Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  We raced towards the boat. Mimi slipped in the mud and fell. ‘Wait for me!’ she wailed. I ran back, scooped her up onto my hip and floundered to the boat, which Jean and Jacques held waiting. I dropped Mimi in, then clambered in myself. ‘César,’ I called and whistled shrilly. My hound bolted from the forest and bounded into the boat, almost capsizing it. Flung to the bottom of the boat, I sat up, only to be knocked down again by my enthusiastic dog trying to wash my face with his tongue.

  ‘Row,’ I cried. ‘Get me to shore, tout de suite!’

  In a flurry of splashes, the boat spun in circles as the boys fought over the oars.

  ‘Hurry,’ I cried.

  Jean dropped one oar. In reaching for it, I almost lurched into the water. Only Jacques’ firm grip on my skirts saved me. I seized the oar, jammed it back into its brackets and rowed as fast as I could, feeling blisters springing up on my palm. We reached the shore and I scrambled out, whistling for Garnet. She ambled towards me. I hurried to meet her, my wet muddy skirts flapping against my bare legs.

  Garnet sensed my desperation and would not let me catch her reins. At last, I seized hold and cast one agonised glance towards the road. I saw an immense gilded carriage, with outriders streaming before and behind, then a train of smaller carriages, each pulled by a team of fine horses. A woman in a huge hat with a veil wrapped about her face was leaning from the window of the first carriage, one gloved hand gesturing towards me. A young man was cantering alongside on a fine bay gelding. He too was staring at me, and I could clearly see the mocking laughter on his face.

  ‘Sacré cochon,’ I cursed, an expression I had heard in the stables that would have earned me a whipping if my mother had heard it on my lips. I scrambled up onto Garnet’s back and galloped for home, César loping easily at her heels. The man riding the bay kicked forward his horse, racing me along the length of the field. I felt sick with anxiety. Could that be the King himself? His jacket was so thickly embroidered with gold I could not see the fabric, and he had a fine head of long dark curls, just like the King was said to have. A few other young men whipped up their horses too, beginning a hullabaloo. I was glad when the road curved around to enter through the barbican, and I was able to race across the park to the stables.

  ‘Help me,’ I cried as I galloped into the yard. ‘The King comes. I’m late! Maman will skin me alive.’

  Strong hands lifted me down. ‘Run, Bon-bon,’ Victoir cried.

  I took to my heels, César lolloping gladly beside me, leaving huge muddy pawprints on the gleaming cobblestones. Cheers and friendly backslappings accompanied me as I raced for the chateau.

  Nanette was looking out for me anxiously. ‘Wicked girl. Your mother will have your hide! Already, the outriders are here. Look at your dress! Your hair! Your knees! Come, come!’

  Together, we raced up the back way, Nanette calling at the maids to bring hot water, soap, a brush, a whip. I was shaken and hugged all at once, the dirty torn dress whisked off me, a wet cloth slapping at my hands and feet and knees, and then my new dress dragged on over my head even while my sister’s maid, Agathe, was trying to comb the leaves and twigs out of my hair. Nanette was still tying the ends of my sash as we ran down the corridor and down the grand stairs, just as the front door was flung open for the King and his court.

  I slipped in beside my mother as she gracefully curtsied to the ground. I bobbed down too, a few seconds behind my sister and the rest of the household.

  ‘Welcome to Cazeneuve, Your Majesty,’ my mother said.

  ‘Thank you, Madame de la Force. We are glad to be here,’ an imperious voice replied. I crept forward, eager to have my first look at the King of France.

  THE KING OF FRANCE

  Château de Cazeneuve, Gascony, France – May 1660

  Louis XIV of France was a rather short young man with long, heavy, dark curls and a sullen face, his upper lip adorned by a mere smear of a moustache, which looked as if a bootboy had pressed his dirty thumbs into the flesh above his red pouting lips.

  There was such a bulk of clothes about him – lace collars and foaming white sleeves and a heavy cape embroidered all over with gold – that he appeared wider than he was tall, and it seemed impossible that the spindly legs could actually support the weight. His beady eyes were sweeping the crowd, noticing everyone and everything, while he flicked his whip against his leg in what seemed like a nervous tic, for an immense lady in black rustled forward to lay one jewel-laden hand on his, stilling the movement.

