Mistress of the Sun (26 page)

T
HE
P
RIORESS HURRIED
into the convent courtyard, nearly slipping on the icy cobblestones. Who could be ringing at such an hour? She prayed it was not a drunken reveler. It was annoying to tend the gate, but the lay nun charged with the task was ill, yet again, with an ague. The ring of keys shook like a tambourine in her hand as she opened the first lock and then a second. She paused to pull her veil down over her face and cracked open the heavy gate, taking care—on pain of excommunication—not to touch the threshold.

“Mary,” she exclaimed, startled to see a young woman of the nobility before her, splatter-dashed with mud. How old was she? she wondered. Even yet twenty? It was difficult to tell.

“Mother, I beg you, may I enter?”

Her voice was soft, her enunciation refined, but with a hint of the land to the south. Golden curls flew out in wisps around her
waiflike face, which was unadorned, without paint or patches. Her red-rimmed eyes were those of an innocent—luminous.

The Prioress opened the gate enough for the young woman to come through, then pushed it closed and double-locked it. “You’re chilled,” she said, taking her by the elbow lest she fall. The hem of her cloak appeared wet, and her boots—one with a thick raised sole—were covered with mud. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve come from the city,” the young woman said. Her breath was coming in gasps.

“All that way on foot? Glory—you’re shaking like a leaf.” There was no hint of liquor on her, so it wasn’t that.

In moments, the Prioress had her settled on a wood bench in the parlor. “I’ll have a trencher and small beer brought to you,” she said, stoking the fire.

“No, thank you. I will be fine,” the young woman said, then slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

H
OURS LATER
,
THE
Prioress made her way through the various chambers and along the inner courtyard to the reception chamber. It was not even prime, and already it had been a busy morning: Ash Wednesday rituals, the girl falling unconscious in the parlor and now—she’d been informed—a man demanding entrance.

The hinges of the shutter covering the grille squeaked as she opened it. “
Adoremus in eternum
,” she intoned to the tall young man wrapped in a gray cloak.

“
Sanctissimum sacramentum
,” he answered, awkwardly sitting on the little cushioned bench in front of the grille, his spurs catching on the fabric. His hazel eyes were dark with emotion.

The Prioress studied his face, his proud hooked nose and high cheekbones. An unusually comely man, tall and broad-shouldered, he was clearly of the noble race. Where had she seen him before? “I understand you demand entry, Monsieur, regarding a young woman in our care.” She had fallen into a trance, an insensible swoon, and looked to be more dead than alive. They’d tried giving her syrup of dry roses, an excellent cordial against tremblings of the heart, but without success. If she didn’t waken before terce, they would send for the priest. “We don’t allow men entry.” Especially on Ash Wednesday.

“I am the King.”

She tried not to scoff.

“I am the
King
,” he repeated with passion, “and if you don’t allow me in to see her, I will have this convent destroyed.”

Mon Dieu
, she thought.
He is the King.
She recognized him now. Years ago she had seen him touch the sick, cure hundreds of the Evil. She crossed herself, bowing her head. “The young woman, Your Majesty, she’s—” She paused to catch her breath. “Insensible,” she warned, opening the door and leading the way into the visitors’ parlor, still bone-chilling cold in spite of a crackling fire.

The young woman was as they had left her, lying stretched out on the floor. The Prioress and two of the nuns had considered
moving her onto the bench, but decided it best to make her comfortable where she lay, taking off her wet boots and stockings, and wrapping her in fur and woolen comforters.

The King fell to his knees. “Louise,” he whispered, touching her hand.

She opened her eyes.

Thank the Lord, she’s alive
, the Prioress thought. She looked like a wounded angel, her curls spread out on the wax-greased floor—but she was no angel, the Prioress knew, to judge by the King’s treasuring words. Hurriedly, she withdrew behind the grille, chanting the rosary to keep out the sounds.

P
ETITE FELT RELIEF
, then alarm. Louis was with her—but where was she? What had happened?

