ATHÉNAïS WAS STANDING at the corner of her house, bundled in fur. She seemed entirely unaware of the menacing shadows, the two men watching her from across the road.
“You look a proper gentleman, Monsieur.” She batted her eyelashes at my get-up. “It’s hot as Hades in here,” she said, slipping down her hood, her golden curls falling about her face. In the lantern light she looked like an angel—an impetuous, headstrong, but heartbreakingly beautiful angel.
I gave the driver instructions and secured the doors.
“I hardly slept at all,” she said. “I doped the ancients, but then they snored.” She smelled strongly of spirits herself. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” I lied, watching to make sure that we were going in the right direction. I would have the driver let us down at the monastery and ask him to wait: he would assume that we were on a spiritual mission. It would be a bit of a walk from there to the Pré-aux-Clercs field behind, but otherwise we might be detected.
“I’m so tired,” she said, laying her head on my shoulder. And then she was asleep.
I sat frozen, warmed by her body next to mine. I breathed in her scent, a tantalizing mix of lavender and musk. As I listened to the dwarf’s whistling tune, the nag’s slow progress through the echoing silence, it seemed a moment stopped in time. I laid my mittened hand over hers: I’d been charged with her safety. Handfasted. I was her knight.
THE OPEN COUNTRY behind the Abbaye de Saint-Germain was ghostly in the moonlight. The snow-dusted marsh was encircled by woods that hid it from the roadway; hence its popularity for duels. The still-frozen ground was brittle under my feet.
Athénaïs was silent behind me. “I didn’t know there were such places.”
I cracked through in one boggy spot. “The city has many secrets,” I said, my eyes slowly adjusting. I looked for a path.
“Secret vices?” she joked, but I didn’t laugh. Many a vice had occurred in this place, no doubt, vices she’d never even heard of.
I stopped. Something smelled foul in spite of the cold. I scanned the bushes and grasses as I felt my way along—looking out for something dead, but also for something moving, the wild dogs and werewolves that haunted such spheres. A sense came back to me from my childhood, a certain way of moving in the night, wary and alert.
“How far do we have to go?” Her face was deathly gray in the moonlight.
She is afraid of the dark, I realized. “Not far. We’ll hide in the evergreens over there,” I said, pointing. From there, we would have a view of the field.
IN THE HALF-LIGHT of dawn, two horsemen appeared. La Frette and his younger brother Ovart (“his bastard half brother,” Athénaïs whispered). They walked their horses over the turf—looking for level ground, I guessed. They dismounted not far from where we were hiding.
The brothers took off their spurs and set to cutting away the timber-heels of their boots. (Smart: they would more securely stand their ground.) Then they paced in the chill air, slapping their arms for warmth. I could make out the long rapiers under their heavy cloaks.
La Frette didn’t look drunk anymore. He had the walk of a victor. He said something to his half brother, but I couldn’t make out the words.
“Where are the others?” Athénaïs whispered.
Maybe they aren’t coming, I thought hopefully. Maybe the King had been notified and had laid down the law. I prayed that it was so, but one of the horses, a big black, raised its head and whinnied as four men on horseback trotted onto the field. The sun was more fully up now; I could see the feathers in their hats.
“Our men,” Athénaïs whispered with a smile: her betrothed and his brother-in-law—the Prince de Chalais—together with two others.
They were all carrying rapiers.
“The one in the white hat is the Marquis de Flamarens—”
I recognized him from the Palais-Royal ball.
“—and the plump one is Henri, Marquis d’Antin, the Bishop de Sens’s nephew.”
Zounds. The Bishop de Sens was nigh on king in Paris.
“Henri is a very good friend of Alexandre’s—his closest friend, really.”
The four men dismounted opposite La Frette and tied their reins to some bushes. There was a slight difficulty with this minor matter, one horse kicking out at another, so the men tied them farther apart, making uneasy laughter.
Alexandre stood surveying the field, his gloved hand on the hilt of his rapier. He was tall, but a slight-built man, thin as a wafer—which worried me. Even with rapiers, strength was important. He walked over to his brother-in-law and put his hand on his shoulder. Chalais shook his head.