  ‘Madame, may I present my mother, the Queen?’

  Once again, everyone on the step bowed or swept down to the ground in a curtsey, and once again I was left bobbing a few seconds behind. The King noticed me. The dark brows twitched together. He saw César pressed against my leg, and recognition flared in his eyes, which flicked at once back up to me, taking in my flushed face, my damp hair and the crooked sash. His eyebrows lifted. His lip twisted in the faintest of sneers. Colour surging into my cheeks, I dropped my eyes, staring resolutely at the ground.

  The King’s brother, Philippe, the Duc d’Orléans, was introduced. A slim exquisite young man of twenty, he was as painted and rouged as the ladies, and had an earring in one ear. Another sulky young man in lavender silk lounged beside him, a pomander held to his nose, but he was not introduced. In fact, the King seemed to pretend he was not there at all.

  Instead, the King’s cousin, Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, the Duchesse de Montpensier, was presented. She was a tall lady, in the biggest hat I had ever seen. When she lifted her veil, it was to show a plain-faced woman of about thirty, with a big nose and bright kind eyes. I shrank back behind my sister, for I recognised her as the woman in the coach who had pointed at me, laughing.

  Standing close beside the Queen was a tall olive-skinned man dressed in scarlet, with scowling eyebrows and a beautifully groomed moustache with upturning ends. He was introduced as Cardinal Mazarin, the chief minister.

  ‘We thank you for your hospitality, madame,’ Cardinal Mazarin said, in a deep, accented voice, ‘and also for the opportunity to receive your professions of homage and loyalty to His Majesty the King.’

  Colour rose in my mother’s face. Everyone knew that my parents had fought against the King in the religious wars, but I thought it rather tactless to bring it up at that point and so too did my mother, by the look of her tight-lipped face.

  ‘Of course,’ Maman replied. ‘But, please, come in. Let us do what we can to welcome you and make you comfortable after your journey.’

  The Queen smiled adoringly up at Cardinal Mazarin and took his arm so he could help her up the steps. The King stuck out his sulky lower lip, looking unhappy to have to fall in behind them. His brother, the Duc d’Orléans, sauntered after him, his high heels clacking on the worn old stone. As he came into the great hall, hung with ancient tapestries and my great-grandfather’s weapons of war, the Duc d’Orléans said to his friend, ‘What a ghastly place. Positively medieval. I am sure, absolutely sure, my dear Philippe, that there must be dungeons here.’

  ‘But of course. With skeletons hanging in chains.’ Philippe affected a shudder.

  ‘There aren’t any dungeons,’ I cried angrily. ‘Or any skeletons. There’s only cellars and caves, wonderful caves where a hermit used to live.’

  The Duc d’Orléans raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Saperlipopette! Cellars. And caves. How thrilling.’

  ‘Perhaps tonight we should go and explore these dark underground caves, monsieur,’ Philippe said in a strange insinuating way, as if he was making a joke.

  ‘Absolutely,’ the Duc d’Orléans replied in the same meaningful way.

  I looked from one to the other, not understanding the joke. ‘There’s a secret passage too,’ I said, wanting the King’s court to love the Château de Cazeneuve as much as I did.

  The two men laughed, but not in a nice way. ‘Did you hear, Philippe? A secret passage. Now that we must explore.’

  ‘You must ask my mother’s steward for lant
erns,’ I said. ‘It’s dark in there.’

  They laughed even harder, supporting each other. The Duc d’Orléans pressed his jasmine-scented handkerchief to his eyes. ‘And I thought I’d be bored to death in the country. But so many secret passages and caves to discover!’

  I backed away, not liking the malice I sensed in their laughter and not understanding what amused them so much. I looked for Maman, who was standing pressed against the wall, as crowds of people surged past her, chattering like starlings. Maman’s face was pale and strained.

  ‘I have a gift for you, madame,’ the King was saying to her.

  ‘You are too kind, Your Majesty,’ she murmured in response.

  The King snapped his fingers and my mother was presented with a small portrait of himself dressed in ermine fur and blue brocade, a fleur-de-lys baton in one hand, the other resting on his crown.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said rather stupidly, and I could tell that she was biting back caustic words. She stood holding the portrait, looking about her as if wondering what to do with it. Montgomery came and relieved her of its weight, and I heard a few muttered words. ‘Where shall we put it? And what shall we do? So many people. Where can they all sleep? Are there enough oysters? Best open some more wine!’

