Louis d’Aubusson nodded. ‘And now, if you are equal to the exertion, I would very much like to present you to the duke.’
Kit nodded, rose shakily and accepted his arm. The Maréchal de Camp escorted her deep into the belly of the palace, where a pair of twin golden doors opened to admit them into a painted chamber as big as a basilica. There were giants painted all over the walls; giants wrestling in epic bouts, huge leviathans wreaking havoc, titans toppling pillars of stone as if they were wicker canes, chaos in epic scale upon the walls.
Blue-coated gentlemen sat at long trestle tables set with golden candlesticks, nibbling tidily at their food, talking in polite undertones, accompanied by a string quartet. Thanks to Mezzanotte she recognised the piece – an air by François Couperin – and the quality of those who played it. The ball at Turin had been a grand affair, but Kit saw that the French did not stint themselves any more than the Alliance. The war, and Richard’s field of death, seemed a long way away, even though that grim plain was visible from the window. This was a feast fit for a king, and a would-be king sat at the head of it. This, then, was Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, nephew to the King of France.
Born at the Château de Saint-Cloud, she recited under her breath. He was paid two million gold livres to marry Louis XIV’s bastard daughter. His mother slapped his face in the full view of the court for agreeing to the marriage. But now the man who had been the court joke at Versailles was a player in the game. Louis had chosen his nephew as his heir.
Resplendent in blue and gold, wearing a full-length wig of glossy chestnut curls, the pretender sat a little apart from the company on a golden dais. Servants in blue livery conveyed morsels to him from the board upon a golden tray. He waved his food away and held out his hand to Kit, his royal ring uppermost. She knelt and kissed the three feathers of the fleur-de-lis as Ormonde had taught her. ‘Rise,’ he said, and she stood before him, risking a look into the royal face. Philippe had a strong nose, ruddy cheeks and full lips. He would make, she supposed, as good a king as any other.
‘Madame la Comtesse,’ he said. ‘I grieve for your loss.’
‘I thank you, Your Grace.’
‘Our prime concern is for your comfort here, until such a time when you may be safely conveyed home. Your husband will be buried with all honours due to such a faithful servant of France.’
Her eyes began to prick.
‘I will instruct my own abbé to conduct the service for you. D’Aubusson will arrange everything.’
Kit curtsied low, and Orléans gestured to his man again, picking up the leg of a capon from the little gold tray and tearing at it with his teeth. It was a curiously brutal gesture, as voracious and destructive as those of the giants on the wall. Beneath the veneer, thought Kit, we are all animals.
Back at her apartments D’Aubusson settled her solicitously into a chair. ‘The maréchal will come to you tomorrow, madame,’ he said, ‘with news of the arrangements for your husband’s interment. My lord duc has agreed that he shall be given the honour of resting in the Mausoleum at the Palatine church.’
Kit barely heard the details of her husband’s funeral. The maréchal Villeroi, the meeting she had dreaded. If the maréchal knew her for the dragoon who had helped to capture him in Cremona, her mission in Mantova was over. Kit plaited the black crape of her skirts between her fingers. She must find out whatever she could as soon as possible. ‘You are very kind to concern yourself with my affairs – you must have so many other more pressing duties?’ Her voice rose interrogatively, framing a question.
‘Your husband made a sacrifice for France. What could be more important than his committal to God? Besides, we are not very much occupied at present. We are watching and waiting.’
She dropped her eyes and raised her handkerchief. ‘My husband was so eager to join your enterprise. He would so have longed to ride out at your next manoeuvre …’ But D’Aubusson rose, and nodded. ‘I’ll leave you now.’
She barely slept, and in the morning Livia had barely finished her new mistress’s toilette when the maréchal was announced. Kit steeled herself, and turned from the mirror. But a very young man entered, in a spruce uniform of blue and gold, followed by an even younger man in cavalry livery.
The first man bowed, and she invited him to sit. ‘Madame la Comtesse, I am Ferdinand, Comte de Marsin, Deuxième Maréchal de France.’
