by Kate Forsyth
‘I would like that.’ The King smiled unpleasantly. ‘But where is your youngest daughter, madame?’
‘She will have retired for the night, Your Majesty, being only a child and too young for such revelries.’
‘Two daughters and no son,’ Queen Anne said through a mouthful of honeyed cream. ‘What a shame. We must have one to court, Louis. The eldest one is passably pretty. Let us have her to court and find her a husband.’
Sitting further down the table, Marie blushed and looked down at her plate. I glared at the Queen. How dare she call Marie only passably pretty? I thought her the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. It was true her dark eyes and warm olive skin were not fashionable at the moment, but she at least had not inherited my father’s strong nose like I unfortunately had.
‘She will need one if she is to inherit,’ the King said. ‘It seems a prosperous enough estate. She will need someone to manage it for her.’ He gave my mother a sideways glance.
My mother made a quick impatient movement. ‘I have managed these estates well enough without a man, Your Majesty, and Marie has been trained for the role since birth. She is quite capable.’
‘A woman in charge of a great estate is against the natural order of things,’ Cardinal Mazarin said. ‘A man is made to lead; a woman is born to obey. A family cannot have two masters. It would be like having two suns in the sky.’
‘It would be like the servant ordering the master about,’ Queen Anne agreed.
‘Or letting the horse ride the man,’ the Duc d’Orléans said with a giggle.
Cardinal Mazarin gave him a pained glance. ‘Women, after all, were never made for strength. They were made from Adam’s rib, remember, so are frail, weak things, easily bent.’
My mother gripped her hands together. ‘Your Excellency, that is something I have never understood, and would be most grateful to you if you could clarify for me. If women were truly made from Adam’s rib, should men not have one less rib than women? Yet all my observations have shown me that men and women have the same number of ribs on either side.’
‘You are mistaken,’ Cardinal Mazarin replied, frowning. ‘Men have one less rib.’
‘Have you ever counted your ribs? I can tell you that I have twelve ribs on each side, and so too did my dear husband.’
The Cardinal showed his teeth in what was meant to be a smile. ‘I’m afraid you must’ve miscounted, madame.’
My mother opened her mouth angrily but then shut it again, visibly swallowing her words. Two bright spots of colour burnt high on her cheeks.
‘You’ll have to count your ribs tonight, Your Excellency,’ the Duc d’Orléans said in a teasing voice. ‘And then find some woman willing to allow you to count hers. Perhaps …’ He turned towards his mother, who coloured and began to rapidly stir the Armagnac sauce into her cream. ‘But no, that shan’t do. Think of the scandal if the Cardinal was caught counting the Queen’s ribs!’ He glanced now at his brother, who was listening with a slight frown on his face. ‘I know, Louis. You are soon to be married. I charge you with the task of counting your new bride’s ribs. You must let us know what you discover. That is, if you can find your lady love’s ribs. By all accounts, she’s a plump little pigeon. I’d wager you have trouble locating them.’
‘How you do rattle on,’ Queen Anne protested, rather breathlessly. ‘I beg you, Louis, take no notice of Philippe.’
‘I never do.’ The King turned his dark penetrating glance to my mother, who was sitting bolt upright, her hands clenched. ‘Do you deny the Scriptures, madame? For is it not said that a woman should be silent and have no authority over man?’
‘Of course I do not deny the Scriptures, Your Majesty.’
‘Yet you are one of these réformés, are you not?’
She met the King’s gaze. ‘I am, Your Majesty. But we do not deny the Scriptures. We believe they contain all that is necessary for the service of God and our own salvation.’
He frowned. ‘Yet you argue against the one true Church, is that not so?’
She picked her words with care. ‘The one true Church is made up of those faithful who agree to follow the word of God.’
The King thrust out his lower lip. His frown had deepened, so that he looked like a sulky child who was deciding whether or not to have a tantrum.
‘And what of the intercession of the holy saints?’ Cardinal Mazarin demanded. ‘What do you think of the confessional, and the sacrifice of the mass?’