  Again, I was aware of the King’s penetrating stare. I shrank away, my hand on César’s ruff, and found myself caught by my sister, Marie, and shaken and scolded once more.

  ‘I’m sorry. I forgot,’ I cried.

  ‘Forgot the King was coming? How could you?’

  ‘He was early …’

  ‘It was such a fine day, he decided to ride,’ Marie said.

  ‘How those poor ladies must’ve been rattled about, trying to keep up with him,’ I said. ‘He must’ve galloped most of the way to be here so early.’

  ‘It’s almost noon,’ she said. ‘You must know Maman is furious. We saw you running from the stables scant seconds before they arrived, looking like some wild child raised by wolves. Imagine if the King had seen you.’

  I dared not confess that he had.

  The King and his court had a wonderful feast that evening.

  Huge tureens of puréed chestnut soup with truffles were carried in and served to each guest, filling the air with a rich earthy smell. Then the servants brought in ballotine of pheasant, served with cold lobster in aspic and deep-sea oysters brought up the river by boat that morning. Our own foie gras on tiny rounds of bread was followed by margret de canard, the breast meat of force-fed ducks, roasted with small home-grown pears and Armagnac. There was a white-bean cassoulet with wild hare, a haunch of venison cooked in cinnamon and wine, eel pie, and a salad of leaves and flowers from the garden, dressed with olive oil and lemon.

  Queen Anne ate and ate and ate. I had never seen a woman eat so much. No wonder she was so enormous. The King ate nearly as much. Safely ensconced in the window alcove, I had an excellent view of the table through the crack in the heavy curtains. Maman thought me in bed, of course, but I had slipped in while the servants were setting the table and hidden myself. I did not want to miss a moment of the King’s visit.

  As Queen Anne ate, she talked. ‘Ah, madame,’ she said to my mother, ‘I pity you. Two daughters! And no husband. How are you to find dowries for them?’

  ‘I’ll just have to do my best,’ my mother answered with a polite smile.

  ‘Best send the youngest to the convent,’ Cardinal Mazarin said, looking bored.

  My mother’s smile froze. ‘I fear she is not suited for the nunnery.’

  ‘Then the nunnery is just the place for her,’ Cardinal Mazarin replied, sipping his wine. ‘It’ll break her spirit. Maidens should be mild and meek, swift to hear and slow to speak.’

  I screwed up my face in disgust, but my mother smiled faintly.

  ‘It costs as much to marry a girl to Christ as it does to marry her to a man these days,’ the Duc d’Orléans said with a sneer. The King’s brother wore rose-pink satin, his sleeves slashed and beribboned, the lace falling from above his elbow to cover his fingers. He wore an enormous pink diamond in his ear, and another on his finger. His friend, Philippe, who I had learnt was the Chevalier de Lorraine, was as exquisite in a short flared coat of puce satin. Both wore extraordinary baggy breeches that made them look as if they were wearing skirts, with loops of ribbons at the waist and knee.

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Anne-Marie-Louise, the Duchesse de Montpensier, laying down her fork. ‘Why must she marry? Surely she can be of service to her family without having to marry?’

  ‘So you say,’ the Duc d’Orléans said cuttingly, ‘as an excuse to cover the fact that nobody wants you. The richest heiress in all of Christendom and you still can’t find a husband.’

  Anne-Marie-Louise flushed scarlet and looked down at her plate.

  ‘The Grande Mademoiselle could have had any number of husbands,’ Queen Anne said coldly. ‘But King Charles of England was too ugly, and King Alfonso of Portugal not fit enough …’

  ‘He was half-paralysed,’ Anne-Marie-Louise protested. ‘And a halfwit.’

  ‘And the Duke of Savoy was too young …’ Queen Anne continued.

  ‘He’s seventeen years younger than me. And he still lets his mother rule for him.’

  There was an awful moment of silence. The King thrust out his jaw and his mother the Queen looked embarrassed. She had been Regent of France for so many years, she still thought of herself in that role. She tossed back a goblet of wine, then, fortified, returned to the attack. ‘Well, what about the Emperor Ferdinand? You wouldn’t have him either.’

