To Serve a King Read Online Free PDF Page B

never left this place, either, not in all of the years gone by. There had been many times she had longed to run, when she had learned what lay in her past, when she was told what was planned for her future. No, she couldn’t share her own excitement and fear. But to herself she admitted her misgivings. She feared the future—yes, it was true. And yet there was a need, like an insistent itch, to do what she must, to fulfill her destiny, regardless of its brutality.

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May the height of these great mountains
Not affright or rebuff us.
—François Rabelais (c. 1494–1553)
    T he journey from Montlhéry to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where the king currently stood in residence, spanned the course of four days as it skirted the grand city of Paris on its northward track. But one day of rain plagued them, a stroke of luck in early spring.
    Try as she might, Carine had failed to coax conversation from her mistress and in the end surrendered to the silence, seeing to her embroidery when the road was smooth, dozing when it was not.
    Five years separated her from her companion, and yet Geneviève looked upon Carine like a child. Perhaps the girl’s unfettered exuberance distinguished them, divided them so distinctly as youth and adult. Thankfully, the girl learned fast how best to serve her mistress. Relieved when Carine’s attempts at discourse had subsided, Geneviève’s head was far too full of words to trust her mouth to keep them imprisoned. So many times on the long journey it had pulled at her, the raging desire, the explosive need to quit the carriage and run back to her room, slamming and bolting the door behind her. Words of fear and failure sniped at her, chanting—as they had before—again and again in her mind.
    I cannot do this. I won’t. I cannot do this. I won’t.
    With a forceful clamp, she silenced them, allowing others to take their place. Insistent, prodding commands plagued her, the tenacious voice of her aunt telling her what she could, what she must do. She stifled the loquacious nagging as she always did. Under her breath, she recited the names of the royal family and those of the courtiers, a litany of lessons learned, until the monotonous repetition lulled her to sleep.
    “Wake up, mademoiselle, wake up!”
    Geneviève’s eyes snapped open; her hand flinched toward the dagger strapped to her ankle by the lacy garter. But she discovered no threat through her sleepy gaze and with descending clarity, recognized the interior of the carriage, felt its bumpy gait beneath her, and saw the bright-eyed face of her maid sitting across from her.
    “Carine, mon Dieu, whatever is the matter?”
    The excited girl bobbed up and down in her seat, a determined digit pointing out the window. “Look.”
    Sitting up, Geneviève rubbed the sleep off her face with the back of one hand and peered out the open window. Bright afternoon sunlight assailed her, sparkling off the vast river running parallel to the tree-lined road, and she squinted against the glare, nostrils quivering at the robust scent of fresh water rising up to greet her. Craning her neck, she looked to the front of the vehicle and the panorama stretching out before them, any remaining lethargy chased decisively away.
    The château rose up grandly on the rise ahead. Beyond the imposing ironwork gate, the exterior details of the yellow brick palace came into view. Exemplifying the medieval style in which it was built, square with towers at each corner, this fortress palace now bore the distinctive mark of its current monarch. In close collaboration, François and the architect Pierre Chambiges had added two stories upon the foundation laid by King Charles, augmenting it with distinctive touches, transforming it into the current age. With the addition of a terraced roof constructed of large stonemonoliths conjugated by buttresses of long, iron tie bars, there became a delicacy to the edifice, as if the mighty castle now bore an intricately crafted and bejeweled