All the Sweet Tomorrows

how to ride a horse well and handle a sword if necessary, left for the castle of Nicolas St. Adrian in Poitou. They had but to wait.

To Skye's enormous surprise both her messengers returned within less than a month's time. The one who had gone to Rome had had an incredible piece of luck. As he and Bran Kelly had waited at the Pope's court with hundreds of other supplicants who sought to catch the Holy Father's attention, the Pope had passed through the room and heard Bran's voice. He had stopped and, looking at Bran, said, 'My son, you have the sound of Ireland in your voice. I once had a secretary from that land. Am I correct?'

Stunned at being addressed by the Pope himself, Bran could only nod. The Pope smiled. In a court filled with the world-weary he was touched by the big Irishman's awe. 'Have this young man brought to me immediately,' the Pope said. 'I would speak with him.' Bran and his fellow messenger, Pere Claude, were hurried into the Pope's private chambers where the prelate graciously held out his hand so they might kiss his ring of office. The formalities over, he sat, and asked, 'Now what may I do for you, my Irish friend?'

In his slow and careful French Bran Kelly explained his mission. His mistress, Irish like himself, had been but recently wed with Fabron, Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. Regretfully the duc had suffered an apoplectic fit shortly after the marriage. Now France was demanding that the duchy be turned over to them. The duc, however, chose to bestow his lands and his title upon his noble bastard half-brother, Baron Nicolas St. Adrian, a good and righteous man. He had sent Pere Claude and Bran Kelly to ask that the Pope confirm that claim. Here Pere Claude proffered the carved ivory box, which was eagerly taken up by one of the Pope's secretaries.

There was a deep and very significant silence when the contents of the box were disclosed. A sensual smile upon his lips, the Pope fingered the workmanship on the candlesticks. He was thinking that Catherine de Medici was far too sure of herself. She believed the Pope to be in her pocket by virtue of their shared nationality. He turned to his chief secretary, and asked in a low voice, 'Where is this Beaumont de Jaspre?'

'It is a very small holding on the Mediterranean Sea between the Languedoc and Provence,' the secretary said. 'The Beaumonts have ruled there since the days of Charlemagne. Although they recognize France as their overlord, they have always been an independent holding.'

The Pope nodded. So Catherine de Medici wanted this tiny duchy, and the duc was certainly in a difficult position. Without the Pope's approval of the validity of Nicolas St. Adrian's claim, France would, he knew, take the lands by force. Perhaps it was better for now that France not have the duchy. Perhaps it was better that France's Dowager Queen be reminded that the papacy was not her personal toy, to be used at her convenience.

The Pope smiled at the two kneeling men from Beaumont de Jaspre. 'I will confirm the rights of Nicolas St. Adrian's claim to Beaumont de Jaspre, as this is what your duc desires,' he said. 'Cavelli!' he looked to his chief secretary. 'You will draw up the papers; three copies. One for the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre, one for Queen Catherine of France, and one for us. You will see it is done today. These men must get back to their master. Time is obviously most important here.'

'Holy Father, how can we thank you,' Pere Claude said. 'My master and his people will ever be in your debt.'

The Pope smiled again, fingering the candlesticks lovingly. It was little enough to do for such munificence.

'We will be happy to take the papal messenger with us as far as Beaumont de Jaspre, Holy Father,' Bran Kelly said, 'and we will supply him with a fine horse and a purse to continue his journey to France.'

The Pope was pleased. This would save him the expense of the man's trip, and the French would have to send him back at their own expense. 'Thank you, my son,' he said. 'Now let me bless you.' Bran Kelly lowered his head, hiding a smile as he did so. These Italians were so predictably greedy. By making his offer to pay for the papal messenger he had assured that the man would be dispatched today, and, as the Pope had said, time was important.

They arrived back in Beaumont de Jaspre just three weeks after they had left, and the papal messenger was on his way to Catherine de Medici the following day.

Several days later, Skye's second messenger returned from Poitou bringing with him, to everyone's surprise, Nicolas St. Adrian. They had expected their messenger to bring an answer from the gentleman, but certainly not the man himself.

Skye was caught unawares as Edmond hurried into her chambers, his short little legs pumping in their haste. 'He is here, cherie! The bastard himself! By God! He did not waste much time, did he? He's come with the messenger-no escort, no retinue. It would appear that the heir is most eager.'

'God's foot, Edmond! Could that silly priest have not at least sent a messenger ahead to warn us? Daisy! The sea-green silk gown! Damn, my hair is a disgrace in this heat!' She smiled at Edmond. 'Well, my friend, what is he like? Is he a de Beaumont in face and form?'

'Cherie, I am not sure Uncle Fabron is going to approve. The bastard is a tall man, and his limbs are well formed and pleasing to the eye. His skin is fair, his eyes… his eyes, cherie, are green, the green of a forest pond, sometimes dark, sometimes light, depending upon the sunlight. His hair is the rich red-brown of my horse's hide. As to his features, they are strong. The shape of his face is an oval, his forehead is high and his nose is definitely the de Beaumont nose; but his eyes are not ours, and neither are his high cheekbones or narrow chin. It is a very sculpted face of angles and planes. All in all, I would say he is a very handsome man, and he looks like a strong one, too. I do not think that this new blood is going to hurt our family.'

'Have you spoken with him?' Daisy was helping her into the bodice of the sea-green gown. Edmond de Beaumont let his eyes roll suggestively as he leered teasingly at her dishabille, and Skye swatted at him with affection.

'I have not spoken with him, cherie, ' he replied to her question. 'I felt it was your place to welcome him to Beaumont first. He cannot expect instant greeting, as he has come upon us unannounced.' As Daisy finished fastening the bodice, he handed Skye the skirt to her gown. She pulled it over her head and it fell over the several petticoats that she was wearing.

'Hurry, Daisy,' Skye instructed her tiring woman. 'We should not keep Baron St. Adrian waiting.'

'He will think it well worth the wait, cherie, when he sees you,' Edmond murmured softly, his eyes sweeping her with admiration.

The gown was lovely with its softly flowing full skirts and sleeves that came to just below her elbows, full and fashioned as if they were pushed up slightly, leaving her soft forearms bare. The dress's neckline was very low and scooped and her breasts swelled provocatively with each breath she took. The fitted bodice was embroidered in a swirling pattern of small, sparkling diamantes and pearls. Around her neck Skye fastened several matched strands of creamy pearls to correspond with the pearls in her ears. Daisy then pinned pale-pink camellias to the base of her mistress's chignon, and Skye was ready.

She walked to the door between her room and the duc's and entered her husband's room. 'Your half-brother has arrived, Fabron,' she said. 'I am going to greet him now with Edmond. Will you see him tonight?'

The duc shook his head vigorously in the negative.

'You will see him?' she pressed.

Fabron de Beaumont lay very still, feigning sudden sleep.

Skye was not fooled. 'You must eventually see him, monseigneur,' she said quietly. Then she bent and kissed him on the forehead. 'Good night, Fabron,' she said, and then she was gone.

Fabron de Beaumont felt the tears slide down his face quite unchecked. His body had betrayed him, but his mind was still clear and quite active.

Skye and Edmond hurried to the Great Hall of the castle, where they knew Nicolas St. Adrian was awaiting them.

He was a magnificently handsome man with a broad chest that narrowed V-like into his slim waist. His dress was simple: worn, high leather boots, the short, dark trunk hose showing a shapely thigh above them; a doeskin