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

hand—similar faces, relatives of some sort, distinguished by the short curly hair of one and the shoulder-length waves of the other. These were newest members of the chapelle de musique , the musicians of the royal household.
    “They are quite handsome, are they not?” Arabelle giggled to Geneviève behind a cupped hand.
    “Which ones?” Geneviève asked.
    “All of them,” Sybille and Béatrice answered with harmonious twitters of their own.
    “They are Italian,” Béatrice confirmed as if that were explanation enough. Pointing to the two leaders, she educated the table with a smug whisper. “The taller man is Giuseppe, and the other his brother, Eliodoro.”
    Under the reign of François, so many Italians had become permanent fixtures at court. Italian blood pumped through his own veins, bequeathed by his maternal great-grandmother, Valentina Visconti. Yet François wished it were more; but it was not an oddity, a Frenchman who longed to be an Italian. So many of the French had adopted the more formal, polite manners of the Italians. Diplomats and ambassadors had always abounded, but the king had chosen to fill his household and chamber with the Mediterraneans as well: doctors, a steward or two, musicians, and a few écuyers du roi, the simple men of the household. Nor was the infusion limited to men. Frenchmen returning from Rome and Venice brought with them the day’s most popular and coveted adornment, the Italian woman, and their influence infested the court with a greater sophistication and a tendency to extravagance. Such profligacy required dependency on the king and his munificence, and such reliance on a ruler who demanded such extravagance found the nobles incurring the ridicule of the satirists.
    As the discordant noise of tuning instruments halted and the rapturous sound of a chanson began, all hushed to bask in the melodious music. As the first few measures rang out, instruments blending with voice in a joyful sound, applause greeted the performers. Clément Janequin’s “La Guerre” was the king’s favorite composition, written in honor of François’s magnificent triumph in the Battle of Marignano. Light, fast, and rhythmic, it had distinct short sections, oft repeated, rousing the crowd to heights of stimulated enjoyment.
    Before the last notes slipped away, François leaped to his feet, rushing forward to pay his respects to the musicians. The brothers rushed to accept the accolades, one jostling the other to be the first to greet the king.
    “Bravo, bravo,” François bellowed with sincere appreciation, Anne applauding by his side.
    “Grazie, mille grazie , Vostre Maestà .” The beaming pair bowed low before their patron and benefactor.
    “We are so very happy you are pleased,” said Giuseppe.
    “And we are so very grateful for the magnificence of our new home,” intoned Eliodoro, in proficient if oddly accented French.
    As musicians of the chapel, they would receive not only the benefit of a room in whatever palace the king resided, but all their meals, their clothing, and a small stipend as well.
    “It is I who thanks you,” François assured them magnanimously. “You are a marvelous addition to our court.”
    Indeed their presence was a coup for the French king, having stolen them from the emperor’s Spanish court. Such competition for artists was an important component of the cultural rivalry existing between the great kings and their courts. François had won a small battle with their acquisition.
    “La volte, la volte,” the king cried. “Such is our pleasure.”
    The musicians ran back to their places as the dance floor filled with courtiers, all eager to do their king’s bidding.
    “Dance with my son, Anne, would you? Dance with Charles,” François implored her, as he took his seat once more.
    “Of course, Your Majesty,” she readily agreed with a flash of a beatific smile. Though he enjoyed the vigorous dance, there were often times, more often of late, when