Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  It was pandemonium in the bedchamber: servants, maids of honor, her ladies, Monsieur’s gentlemen. Monsieur was at the bedside. At the sound of a groan so agonizing that it made the hair on the back of her neck rise, Alice pushed aside enough people to be near the bed.

  Sweet Jesus, she thought. The princess’s face was gray, her lips spread against her teeth in a grimace. She saw Alice.

  “Poison.”

  She whimpered the word and began to convulse. Women nearby screamed as Alice and a few others grabbed her arms and legs so that she would not hurt herself. Then there was a physician there. He held open the princess’s eyes as her teeth clattered against themselves in a ghastly sound, poked at her abdomen, and the cry she gave made Alice loose the arm she held.

  “Colic,” the physician said.

  “I’m dying!” Princesse Henriette shrieked.

  Her husband fell back in a faint, and now people rushed to care for him, but Alice looked for Richard, who stood with Barbara and Renée near long windows.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “Princesse Mickelberg came to call,” Renée choked out.

  “We were in the summer room, she was lying on cushions, sleeping,” said Barbara, her face white with shock at all that was happening around them.

  “Madame de Lafayette said she looked ill.” It was Renée.

  She has looked ill, thought Alice, since the moment she returned. A terrible suspicion formed in her mind, too monstrous to be borne.

  “A servant came with coffee, with flavored waters,” continued Renée, her words punctuated by small, half-hysterical gasps because the princess was screaming again, as Monsieur was carried from the chamber, the physician ordering much of the crowd from the bedchamber with him.

  “She drank some of her chicory water,” said Renée.

  “Then leaned over,” said Richard.

  “She said she was poisoned,” said Barbara.

  “She said that?”

  Richard, hearing the word poison again, ran from the chamber, down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.

  “Where’s the Englishman going?” d’Effiat asked as Richard ran by him. “I was in the pantry today.”

  “Were you?” Ange was calm. “You were thirsty, I would imagine.”

  “Yes,” said d’Effiat.

  Richard burst into the dining salon. It took him only a moment to see that all the cups had been cleared away. He found a cluster of footmen in an antechamber, talking in furious, upset whispers.

  “Show me what was served for refreshment just now.”

  One took him to the end of the chamber to a small pantry. There were silver and pewter cups and rare Venetian glass bottles on the shelves, a brewing pot for coffee, the brazier upon which to heat it, on a table.

  “Madame didn’t drink coffee,” Richard said.

  “No, she always has chicory water in the afternoon,” said the footman nervously. He pointed to a bottle, which Richard grabbed, taking a clean goblet from those arranged on the shelf.

  “What are you doing?” Alice had followed him. “Where are the cups, the glasses?”

  “They’re cleared away,” began the footman.

  “Who cleared them?” Alice demanded.

  He shrugged, looking from Alice to Richard with a sudden, frightened, stubborn expression that said, Whatever may have happened, it is no fault of mine, never was, never will be.

  “Leave us.” Alice pointed to the goblet Richard had in his hand. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Actually, I have no idea. I just felt compelled to make certain that it doesn’t disappear. Does it seem odd to you that the cups are already cleared away?”

  She nodded, her face as pale as the beautiful lace at her sleeves.

  “I’m going to Paris to the residence of the English ambassador to tell him what has occurred.”

  Alice clasped her hands together. “Yes. Tell him to come at once.”

  “Do you think she’s been poisoned?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too awful to contemplate. Where’s her cup?”

  “Her cup?” Richard repeated.

  “She has a favorite cup, always drinks from it.”

  “I have no idea.” Richard handed her the goblet of chicory water. “Hide that.”

  “Hurry, Lieutenant Saylor!”

  At best, it was going to be several hours before he returned.

