by Karleen Koen
“The likes of you may call me captain.”
Captain of what? A cloak hid whatever uniform might have revealed that. “What do you wish from me?”
“The fair-haired girl, the one in Madame’s household—”
Louise? thought Choisy, his mind suddenly sharper.
“Did she talk to you about a certain day in the forest? It would be the day the cardinal—” and at those words the man crossed himself, “—died?”
Giddiness left Choisy. He remembered Louise’s description of the musketeer she’d seen that day, his face as hewn as if he’d been hacked by an ax, she’d said. Well, if ever he’d seen a face hacked by God’s ax, it was this man’s. Alarm walked with its prickly cat’s feet at the back of his neck and along his arms. This was Louise’s musketeer. “I don’t know a fair-haired girl—”
“What do I see one day a few weeks ago when I’m out for a ride but you and her cantering along. Then I see you both another day. It doesn’t sit well with me being as I’m suspicious by nature. Then I come here and find you’re out together many mornings. Remind her she never saw what she saw. And tell her she’ll be rewarded.” There was a small leather bag in the man’s outstretched hand. “You know what I’m talking about. She spoke to you of it, didn’t she?”
“Spoke of what?”
“A man like you, who likes to wear ladies’ corsets and gowns and ribbons and earrings, you two talked like magpies, didn’t you?” The musketeer leaned forward, tall and grim, beaten by training and life into a cold, clear force. “Tell Miss de le Baume le Blanc that her silence is important.”
“She saw nothing. Her horse reared and threw her, if you remember—”
The man grimaced what must be a smile. Choisy felt stupid, muddled, furious at himself. The musketeer punched the leather bag into Choisy’s middle, hard enough to make him gasp.
“Take what you like from it that will keep you silent, then the rest is hers. You and I have never spoken. And she was never in the forest of Fontainebleau on that cursed day in March, is that clear? And it might be wise to keep your jaunts closer to the palace.”
“You have my assurance as a gentleman that she will say nothing. And we’ll stop riding, yes, we will.”
“I thought you were a woman at first.” There was contempt on the musketeer’s face. “I saw you dressed like a girl, dancing like one, flirting with Monsieur and those others in that house in Paris you all like to visit when I was tracking you. Shame on you! Shame on you all!”
He spat, and the spittle hit Choisy in the face. And then the musketeer stepped back like a ghost, into the dark that was the lane down which Choisy had walked.
Stunned, Choisy sat on the rim of the bowl of the fountain. After a time, he was able to stand, able to walk to the townhouse in which he stayed.
“I WAS TOLD you had a plan, Colbert.” Though the dawn was ready to open the day in another few hours, the king met with Colbert, who was as crisply dressed as if it were morning.
“A plan, sire?” said Colbert.
“Of financial reform.”
“That was scotched several years ago, sire.”
“Why?”
“The viscount learned of it and did not care for it. And it was felt that its timing was not right. Negotiations for your marriage were beginning, and there was pressing need of funds, and when there is pressing need of funds, there is pressing need of the viscount.”
“How did he learn of it?”
“I shared my plan with our late, great cardinal, but unfortunately I made the mistake of putting it in a letter. The letter was intercepted.”
Louis, who had been standing on a small balcony, staring up at the night stars, turned. “Intercepted?”
“The postmaster general, sire.”
“The same postmaster general we have now?”
“Yes, sire.”
“You’re saying he is in the pay of the Viscount Nicolas?”
“Many are in the pay of the viscount, sire.”
“Make me a list.”
“The names would be uncomfortable, sire.”
Relatives, thought Louis. He means my cousins and very likely friends, too, would be on the list. Well, if his relatives weren’t at court smiling at him, they were plotting war against him. And as for friends, they followed the sun. The viscount was the court’s sun. He offers Vaux-le-Vicomte, said Henriette, for—and here she had looked away, not able to meet his eyes, and Louis’s heart beat so hard he thought it would leap out of his chest—for us.
“Put the names down anyway. What was in your plan?”
“A court of justice instituted to look into financial affairs, prosecution of those who have raped our kingdom.”
They displayed the rape in satins and laces, in statues and paintings, in warships and merchant vessels, in the use of royal gardeners, royal craftsmen to build palaces. The viscount was using royal workers to finish his château at Vaux-le-Vicomte, had been for four years, Louis had learned just the other day. They’d razed a village, diverted a stream to create the gardens the viscount wished. And the viscount had purchased the office of viceroy of all islands, shores, harbors, coasts, and mainlands of Louis’s colonies. That was the reason he purchased ships. But not under his own name. He also owned an island on the western coast, which made something in Louis coil upward and flick out a tongue in warning.