Something.

She tried to sit up, but she was too weak.

“Don’t,” Louis said.

Why was he crying?

And then it came back to her in dreamlike fragments: their fight, the
water.
“What happened?” she asked, clasping his warm hand, pressing it to her cheek.

“I’m not sure.” Louis looked up at the ceiling. Took a shaky breath. “You don’t know?”

“Is this a convent?” she asked, looking around. They were in a small chamber with a stone statue of Christ on the cross at one end
and a fireplace at the other. Biblical tapestries hung on the stone walls. There was only one small window, high up and barred. She closed her eyes against tears. “I tried…I tried…” she stuttered, her breathing coming in gasps.

“Hush,” Louis said with tenderness. He took her in his arms.

Slowly, very slowly, she returned to the world. They sat huddled for a time by the fire as her socks and boots dried.

“I would never strike you,” Louis said, repentant of his rage. “And I’m sorry…about what I called you. I love you.”

Petite looked away, her eyes filling.
Whore.
She could forgive him—but could she ever forget? “I made a vow to secrecy, Louis, and I had to honor it. To do otherwise would have been a sin.”

“There can be no secrets between us.”

Petite thought about this. “I wish you weren’t King,” she said, her head on his shoulder. The nuns could be heard singing in choir.

“But I am, and I must know what is going on at Court. It can be no other way.”

Petite stirred the embers with an iron. She loved Louis with all her heart—but she did not love the King. How could she live with both? “I love you.”

Louis placed two small birch logs on the bed of glowing embers. The paper-thin bark flared and sparked. “Then you must choose,” he said sadly.

Petite looked into his eyes, his soft hazel eyes so full of feeling. She saw traces of his tears—his love—but she saw his resolve as
well. He
was
King. She had to accept that. “I choose you,” she said quietly, holding her palms to the flames for warmth.

P
ETITE’S CARRIAGE JOLTED FORWARD
. She leaned back against the hard leather seat. She was still quite weak, overcome with fatigue. Louis had kissed her, promised the Prioress a generous compensation (the price of her silence), ordered a coach to take Petite back to the Palais Royale and then left, spurring his horse into a full-out gallop, his cape billowing out behind him.

Petite pulled her cloak closely around her. She had broken her promise and told Louis what she knew. There was no other way: she saw that now. She’d been naive. He was the King, after all. The security of the realm rested on his shoulders.

The sun was well up, the water congested with boats.

The water…

What had happened? She remembered looking down at the river, longing for relief, for sleep. But then…?

And then all that she could recall was lying on the bank in the cold mud, her boots and the hem of her cloak soaked through. She had a faint recollection of a woman singing, and a horse’s scream. A chill went through her. She remembered sitting up, dazed. She remembered looking for hoof marks in the mud—but of course there were hoof marks everywhere.

Tears started to come again.
Gone to the river.
What did it mean? And then she recalled: it had been said of a man who had
used bone magic, lost his senses. Long ago. Men who used bone magic went lunatic—“gone to the river,” it was said.

But what of girls? What of a girl who had used the magic—a child?

Petite lowered the leather covering so that she could not see the water. She closed her eyes, lulled by the rumbling sound of the wagon wheels on the cobbles, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.
O Mary…

I
T WAS DRIZZLING
rain by the time Petite’s coach pulled up in front of the Palais Royale. She gathered the hood of her cloak up over her head and alighted, heading quickly for the stairwell that led to the servants’ wing.

Clorine cried out when Petite pushed open the door to her room. “Dieu merci,” she exclaimed, then burst into tears. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mademoiselle,” she said angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Petite said. “Where’s Nicole?” Her trunk wasn’t against the wall and her pomade jars, ribbons and pins had been cleared from the little table by the chimney.

“Banished. She even took that useless maid with her,” Clorine said, “thanks be to Mary. But she left you this.” She handed Petite a rolled-up length of rag paper.

