The Shadow Queen
Page 3
Our one backdrop of a palace would have to suffice. Candles usually indicated a night scene, but we couldn’t afford such luxury; the cutout moon would do. I looked through the props we used for Corpus Christi plays and set aside the Our Lord cloak, two horsehair beards and a tin crown. I kissed the wooden sword with which I’d been dubbed the Good Knight Claudette and set it aside as well. We would need it for the duel scene.
I held up one of the gowns Mother wore for princess roles. It was a lilac brocade with deep lace trim—worn, stained, and tattered. I’d found it in a used-clothing market stall, plunging my hand into the pile of musty, buggy gowns until I felt the telltale texture of fine cloth. I’d mended and patched it, stitching tiny satin stars along the frayed hem. They flashed like fireflies in the moonlight.
I pressed the gown to my shoulders and danced a slow, stately pavane, rising on my toes and swaying slightly, enjoying the feel of the slithery fabric in my hands. The gown smelled of sweat, but also, just faintly—at the neckline—of Angel Water. I pressed the cloth to my nose, inhaling the hint of myrtle in that aristocratic scent. I imagined the woman who had once worn this elegant gown, imagined her maids clustered around her, arranging her ribbons as musicians played, a table laden with foodstuffs. The blessed world of the nobility—a world without hunger, without want.
I looked up at the stars, crushing the gown to my heart.
Heaven is to live a life of freedom, my father liked to say.
Heaven is to live in Art, Mother would chime.
Give thanks, give thanks, give thanks.
I smoothed the lilac gown out over a rock, aching at its luxuriant beauty. The world of the blessed was a heaven, surely—but a heaven I would never know.
CHAPTER 5
The square in front of the Palais was festooned with banners and flags, as if for a pageant. I was relieved that the scaffold was no longer there.
We led Bravo through an arch to a field crowded with carriages and wagons. Servants were carrying chairs, stools, and benches through two big doors into the back of the Palais. Father explained to a guard that we were players for the Court, displaying the document with the Duc de Mortemart’s signature. We were directed to leave Bravo and our cart in a weedy corner, assured that our trunk and props would be brought in. We eased nature and headed for the doors, nervous about the impending performance—for the King!
Armed soldiers were checking everyone, even the servants. “Father, your letter,” I said, and we were waved through.
“Mary help me,” Mother whispered, crossing herself as we came into the guardroom. “It’s as big as a cathedral.”
Big as a cathedral—but noisier. Servants were setting out benches, their shouts echoing against the stone. Gaston clutched my hand, his mouth agape. I wiped the drool from his chin. He looked dear in the little page costume I’d made him from scraps.
Enormous fires were blazing; even so, I could see my breath. A white-breasted barn swallow swooped back and forth across the wide expanse of the hall, flitting from one high window ledge to another.
“That must be our stage,” Father said, heading toward a platform at the far end, hung with tapestries. Candles set along the rim had already been lit.
“We have a problem,” Mother said, accessing its height.
Suddenly there was a shuffling silence. I turned to see everyone bowing as the Duc de Mortemart and his entourage entered. He was wearing a long blond wig that matched his thin moustache. Layers of velvet and fur enlarged him. Servants stepped well back as he passed.
“Where are the rest of you!” the Duke demanded from a distance, his face an alarming shade of red.
Two men followed behind him—secretaries, I guessed, by their ink-stained sleeve laces. Ay me. Behind them were the old governess and the girl, who stared at me expectantly.
Father took off his hat and made a courtly bow in the low and sweeping Italian style.
“Your damned troupe—where the hell is it?” The Duke glared at little Gaston, who was sucking on his thumb.
“Four of our members came down with an unfortunate and violent grippe this morning, Monseigneur,” Father said.
I glanced away, shamed. A knight did not tell untruths.
“You are to perform!” the Duke sputtered in a fury.
“I assure you that we will enact The Cid without disappointment,” Father persisted.
