To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin Page A

their senses, reaching out to them, as did rousing conversation punctuated by bursts of provocative laughter.
    At the end of the corridor, the queen and her cortege awaited. Releasing Anne’s hand with noticeable reluctance, the king approached the queen and took hers.
    Indistinguishable as the queen consort of the land, the small, pale redhead curtsied, no more than a shadow of a smile on her pouty, prim lips. Her simple gown of mauve silk, modestly sprinkled with encrusted jewels along the neckline and matching headdress, did little to foster a majestic mien. Not a word or gesture passed between them that spoke of the synergy of a husband and his wife; indeed, there was little of a marital relationship binding them. Eleanor, the king’s second wife, was the sister of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, one of François’s greatest rivals.
    Twenty years ago, as each young man came into his ruling maturity, Charles had won the bid for Holy Roman Emperor, a seat both had clamored for with the same fanaticism. His deeper purse and beneficial family connections had snatched the prize from François’s eager grasp. The bitter emptiness in the Frenchman’s hand had never stopped burning his skin and he scratched at it like a perpetual itch.
    Later, as Charles’s prisoner for over a year, his country falling apart in his absence, François had little choice but to offer hisyoung sons in exchange for his own freedom, compelled as well as a widower, to marry the emperor’s widowed sister. Charles had been the master, could have shown mercy and asked for other tokens, ones not so dear. But he had not, and what François now felt for him would forever be tainted by lingering resentment.
    Such umbrage had stained the union of Eleanor and François from the onset, as surely as ink stained the scribe’s hand. Eleanor had known it with great surety, as if it had been written long before the day she met him, his mistress standing by his side. From the first, François could not forsake Hely for his wife, could not sleep with Eleanor, and she had soon given up any attempt to compete with the woman touted as the loveliest of the learned, the most learned of the lovely. François needed no children from his second wife, having many already from his first, though few survived. Eleanor was a needless necessity and she acquiesced to the role without rebellion.
    With the king and queen leading the way, the duchesse close behind, the procession turned a corner and the soldiers posted at the archway snapped to attention, their halberds pounding upon the stone floor with one sharp, cohesive crack. Before the sound died away, heralds took up their horns, blasting the arrival of the king.
    Geneviève shrank into her haven of anonymity. Ready to don her persona, prepared to take on all that it entailed; tonight she would do her best to watch and witness, intending for this night to be one of study and speculation.
    Tr y as she might to foster a mien of dispassion, she felt reduced by the grandeur she witnessed. Encompassing nearly the entire wing of the palace, the great hall of the Château Vieux overflowed with courtiers, and the cries of “Votre Majesté” rang up and filled the air of the massive vaulted ceiling, the wind rattling the three-story panes of glass separating the chamber from the courtyard beyond. Rich fabric rustled as every attendant bowed or dipped in obeisance, but the king brought them upright with a free and generous swing of his arm and a call of “Mes amis, bonsoir!”
    Astounded by the breadth of the assemblage and the opulence of the scene, Geneviève leaned toward Arabelle. “It is remarkable that I should be lucky enough to time my arrival with such a lavish event.”
    “Oh, this happens at least once or twice a week.” Arabelle smiled. “The king insists upon it. He believes it is the best way to keep his people happy, to keep them busy and making merry.”
    The king escorted the queen through the maze of