Athénaïs moved a branch, the better to see.
“It looks like the Marquis wants to attempt a reconciliation,” I whispered.
“Really?” Her tone was disapproving.
Alexandre threw open his hands to the La Frette brothers as if to say, Well, can’t we talk?
My heart sank as the younger Ovart made a rude gesture and his brother scoffed.
The horses stilled, pricking their ears. “Here come the rest of them,” I said.
CHAPTER 25
There were eight young men in all: Prince de Chalais and his three, La Frette with his. La Frette stood opposite Chalais, gesturing to his half brother and the others to form a line. His half brother Ovart positioned himself opposite Alexandre.
“A bastard like Ovart should never duel a man of Alexandre’s nobility,” Athénaïs said, indignant.
True, it wasn’t correct, but I was more concerned by the way they were pairing off. Did they intend to fight all at once? Surely not. “They’re going four-on-four,” I whispered. A horror, in my mind, an ancient rite of honor performed without any constraint or dignity, just a parcel of hotheaded young nobles with nothing better to do than run each other through with their grandfathers’ rapiers. There wasn’t even a doctor or an attendant present. “Mademoiselle,” I began, hesitantly, “you have the power to stop this. Step out, speak up. They will listen to you.”
She scoffed. “You must be mad! Were I to meddle, Alexandre would have nothing more to do with me,” she hissed.
“Then I will speak—”
“Claude, don’t be ridiculous. You’re an unblood. They will laugh at you—as they should.”
La Frette threw off his cloak and doublet. “Count down,” he said, loud enough for us to hear.
La Frette was going to count down?
“Wait,” Alexandre called out, helping the Prince de Chalais struggle out of his doublet.
“Ready,” the Prince de Chalais said, drawing his blade. There was a tremor in his voice. His rapier was of an antique style, flatter and wider than most, with an elaborately carved hilt. It would be cumbersome and heavy. “We’ll both count.”
Un … deux … trois …
“Close your eyes,” I told Athénaïs as the air filled with the sound of clanging steel, grunts, threats, and curses.
“I’m not a child,” she protested angrily.
I opened my eyes at one crazed peal of laughter. It was a macabre dance I saw, the combating pairs clashing, thrusting, jabbing, and feinting—advancing and retreating, advancing and retreating.
The Prince de Chalais had been slashed across his cheek. He was bloodied, falling back, losing ground. The man fighting the Marquis de Flamarens had him in a chokehold and was ignobly hitting him over the head with the heavy hilt of his rapier.
Only Alexandre seemed to be holding his own against his opponent. He deflected a blow against the hilt of Ovart’s weapon. “Cock’s bones,” he cursed when the razor-thin tip of his rapier snapped off.
I gasped, dumbstruck, as Alexandre fell. I hadn’t even seen Ovart’s thrust. “He’s alive,” I said, swallowing. Bloodied, moaning, writhing in pain—but alive.
And then I heard something that made my heart stop: three sharp cries followed by a chilling silence. The men stood back, panting.
I could make out a still shape sprawled in the tall grass: it was
Alexandre’s good friend, plump Henri d’Antin—with a rapier in his chest.
One of La Frette’s men got to his feet, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He bent over d’Antin, withdrawing his rapier. He stood over his victim for a moment and then picked up d’Antin’s weapon in the grass as well, and hurried after La Frette, who’d already mounted his horse. Soon they’d all cantered off, whooping: the victors.
The monastery bells began to ring for early morning prayer.
Athénaïs said something, but she was drowned out. I leaned into her. “Alexandre’s hurt,” she said faintly.
Badly, I feared. I was relieved to see him start moving, crawling toward d’Antin’s still body.
The bells ceased. Alexandre collapsed over the body of his friend, his cries piercing the silence. He slumped as Chalais and Flamarens pried him off and dragged the body into a thicket.
“Henri’s dead?” Athénaïs whispered.
I should have brought salts, I thought.
THE THREE MEN stared dumbfounded as we emerged from the woods.
Mon Dieu, I heard Alexandre gasp. Athénaïs broke into a run and fell down on her knees beside him, gasping convulsively.