“We do have one problem, however.” Mother stepped up to the Duke, her hands on her hips.
“Alix—” Father said, but she shrugged him away.
“In order to perform for His Majesty, we need to be able to get on the stage.” She pointed at the platform, which was higher than her head.
The scaffold, I realized, my heart sinking.
OUR COSTUME TRUNK was delivered shortly after; it served as a means to get on the stage. Even so, we had a lofty climb.
I got Gaston settled under the platform with his sound props—pot lids for the duel—before spreading our hats, wigs, and shawls on the floor behind a screen. Once that was done, I helped Father hang our painted backdrop of a palace interior (only slightly stained from dragging the buck carcass).
The smoky hall filled with muted laughter, the sounds of people milling in, resounding with murmurs and exclamations. Musicians struck up their ill-tuned string instruments. There was an air of grand events about to happen.
I set our tiny reflecting tin on the back edge of the scaffold and lined up the pots of lead paint, chalk, red clay, flour, and soot. My hands trembled touching the burnt cork to my brows. Where was the King now? I adjusted the lace ruffle of my neckline in the mirror, the set of my horsehair wig, my princess crown. The bodice was tight and the skirt, although lengthened, still short. I felt a little ridiculous in lacy lilac, in truth.
To get my mind off my uneasiness, I reviewed the things Mother and Father had taught me about the arts of fascination, the player’s craft:
invention (especially when things go wrong);
attitude (as suited the role);
elocution and pronunciation (no mumbling);
memory (please).
And gesture, I reminded myself, pressing my hand to my forehead, palm out, to indicate despair. I stood tall, imagining myself a princess, confident and demanding, born of an ancient race. I thought of the Duke’s daughter, the crisp way she spoke, the music of her cultivated diction. My heart stirred, recalling the way she sat on her horse so surely, the pride of nobility in her blood. And then I thought of my deceit, the promise I had made.
“They’re seating men on the platform,” Father exclaimed with a blubber of frustration.
In cities, noblemen paid handsomely for the opportunity to display themselves on a stage, but I was surprised that it was allowed for a private Court performance.
Trumpets sounded: the royal family! The sound of shuffling chairs was deafening as everyone stood. I peeked around the scaffold. Stars! The King, his brother and their mother were being seated directly in front of us, flanked by richly adorned courtiers.
The King looked small in his throne chair. He sat very still, as if playing a role. Although only thirteen, he looked the part. I wondered if he had to practice in order to achieve a commanding air. Born to be King, it would more likely come naturally.
Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen came and went, and for a moment I thought I glimpsed the girl again, but then lost sight of her.
A trumpet sounded—once, twice, three times.
Mother appeared from behind the screen, a wig in her hand. “This is too big, Nicolas.”
I groaned.
“It comes down over my eyes,” she persisted, her voice tremulous.
She did this every time, becoming tearful before a performance!
“It’s the same one you’ve always worn,” Father said, tying on the apron he wore for his first scene as a governess. He took the wig and sniffed it. “It has your lovely scent.” The scent of the dried carnations Mother crushed and rubbed into her hair.
Drum rolls sounded. The Duc de Mortemart began to address the crowd, introducing the performance. The audience, loud as patrons in a crowded tavern, slowly silenced.
“Come, my sweetkin,” Father said, slipping the wig onto Mother’s head.
She smiled to hear the endearment. The danger had passed.
In spite of his skirts Father managed to leap onto the scaffold.
I pushed Mother up from behind. “Can this be true, Elvire?” I heard her begin, her voice warbling only a bit. “Have you changed my father’s words?”
“Non! He esteems Rodrigue,” Father answered, pitching his voice high (as governess), but loud, so that it would carry. “He approves your love for him.”
Mother’s next line was assured. I breathed a sigh of relief. The fantasy world of the play had taken hold. Once in a role, she was steady. I stooped down and squinted into the dark under the platform. “How are you?” I hissed. I didn’t like Gaston being down under a scaffold. Where men had so violently suffered, their spirits surely lingered.
