To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin

affinity between them, one begun well over a decade ago in those festive, heady days following François’s release from the Spanish prison. He had chased her then with the same dogged determination as the hound did the fox. How strange it was that they had François’s own mother to thank for their meeting.
    Louise de Savoy, the powerful woman who had ruled France as regent during her son’s captivity, cared little for François’s first choice of lover, had indeed made the comtesse de Châteaubriant’s existence a misery in her son’s absence. Louise had been only too willing to offer him a tantalizing distraction, bringing her new maid of honor with her to greet her son upon his release. Little did Louise realize that she would be introducing her son to the woman who would become—if the heart were the regulator of relationships for royals—the king’s true mate. Anne’s role at court remained unsurpassed, as did the place she held in François’s heart; she lived at the very center of both, the fiery molten core of king and court.
    “I will see you soon at chapel?” François asked, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand.
    Anne’s eyes fluttered at his touch. “Of course.” She would be wherever he asked her to be. Unlike the queen, Anne accompanied the king everywhere, his wife in all manner of life, save legal.
    *  *  *
    Afternoon rain brought a quiet to the castle. With the king again sequestered with his council, the women were free to amuse themselves in whatever manner they chose. Anne took to her bed, the pain in her head needing the curtains to be drawn and a tincture of valerian root to be ingested. Their mistress attended and on her way to slumber, Arabelle and Geneviève tiptoed from the somber chamber, gently closing the door behind them.
    They perched themselves together on one of the vacant settees like birds on a roof, as quiet as the other half dozen of Anne’s ladies scattered about the room. Some read, while others, like Ara-belle, worked upon their embroidery.
    “We haven’t had much chance to talk since your arrival, Gene-viève,” Arabelle said as she threaded her needle with deep turquoise floss. “I believe you said your aunt raised you?”
    “ Oui, she did,” Geneviève responded with unintended curt-ness.
    “Were your parents away at court?”
    “My parents are dead,” Geneviève reported, devoid of emotion. Her foot tapped impatiently upon the floor and her eyes flicked to the door.
    “Oh, mon Dieu . I am so sorry.” Arabelle reached to give Gene-viève’s hand an affectionate squeeze.
    Geneviève shrugged off the sympathy as she retrieved her hand. “It is of little consequence. I was very little when they died. I remember them not at all.” She told the lie with ease, pushing down the gurgitation of anger that always rose in her at the thought of her parents’ demise, and the man responsible for it.
    Arabelle gazed at Geneviève with eyes round with compassion. “I’m sure your aunt was a loving substitute.”
    Geneviève fought the urge to laugh. “My childhood was all it needed to be.”
    Arabelle recommenced her work, an expectant silence falling upon them. Geneviève twitched in her seat. It was proper for herto ask after Arabelle’s life, to return the interest, but she had no patience for pleasantries.
    “Would it be acceptable to return to my rooms?” Geneviève whispered. Her mistress’s continued bed rest was a vital part of her plans, and she took extra care not to disturb her. “I would like to write my aunt and tell her I have arrived safely and been welcomed warmly.”
    “Of course, of course,” Arabelle assured her, a furrow of concern forming between her eyes. “There are many of us here to attend our mistress. Have not a care.”
    “Go along with you,” Jecelyn chimed in, her skirts puffing up as she flounced down upon the seat beside Arabelle, in the warmed place Geneviève had vacated. “I will keep her good company. There