My dear friend, I’ve been found out. Princess Henriette won’t even speak to me—after all I did for her! I think that
cow Yeyette snitched. I’m being banished from Court and will be locked away in some musty convent for good measure—in the south, I hope, where at least it will be warm. You were right—I should have listened.

Your friend, Nicole

P.S. Keep an eye on our Goddess of Virginity. Dead Antin’s brother has been sniffing at her like a shit-nosed hound. P.P.S. I overheard la Grande Mademoiselle saying that Princess Marguerite has had a baby (or two?) and that her Tuscan husband is a beast. Poor dear.

Petite sat on a stool as Clorine unbuckled her muddy boots. She felt sick with remorse.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take her bed,” Clorine said.

“I’m going to miss Nicole,” Petite said.

“Zut. Are you serious? We haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months. Let me get you into a clean gown. Madame has summoned you.”

H
ENRIETTE SENT THE SERVANTS
out of the room as soon as Petite appeared. “Well,” she said, lowering herself slowly onto a wide divan. But for her hard, protruding bulge she was stick thin. “You told the King,” she said accusingly. “The King who just happens to be your
lover
,” she added with contempt. “Quelle surprise.” She’d been crying too.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Petite lowered her head. So, now Henriette knew. “I had to.”

“My husband must never find out,” Henriette said, her hands over her belly.

“I know.” Pretty Philippe, who would not kill a bird, could be cruel in his jealous contempt for his wife.

“His Majesty has forced my hand. I must give Armand up.” Henriette’s voice quavered in speaking her lover’s name. She took a sharp breath. “Mademoiselle de Montalais has been banished, of course.”

“Nicole is innocent of wrong,” Petite protested.

“None of us are innocent,” Henriette said wearily, her tone that of a much older woman. “And particularly Nicole, as you no doubt know,” she added. “The King was none too pleased by her role as…matchmaker, shall we say? And certainly she should never have told
you.
”

“She vowed me to silence,” Petite persisted.

“As I vowed her. She’s deceptive by nature, given to schemes and intrigue. Time locked away in a convent may even be for the best. And in any case, the King has spoken and there is nothing more to be done.”

Petite’s eyes stung with tears. There would be no imploring Louis, she knew, no way to protest. She knew the rules, and she had made her choice.

“Plus,” Henriette said sharply, her voice bitter, “in addition to giving up
my
beloved, I must keep
you
on as my attendant”—she
stood, walking the length of the room, her arms crossed tightly, her hands gripping her sleeves—“so that His Majesty can have
his
secret pleasure.”

She turned to face Petite, her eyes red-rimmed, her neck flushed. “I ask you: do you not find that ironic?” With abrupt passion, she swept the pomade jars off her toilette table. One shattered, filling the air with the aroma of Hungary water. “I hate this stinking world!”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” Petite said with feeling, falling to her knees. It was said that Court was a country where the joys were visible but false, and the sorrows hidden but real. “I understand your torment.” She shared it.

Petite felt Henriette’s finger lightly tap her shoulder. “Rise, Mademoiselle,” the Princess said.

Awkwardly, wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve, Petite got to her feet.

“It won’t do, you know, for the King’s paramour to grovel.” Henriette smiled sadly. “You’re going to have to be stronger.”

A
S THE LEAVES
of the chestnut trees unfurled, Henriette went into childbed. Her doctors feared she would die. After two days of pain, she gave birth to a weak baby girl. “Throw her in the river,” the Princess cried out in her rage. Only a girl, after all that. Two weeks later, she uprised, churched, and was ready to entertain.

It was May now, after all, the old “Joy Month.” Court festivities continued unabated in spite of duels and infidelities, tragedies and scandal. Nicole disappeared without a trace into a convent somewhere in the south. The duelists—including Athénaïs’s intended—disappeared into foreign realms. And the Court? The King and his courtiers disappeared into the wilds, hunting, hawking and riding.

