This Heart of Mine (89 page)

“The king is not staying the night!” protested Velvet.

“He cannot leave now, madame,” said Mignon. “There is a storm raging outside, and it has been raining very heavily for the past two hours. It will rain the entire night, Guillaume says, and he knows. The king will stay, and in the morning I will serve him eggs poached in cream and marsala!” Bobbing a final cursty to both the king and the lady, she departed from the room.

“It would seem,
chèrie
, that the fates seek to plead my cause,” said the king softly.

“I cannot send you out into the storm,” Velvet said, “but I
would remind Your Majesty of your promise to me to behave like the gentleman that you are.”

Henri laughed. “You are very unfair,
chèrie.”

“I did warn you that I am not a flirt,” Velvet protested.

Henri of Navarre sighed dramatically. “If I am to be fair, then I must admit that you did. Still, if I were not to hope that you might change your mind, then I should not be the man I am.”

Velvet could not help but smile. The king was most disarming. “Monseigneur, it is not that you are unattractive, it is just that I value the Gordons’ honor above all else—even the attentions of a king. A man of such great honor as Your Majesty can understand that, I know.”

“I understand it,
chèrie,”
he admitted to her, “but I do not have to like it. You are an outrageously beautiful woman. I am already wildly in love with you, and you are frank enough to dash my fondest hope with such innocent honesty that I cannot be in the least offended. Disappointed,
oui
, but not offended.”

“It was never my intention to offend you, sire. I would far prefer that we be friends. I have never had a king for a friend.” Even as she said it, Velvet was somewhat ashamed of the lie, for Akbar had been her friend first before he became her husband and her lover. Still, she knew that she must sweeten her rejection of the king, for it could be that she might need his goodwill one day.

Henri’s gaze softened. “Ah,
chèrie
,” he said, “what a charming creature you are! Of course we will be friends. I would have it no other way.”

Velvet arose from the table and curtsied to the king. “Will you then give me your permission to retire, monseigneur? I find in my condition that I seem to need more sleep than usual.”

“Will you not show me to my chambers,
chèrie?”

“If you are ready to retire, monseigneur, I shall call old Guillaume to escort you,” said Velvet sweetly, and she was gone from the hall before the king could protest.

He watched her skirts disappearing around the corner, and he chuckled. How wise she was to entice him so. An easy quarry was usually unfulfilling and boring to bed. He far more enjoyed the hunt! If not tonight, it would be another night, but he would attempt to breach her defenses one more time this evening. There was a mystery about this beauty, and he was anxious to solve it. Who were these grandparents she spoke of who lived nearby? Where was her husband? He did not believe for one moment that the husband of such a beauty would allow his wife to live alone in such a remote place with only four servants to care for her. It was obvious to Henri that she was trying to hide something, but what he did not know.

The elderly Guillaume came to escort him to his apartment. He was polite and efficient, but the king learned little from him, for the old man was no fool, and
la belle
Gordon was obviously dear to him.

“Yes, sire,” he said, “I once served the Comte de Cher. Not he who is currently the count, but his father who lived to be very old. I was with him from the time I was a young man. I went to court with my master and saw Henri II. We were there the day that he was killed in the tourney. Ah, that was a great tragedy. Both the lady Diane, the king’s favorite, and the queen were terribly overwrought.” Guillaume’s eyes misted with the memory. “The lady Diane de Poitiers was such a beautiful creature.
Chenonceaux
was hers in those days, you know, but Queen Catherine took it from her once the king was dead. She gave her another chateau, but the lady Diane retired to her own home at Anet.” He rambled on, and the king found himself quite fascinated by this little bit of France’s recent history as seen through the eyes of a servant.

The king was quite surprised when Guillaume produced a man’s silk nightshirt for him. “Where did this come from?” he demanded.

“It belongs to my master, Madame Velvet’s father. There is a trunk of his things still here as well as one of his wife’s.”

So, thought the king, that was where she had obtained her gown for tonight. He had not mentioned it, but the dress had been somewhat out of fashion, and the aroma of cedar clung faintly to it. “How long has the lady Velvet been here?” he asked Guillaume.

