You and No Other Read online

  You and No Other

  Special Author's Cut Edition

  St. Briac Novel #1

  by

  Cynthia Wright

  Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 1984, 2011 by Wrighter, Inc.

  Cover by Kim Killion

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Novels by Cynthia Wright

  (many now available as

  Special Author's Cut Editions

  in eBook format)

  CAROLINE

  Beauvisage Novel #1

  ~

  TOUCH THE SUN

  A Beauvisage/Hampshire Novel

  ~

  SILVER STORM

  Raveneau Novel #1

  ~

  SPRING FIRES

  Beauvisage Novel #2

  (A Beauvisage/Hampshire/Raveneau Novel)

  ~

  SURRENDER THE STARS

  Raveneau Novel #2

  ~

  NATALYA

  Beauvisage Novel #3

  ~

  SILVER SEA

  (previously published as BARBADOS)

  Raveneau Novel #3

  ~

  YOU AND NO OTHER

  St. Briac Novel #1

  ~

  OF ONE HEART

  (previously published as A BATTLE FOR LOVE)

  St. Briac Novel #2

  ~

  FIREBLOSSOM

  Matthews Novel #1

  ~

  WILDBLOSSOM

  Matthews Novel #2

  ~

  BRIGHTER THAN GOLD

  ~

  CRIMSON INTRIGUE

  ~

  coming in 2012: TEMPEST - Raveneau Novel #4

  For Kay Duley, a friend beyond price.

  "The king is handsome, dark-complexioned... and as much at his ease as any gentleman of the world...

  He dresses magnificently. A man of inexhaustible endurance, he is ever chasing now stags, now women."

  The Venetian envoy to the court of King Francis I. 1520

  Prologue

  Dawn, March 17, 1526

  Rippling water reflected a fiery coral sunrise as the boat carrying two young hostage-princes, their governesses, and the escorting officer moved toward a floating platform in the middle of the Biadossa River that divided France from Spain. Another craft approached from the Spanish side. It held Lannoy, Viceroy of Naples, and a tense King Francois I.

  Nearly a thousand noblemen, archers, and Swiss Guards waited on the edge of French soil to greet their king after his year-long imprisonment.

  Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, stood in front, a wry smile flickering at the corners of his handsome mouth. Perhaps Francois would be surprised to see him there. The court had always teemed with men jockeying for the powerful positions that were granted at the king's discretion, but St. Briac had never courted Francois's favor. Since their youth, he had given only friendship and asked the same in return. He'd made the arduous journey to be here today as a friend and because he yearned to view the bold countenance of his dashing king.

  Across the Biadossa, Francois spoke quietly to Lannoy, whom he had learned to trust.

  "I am filled with melancholy at the prospect of my sons being imprisoned as I have been. They are only children," he told the viceroy.

  "The princes will become stronger men as a result of this experience. As soon as you fulfill the terms of our emperor's treaty, your sons will be returned to you."

  The king nodded, repressing a sigh, and stared across the water. The terms of the treaty, he thought. Impossible! Turning over Burgundy to Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain, was out of the question.

  For years Francois and Charles had coveted each other's lands. It had been a delicate game, with the balance shifting back and forth often according to the cards played by a third monarch, Henry VIII of England, who supported Francois one year and Charles the next. Over the past decade, there had been battles and finally all-out war after the treason of Charles of Bourbon, the constable of France. In 1524, Bourbon had led an army into France but was driven back into Italy. It was there, during the ill-fated battle of Pavia that King Francois I had been captured by the emperor's army.

  For more than a year, he had endured captivity and even a life-threatening illness. Finally, for the sake of France and his own freedom, a desperate Francois had forfeited his knightly code of honor by promising to sign a treaty that would give the duchy of Burgundy to Charles V. Francois had no intention of keeping his word, and his sons might have to pay the price.

  The oarsmen were drawing alongside the pontoon. Moments later the king was embracing young Francois, the dauphin, who was eight, and his seven-year-old brother, Henri, duc d'Orleans.

  "We are going to Spain to help you, Papa," declared a stoic little Francois.

  "To help France, dear son." Tears filled the king's hazel eyes.

  Henri clung to his tall, broad-shouldered father. "I have missed you so very much, Papa."

  "As princes of France, you two young men must show your strength and bravery to Spain—and the world," he managed to say. "Look after yourselves. Eat well. I... I promise to bring you home very soon."

  One son wiped tears away from the king's strong cheeks while the other held fast to his arm. Gently, Francois disengaged himself. "We must say adieu." Sadly, he made the sign of the cross over each small head and then turned toward the boat that would take him to France.

  Before long, the crowd on the far shore became visible, and the king felt excitement begin to replace his melancholy. France! It seemed that he had been locked for an eternity in Charles V's tower rooms, but now he was free once more. King again! For the moment even the dark hours of the battle of Pavia, which had led to his own capture and the grisly deaths of so many of his brave knights, receded in his memory.