“I took you for a man,” the Prince de Chalais told me, pressing a bloody kerchief to his cheek.
I could hear a wagon rumbling on the road, a cock crowing, a goat bleating. I glanced at the bushes. I could see the soles of d’Antin’s boots—they had high red heels, like the boots the cobbler had given me long before. The strong scent of blood brought on a moment of nausea; I pressed my nose into the crook of my elbow.
“Flamarens, Chalais, make for the frontiers,” Alexandre said weakly, his teeth chattering. He was weeping still. “The King will have your heads if he finds you.”
“We can’t leave you like this,” the Prince de Chalais protested.
“Messieurs, we have a coach waiting at the monastery,” I managed to say, tilting my head in the direction of the Abbaye de Saint-Germain. “We could take the Marquis.” They regarded my offer with stunned relief.
I stooped to examine Alexandre’s wound. It wasn’t my place, but someone had to act. It was a slash across his thigh. That was better—far better—than a thrust wound, although it looked deep, possibly to the bone. “We need a linen,” I told the Prince de Chalais. “Your sleeve?”
The boy—for he was hardly more—shed his layers. He was white and thin, shivering in the cold, his ribs showing. That he had survived against big La Frette was a miracle. He tossed me his chemise and quickly put his doublet and cloak back on, his movements stiff and clumsy.
I ripped the lace off with my teeth and tore the cloth down the seam. “This will hurt,” I warned. But in truth, I didn’t care. I was furious at them all.
Alexandre clasped the saint’s medal hanging from his neck and pressed his face into Athénaïs’s bosom. “Don’t worry about me, lads,” he said gamely, but nobody laughed.
I wound the linen tight around his thigh. Quickly, it bloomed bright. I tore off another sleeve, which slowed the stain. Merci Dieu—but how to move him across the field?
“I refuse to go anywhere until you two are on your way,” Alexandre told his compatriots.
“Heft him onto his horse before you go,” I suggested curtly. It was too far for me to carry him—and Athénaïs would certainly be no help.
Alexandre groaned as Chalais and Flamarens lifted him into the saddle.
“We’re just going to leave Henri?” Athénaïs looked dangerously pale.
“Breathe!” I commanded, shaking her to keep her from fainting.
“Be gone!” Alexandre gasped. “Athénaïs will get word to your families.”
The convent bells rang for morning Mass as the two men cantered off.
I glanced back at the boots. How long would it be before the buzzards started circling? How long before the body of the mighty Bishop de Sens’s nephew was discovered hidden in the bushes of a frozen marsh? Holding the reins of Alexandre’s horse, I set out across the field, Athénaïs trailing behind. My thoughts were sluggish, spent. I felt numb with it all, exhausted.
What were we going to do with Alexandre?
Don’t die, I thought furiously. Just don’t die.
CHAPTER 26
Gaston was at the little platform table by the shuttered window eating from a pot of gruel. He looked up, surprised to see me. He made a gesture of worry, his forehead wrinkled up. I could tell from his tremulous singsong that he’d been fretful.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing Gaston’s line of objects out of the way of the door with one foot. The wounded aristocrat was in the coach below. I’d rashly offered to hide him until Athénaïs could find a suitable place. You’re my guardian angel, she’d told me, weeping—but I was still angry. They’d brought it on themselves. “Where’s Mother?” The fire was blazing; I was thankful for the heat, thankful that there was still wood stacked—we were going to need it.
“Play,” he said with a stutter.
Of course. Monsieur Pierre was introducing his new play to the troupe.
“I. Go.” He wrinkled up his forehead again. “She—”
“Stay. I need your help,” I said with some urgency, relieved that Mother would not be present.
Gaston was young, but he had strength. Between us, we managed to carry the moaning nobleman up the narrow stairs (fortunately unobserved). We laid him out on Gaston’s straw mattress, his booted feet hanging off the end. I tossed Gaston the rag doll he slept with, which he pressed to his heart.