‘I think these are weighty matters for a meal designed to celebrate the honour of His Majesty’s visit to our home,’ my mother said, smiling a little stiffly. ‘And certainly not ones that I, a mere frail woman, would dare discuss with the anointed leaders of state and church.’ She gave a small bow to the King and the Cardinal, before adding, with a more natural smile, ‘I will only say that if one was to gather up all the pieces of the True Cross in the world, we’d have enough timber to build a ship.’
A laugh broke out, but Cardinal Mazarin looked displeased and the King’s frown did not lift.
‘I beg your indulgence, Your Majesty,’ my mother said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. Are we all not free to worship according to our conscience, under your grandfather’s wise law? Come, let us talk instead of what we can do to amuse you during your stay here with us. Would Your Majesty care to hunt?’
The King’s eyes brightened. ‘Indeed I would. Your forests look good and thick. What game is there?’
‘The forest of Cazeneuve is famous for its deer, and there are also plenty of bear and wild boar and wolves, if you would care for some rougher sport.’
‘The rougher the better,’ the Duc D’Orleans said, with that strange insinuating note in his voice, which made his mother blush and the King slap him lightly with his gloves.
THE HUNT
Château de Cazeneuve, Gascony, France – May 1660
The hunters gathered in the courtyard in the quiet chill before dawn, the horses stamping on the cobblestones. The pack of hounds tugged at their leashes, impatient to be off.
The King sat astride his big bay gelding, dressed all in velvet and lace. His cousin, Anne-Marie-Louise, rode side-saddle beside him, a long whip in one gloved hand. She wore her big hat with the veil lowered to protect her skin. She was one of the few women to have risen early. I was a little disappointed; I’d been looking forward to seeing the dowager-queen heaved into the saddle. It would have taken about ten men, I thought, and a very sturdy mount.
The huntsmen were all in the saddle, their great horns coiled about their arms, many taking a quick swig of Armagnac from their silver flasks to warm the blood.
In the stables, my sister and I were being lifted onto our ponies, Victoir beside us on an old sway-backed mare. César stood beside me as always, his black-patched head near my stirrup.
‘You’ll keep an eye on the girls for me, won’t you, Victoir,’ my mother said with a weary smile. She looked as if she had not slept well.
‘Of course, madame,’ he answered, lifting his hat.
I bounced up and down in my saddle with excitement. ‘If he can keep up with us on that old hack. He looks like he’s riding an armchair!’
‘I am sorry, Victoir,’ my mother said. ‘So many lords in the King’s retinue who did not bring their own hunters.’
‘I understand, madame. Old Misty will do me well enough.’
‘I’ll need to trust you girls to be on your best behaviour,’ my mother said to us. ‘Don’t lead poor old Victoir on a wild-goose chase.’
‘I wish you were coming with us, Maman,’ Marie said.
Maman smiled at her. ‘I only wish I could. But there is too much to do. We can rest and enjoy ourselves once the King has gone.’
We heard the horns call, and the dogs barked in excitement. The familiar elation raced through my veins. I loved to hunt. The exhilaration of the chase, the sense of wild freedom and escape, the pitting of one’s wits against a noble adversary, all combined to make the chasse à courre one of
my absolute favourite things to do. I did not like the killing of the stag so much, though I enjoyed eating the roasted meat at the end of a long hard day in the saddle. The captain of the hunt, however, had said that I must watch. ‘It is best you know what it is you do,’ he said. ‘The stag, he dies so that we may live.’
Chattering gaily, Marie and I rode out into the courtyard, Maman at the head of my pony.
‘You do not ride, madame?’ the King called.
‘Not I, Your Majesty, but I look forward to eating roast venison tonight,’ she called back.
The King sneered at the sight of me. ‘Why, if it isn’t the littlest one. Surely she’s too young to ride to the hunt.’
‘Charlotte-Rose rides very well, Your Majesty. The girls are accustomed to hunting through our woods.’
‘I’ll show you the way, Your Majesty,’ I cried, making the crowd of courtiers laugh.