  Francois recognized one figure on land before any other—St. Briac! Taller and more powerfully built than any man around him, St. Briac was a joy to behold. Even his sea-blue eyes, gleaming with fond amusement, seemed visible across the water.

  Francois had grown up at the chateau of Amboise, which perched above the wide, lazy Loire River. Not far to the west, the village of St. Briac huddled against the dark forest of Chinon. Thomas, a year older than Francois, had been sent to Amboise as one of the companions to the future king. His parents were independent thinkers; they told Thomas that he need not stay unless the experience was enjoyable and fruitful. The two practiced archery and hunting, played Italian games, wrestled and fought mock battles. Louise de Savoy, Francois's strong-willed mother, saw to it that her son received an extensive education and his friends benefited as well.

  Thomas had never felt subservient to Francois. When he was homesick or bored, he'd return to St. Briac and his own family. Now his parents were dead, and he was t
he lord of the village. His life was his own, and his friendship with the king was only one aspect of it. Francois loved and respected St. Briac for his independence and integrity. Their camaraderie transcended boundaries of class and court etiquette.

  As the boat drew near the soil of France, the king thought that what he loved best about St. Briac was the fact that he never hovered about like so many leeches at the court, yet always turned up when needed. His clear mind and wit had helped Francois through many trials, including the death of his dear Leonardo da Vinci at Amboise in 1519, the meeting with Henry VIII on the Field of the Cloth-of-Gold in 1520, and especially the awful battle of Pavia, when St. Briac had risked his own life to save his friend from death though unfortunately not from capture.

  The crowd on the beach was cheering. Tears welled again in the king's eyes as he stepped from the boat and touched French soil. Joyous faces filled his vision. Finally, after acknowledging a seemingly endless stream of greetings, he found St. Briac, who was waiting with a patient smile.

  "Mon ami!" Francois hugged his comrade with unashamed affection. "How good it is to see you!"

  "I share your sentiments, sire. Welcome home." St. Briac couldn't help wondering whether life in France could ever be the same again for the king. His greatest knight, Bayard, the great "knight without fear and beyond reproach", had been killed at Pavia . Then, soon after the king's imprisonment, Queen Claude had died at age twenty-five after giving birth to seven children in eight years. Now the king's two oldest sons were bound for imprisonment in Spain. It seemed that life could not go on as before, and yet St. Briac knew that Louise de Savoy was waiting to greet her son only a few miles north in Bayonne, along with his sister, the adoring Marguerite, and undoubtedly the latest royal mistress, Anne d'Heilly.

  "It was good of you to journey so far to welcome me," the king said.

  "I've missed you." St. Briac's eyes held a warm sparkle. "I suppose that I speak for all of France."

  "Since you've come this far, won't you consent to spend a few weeks with the court? I yearn to ride and hunt and eat and drink and—"

  "Cavort?" St. Briac supplied merrily.

  "An apt word." The king laughed. "One that embraces all manner of pastimes."

  "All of which you certainly deserve to indulge in, sire."

  Francois was in the process of mounting a splendid Turkish horse. "I agree!" Glancing back over one shoulder, he added, "Are you coming?"

  "With joy, sire." St. Briac swung onto his black stallion Sebastien and quickly matched the king's pace.

  "By the way, Thomas, where is that insolent manservant of yours?"

  "Gaspard? I left him in St. Jean de Luz two hours ago, snoring heartily."

  "Are you saying that he couldn't be roused to witness the return of his king?"

  "Astonishing, isn't it?" St. Briac laughed as they galloped away from the crowd, northward into France. "However, unless you are planning to shackle him and have him thrown into the Conciergerie, I have to say that I did promise we would pause at the auberge to fetch him. I only hope he will be dressed and finished eating by the time we arrive."

  "Both of you display excessive insolence in your treatment of your king."

  St. Briac bit back a smile. "Clearly we must practice our manners. You have been away too long."

  After a moment of silence, Francois said, "I suppose you have heard that I am to be married." His tone was flat.

  "To the sister of Charles V? Yes, I'd heard... but wasn't certain whether to believe the rumors." He measured the set of the king's profile. "Is there no love at all between you?"

  "No, but I hardly know the woman." The corners of his mouth twitched irrepressibly. "I vow, my friend, that I would have pledged to marry the emperor's mule to escape Spain's protective custody."

  The two men laughed together. Then, lifting his proud head, Francois breathed deeply of the crisp early spring breeze and exclaimed, "How wonderful it is to be home!"

  Part One

  A chip of chance more than a pound of wit;

  This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk,

  And in foul weather at my book to sit.

  In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk.

  No man doth mark where I ride or go:

  In lusty leas at liberty I walk.

  Sir Thomas Wyatt (c. 1503-1542)

  Chapter 1

  Nieuil, France

  April 25, 1526

  "Aimée, you must come home with me now. Maman insists!"