“For several weeks now,” said the manservant, and then he deftly switched the subject back to the old days when he had so loyally served his late master, the Comte de Cher.

The fire was banked, and as his final duty Guillaume tucked the king into bed. Henri said to the valet as he was leaving the room, “Sometimes I have bad dreams, Guillaume, and I cry out in my sleep. I should not like to frighten Madame Gordon in her condition. Is she nearby?”

“Madame’s suite is across the hall, sire,” said Guillaume. “The way the wind is blowing she would not hear you. I wish you, however, a good night’s sleep with happy dreams.”

“Merci
, Guillaume,” said the king, smiling, and closed his eyes. He heard the doors close, and then all was quiet but for the sound of the heavy rains against the windowpanes and the low moan of the rising wind. For over an hour the king lay resting, and then he arose from his bed and went directly from his chamber across the hall to Velvet’s door. The floor in the passageway was cold, and he eagerly opened her door to step upon a soft carpet.

Inside the room was the largest bed he had ever seen. It was, to his eye, like an arena. What magnificent combats had taken place in it? he wondered. The velvet draperies were drawn across the windows, muffling the sound of the storm, and the firelight cast eerie, dark shadows upon the fabric. Then he heard it. The soft sound of her weeping. It was the saddest thing Henri had ever heard, and all thought of passion fled from his mind as his compassionate nature came to the forefront. Seating himself upon the edge of the bed, the king drew Velvet into his arms.

Instantly she stiffened, and he heard the outrage in her young voice as she said, “What are you doing in my room, monseigneur?”

“Why are you crying?” he answered her. “It breaks my heart to hear you so saddened,
chèrie.
What has made you so unhappy?”

She raised a tear-stained face to him, saying as she did so, “I miss my husband, and I miss my home.”

“Then why do you not go home?”

“Because I c—because my health will not allow it,” was her stumbling reply.

“Forgive me,
chèrie
, but that is a terrible lie,” the king replied. “I have never seen a healthier young woman than yourself. You are running from something,
chèrie
, and if I can help I will. Can you not trust me?”

Velvet was silent.

The king persisted. “At least tell me who your grandparents are. The ones who live nearby.”

“I cannot tell you,” Velvet said. “Why not?”

“Because they do not know that I am here. If they knew, they would send me to my parents, and my parents would send me to my husband, and I cannot allow that.”

“Why not?” the king demanded again. Suddenly he thought of something. “The child you carry! It is not your husband’s!”

“Of course it is Alex’s!” Velvet cried. “Why on earth would you think such a thing of me!”

“Then why don’t you want your husband to know that you are here, for despite your tale, I do not believe he knows where you are, does he?” Holding Velvet by the shoulders, the king looked down into her face. “Does he,
chèrie!”

“No,” said Velvet, and she burst into tears again.

Henri held her against his chest and allowed her to sob her misery out upon his silken nightshirt. When her weeping had abated somewhat, the king said, “Now, Velvet Gordon, I want you to unravel this mystery you have woven about yourself. I will
not take no for an answer, and if you refuse me, I shall take you to
Chenonceaux
with me and keep you there until you have told me the truth. I am most resolved in this,” he finished in a somewhat stern tone.

Velvet was silent again for some minutes, and then, sighing, she said, “I was forced to flee Scotland because enemies of my husband wanted to use me to entrap his cousin, a gentleman sought by the king for treason,—but there is no treason, monseigneur! My husband’s cousin is King James’s most loyal servant, if the king would but trust him. It is the king’s chancellor, Master Maitland, who seeks to turn the king against the earls in order to further his own power!”

“François Stewart-Hepburn!” said the king. “It has to be my old friend François Stewart-Hepburn!”

“You know Francis?” said Velvet, amazed.

“For more years,
chèrie
, than I care to admit to, I have known François. It is he, is it not? François is the only man in the entire world who so terrifies and enrages James Stewart. Their relationship is a long and a very troubled one, for James Stewart has always been jealous of his cousin.”

“He has outlawed him and confiscated all his estates,” Velvet said, “and it has been done out of spite, for the king covets the woman that Francis loves.”