My mother tugged on my skirt so I bent my head to hers. ‘Be quiet and respectful, Bon-bon. I fear His Majesty is quick to take offence.’
I raised my chin. My blood was up. I’d show the King that I could ride.
‘Bon-bon,’ my mother warned.
‘Very well then, Maman,’ I replied, shrugging. She released my skirt.
In another moment, we were off, the horses galloping across the parkland in a long train, the bright velvet coats of the lords gaudy against the misty sky. The dogs led the way, silent now and casting about for a scent. Along the edge of the gorge we went, and over the little bridge across the river and into the dark moss-hung forest on the far side. At once, the pace slowed. The horses made their way carefully through the undergrowth, falling into single file when the path narrowed. Birds sang in the branches and I saw a stealthy fox slip away under some brambles. Green catkins were hanging from the chestnut trees, and here and there a wild plum showed a haze of white flowers against the great stands of oak and beech. The air was clear and sharp, and smelt of leaf and water and moss and blossom.
The captain of the hunt dismounted, looking for signs of velvet rubbed from the stags’ antlers against the trees. The dogs snuffled about his feet, searching for scent.
César lifted his muzzle and gave his deep sonorous howl. Then he began to run, his nose to a trail. The other dogs loped after him, bellowing with joy. As the captain vaulted back into the saddle, we all broke into a canter. Away through the trees we raced, swerving in and out and occasionally jumping a fallen log. Although Garnet was small, she was quick, and soon I was near the front. I saw a stag racing ahead, his antlers held high. I gave a wild ululating cry and kicked Garnet on faster.
Hooves pounded against the ground, and the dogs were giving voice, the call of the horns adding a triumphant bugle to the music of the hunt. The stag swerved and bounded to the top of a great fallen tree, scrabbling there for a moment before dropping down the other side and out of sight. The King reined his bay. ‘Go round, go round,’ he cried, making a wide gesture with his arm. ‘It’s too high to jump.’
I kicked Garnet towards the giant mossy bole. I knew this forest well and had hurdled that fallen tree before. I knew it was a clear landing on the far side.
‘Go round,’ the King called again.
‘It’s not so high.’ Whipping off my hat to shake it triumphantly in the air, I took Garnet over the trunk with a few inches to spare. Neatly, she landed on the far side, and she raced off in pursuit of the stag, the dogs and huntsmen pouring over the log to follow me. In moments, the stag was held at bay by the dogs, tossing his antlers and threatening to charge as the dogs barked and nipped and held him still.
A short while later, the King and the rest of the court joined us at the kill. The King’s face was dark and furious. He shot me a look of intense dislike, then ignored me, though a few of the lords cried out, ‘Fine riding, mademoiselle.’
‘You silly girl,’ Marie hissed at me. ‘Don’t you know better than to ride in front of the King like that? You’ve shown him up in front of his court, and I swear he’ll want a piece of your hide.’
Tears rushed to my eyes. I had not meant to humiliate the King, just to show him what a clever rider I was. I had to wipe my eyes on the cuff of my glove.
The captain of the hunt stood back to let the King dismount and draw his dagger. The King strode forward and slashed the stag’s throat. Blood spurted down the beast’s pale breast. He bellowed and tossed his wide rack of antlers, then fell onto his front knees, bellowing again. The dogs all howled and lunged forward, fighting to get to the beast.
I forced myself to watch, remembering what I had been taught. ‘You must watch and remember the kill,’ the captain had told me, ‘and be grateful to the stag for giving up his life so that we have meat to eat. Without meat, we would be weak and hungry. Yet remember we do not deal death just for death’s sake. A man that does that is black and rotten inside, and someone to be feared. Beware a man who takes pleasure in the kill.’
It seemed to me, watching the King as he hacked off the stag’s forefoot and held it high, staring triumphantly around at the clapping cheering courtiers, that he was someone who took pleasure in the kill.
Château de Cazeneuve, Gascony, France – October 1662
Two years later, when I had almost forgotten that day in the forest, I remembered the dark fury of the King’s face and the way he had held up the bleeding stump of the stag’s hoof.