The Marquis looked like death. I’d been foolish to offer to hide him, foolish to expose my family to the King’s ire. Cursing at what I’d gotten myself into, I pulled a threadbare blanket from the bottom of a storage trunk. It was rough and patched—a rag to most—but it was all we had. Tant pis. Soon it would be bloodied.
I started to unlace the high boot on Alexandre’s injured leg. “Don’t watch,” I told Gaston. As I feared, the boot was full of blood. I closed my eyes, suddenly light-headed. What would we do if he died? What would we do with his body? I broke into a sweat just thinking of it. I wished I could send for a surgeon—but the nature of the wound would be obvious, and who wouldn’t profit by going to the King? I dared not take the risk.
“Go boil some water and fetch me some clean rags,” I told Gaston, who seemed frozen, sucking on his thumb and staring.
I peeled off the Marquis’s knit sock. It was a terrible gash, long and deep. “Vinegar too,” I said, pressing my fingers into the wound to stanch the bleeding. Finally, Gaston moved. “And my sewing basket,” I called out. Like it or not, I was going to have to stitch him.
Gaston returned with the rags and steaming water in the cast-iron pot.
“Not a hint of this to anyone, do you hear?” I told him sternly, using a steaming rag to wipe my hands clean. Not that Gaston could even talk! I dipped the sharpest needle into the hot water and then laced it with the linen thread. “Leave, Turnip,” I said.
ATHÉNAïS’S ROOM WAS in a state of disarray, gowns and shawls flung everywhere. A mess of jeweled necklaces had been unceremoniously dumped on the marble-topped table. The parrot was perched atop a candlestick holder, watching me with one eye. The monkey grinned at me ghoulishly from its stand and rattled its chain.
Athénaïs emerged from behind a screen wearing only a chemise. She, too, looked disordered, her hair undressed, her face unpowdered.
“He’s doing well,” I told her. I wasn’t sure I could mention him by name. Who might be listening behind closed doors? I gently set down my basket. The wound had closed and the inflammation was down. Noble blood healed fast.
“Yet his life is over,” Athénaïs said tremulously, through tears. “The King—”
I held silent. The news was everywhere. His Majesty was enraged! He took dueling seriously. (That I knew too well.)
“He might as well be dead,” she said.
I handed her my nose cloth. She looked at it askance. “It’s clean,” I assured her.
She patted her cheeks with it. “His Majesty has ordered guards posted all over Paris,” she whispered, handing the kerchief back, her voice strangled. “He’s intent on arresting them: all of them.” She scratched at her breast with her long nails, drawing blood lines on her flesh. “How can the King be so … so base! Dueling is a noble tradition—an honorable tradition.”
As if honor were a luxury reserved exclusively for the blessed. I thought of the line from The Cid I’d scratched on my father’s pile of stones: Men may reduce me to live without happiness, but they cannot compel me to live without honor.
I heard footsteps, the creak of floorboards. “You have need of a costume, Mademoiselle?” I said in a carrying voice.
“Oui, I’m to perform at a ball, His Majesty insists,” Athénaïs said, daring to refer to the King in a mocking tone. “Any gown will do, so long as it is gold. The King is to be the sun, and we’re to reflect his light,” she added with spite. She fell back onto her bed, kicking pillows and gowns fitfully onto the floor. “Everyone is in a state of terror over the duel,” she hissed. “It’s going to be impossible to find somewhere suitable to hide him. I dare not even ask.”
I stepped closer. “He’s safe at our place, Mademoiselle,” I whispered. “No one would ever suspect.” Or so I prayed, knowing the risk to my family.
I TOOK A long, circuitous route back to our humble room, lest I was being followed. I paused outside our door, listening to the voices within. I could hear Gaston humming.
“Hush, Gaston—we’re working,” I heard Mother say, and he quieted. “Give me that cue line again, Monsieur.”
Who is here? I thought with alarm. It had been agreed that there would be no callers—not so long as we were harboring Alexandre.
“Madame, your love for him surprises me,” a man said.
I recognized the line from Monsieur Pierre’s newest play, Sertorius.
“It is unusual for a man of his age to attract a young woman,” the man continued.
The Shadow Queen Page 11