  "I will not go unless you give me a reason." Aimée de Fleurance settled herself more comfortably against a birch tree. She was seated in a bed of new grass and moss sprinkled with tiny violets and yellow primroses. Overhead, budding spring leaves made a bright, lacy canopy pierced by delicate shafts of sunlight. The woods were at spring's sweetest peak.

  "It's a surprise. I promised not to tell you." Honorine was all of seventeen and much more proper than her eighteen-year-old sister. She pointed her perfect nose skyward.

  "In that case, I intend to finish my cheese and wine... and my poetry."

  "Certainly I will not remain here to soil my gown even one more minute." Honorine glanced disdainfully at Aimée's crumpled blue frock. The bodice was more richly colored than the skirt, with close-fitting sleeves that puffed out gently at the shoulders and a low, square neckline that emphasized the girl's prettyy bosom. "It obvious that you have no such considerations for your appearance."

  "That's true," Aimée admitted with a grin. "I apologize if such vulgarity offends you."

  "I'll thank you not to ridicule me." Honorine sniffed and tossed her carefully coiffed golden curls. "And I will leave you to your grass and poetry, both of which are far too rustic for my taste."

  "If you insist." Smothering a giggle, Aimée added, "Tell Maman that I will be home soon."

  Honorine disappeared into the April foliage while Aimée broke off a chunk of crusty bread to go with the cheese she had been eating. Bending her head once again toward the sheaf of poems scattered across her lap, she concentrated on translating the English words into French.

  Less than a quarter hour passed, during which the only sounds were her bites of crisp bread. Thus, when other distant noises reached Aimée's ears, she paused to listen. From deep in the woods the crashing drew nearer, until suddenly a magnificent stag vaulted in a high arc across the clearing. Pieces of parchment and cheese scattered as Aimée scrambled to her feet in alarm, just in time to avoid being run down by a half dozen barking hounds that thundered through the clearing in pursuit of the stag. Horrified to realize that someone meant to kill one of the most splendid creatures in her woods, she didn't hesitate for a moment when the two hunters galloped into the clearing.

  "Monsieurs. Arretez! I beg you to halt."

  Somehow the men were able to rein in their horses quickly. The nearer hunter turned in his saddle and bowed from the waist, sweeping off a soft velvet cap with a frothy plume.

  "We are at your service, mademoiselle. How may we assist you?"

  Aimée had been appraising the situation. Obviously, the men were not of noble birth, since they rode without the usual accompaniment of grooms, huntsmen, and pages. Still, the man who spoke was richly garbed in a slashed doublet and haut-de-chausses of forest green velvet. His blue jerkin was trimmed with sable and set with emeralds. The eyes that regarded her with a mixture of concern and impatience were hazel, slanting upward slightly at the corners as though prone to laughter. The man's face was hardly handsome yet arresting all the same. Aimée thought she had never seen a nose quite so large; it grew like a pale zucchini nearly down to the poor fellow's mouth. All the same, he gave off an air of bold confidence.

  "Did you understand me, mademoiselle?" the hunter prompted. Glancing over at his companion, he touched a finger to the side of his neatly bearded chin and sighed.

  "Yes, m'sieur, I understood. I was just waiting to reply until I was certain the stag was safely away. Pray forgive me for spoiling your sport, but I coul
dn't allow you to kill him."

  The green-garbed hunter stared thunderstruck. "You couldn't allow me?" He swiveled in his saddle to address the other man. "Did you hear that? Did you? This girl couldn't allow me to kill a stag!"

  "My friend, do not misplace your ready wit. After all, this could have been an ordinary day like any other, but instead we have encountered a lovely wood sprite who bravely protects the creatures in her forest." St. Briac gave Francois a carefree grin.

  "Hmm." The king glanced back at Aimée. A burnished sunbeam poured over her gleaming ebony curls, thick-lashed green eyes, rosy lips, and softly curving figure. "I see your point, St. Briac. No doubt such a compassionate maiden would offer comfort to disappointed hunters as well?"

  Aimée was flooded with relief. "Oh, yes. If only you will not be angry with me."

  The men exchanged grins and swung down from their horses. Watching them approach, Aimée experienced a tiny pang of apprehension. The man with the large nose was very tall, with a strong body, yet his companion was even taller and stronger. She regarded him closely and could scarcely believe what she saw. He was astonishingly handsome, with crisply curling chestnut hair and rakish close-trimmed beard, dark turquoise eyes that crinkled with humor, sculpted cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and a compelling smile. He wore a simple yet rich doublet and snug breeches of gray velvet set off by ivory linen revealed through the slashings. His hunting boots were of the finest leather.

  Suddenly Aimée realized that she had been staring, and she looked quickly toward the other man. "I will be glad to provide what comfort I can, m'sieur, but I fear that all I have to offer is some wine, bread, and cheese... and the soft green grass upon which you may relax."

  The king turned to St. Briac. "My friend, I put this situation in your hands," he murmured evenly.