Cardinal Mazarin died at half past two in the morning on 9th March 1661. As soon as he heard the news, the twenty-two-year-old king locked himself in his study. When he emerged many hours later, it was to declare himself the absolute monarch, with no need for any more councillors. ‘I am the State,’ he told his startled ministers, who departed grumbling and expecting him to call them back within the week. He never did.
His other, undeclared, ambition was ‘une foi, un loi, un roi’. One faith, one law, one king. Although it would take many years before Louis XIV finally emptied France of the Huguenots – hundreds of thousands of them slaughtered, sold into slavery or driven into exile – he began early, with my mother.
At first, when the Marquis de Maulévrier arrived at Cazeneuve in October 1662 with a troop of dragoons and the order that my mother was to be imprisoned in a convent, none of us could believe it. It seemed like a horrible joke.
‘But … I am the Baronne de Cazeneuve … and I am a réformée,’ Maman said blankly.
‘It is the King’s order, madame,’ the Marquis de Maulévrier replied. He was dressed in black velvet, with a heavy jewelled cross hanging about his neck, his narrow beard jutting out over a collar of white lace.
‘But … this cannot be … he knows I am of a different faith.’
‘You are to be converted to the one true faith, madame. You will be incarcerated in the convent of Annonciades until the abbess is sure that your conversion is honest. Your dowry and all your expenses must be borne by this estate. There is no need to pack. Nuns are not permitted any personal belongings.’
My mother’s face was white. ‘Let me see this order from the King.’
The Marquis de Maulévrier held out the lettre du cachet. My mother read it, one hand at her throat. ‘My daughters …’ she choked.
‘The King, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, has appointed your daughters wards of the court and me their guardian until suitable marriages can be arranged for them. You need have no concerns for their safety.’
The lettre du cachet fluttered to the ground. Maman swayed and would have fallen if one of the soldiers had not stepped forward to catch her. She was put into a small cart, while my sister and I wept and screamed and called for help. As Montgomery came running, the soldiers thrust forward their halberds, almost impaling him. The lurch of the cart woke my mother from her swoon. She dragged herself onto her knees, holding out her arms to us, tears running down her stricken face.
‘Mes fifilles! Mes fifilles!’
That was the last I saw of her. We heard some time later that she managed to escape on her way to the convent, with
the help of her cousin, who had heard of the King’s intention. His Majesty sent troops against her at Castelnaud, though, and she was taken under guard to the nunnery. And there she stayed till she died.
Palais du Louvre, Paris, France – June 1666
Four years later, when I had just turned sixteen, I was summoned to court, where the King nodded his massive curly head at me and said with a cruel smile, ‘Ah yes, I remember you. Do you still ride, mademoiselle?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Do you?’
REVERIE
And yet – but I am growing old,
For want of love my heart is cold,
Years pass, the while I loose and fold
The fathoms of my hair.
‘Rapunzel’
William Morris
A KIND OF MADNESS
The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – April 1595
The day after the eclipse of the moon, La Strega showed Margherita why she now had such a long braid of hair.
She uncoiled the plait from Margherita’s snood, wound it about a hook at the side of the window, then threw the end over the windowsill. It unfurled like a rope of living gold, reaching to the bottom of the tower a hundred feet below. Low thorny bushes crowded about the base, starred with tiny white flowers. Below were sharp rocks, the beginning of a precipitous stairway cut into the stone, and beyond, nothing but air. The tower was built on the edge of a cliff, and far below, distant as a dream, lay a blue lake, cradled in forest at the base of towering snow-capped mountains.
‘You see, there’s no point trying to escape,’ La Strega whispered in Margherita’s ear, one hand on her shoulder. ‘You would be broken on those rocks if you were stupid enough to jump. To make sure you don’t try, I’ll lock the shutters behind me.’
‘Please don’t. Please.’
The previous night, Margherita had thought it was impossible to feel any more fear or misery. She had longed to be just left alone. Yet, now that the sorceress was leaving her, new depths of terror opened below her. Margherita could not bear the thought of being on her own.
