like trying to hold back a dam. Memories like heart-piercing arrows attacked her: Bernard's alternating coolness and uneasiness during his visits home, the awkward excuses he made to return sooner than planned to the court, the emotional distance she had felt between them when they were intimate... all of it made sense now.
Bernard's sudden death had left a wound that had barely begun to heal. Now Micheline felt as though it had been ripped open wider than ever. She was unable to cry. Curled like a baby on the bed, she stared at the wall and wondered if she was dying. Could one die of a shattered heart?
"Micheline?" a voice called softly from the corridor. "It's Aimée. May I come in?"
She couldn't reply, and a moment later the door opened hesitantly. Through a fog Micheline saw Aimée approaching the bed, her expression concerned.
"What is it, cherie? Are you ill?" She sat down on the bed and stroked Micheline's hair. "Did someone say something to upset you?"
"I'll be fine. It's... nothing, really."
"You can tell me, you know," Aimée said gently. A suspicion spread within her like a dark stain. She knew about Bernard's increasingly blatant infidelities when he had been at court; in fact, Thomas had begun reminding her when voicing his own frustration over Micheline's devotion to her undeserving dead husband. Still, they could find no solution short of telling their friend the cruel truth, and that was out of the question. Now Aimée wondered if someone else had done just that.
"There's nothing to tell," Micheline struggled to sit up, then pasted on a wan smile. "I just felt a bit faint. Too much exercise, perhaps."
The chamber door had been left ajar and now it swung open. "Madame Tevoulere, may I have a few words with you?"
Aimée looked up in surprise to find Anne d'Heilly entering the room. Before she could protest, Micheline said numbly, "Oh, yes... Please sit down."
"Merci!" Smiling brightly, Anne took the chair next to the bed and scrutinized Micheline under lowered lashes. She was pleased with what she saw, wondering if Francois would be quite so enamored of this pale, pinched-looking girl.
For her part, Micheline was glad for the distraction—from her own consuming pain and Aimée's questions. She couldn't tell anyone what she'd learned, ever.
"I have something of great importance to discuss with you," Anne was saying kindly, "though it is rather personal."
Aimée made no move to leave them alone, and Micheline merely murmured, "You may speak freely in front of Madame de St. Briac."
"Well, if you're sure." Anne straightened her skirts in annoyance. Why did Aimée have to be such a meddler? "The king himself has asked me to raise this matter with you, madame." She proceeded then to unfold the same tale that she had told Francois, dwelling on the Marquess of Sandhurst's attractive reputation, the beauty of England, and the fresh, bright future being offered to Micheline.
"Of course, it's an honor to have been chosen as the prospective bride to Lord Sandhurst. And, it's a chance to begin a whole new life, away from the... memories of the past." Anne paused to give her words time to sink in, then added brightly, "And, as I've doubtless mentioned, the marquess is said to be exceedingly handsome and charming. How fortuitous for you that he has a weakness for Frenchwomen!"
Aimée was thunderstruck. She would have spoken her mind immediately, but she was so certain that Micheline would veto these ridiculous marriage plans that she kept silent.
"Can you tell me when and where the wedding would take place, my lady?" Micheline queried instead. She looked rather dazed.
"Mais, oui!" exclaimed Anne. "You would go to England in April, and, as I understand it, King Henry himself intends to attend the ceremony at Aylesbury Castle, in Yorkshire. Of course, King Francois will see to it that you have everything you could possibly need before you leave France. We'll have such fun planning your wardrobe!"
Micheline sighed, and Aimée stared at her sharply, a sudden feeling of panic swelling with her. Before she could speak, though, Micheline said softly, "As you wish, then... I'll accept the marquess's invitation to become his wife."
Chapter 8
February 21, 1533
Dusk was approaching, heralded by a cold, penetrating wind. The forest of Fontainebleau seemed to close in on the two men on horseback.
"I don't like it, Sandhurst," complained Sir Jeremy Culpepper. "Not one bit. The whole place gives me chills."
Laugh lines crinkled the corners of Andrew's brown eyes. "Too late, my friend! There's no turning back.