“Ah,” said Henri of Navarre, his voice echoing his total understanding. “It is a woman! I would not have thought such a thing of James Stewart. He does not seem the type, and I have never heard it said of him that he is overfond of the ladies.”

“He pretends to be faithful to Queen Anne,” replied Velvet, “but he has coveted this particular lady for some time, and she fled from him to be with Francis, who wishes to wed with her.”

“Ahhhhh,” said Henri of Navarre again, “so not only has this lady refused the king, she prefers his greatest rival. The insult is formidable! No wonder your king is angry, but how,
chèrie
, did you get involved in this tempest?”

Velvet took a deep breath. “Monseigneur, I can say nothing more unless you give me your word that you will not betray me to James Stewart. France and Scotland are allies, I know.”

Henri smiled. “We are allies,
chèrie
, because it pleases us to occasionally aid the Scots against the English. It is the same with the Spanish. They enjoy aiding the Irish against the English. It is nuisance value. That is all. You have the word of a king,
chèrie
, that we will not betray you.”

“I should far rather have the word of Henri of Navarre, monseigneur,” returned Velvet. “The word of a king is not always
reliable. Forgive me, for I mean no insult, but my mother has always said it, and she is the wisest woman that I know.”

The king smiled ruefully. “Your mother is indeed wise,
chèrie.
Very well, then, you have the word of Henri of Navarre that whatever it is you tell me will remain secret. I will not betray you, and I would certainly not betray my old friend, François Stewart-Hepburn. One favor, however, I would ask of you.”

“Anything, monseigneur!” Velvet vowed.

The king laughed.
“Anything!”
he said.

“Within reason,” Velvet amended.

“May we please get beneath the coverlet,
chèrie?
I am freezing in this nightshirt, which you have soaked through with your tears. I must get warm or I shall have an ague come morning.”

“Oh, dear! You must get out of that wet nightshirt, monseigneur!” said Velvet, her voice very concerned. Then she slipped from his arms and, running to a trunk at the foot of the bed, opened it and drew forth a second silk nightshirt. “This is my parents’ chamber,” she explained, “and my father’s night garment.” Handing him the shirt, she said, “I shall not peek. Tell me when you are ready.”

Gratefully the king changed into the dry nightshirt and then, getting beneath the coverlet, said, “Come now,
chèrie
, and join me. A lady in your delicate condition should not be chilled.”

It did not occur to Velvet to ask him whether he would behave this time. She simply assumed that he would. Settling herself comfortably next to him, she began her tale, “Francis secretly came north into the Highlands in late summer to meet with the Earl of Huntley. Francis stayed with us a night before going on to Huntley, with my husband and his men-at-arms riding along to protect him. My husband is Francis’s cousin, but he is also a cousin of Huntley’s and of the king, too.”

“Who is your husband?” interrupted Henri of Navarre.

“My husband is Alexander Gordon, the Earl of BrocCairn,” said Velvet. “Alex has but one sibling, his sister, Annabella, and it was her husband, Ian Grant, who decided that if he kidnapped me, he could force Francis into giving himself up. Ian would then turn him over to Maitland and collect the king’s reward.” Then she went on to tell him of her horrible captivity in Leith and lucky escape with Pansy from Ranald Torc and Ian. “I had to hide somewhere where the king could not find me until he grew tired of seeking me,” Velvet wound up her tale, “or until he and Francis made up again, although this time I fear they will not reconcile. Because I am considered English, I knew that no one in Scotland would consider looking in France. They do not know of
Belle Fleurs
, and so I came here.”

“Who are your grandparents?” Navarre asked.

“The Comte and Comtesse de Cher whose chateau,
Archambault
, is but four miles from here.”

“Am I to assume that your husband has not known all these weeks where you are,
chèrie?”

“How could he?” said Velvet. “I have not dared to communicate either with him or any member of my family, for fear that James Stewart would find me and use me in his war with Francis.”

“Does Alex Gordon know he is to be a father?”

“Oh, yes!” said Velvet. “It is our first child, and I had only just told him before we were separated.”