  WHEN RICHARD RETURNED, he came without the ambassador, who had not been home. He’d waited until he could stand it no longer, then left a note. He found all of the servants, grooms, cooks from the kitchen, footmen, maids, weederwomen, gardeners, in the hall that led to the withdrawing chamber that led to the princess’s bedchamber. In the withdrawing chamber, Renée was huddled with Alice and Barbara. Everyone was on his or her knees, praying. She’s no better, Richard thought. He knelt beside Renée, who put her arms around his neck and cried. It was improper to embrace him, but no one cared. Many were weeping, holding on to one another. Richard stroked her back, met the gaze of Alice, who closed her eyes again and continued her own prayers.

  “She hates the priest attending her,” said Renée, sobbing into the front of his shirt and waistcoat. “She wants her confessor, the one Monsieur dismissed, but he’s so far away. Oh, I don’t want her to die. What shall I do if she dies? Where shall I go?”

  Richard brought her hands to his heart, held them there. “You’ll go to your father’s and wait for me.” He made his way over to where Alice knelt.

  “Is there any further talk of poison?” he whispered.

  “That priest won’t let her speak of it.” Alice jerked out the words, her eyes angry, her face streaked with tears. “Whenever she does, he tells her to mind her soul, to make peace with God, to accuse no one. He tells her she is a sinner! I hate him. But she did say to Monsieur that he hadn’t loved her for a long time, but that this was unjust, that she’d never abandoned him. He wept like a child.”

  “What was unjust?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant.”

  A servant came out carrying a bowl of blood. They’d bled her, a remedy for sickness. A footman brought soup, but word soon passed around the withdrawing chamber that she couldn’t eat it.

  “She says she’s cold.” Alice brought news she’d gathered after a discussion with those near the doorway of the bedchamber. “She says her hands and feet are numb. She said a moment ago that if she weren’t a Christian, she would kill herself. They’ve sent for the king.”

  She sat on the floor beside Barbara like a doll whose stuffing was gone; Barbara leaned back against the wall, her lovely face swollen from crying.

  “It’s my dream,” Barbara whispered. She had bitten her lip so hard that blood was beading. “I always thought it was me, and all the time it must have been her.”

  “Hush, Ra, hush, darling.”

  They hugged each other, and after a time Barbara dozed, not waking when a stir swept through the chamber as someone tall and magnificently dressed strode by without a glance or word to anyone.

  “That’s Condé,” Alice said to Richard, “your great general.”

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN.

  The long hours of shock and despair had exhausted everyone, and some were dozing, sleeping on the floor like dogs. Richard stepped past bodies, positioned himself in the doorway. The Prince de Condé sat in a chair, his hands holding Princesse Henriette’s. Richard would not now have recognized her, her hair matted with sweat, her eyes sunken, agony etching her face.

  Her friends, people he didn’t know who’d arrived while he was gone, as well as ladies-in-waiting, knelt at small, individual wooden prayer stands, beads of their rosaries working through their fingers. Windows were open to the night. Monsieur wept into his hands. I wasn’t able to protect her, thought Richard. He’d not even suspected she needed protection of her life. There was a dull ache in his chest.

  “Move aside,” someone ordered, and Richard stepped to one side to allow anothe
r physician to enter the bedchamber, his long gown making whispering sounds against his legs.

  “Sent by King Louis himself,” he heard d’Effiat whisper. “His own doctor.”

  A sudden impulse rose in him to cross the space between them and choke the life out of d’Effiat. As if he read his thought, d’Effiat met Richard’s eyes. Henri Ange rose, led d’Effiat to a dark corner.

  “He knows,” said d’Effiat.

  “No,” said Ange. “He doesn’t know he knows.” His eyes glinted. “It’s more amusing that way.”

  Richard glanced over to where the young women were. Renée lay with her head in Barbara’s lap. Barbara sat against the wall, her eyes closed. Alice was on her knees, praying again. The sight surprised Richard and, for some reason, moved him.

  Servants went by, carrying towels, bowls of water. The princess’s moans, as yet another physician put his hands on her, were unceasing.

