Read Online To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin - Free Book Online Page A

these beautiful salads and fruits. You do a disservice to the king not to partake of his generosity.”
    “I am quite full, I assure you.” Geneviève allowed the knot of tension to release her. This was her first night at a magnificent royal court; she had worked all her life to be here. She could allow herself one night to relish its stately offerings with gusto.
    “Then you had better loosen your stays, mam’selle”—Ray-mond laughed as he added more delicacies to Geneviève’s now overflowing plate—“for there are another three courses to go.”
    Geneviève’s brows rose precipitously. “Surely not?”
    “Ah, oui, ” Raymond assured her. “But have not a care, it will take hours for it all to be served and there will be much entertainment in between.”
    “Your chalice is empty, as is yours, Arabelle.” Albret filled their goblets, drawn by the others at the table whose own cups needed refreshing, and together the group drank a toast.
    “ Bonsoir, monsieur. I hope you are having a pleasant evening.”
    Geneviève’s ears pricked as the sound of the duchesse d’Étam-pes’s voice, so tight with vexation, reached her from the end of the table. Though the woman’s words were full of amiability, there was little in the tone to match the sentiments. Slowly, so as not to draw any undue attention, Geneviève turned to see with whom Anne spoke. Anne de Montmorency bowed over the hand of the king’s mistress, his thin lips brushing the air.
    Second to the king, as constable and grand master, Mont-morency was the most powerful man in the realm, overseeing operations both military and domestic. He controlled the staff and the running of the king’s household and held the nation’s pursestrings. Most crucial of all, he ensured the safety of the king. Through these protector’s eyes, Montmorency searched for threats to his ruler, no matter if they came from the arms of his mistress.
    “Madame Duchesse, you look exquisite tonight.” The kindness of his greeting lived in his words alone, never reaching to put a smile on his lips nor any warmth in his somber eyes.
    “And you are dashing, as always, Constable,” Anne replied in a like manner.
    The lack of geniality between these two vibrated with every oversweetened sentiment spoken, pleasant tones off-key with terse, discordant notes, like the hollow peal of a cracked bell. Whether it was their constant struggle to be the king’s greatest confidant and adviser, their opposing views on the new religion sweeping their country, or Montmorency’s allegiance to the queen, there were simply too many rifts for their relationship to bridge, and neither cared to try.
    “Monty, my good fellow, would you tell them we will soon be ready for our entertainments?” the king called kindly to his constable, using the nickname so long ago adopted to save Mont-morency any embarrassment caused by his feminine, given name. The irony that the king’s mistress and his constable shared a name was not lost on many.
    With grace, Montmorency tipped his head, though not without a degree of relief to be done with his duty toward the king’s mistress. “Of course, Your Highness. I will send a page to fetch the musicians at once.”
    “ Merci, Monty.” François rose, forsaking the head table to draw near his mistress.
    Geneviève saw no acknowledgment by the king of the tension between his two dearest intimates, but whether he was blind to it or refused to see it, she could not fathom.
    “Ah, finally, huzzah!” Albret’s rousing cheer sent the entire table to squirming. “The Italians are on their way.”
    From the side door, a long line of instrument-wielding musiciansfiled out and took their place in the corner of the room, sitting with their lutes and hautbois, their violas and a spinet; to their right gathered a choir in velvet robes. Poised dictatorially before them stood two men, one in the robes of the choir, one in doublet and pansied slops, tambour sticks in his