  ‘He was twenty years older than me.’

  ‘I suppose that was your reason for turning down my brother as well,’ the Queen said.

  ‘He was a cardinal!’

  ‘Pfff! A small worry. He was never ordained a priest, being an Infante of Spain. Something could have been arranged.’ The Queen shook out her napkin, looking most displeased.

  Anne-Marie-Louise bit her lip, looking down at her plate. ‘They all just wanted me for my money. I … I want someone to want me for myself.’ Her voice shook.

  ‘Now you are talking like a milkmaid,’ the King said in a voice sharp with contempt. ‘You are a granddaughter of France. Your marriage is a matter of alliance, to bring power and riches to the throne.’

  ‘So I am to be sold like a cow to the highest bidder?’ Anne-Marie-Louise answered, her hands gripped together.

  ‘If I so ordain it,’ he answered. ‘There is no other use for you.’

  There was a long tense silence. Anne-Marie-Louise was clearly fighting back tears.

  ‘Surely France has wealth and power enough?’ my mother said. She smiled at the King. ‘All Europe talks of the brilliance of the Sun King’s court.’

  His face was impassive. ‘Yet such brilliance comes at a price. And it is in the marriage market that it is paid.’

  ‘Yet, if mademoiselle does not wish to marry,’ my mother went on, sympathy in her voice, ‘surely it is not necessary?’

  ‘It is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of duty and propriety,’ the King answered.

  ‘Besides, a woman needs a man to command and protect her,’ Queen Anne said. ‘My husband the King died nearly twenty years ago, and I do not know what I would have done without the guidance of my dear Jules.’ She smiled fondly at Cardinal Mazarin, who was leaning back in his chair, his brows raised, his eyes on my mother’s face.

  ‘Yet you were the King’s Regent for so many years,’ Maman said. ‘You have raised two sons on your own, just as I have raised my daughters since my husband died.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Queen Anne agreed. ‘That is very true.’

  Cardinal Mazarin frowned. The Queen hastened to add, ‘Though I had the very best of all advisors.’

  Maman continued eagerly, ‘And although I miss my husband greatly, I hold my estates and titles in my own right, and it was always my responsibility to run them wisely. My husband had his own affairs to manage. The Château de Cazen
euve is mine, and it shall be my daughter’s after me.’

  Anne-Marie-Louise was gazing at her with bright curious eyes. ‘So, madame, you think it possible for a woman to have her own little corner of the world and be mistress of it?’

  ‘Of course,’ my mother answered her. ‘Women have been saints and soldiers and mothers. They are more than capable of managing their own affairs.’ They shared a warm complicit smile.

  ‘Do you not know that women are defective and misbegotten, a male gone awry?’ Cardinal Mazarin said with scathing contempt. ‘St Clement spoke truly when he said that all women should be overwhelmed with shame at the very thought that she is a woman.’

  The women all looked down at their plates. The Duc d’Orléans smirked at his friend. I was angry. Why didn’t Maman speak up? Why didn’t she say to him, as she said to her daughters, ‘Why did God give us a brain if he didn’t want us to use it?’ I looked at her doubtfully. Her back was straight, her face was flushed and there was a deep line between her brows. She was angry, but she did not speak.

  ‘I see only one of your daughters here tonight,’ the King remarked. ‘Where’s the one I saw riding as if the devil was on her tail?’

  ‘I am not sure who you mean, Your Majesty,’ my mother replied coolly.

  ‘You mean that wild little creature we saw today?’ Anne-Marie-Louise said. ‘Surely she was just a peasant girl?’

  ‘The little girl with the great dog.’ The King watched my mother over the rim of his goblet.

  ‘We have many small girls here and many hunting dogs, Your Majesty.’ My mother’s voice was curt.

  ‘A tall blue-grey one, mottled all over with dark spots and a high noble nose,’ the King probed. ‘Is that not your daughter’s dog?’

  ‘If you are fond of dogs, Your Majesty, you must visit our kennels tomorrow.’ My mother made a signal to Montgomery, and he ordered the empty dishes removed and the servants to bring in pewter bowls of apple and Armagnac croustade with cream.