The Court returned to Paris in June to find preparations underway for the next grand event. In the quadrangle between the
Louvre and the Tuileries, where the bread ovens for the hungry had been not long before, stands were being constructed to hold five thousand spectators. The city was now enlivened: the people had survived a famine and escaped the Plague. The weather had turned fine: crops were growing and money was flowing once again. Their Spanish queen had birthed a healthy baby boy: the Dauphin was now six months old and thriving. There was cause for celebration.

Heralds were sent out to announce a tournament in honor of the King’s fat son. Foreigners filled the city as news spread that the King himself would compete. In the evenings, men arrived at the salons complaining of sore muscles and smelling of the stable. Everyone was in a state of excitement, talking of armor and horses, anticipating an old-fashioned carousel with tilting at the ring and chariot races, dancing bears and chattering monkeys.

“Just like in days of old,” Henriette said in an effervescent rapture. “Just like in the celebrated days of King Henry II,” she added (for she’d been studying her French history).

King Henry’s tragic death by jousting had spelled the end of the grand tournaments, and Louis was intent on bringing back shows of bravura—safer, of course (jousting contestants would aim their long lances at rings now, not at each other), but every bit as thrilling.

“His Majesty has been practicing with a lance,” Henriette said, her dog Mimi under one arm.

“I saw him yesterday morning, Madame,” a new maid of honor said. “He missed one ring, but got another.”

“And he’s taking lessons every day in tumbling,” Yeyette said. “Monsieur Lauzun told me.”

“So I’ve heard,” Petite said (without flushing), and Henriette nodded approvingly.

When the day finally came, the Queen and Queen Mother took their places under a gold and purple velvet canopy set up in front of the arena on the east side of the Tuileries. Petite sat with Athénaïs in the section reserved for the maids of honor, listening to the excited chatter, women talking of their husbands, fathers, lovers and brothers. The ladies laughed sharing stories of helping out with the men’s costumes, the frantic and inevitable search for lost items, the last-minute changes. They talked of special diets, sleepless nights, how best to soothe riding sores. They talked of giving their loved ones a scarf to wear, just like in the days of chivalry.

“And who, might I ask, is carrying your scarf?” Athénaïs whispered to Petite.

“No one,” Petite lied, wondering how much Athénaïs knew. At Louis’s insistence, Henriette had been careful about keeping silence, but many were suspicious, nonetheless. Fortunately, the Queen was not one of them (it was impossible for her to believe that the King could love a woman of such inferior nobility).

“See that man down there?” Athénaïs pointed her fan at a
tall cavalier in ancient armor, riding a stubby mare. “That’s the Marquis de Montespan, brother of the young man who was killed in the duel.”

Five months had passed since the tragic affair that had spelled the death of Henry d’Antin and the ruin of so many others, including Athénaïs’s fiancé, the Marquis de Noirmoutiers.

“And that’s
my
scarf he’s got tied to his lance,” Athénaïs said, “although it’s not what you think. He took it from me. He’s horribly persistent. Flattering, I suppose, but somewhat disconcerting.”

A clang of cymbals and a blast of trumpets announced the opening procession: mounted pages in gold-embroidered tunics and squires in Roman dress were followed by the King’s two equerries, one carrying his lance and the other his shield, emblazoned with an image of the sun.

Petite’s heart swelled to see Louis appear riding a chestnut stallion at the head of a Roman squadron. Dressed as Emperor of Rome, he looked afire with diamonds (tiny tin mirrors, Petite knew). His spirited horse’s gold-embroidered harness threw off sparks of light. Even his leather ankle boots were gilded and the sword at his side covered with “gems.”

“The Sun King!” someone called out, and people cheered. Several times that winter Louis had danced the part of the Sun God Apollo, and the nickname had become popular.

“Mon Dieu, it’s enough to make a girl faint just to look at him,” a young woman exclaimed, violently fanning herself.

Indeed,
Petite thought pridefully.