Second Maréchal of France. This man was Villeroi’s deputy. Kit breathed again, and racked her brain for information about this minor nobleman who had been given such a significant promotion. Born in Liège. Moved to Paris at the age of five. Ambassador extraordinaire to Felipe V of Spain. Unmarried, but had a secret bastard daughter to whom he is peculiarly attached, with a Spanish noblewoman at the Escorial. Had the child conveyed to Paris. Fought at Speyerbach, one of the battles we claimed for Richard …
Fortunately, the maréchal was too tactful to want to discuss Speyerbach. He expressed his condolences prettily, and took her proffered hand. She studied him carefully. He was young and handsome, but walked with a rolling gait which reminded her of her own injury, and when she invited him to sit, he sat with one leg straight forward, the knee locked. He apologised, immediately, for his posture, which was necessitated by an old injury from a musket ball. A shame, Kit thought, that she could not mention her own injury at Luzzara. But it seemed she had no need of such a connection; De Marsin showed the same kindness and solicitude as d’Aubusson and the duc himself. Kit’s relief was short-lived, for his conversation soon took a dangerous turn.
‘I know your home town of Poitiers well,’ he said. ‘I had an uncle down there, he used to take me boating on the Clain.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I, too, used to take the pleasure boats in the summer. There’s a church at the turn of the river, the Baptistère Saint-Jean …’
‘I know it!’ he said, animated. ‘A truly heartbreaking vista.’ Then he looked down. ‘It is of Poitiers I wish to speak to you. In the absence of your good family, the Duc d’Orléans has honoured me with the task of settling your husband’s affairs. I have taken the liberty of writing two letters on your behalf containing the sad news of your husband’s death. One to Poitiers and the other to Paris.’
Her heart began to thud. ‘But my dear maréchal,’ she gasped, ‘I cannot put you to such trouble.’
He waved his hand. ‘My dear madame, it is no trouble, I assure you. The letters are already written and as I am fortunate in my secretary – I did not even put quill to paper.’
‘But …’ she blustered, ‘perhaps it would be better if I conveyed the news to my belle-mère and beau-père myself upon my return …’
De Marsin clasped his hands together. ‘I regret, Comtesse, that I can make no promises at this time of your being able to return home in the immediate future. We find ourselves, madame, at a crucial stage of our conflict, and to convey you at this time across the border – well …’ his elegant shrug was expressive, ‘I could not guarantee your safety, and not for worlds would I place you in danger.’
‘But … to receive such news in a letter …’
‘Be comforted, madame. I have addressed the letter not to your husband’s excellent parents directly, but to the Haute-Maréchal of Poitou-Charentes. I expect you are acquainted with this gentleman?’
‘Indeed,’ said Kit, picking up her cue, even in her panic, as adroitly as an actress. ‘We dined many times with Monsieur Antoine de Rouvroy and his wife Viviane.’
‘Quite. I have asked M. Rouvroy to pass on this sad news in person, along with my assurance that you will be home in the bosom of your family as soon as possible.’
He turned to the young fellow in the corner and beckoned him. Kit had forgotten the presence of the liveried boy, but the fellow bounded forward when summoned with an eager step. ‘This is Jean-Jacques. He is our speediest fast-rider and has been an army messenger for a brace of years despite his youth. He has been given my instructions to take this dispatch directly to Poitiers.’
&
nbsp; Kit looked at the young man with a sinking heart. He was positively twitching with constrained energy. ‘I cannot take your fastest man from you.’
‘It is no inconvenience – he would be taking the road to the Massif Central and thence to Paris anyway. It would be no hardship, Jean-Jacques, to break your journey in Poitiers?’
The young man bowed. ‘None at all, Maréchal. ’Tis on the way. Change horses at Poitiers anyway.’ His speech was as staccato as hoofbeats.
De Marsin spread his hands. ‘You see. And in Paris he will deliver another dispatch on your account – your husband’s passing will be entered in the rolls at the École Militaire, and his death registered at the Invalides. In this way – if you forgive me mentioning such a low matter, but in the absence of your beau-père I must – you will very soon be in receipt of your widow’s pension.’ He jerked his head to the eager lad. ‘Jean-Jacques rides faster than Boreas – he will be back within the fortnight.’
‘Week’s more like it, sir.’
The Maréchal de Marsin took his leave before Kit could protest further, taking his fast-rider with him.