He turned from the tapestry skirt and gave me his I’m happy sign: right hand up, fingers spread.
I could hear the low rumble of voices above, the noblemen seated on the stage muttering amongst themselves. (In front of the King!)
“Nonetheless, my soul is troubled,” Mother cried out, and they stilled. Her voice, so low and melodic, was full of emotion.
“Come, Turnip, we’re on next,” I said, backing out on all fours.
CHAPTER 6
I held Gaston’s hand, listening for the end of the first scene. I was not a thirteen-year-old girl, quivering with nervousness about playing before the King—I was a princess, the Spanish Infanta, as noble and proud a young woman as ever there was. I shifted the tin crown, which was giving me a pain in the head.
The scene ended and Mother and Father reappeared. “You were perfect,” Father told Mother, kissing her lightly before lifting his skirts and climbing down onto the trunk.
“Was it frightful?” I asked.
“Only at the start,” Mother assured me. I handed her up a cap and apron. She played my waiting-maid in the next scene.
Gaston hummed a quavering note. I looked into his staring eyes. “When you’re on the stage, all you have to do is stand there until I say, Go to Chimène,” I reminded him.
I climbed onto the scaffold, trying not to think of the doomed criminals who had breathed their last on these planks.
MOTHER AND I exchanged a look—Ready?—and stepped onto the stage, Gaston following close behind.
“Page, go to Chimène,” I commanded Gaston, my voice breaking. I wiggled my fingers and he bolted, tripped, and scrambled away, giggling in spite of himself. (But he’d done it! His first stage performance!)
“Chimène is late for her daily visit,” I said, remembering to stand at an angle in order to address both Mother and the audience at the same time. I dared not glance at the King lest I faint. Nor could I turn my back to him.
The noblemen on the stage were murmuring amongst themselves. My mouth went dry; I bit my tongue to raise saliva. “My sweetest hope is to lose all hope,” I croaked.
Gaston tumbled back onto the stage as if pushed from behind.
“Chimène is here?” I asked. He scrambled back out before I could say, “Go now.”
WE MANAGED WELL through several scenes—then it was time for the duel. I was to play the Count who had offended an old warrior, Father the old warrior’s son, defending his father’s honor.
I stepped onto the platform opposite Father, my hand on the hilt of my wood sword. I pushed my right foot forward, my sword point high: On guard!
The audience stilled.
Observe. Take time. Have patience. We’d practiced dozens of times, and yet now, before such an auspicious audience, I froze.
Father broke the spell by lunging and I leapt to my defense.
Thrust, cut, lunge, feint.
Gaston, under the scaffold, clanged the pot lids as Father and I leapt back and forth across the stage.
Father made the final, fatal lunge, as rehearsed. With a cry of piercing agony, I dropped my sword and fell back. He held his weapon to my chest and I died dramatically as he appeared to plunge it in. The audience gasped!
I FOLLOWED FATHER off the scaffold as Mother stepped to the candles to narrate a summary of what followed. In spite of her carrying voice, she was drowned out by jeers. The sound of chairs and benches being moved was deafening.
I glanced at Father. What was going on?
Mother clambered back down onto the trunk. “The Queen Mother left with the King and his brother, and now everyone is going.”
“But why?” I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Come on out, lad,” Father told Gaston, stooping. “Bring the pot lids.”
Gaston emerged out from under the scaffold, his face and hands smudged.
“We appear to have lost our audience,” Father explained.
“Count yourself blessed if that’s all you lose,” a low voice growled behind us. We turned to see the Duc de Mortemart, attended by his two secretaries. (I was relieved that his daughter was not with him.) “How could you!” Mortemart sputtered.
“Monsieur le Duc, please be so kind as to inform us of our offense,” Mother said with a respectful curtsy.
“It is against the law to duel.”
I glanced at Father, confused. Duels were what audiences liked best.