Louis’s silver helmet was covered with gold leaves and crested with flowing scarlet plumes. He looked out over the crowd, searching the faces of the ladies under the velvet canopy—searching for her, Petite knew. She waved her lace shawl, hoping he would notice, but everyone, it seemed, was waving something.

Four heralds trumpeted:
may the games begin.

What a show! The spectators grew hoarse cheering. Their shoulders ached from waving colorful scarves, pennants, flags, inflated pig bladders. One of the best moments was the Course of Heads, a contest rarely seen. Solemnly, a row of paste “heads” was set up along a barrier: several Turks, two Indians and a Medusa and other monsters from antiquity. Louis entered, first galloping at the heads with a lance, and then with a javelin, and then with a sword. The cheers turned to a stunned silence as, one by one, he mowed down all sixteen.

During the tilting at the ring, Petite recognized Jean. “I think that’s my brother,” she told Athénaïs. “It’s my father’s suit of armor he’s wearing.”

The horseman charged the post at full speed, piercing the ring with his lance. A cheer went up. He circled the arena, his visor up. “It is him!” Petite yelled to get Jean’s attention, but she could not make herself heard over the crowd.

She climbed down the crude wood benches and circled round to the back of the arena where a military tent had been set up
for the knights. She hovered with the crowd that stood waiting in hopes of seeing the King or some illustrious Court personality emerge. She recognized Lauzun and ran to catch up with him.

“My brother is in there,” she said. “Could you go get him for me?”

“Do you know how many men are in there? And all of them dripping with sweat,” Lauzun said with mock disgust.

“I haven’t seen my brother in over a year. I didn’t know he was coming to Paris. He’s with Tellier’s men, wearing black chain mail and an old-style helmet, but with a visor. No breast plate, just a leather cuirass.”

Reluctantly, fingers comically to his nose, Lauzun turned back toward the tent.

Jean emerged shortly after, drenched. “Michel de Tellier dumped a bucket over me,” he said with a laugh, wiping his face with his sleeve. “If he weren’t son of the war minister, I’d thrash him. Come, I’m dying of thirst. I know a watering hole not far from here.”

The “watering hole” was for men only, of course, so Petite waited by the river while Jean downed a mug or two of beer. “That’s better,” he said, joining her. “Michel and I were in there last night. The stories he tells!” He offered his arm to Petite as they strolled along the river. “He’s the one who told me about the tournament—it was his idea, you know—and suggested I come up for it.” He picked up a rock and threw it at a duck floating on the water, but missed. The duck dove, surfacing by a laundry boat.
“Michel is a friend of the King, so he knows what’s going on. He told me the King is putting together a company of light horse for the Dauphin.”

Petite nodded. It was no secret: everyone knew about it. “The positions are going to high-ranking veterans,” she said.

“But with his pull, Michel thinks I might have a chance,” Jean said, throwing another rock, and hitting the duck this time.

“That would be wonderful,” Petite said, but knowing that Michel de Tellier had little influence with Louis.

“Speaking of the mighty, did you know Minister Fouquet?” she added.

“Everybody at Court knew him. Mother said you guarded him at Amboise.”

Jean laughed. “What a complainer. He expected a feather bed, rose water in his wash basin. Rose water—in a prison?” He paused. “You know, there was the strangest rumor going around: people said that Fouquet tried to bribe you because he’d found out that you were ‘close’ to the King.”

“There are lots of rumors at Court, Jean.”

“Of course that’s ridiculous. The King can have any woman at Court he wants.”

Petite picked up a flat stone and skipped it across, three jumps.

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, L
OUIS
was distant with Petite. He lay beside her on Gautier’s bed, staring at the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” Petite finally asked, slipping a hand under his shirt. It was unlike him not to embrace her hungrily. “You usually ravish me,” she said teasingly.

He exhaled. “I saw you cheering someone during the tournament.”

“I was cheering for you.”

“This was at tilting at the ring. You were cheering a man on Tellier’s team.” He sounded miffed.