  WHY DO THEY NOT give her an antidote? thought Alice, her prayers straying. Unless there was no antidote…. She moved to sit back against the wall like Barbara. She watched Richard, who was pacing up and down. The waiting was interminable. She had forgotten how many chimes the clock had last rung, or the church bell, had no idea what time it was, except that it was dark. This afternoon she had been in the garden, talking to Barbara about Paris, about the seamstress they would visit, about Notre Dame, the medieval cathedral that Barbara would love, about the Luxembourg, a grand palace belonging to a grand French princess, where they would call with Princesse Henriette to drink chocolate and Barbara would see, yet again, the luxury and sophistication that this royal family took as its due, and with time, enough of that would make someone like John Sidney seem a rustic. It all seemed days away, another time, another life.

  She fixed on d’Effiat and Henri Ange, huddled into one corner of the withdrawing chamber. Earlier Beuvron had been sobbing, weeping hysterically, and now he was shaped into a ball on the floor, his face to the wall, his back to everyone. Ange’s face was remote, sad, and Alice had seen him praying when Princesse Henriette’s screams had driven her to hold her own hands over her ears. Could they have helped Monsieur to poison her? Was such an evil thing possible?

  Musketeers entered the room, their swords and uniforms intimidating; Alice stood. People began to drop into curtsies or bow. Richard made his way to her. “What is it?”

  “The king,” said Alice, and she dropped into a low curtsy as King Louis and a group of women drenched in perfume and jewels swept through the chamber. With Richard at her side, she fought her way to the door; everyone was crowding into it, moving themselves into position along the walls to see this, the king of France come to say good-bye to the foremost princess in his kingdom. King Louis knelt by Princesse Henriette, who had been moved to a cot by the window, spoke softly to her.

  “Who are they all?” whispered Richard.

  Another time she would tell him the women were the king’s cousin, his queen, his mistresses, current and past. Another time she would cluck her tongue, but now she just felt a sadness so deep, it was impossible to speak.

  The entourage gathered around Princesse Henriette, talking in low voices with her, and she, racked with pain, held out her hand and had something to say to each of them. Everyone wept. Though only those near could hear what was being said, no one along the wall moved. Everyone knew they were witnessing history.

  King Louis spoke with his brother, with the physicians, asking them what remedies they’d tried. He leaned over and held Princesse Henriette’s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss. Once they’d been lovers; that’s what the scandal sheets said. They spoke. Those nearest whispered the words into the ears of those who couldn’t hear. You are losing a good friend, she told the king. Don’t leave me, he said to her.

  Then, after a time, without warning, the king strode from the cot, out of the bedchamber, tears standing on his face, followed at once by all who’d come with him. In a moment the court was gone from the bedchamber, Monsieur hurrying away with them. Even with death lying in bed with his wife, he must see his brother, the king, off properly. The bedchamber seemed strangely empty, as if some essence of vitality and life, some possibility of hope, had also departed.

  “Why did he leave?” whispered Richard.

  “The king of France may not witness death.”

  The captain of the household guard motioned for Alice to come forward, and she found herself standing at the cot.

  “Thank you for your care of me,” Princesse Henriette whispered. “I’m glad to leave, I am.”

  Others were being brought forward to say farewell; she was calling out last bequests, taking rings from her fingers to give to dearest friends. Alice walked into the withdrawing chamber, sat numbly in a chair. This couldn’t be happening, and yet it was. Renée and Barbara were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they’d stumbled on to bed. She would stay until the end. She moved so that she was kneeling before the chair, put her elbows on the cushion, making her own prayer stand. When she lifted her head, she saw the English ambassador, Lord Montagu. Oh, thank God, she thought. Face grim, he acknowledged no one but went directly into the bedchamber and did not reemerge.

  Richard, a cat that couldn’t be still, came to tell her details every now and again. She prayed and slept and woke to pray, not knowing what was real, this time in the antechamber or the fragments of her dreams.

  “Lord Montagu asked her if she’d been poisoned, but I could not hear what she said. That priest interrupted, told her to accuse no one, to offer her death up as a sacrifice.”

  Black crow, thought Alice, and she dreamed of crows.

  “They’ve bled her again,” she heard Richard say.

  “Where are her children?” he asked her another time.