“Monseigneur, this is a play,” Father began diplomatically, unsheathing his carved wooden sword, “and this weapon hardly qualifies.”
The Duc de Mortemart pulled in his chins. “Dueling is forbidden in every form, even on the stage. This was recently signed into law by His Majesty.”
“Respectfully, Monseigneur,” Father began again, being careful not to look directly into the face of a superior, “how is a player in the provinces to know?”
Truly! I thought, picking up Gaston.
“You have flouted His Majesty’s command to his face.” The Duke’s cheeks were quivering. “I suggest you get your brood out of town before I have every last one of you publicly flogged—beginning with your little idiot.”
WE PACKED UP in a panic, but even so, the sun was starting to set by the time Bravo was harnessed and our cart loaded. I tucked Gaston into the folded backdrop and covered him over with costumes, hoping he would sleep.
We passed the massive church, its brightly colored façade catching the last of the light. I stopped for a moment, listening to the bells for evening Mass calling out the performance of the miracle: wine turned to blood, bread to flesh. A miracle forbidden to us, as players.
I followed after my family down the narrow cobbled street. From behind the stable wall where I had changed into my clown costume only days before, three men in hooded cloaks appeared, masked.
“Father?” I called out, my heart lurching.
“Players,” I heard one of the men snarl.
“A demon and his trollop,” said another as they began to circle.
They speak French, I noted with an odd detachment, too shocked to think, much less move … until I heard my mother scream.
One of the men had hold of her. She was thrashing against him, but he was laughing, as if it were a game. With a shout, Father tackled the man from behind.
Gaston’s head popped up over the edge of the cart. “Hide!” I called out to him, falling down on the cobbles in my haste. I scrambled back onto my feet. “Help!” I screamed, hoping that there were men in the tavern nearby, hoping they would hear me.
The two other men had pulled Father off. Mother was still struggling, but the big man held her. I kicked him in the backside. He let go of Mother and I kicked him again, aiming for his codpiece. He grabbed me roughly by the hair.
Two of the men had Father down on the cobbles. Helpless, I heard the sickening sound of heavy boots, my father’s grunts of pain.
“Alix, don’t!” he cried out as Mother flung herself at his attackers.
With a wrench, I was pushed away. Cloaks flapping, the masked men disappeared down a dark alley. I swayed on my feet, panting, my teeth chattering.
Mother was down on the cobbles beside my father. His eyes opened. Merci Dieu. “The devils,” he said, struggling to sit.
The men standing at the door of the tavern cheered.
“Nicolas, I was so—” Mother began to weep.
“You were a fury,” he said with a weak chuckle. “You too, Claudette. My women.”
I picked up his hat and dusted it off. The feather had snapped at the spine. “Where are you hurt?”
Father touched his forehead. “It’s just a bump,” he said, putting on his hat. He winced and pushed it back off his forehead.
One of the men, drunk as a wineskin, staggered over with an earthen mug of what smelled like warm grog. He said something kindly but incomprehensible.
“Bless you,” Father said, downing the mug.
I became aware of Gaston whimpering. He was standing in the cart, throwing out props.
The men gestured for us to come inside the tavern.
“Thank you,” my father said, “but—” And then his eyes rolled back.
CHAPTER 7
We headed north again, eating stolen apples as we walked. Father had recovered, but toward midday the swelling on his forehead got bigger and he could no longer wear his hat. He covered himself with the hood of his cloak, like a penitent. “I’m praying for you,” he said, making light.
That night, camping in an abandoned stone hut, Mother and I watched him. “I’m fine,” he insisted, but it was clear the injury pained him, and twice in the night he cried out in his sleep, overtaken by specters.
In the morning, there was a blush around my father’s wound and his left eye and cheek were swollen. Mother gave him half a dram of dried lovage root, an herb under the sign of Taurus. I suggested he be bled.
“But no cuts,” she insisted: only leeches.