“Oh—my brother Jean,” Petite said with a smile. “I was surprised to see him here in Paris. You weren’t jealous, were you?” she asked, incredulous.

“You were cheering with such passion. I was watching you.”

“He got the ring on the first pass,” Petite said proudly, laying her head on his broad shoulder. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

He kissed her passionately—but all the while she was thinking,
Why don’t I just ask?
It pleased Louis to help, she knew. He was a generous man.

“And?” he said, drawing back, sensing her detachment.

She sighed. “It’s to do with the light horse brigade you’re putting together—for the Dauphin? My brother is truly a wonderful horseman, Louis, and he’d—”

“Thy will be done,” Louis said with a smile, loosening her laces.

I
T WAS WINTER
when Jean moved back to Paris to take up his new position. “Imagine, the rank of cornette,” Françoise said, fanning herself in spite of the chill.

“Congratu—” the old Marquis sputtered. He’d shrunk over time.

“Congratulations.” Petite raised a glass to her brother. He looked splendid in his new uniform, a red coat with silver lace edging and a silver-edged bandolier to match. She had helped Louis with the design.

“I always knew you’d go far, Jean,” Françoise said.

“In truth, I owe this to my friend Michel de Tellier,” Jean said, “the war minister’s son.”

“That was kind of him,” Petite said, dissembling her surprise. Michel de Tellier had had nothing to do with her brother’s promotion “And imagine: a pension of four thousand livres,” Françoise said incredulously. “Now we’ll finally be able to save toward your sister’s dowry.”

“I have a few prospects in mind,” Jean said.

“Good,” Petite said, fainthearted.

O
N
E
ASTER
S
UNDAY
, Jean stopped Petite at the stairwell entrance to Madame’s suite. “I have to talk to you,” he said, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward the porticoes outside.

“I don’t have a wrap,” Petite said. Her shawl was summer-weight. “Or boots.” The weather was cool still, and wet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he hissed.

Petite studied his eyes. He knew.

“I finally got around to going to Michel de Tellier to thank him
for the promotion, and—what a surprise—he said he had nothing whatsoever to do with it. And then he told me the truth.”

Petite looked away, her heart jumping about like a rabbit on the chase. All her childhood, her mother had lectured her on the importance of chastity. “I’m sorry.”

Jean laughed.

Petite looked up at him: why was he smiling?

“Have you any idea what position this puts me in?” he asked, cocking his hat.

Petite put her hand on his arm. “Jean, it’s not like that.”

“Not like what? We’re talking about the
King.
”

“Be careful what you say,” Petite said in a low voice, noticing Athénaïs on the arm of her new husband, the persistent Marquis de Montespan.

“Listen: I’m head of our family. Don’t think I don’t understand the ramifications. You’ve been sullied—that doesn’t come free.”

“I’m serious, Jean,” Petite said, offended by his attitude.

“I guess I don’t need to find a husband for you now. Mother’s constantly onto me about it. She’s driving me crazy.”

“Jean, if you value your new position, I advise you to listen to what I’m saying,” Petite said, taking care not to raise her voice. “
Nobody
must know.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Especially Mother. She’d tell the Marquis, and then…”

And then the world would know.

A
LL THAT
H
OLY
S
EASON
, Petite prayed for her courses to come. Despite their abandon, she and Louis had been careful—most of the time.

Perhaps royal seed is different
, she thought as days turned to weeks. Then, after the Feast of the Ascension, she upheaved, and at Pentecost, Clorine had to loosen her corset laces.

“You shouldn’t be riding,” her maid scolded, clucking with concern.

Petite felt a sick despair, but at the same time she could not help but think that it was a most wonderful thing. Their seeds had mingled. She was carrying his child.

L
OUIS LOOKED AT
P
ETITE
in amazement. “Truly?”

Petite nodded, smiling uneasily. She had put off telling him. Everything would change now; nothing would be the same.