As the door closed she laid her forehead on the cool smooth wood. De Marsin had been implacable – the letters had been written, and to object further would be to betray herself. Kit swallowed; she had just one short week to find out what she needed to know before the news came back from Paris and Poitiers that would unmask her, condemn her and likely send her to the gallows: There is no such person as the Vicomte Richard St-Hilaire de Blossac.
She recalled her answers in the interview; she had, she was sure, answered convincingly. Then she thought of the comte – how he had seemed. She remembered how he had sat. How he had looked at her.
The interview had not been entirely hopeless. She had seen something interesting in the Maréchal de Marsin’s expression – of the three great men she had met in Mantova, he alone had seemed susceptible to her beauty. Orléans himself had his eyes on the throne and nothing else – D’Aubusson was military to the backbone, utterly correct in his behaviour and bearing. But this young maréchal, with his florid speech and fervent eyes, had seemed to hang on her words. She sensed that his romantic Gallic heart had been captured by her persona of the young abandoned widow, and he had cast her as some tragic heroine. In this limbo, waiting for the next great push, he had the leisure to lend his heart for a time. She decided, there and then, that the maréchal Ferdinand de Marsin would be her key to unlocking the stalemate.
She stood at the window when they were gone, and watched Jean-Jacques the fast-rider leave the gate. She saw his tricorn dip as he opened his leather satchel and checked the dispatches in his bag. Then he straightened, gathered the reins, looked along the road, the top of his tricorn aligned like an arrow. He jerked his spurs into his mare’s flanks, and she shot forth as if from a bow, thundering along the causeway and across the bridge and the lake. Ormonde must have known this too – that they would send to the École Militaire in Paris to register his death, and have his service record entered in the rolls at the Invalides. Ormonde had known, then, that she would have a finite time to discover what she must and escape. He must have known that as soon as a reply came from Poitiers or the Invalides, she was done for.
‘Livia,’ she asked of her lady-in-waiting as they walked, ‘who would you like to rule here? The Alliance or the French? You may speak freely – do not allow my personal allegiance to weigh with you.’
Livia looked up from her ribbons, her eyes and mouth wide.
‘You are surprised that I asked you?’
‘No. I am surprised by the question.’
‘Won’t you tell me why?’
‘Because, Comtesse, begging your pardon, we do not want the Alliance or the French. We want to rule ourselves.’
Kit’s days at the Castillo di San Giorgio began to take on a rhythm. Every morning she gazed from her window across the lake to the causeway, looking out with dread for the blue and gold messenger’s livery of Jean-Jacques. What would these kindly, courtly men do to her once she was unmasked? What tortures would they devise for a spy, for a woman so wanton she would dishonour the very idea of a fallen French hero for her own ends? She must find out what she needed to know before Jean-Jacques returned – but equally, she must leave the city before he arrived.
Each day, she went to visit her husband’s tomb accompanied by Livia. The marble of the coffer remained plain, no name, no date, no rank carved with chisel on stone. After a few days she guessed they were waiting for proof of the life and service of Vicomte St-Hilaire de Blossac. She would walk back through the city each day, watching the Mantovani go about their business, unruffled, it seemed, by the occupying force. She detected a certain resignation in their day-to-day tasks; not an indifference exactly but an acceptance – today they were ruled by the French, tomorrow perhaps by the Alliance. Their jewel of a city had been coveted for centuries, and would be for centuries to come; meantime there was bread to bake and wood to carry.
At her apartments Kit was left very much to herself. She was given every comfort, but took her meals in her room, spent her hours reading or sewing, walked only to her husband’s grave and back and saw no one but Livia Gonzaga. She began, quietly, to panic. How was she to infiltrate the court, and find out what she needed to know, if she was isolated so? She knew why she was being left alone, and admired the French command for their solicitous consideration. She had a complicated relationship with Ormonde but had always trusted his judgement – now, for the first time, her trust faltered a little. The duke had not known or guessed that the flower of the French court would respect a widow’s mourning to the extent that she would be excluded, almost entirely, from court life; and the nightly entertainments that sent faint phrases of music to her window, or lit the sky outside her casements with bursts of coloured fireworks, went on without her. So when La Maréchal Ferdinand de Marsin visited to see how she did, she welcomed the young count almost more effusively than was respectable. She must talk to him, she must make some headway; for all the hours she spent at her needle or her prayer book Jean-Jacques the fast-rider spent pounding the road between Paris and Poitiers. ‘My dear maréchal,’ she said, jumping to her feet, ‘I am glad to see you indeed. Might I persuade you to take a turn about the palace? I must confide in you that I tire of these four walls.’
