The girls squealed and Thomas set them down. As they hurried across the floor, he grinned at Micheline and gave her a fleeting wink.
"Greetings, madame," he called to her as his arms stole around Aimée's waist. "And many thanks."
Chapter 3
November 12-13, 1532
Micheline retired early that night to her tower chamber with a book of poetry by Francois Villon. Propped against a bolster, she gazed out at the full moon that poured its light across the bed. A candle burned on the table next to her, but she had no heart for reading. It would be so much more convenient, she thought, if cheery surroundings and loving friends were enough to make one happy, but it seemed that moods could not be shaped quite so easily. No matter how many distractions she had, her mind went around and around of its own accord, taking the past apart and putting it together again in an effort to make sense of it, then fretting over the future.
Putting aside her book, Micheline blew out the candle and stared into the silver-blue moonlight. Sleep, she told herself. However, when her eyes closed, she saw images of Thomas, Aimée, and their two cherubs. How fortunate they were! It seemed that any chance of her own for such contentment had died with Bernard.
Micheline tossed this way and that in the cool darkness while memories and questions swirled round and round inside her. Finally, throwing off her covers, she put on a robe and went into the corridor. The chateau was quiet now. Tears burned her eyes as she descended the curving stairway to the moon-silvered gallery. Was there no escape from the pain that had seemingly had attached itself to her very soul?
* * *
The chateau was not as quiet as it appeared. Upstairs, Thomas and Aimée had just indulged in a long, shared bath. She was now sitting up in bed, naked under the covers, while Thomas combed out her long raven curls.
"I'm too tired to listen to the serious side of the king's meetings with Henry the Eighth," Aimée murmured with a yawn. "Save the details of the treaties and subterfuge for tomorrow... but do tell me about Anne Boleyn! Is she very beautiful? Do you suppose Henry will actually marry her?"
"Beautiful? No. But there is a... quality about the lady that some men might find attractive. Francois certainly seemed taken with her—he gave her a diamond worth fifteen thousand ecus. As for her chances to become queen of England, Henry recently made her Marquess of Pembroke, so I would wager in her favor. He's besotted; there's no doubt."
"Do you think the French court life impressed them? Were the entertainments fine?"
St. Briac shrugged, laid the comb aside, and began to caress his wife's shoulders. "Fine enough," he replied absently. "Bear-baiting, and a rather bizarre wrestling contest between Englishmen and French priests... and, of course, the usual balls and masques. Francois left Queen Eleanor at Fontainebleau, so he was free to partner Anne Boleyn in the dances."
Although Aimée was frankly aroused by her husband's increasingly intimate caresses, she could not resist the opening he'd provided for another avenue of conversation.
"So... the court is in residence at Fontainebleau? How I have longed to be there myself lately!"
St. Briac blinked in surprise, but did not waver in his own course of action. Drawing Aimée into his arms, he kissed her throat with warm lips. "I thought that you desired only to spend weeks on end here with me! Before I left for Calais, you could talk of nothing else except the son you intended to conceive before Christmas."
His fingertips were drawing fiery patterns on her breasts. It took every ounce of control Aimée possessed to continue the conversation. "I do still want to conceive a son, but right now there is a more urgent matter that demands my immediate attention."
"Impossible, miette," he murmured absently.
"You've been so busy stealing kisses from me and playing with the babies that you've scarcely had time to notice. I'm talking about darling Micheline!"
"My love, I have the utmost sympathy for Micheline's plight, and I hope that she will stay with us until she feels better, but I fail to see what this has to do with the two of us making a baby!"
Aimée tried to ignore St. Briac's waning patience with the conversation. "Your good wishes for Micheline are admirable, but I have realized that we, as her friends, must play a more active