hely? Are you as excited as I?” François stepped out of the embrace and raised his arm parallel to the floor, calling Anne by the most informal of nicknames as only her intimates dare.
Resting her hand upon his, Anne smiled up at him. “Very excited, my liege. I have been thinking of nothing else for hours.”
Their words sent a twittering among the other ladies in the chamber.
“The Italian musicians have arrived,” Arabelle explained.“Tonight will be their first night. It is sure to be a magnificent evening. You have come just in time.”
Behind the grandiose couple, the ladies followed, joined outside the door by some of the king’s gentilshommes de la chambre; some were friends, some advisers, a few were both. The Cardinal de Tournon wore his red cassock and four-cornered cap as dashingly as the Admirals Philippe de Chabot and Claude d’Annebault wore their bejeweled and embroidered doublets and trunk hose, decorative swords clanging at their hips.
For all the courtiers’ splendor, the king commanded the stage. His velvet navy blue doublet, encrusted with rubies and sapphires, was perfectly tailored to his large physique; though his abdomen had grown thick with the passing years, the muscular, powerful athlete he remained was very much in evidence. The slashed balloon sleeves revealed the rich red silk shirt beneath and added to the vast width of his broad shoulders. The velvet navy toque, ostrich plumed and jeweled, he wore tilted to one side. Below the navy trunk hose, thick, tree-trunk-like thighs tapered to oddly thin calves covered in the finest red silk stockings.
“Most of the stories aren’t true, you know.” Geneviève’s scrutiny did not go unnoticed, and Arabelle refused to let it continue without remark. “The scabrous tales of his wicked behav-ior—they are no more than deliberate inventions of the writers from the House of Bourbon, all of whom had served the treacherous duc.”
Geneviève would not tell this devoted subject that her opinion arose from knowledge of the king’s true brutal nature, that she had felt the sting of it herself. What concerned her most was that a glimmer of it had shown in her expression. She must gather herself, at once and for good.
“You misread me, I think, Arabelle,” she said in her most gracious voice. “I look upon our king with great deference. All my life I have heard of him. It is so very awe inspiring to see him in the flesh.”
Arabelle glowed with reverent fidelity, and perhaps more than a bit of feminine infatuation. “Once you come to know him, not only as king, but as a man, you will see how truly magnificent he is.”
The king chortled with delight at a courtier’s comment, the sound expanding as it echoed off the palace’s stone walls. Everywhere the signs and symptoms of François’s all-encompassing renovation work spewed into their path, but he stepped unmindful around piles of stone and wood.
As they neared the great hall, enticing aromas of roasted meats and freshly baked breads assaulted
“Be not afraid,” she whispered with a small, generous smile. “Our benevolent king is not to be feared. And it is most likely he may not notice you, though not unkindly meant. When he sees her, he sees little else.”
Bracing herself with a grind of her teeth, Geneviève turned to face the man who haunted her dreams and gave birth to her nightmares.
He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen, standing a head taller than the average Frenchman. Named for the Italian hermit who had prophesized his royal destiny, the king’s stature and bearing proclaimed forthrightly the fulfillment of that divination.
The dark, smooth cap of chin-length hair fell across his face as he lowered his lips to Anne’s cheek, his watery-milk complexion flushing like a schoolboy, his almond-shaped amber eyes filling with an undeniable tenderness.
“Are you ready, chérie Hely? Are you as excited as I?” François stepped out of the embrace and raised his arm parallel to the floor, calling Anne by the most informal of nicknames as only her intimates dare.
Resting her hand upon his, Anne smiled up at him. “Very excited, my liege. I have been thinking of nothing else for hours.”
Their words sent a twittering among the other ladies in the chamber.
“The Italian musicians have arrived,” Arabelle explained.“Tonight will be their first night. It is sure to be a magnificent evening. You have come just in time.”
Behind the grandiose couple, the ladies followed, joined outside the door by some of the king’s gentilshommes de la chambre; some were friends, some advisers, a few were both. The Cardinal de Tournon wore his red cassock and four-cornered cap as dashingly as the Admirals Philippe de Chabot and Claude d’Annebault wore their bejeweled and embroidered doublets and trunk hose, decorative swords clanging at their hips.
For all the courtiers’ splendor, the king commanded the stage. His velvet navy blue doublet, encrusted with rubies and sapphires, was perfectly tailored to his large physique; though his abdomen had grown thick with the passing years, the muscular, powerful athlete he remained was very much in evidence. The slashed balloon sleeves revealed the rich red silk shirt beneath and added to the vast width of his broad shoulders. The velvet navy toque, ostrich plumed and jeweled, he wore tilted to one side. Below the navy trunk hose, thick, tree-trunk-like thighs tapered to oddly thin calves covered in the finest red silk stockings.
“Most of the stories aren’t true, you know.” Geneviève’s scrutiny did not go unnoticed, and Arabelle refused to let it continue without remark. “The scabrous tales of his wicked behav-ior—they are no more than deliberate inventions of the writers from the House of Bourbon, all of whom had served the treacherous duc.”
Geneviève would not tell this devoted subject that her opinion arose from knowledge of the king’s true brutal nature, that she had felt the sting of it herself. What concerned her most was that a glimmer of it had shown in her expression. She must gather herself, at once and for good.
“You misread me, I think, Arabelle,” she said in her most gracious voice. “I look upon our king with great deference. All my life I have heard of him. It is so very awe inspiring to see him in the flesh.”
Arabelle glowed with reverent fidelity, and perhaps more than a bit of feminine infatuation. “Once you come to know him, not only as king, but as a man, you will see how truly magnificent he is.”
The king chortled with delight at a courtier’s comment, the sound expanding as it echoed off the palace’s stone walls. Everywhere the signs and symptoms of François’s all-encompassing renovation work spewed into their path, but he stepped unmindful around piles of stone and wood.
As they neared the great hall, enticing aromas of roasted meats and freshly baked breads assaulted
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