He looked a little taken aback, then smiled. ‘I fear that the courtyards are now parade grounds, and not for the world would I subject you, in your current sad circumstances, to the scrutiny of low men. But,’ he said quickly as her face fell, ‘I think I may have the ideal solution. May I?’ He offered his arm and she took it gratefully as he led her from the room.
He took her along panelled oak passageways where ranks of dark portraits, the image of Livia, looked down their long Gonzaga noses at her. At length they reached a low door in the wall. The door was unremarkable, and could have led the way to a cellar or garderobe, but it did not. Kit emerged into a green quadrangle surrounded by a colonnade of delicate marble pillars.
It was a secret garden, fragrant with roses and honeysuckle, in the very belly of the castle. ‘This is the garden of Isabella d’Este herself,’ said De Marsin, with a reverence that made her like him. The garden was its own little universe; the sun warmed the little stone courtyard even on this autumn day, and by some audible accident the harsh French commands of the drill sergeants could not be heard. The sky over the garden was a serene square of blue, the colour of the Virgin’s cloak.
‘It is beautiful,’ Kit said.
‘It is yours – for the duration of your stay,’ said the Comte de Marsin. ‘I will personally vouch for your privacy and stand a man at the door. Here you may take the air whenever you wish, and be entirely alone.’
Kit walked forward to one of the roses and cupped the bloom in her hand. The last thing she needed was more solitude. She spoke carefully. ‘You are all kindness, Maréchal,’ she said gratefully. ‘This garden will suit me perfectly in times of reflection. But
to say the truth, I also need some diversion, to take me out of myself; to help me to …’
He moved closer to her, and his shadow joined hers. ‘To forget?’
She turned quickly. ‘No, not that. Never that.’ She laid a hand on his arm, shifting her body closer so her bosom all but touched his sleeve. She bit her bottom lip delicately until she was sure he was looking at her mouth. ‘I express myself ill; forgive me. I am so little used to company now. What I meant to say is that I crave a distraction, not to allow me to forget my dear Richard, but rather to let me know that it is still possible to dance, to laugh, to hear sweet music, to eat with relish. Even if I cannot do these things yet myself, I can see them in others and know that one day, perhaps, it will be possible to live … and love, again.’ Now she raised her eyes to his, pleading, promising.
It was a risk, but it had worked; De Marsin was caught like a fish on a hook. He faltered, and moved towards her fractionally, his gaze fervent. ‘My dear madame, in that case allow me to invite you to join me in His Grace’s presence this very night; there will be an evening of diversion; nothing comic nor soldierly but a gentle entertainment, which no person of discernment would deem unsuitable even for a lady in mourning.’
She took his hand, lowered her head and kissed the fingers she held, her lips lingering on his flesh. ‘My dear sir,’ she murmured to the hand, ‘you are all goodness.’
When she released his hand De Marsin looked at it as if it was not his. He almost forgot to bow, did so just in time, and said, ‘I’ll leave you now. Until tonight.’
‘Until tonight,’ she agreed, and made sure she watched him wistfully until he was out of sight.
Kit’s heart beat fast below her bodice that evening as she took her carriage to the Palazzo del Te, but she need not have worried that she would be a target for deprecating glances. It was dark by the time she reached the palace, and the Sala dei Giganti was lit only by hundreds of candles. The frescoed giants retreated to brood and wait, into the dark beyond the flames. There were a hundred gilded chairs set before a wooden stage, encircled by scores of musicians clutching viols. She could barely find De Marsin in the gloom, but before long he was at her side, and found a seat for her beside him. ‘You see? We meet under the cover of night,’ he said. ‘No one will remark upon your presence.’
Kit Page 32