  Sequestered far away…Monsieur wouldn’t allow them to see the manner of their mother’s dying, even for a good-bye. The little Lady Anne, thought Alice. Well, she had her governess, and Alice would find the woman later and see how the child was faring….

  “Monsieur has left. Why wouldn’t he stay?” Richard said in the dream or perhaps in real life. Royalty may not witness death. She thought she’d told him that. She dreamed she saw a priest, his gown purple and flowing, a large cross dangling from his belt, sweep by. This must be a dream. She heard a clock chime twice and fell into a dreamless sleep in which a church bell rang three times. She felt arms on her shoulders. She lifted her head from the cushion of the chair.

  “It’s over,” said Richard.

  He sat on the floor by Alice, then lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling painted with cherubs and clouds. Alice looked around her. Servants were scurrying forward from the hall; Lord Montagu walked out of the bedchamber. The door closed behind him. The public viewing of a royal dying was over; death had her to himself. The full impact of this night crashed over Alice like waves. She fell back on the floor beside Richard, keening sounds coming out of her mouth.

  Lord Montagu sat in the chair she’d been using as a pillow and prayer stand, said tiredly, “A bad business, a very bad business.” And to Richard, “No sleep for you, my boy. You’re to take my letter to the king. I need paper and ink.”

  “Go to the circular chamber,” said Alice, “just off the gardens.” And then, when she saw Richard didn’t know which chamber she spoke of, she wiped her eyes, sat up. “It would be my pleasure to accompany you both. Come.”

  She led them downstairs to a chamber shaped like a circle, one of the most beautiful rooms in the palace, the princess’s favorite, small panes of mirrors set into faux windows one after another until they joined actual windows and handsome glass doors to the garden.

  All around them the house was silent. Nothing and no one stirred, as if every man, every beast, were exhausted. Richard brought candles, and Lord Montagu sat down to write, openly crying at times, as he filled sheets of paper, demanding Richard’s or Alice’s memory when his own failed him, his frowning reflection doubling back on itself in mirror after mirror. Done, he sprinkled sand
over the ink to dry its blots. Richard melted wax onto the paper once it was folded, and Montagu pressed his ring, in which his seal was carved, onto the wax.

  “You are to take this at once to His Majesty, tell him I will make a further report when I am not so disordered from grief. You are to take my carriage to my house, have my aide give you coins, and fly to England, Lieutenant, for His Majesty must know, as soon as possible, what has just occurred. Tell him I follow you by a day or two at the most. I beg you your discretion should he ask you questions. She told me that if she had indeed been poisoned, King Charles must not know, he must be spared that grief, that she did not wish revenge upon King Louis, for he is not guilty. Those were her very words. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Lieutenant? There may be talk of poison, but I am to be the one to choose when and how it will be discussed—if it is at all—with His Majesty.”

  “I will not lie if I am asked a question by His Majesty.”

  “Nor am I asking that.” Lord Montagu was cold. “I am asking that you make certain you report only what you saw or heard, not what you conjecture or imagine.”

  “I took some of the chicory water.”

  Lord Montagu’s eyes widened slightly, then he gave Richard a hard glance.

  “She drank it, clutched at herself, and said she was poisoned. I took some of the water.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I have it in safekeeping,” said Alice.

  “Lord above us all, what a mess this may be. I depend on you, Lieutenant, not to make it worse.” His glance moved to Alice. “And you.”

  “Sir,” said Richard, “may I have just a moment to write a letter?”

  “A moment, no more.”

  Richard’s hand moved swiftly over the paper. He gave the note to Alice. “You’ll see she gets this?”

  “Of course.”

  Richard stepped out into the night and into the carriage, which jolted and swayed down the drive toward the road to Paris. The ferocity of the night was reverberating in him. He wished he’d choked d’Effiat. The carriage went through the elaborate iron gates, which opened to Saint Cloud, Saint Cloud sitting on its hill, stars shining down on its perfect gardens and its grand rooms and its glittering occupants. That death had touched it with one bone wing seemed impossible. He couldn’t believe he was bringing the news he was. Could he have done more? Was there something he’d missed?