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To Serve a King is a fascinating historical novel written as only the talented Donna Russo Morin can…a remarkable read that should take a treasured spot on your bookshelf.
Single Titles Reviews
With her beautiful writing, detailed descriptions, and fascinating characters, Morin has definitely made a name for herself in the world of historical fiction.
Pittsburgh Examiner
A fast paced read with a clever and tenacious protagonist…hard to put down!
Passages to the Past
The French court is magnificently depicted in this book. It not only delivered that wonderful atmosphere, but an engaging story with a few twists, lively and sparkling characters, and very solid writing. I highly recommend this to historical fiction lovers everywhere.
Medieval Bookworm
Impeccably researched, and strewn with delightful descriptions of clothing, furniture, and the aromatic foods of the period, one cannot help but truly enjoy the experience that comes from reading this novel. For anyone who loves historical fiction with feisty heroines set in majestic surroundings, this make a very satisfying, enjoyable read. Like all of Donna Russo Morin’s novels, this one is sure to entertain.
Historical Novel Reviews
The scuffling step came from back around the bend. All her senses were alert. She dare not turn, dare not stay, and she began to move forward once more. But the shuffling continued, inching closer. If the footsteps belonged to another insomniac, Geneviève mused, he or she would make no great pains to keep their presence concealed—might, in fact, look for company when a night’s somnolent embrace refused them.
Geneviève drew closer to the next corridor, the one leading to her chamber. She could not allow her pursuer to follow her there.
Geneviève slowed her pace, as if she strolled without a care, humming a lulling tune low in her throat. She put her hand in her pocket and withdrew it, opening her clasped fingers.
“Oh dear,” she murmured idly, looking down at the tile floor in front of her as if she had dropped something. She bent her knees and squatted down, her nightgown and cloak ballooning around her. In their concealment, she reached beneath the fabric and pulled her dagger from the sheath strapped to her leg. With the small weapon hidden in the palm of her hand, she rose again and continued on, turning the corner that would take her to her room.
Once beyond the edge of the wall, Geneviève threw herself flat against the stone and waited, allowing herself no more than a shallow breath, fearing to give her presence away. The furtive footsteps grew closer. She braced her left hand on the wall, raised the right with its drawn dagger.
Like a hunter intent upon its prey, Geneviève caught the scent of the body, one of muskiness and herbs, before she saw it. Every muscle clenched in readiness. The form crept round the bend. Geneviève stepped out and grabbed. A half second of fumbling, a squelch of surprise, and she grabbed a throat, squeezed and pushed, forcing the hooded form back against the wall. With her left forearm against the interloper’s neck, Geneviève pinned the intruder to the stone with the tip of her dagger.
Two cold, bony hands fought against her, but they struggled ineffectually.
“Who are you?” Geneviève hissed and, with the dagger still in hand, used her palm to push back the concealing hood.
She gasped at the pale face, the white eyes gleaming out at her, releasing the tension of her hold in shock. Madame Arceneau lunged forward, trying to take advantage of the opportunity. Geneviève recoiled and pushed back again, thudding the mystic’s head against the wall, holding the tip of her weapon to the woman’s vein-threaded throat. The sharpness of the misericorde—a battlefield weapon used to end the life of a mortally wounded enemy with merciful swiftness—nipped at the thin skin.
“What do you want of me, woman?” Geneviève felt the creature of hate and anger that lived in her raise its head, so quiet it had been of late. This woman and her strange eyes brought it out like a randy chevalier in a roomful of virgins.
“I’ve come to tell you the truth.” The childish voice struggled through the hold upon her throat.
Geneviève felt her upper lip curl in revulsion. “Truth. What truth?”
“Your truth.”
Geneviève pushed the small woman harder against the wall. “Then tell me if you dare.”
The mystic barred her teeth at Geneviève. “You are the beast I saw. I know you are up to no good.”
A flash of fear and revelation squeezed at Geneviève’s gut, but she swallowed it back. This woman was nothing if not clever; those eyes may not see the future, but they saw everything else, the rest she inferred. But inferences were not enough to be hung upon.
“Tell me, old woman, what will I do?”
Madame Arceneau lowered her inhuman gaze to stare down at the dagger point sticking into her ribs. “You will kill.”
Geneviève sniggered from between clenched teeth. “That is not a particularly intuitive assumption at this juncture. Now is it, madame?”
“Not me,” the soothsayer sneered with impatience. “Another. One of high importance.” She leaned into the dagger, taunting, her face closing toward Geneviève’s. “A royal.”
Geneviève felt her teeth gnash and the ache in her jaw as the muscles hardened. “And what’s to stop me from killing you now…from silencing you and your nonsense forever?”
“It is all written down and entrusted to my greatest ally.” The fin of flesh hanging from the center of the fortune-teller’s throat wobbled as she spoke. “It will be delivered to the duchesse should I meet with an untimely demise.”
Geneviève’s hand squeezed the handle of the dagger until it shook. Visions of the woman’s slit throat oozing her life’s blood were brilliant in her mind’s eye. She lowered the weapon.
“What do you want?”
“Money,” the mystic said with a sickening smile, “and a home of my own, one on the rue de Turenne.”
Geneviève raised her eyes to the coffered ceiling.
“You’re mad. I have no such funds, no such influence at court to get you such things.”
Madame Arceneau would tempt fate and Geneviève’s hesitation no longer. She stepped away from the wall, sliding off down the dim, empty corridor like a ghostly specter wafting along on its nightly haunting. “Then you had better find a way.”
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