But all he said was, “Cardinal Mazarin spoke of your court of justice in his last days. He told me he regretted that he had not implemented it. I was a coward, he said to me.”
“He was never a coward, your majesty. He was a wise man who knew how to be pliant when circumstances called for it.”
“I could dismiss the postmaster general. But would that be too transparent?”
It took a moment for Colbert to answer, the late hour having exhausted even his indomitable precision. “Excuse me, sire?”
“Yes, too transparent. A warning shot the viscount would notice. Therefore, we’ll best him at his own game. Go to this postmaster general and tell him his king desires his utmost loyalty, that old sins are known but will be forgotten if he now understands he is to serve only me. And of course, such loyalty will be rewarded. He may open the mail for the viscount, but he must also do the same for me. I will see all of the viscount’s correspondence, and I will know precisely what the viscount has seen. And put a man in place who will watch the postmaster general’s every move. Make certain that both men understand I forget the past, reward loyalty, but always, always punish liars. I’ve kept you up very late this night, haven’t I? Good night, Colbert. Remind the postmaster general I am his liege lord.”
“I will do so, your majesty.”
“Pay him more than what the viscount pays.”
Colbert put a hand to his heart in obedience.
“Colbert? Tell me the name again of the viscount’s island?”
Colbert gestured toward the elder of Louis’s dogs. “Belle. Belle Isle, sir.”
“Find out everything there is to know—discreetly—about this island. Does he visit it? How often? And what precisely is there?” He’d given Colbert charge of the cardinal’s spies. My dear boy, forgive me, but I give you Colbert, said the man he loved in his mind. Was Colbert as trustworthy as Mazarin promised?
Colbert bowed himself out of the chamber. Louis rubbed his eyes in fatigue. Desire for Henriette stretched him to a breaking point. When his beloved violins played, he could feel their high quaver in his bones. What to do about the viscount, who offered his own château for their love? How did he know? And how did he dare? And he was now a viceroy. There must be no more Richelieus keeping their kingly state, he could remember his mother shouting in fury, while the true king, your dear father, sits at his devotions in a badly furnished palace.
And yet she had created Mazarin, who kept a kingly state and twisted the crown’s revenues into his own just as the viscount was doing. Beloved Mazarin. Godfather and friend. Mentor and teacher. A wind from the Fronde is blowing, blowing,
blowing, and Mazarin is going, going, going. No new Mazarinades to keep him anxious and wary. Yet. If the viscount were arrested, would his arrest rupture existing contracts and agreements? Would he rally the financiers who had been his accomplices, who had done nothing without his consent and for their profit as well as his? Would public credit hold? Would there be war, another Fronde? Was it the viscount who sent these veiled threats? Why? So that Louis should be afraid to make a move against him?
He insinuated himself into Louis’s love affair. He insinuated himself into every aspect of court that Louis could see. He was going to have to break the viscount in half and hold the pieces up like trophies to paralyze his court with awe and under the awe, real fear. What do you say to that? he asked Mazarin in his mind, and for just a moment, he thought a morning star whispered, Well done, my boy. But he was tired, and the new day had already begun, and, as always, there was too much to do.
IT WAS PAST noon the next day before Choisy found Louise with Madame’s dogs as her companions in the queen’s garden at a bronze statue of the daughter of the king of the ancient gods. Louise sat on stone steps built in a circle—like an ancient amphitheater—around a pedestal that held the goddess’s statue.
He sat down beside Louise and began to describe what had happened to him. The musketeer had really frightened him, made him frightened for her. All this he tried to convey to her, the sound of birds twittering and trilling in their aviary, the fragrance from orange blossoms and sweet olives a contrast to his words. Near them, four bronze dogs surrounding the goddess peed four arcs of water to make a fountain.
Near her foot he placed the leather bag and a rose he had picked. “We’re neither of us to say a word.”
“We haven’t said a word, but I can’t just forget what I saw.”
He began to feel upset. “Louise, my bonbon, this is serious. You’ve led a sheltered life on your farm and then with the Orléans. If someone is powerful enough to give a bag of gold, powerful enough to command a musketeer, it is best to obey. You could find yourself dismissed, worse.”
“Worse?”
For the first time since he’d met her, he found her innocence less than charming. “I’ve already told you. Don’t you remember my lecture? Inconvenient people disappear from court. Just obey me.”
“Obey you?”
“I’m your patron, Louise. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here. You must listen to what I say.”
She laughed, which hurt his feelings. He was serious, and she didn’t seem to realize it. He took her arm.
She shook him off, pointed. “There’s La Grande Mademoiselle.”
A tall, big-boned woman had appeared in the open gallery that ran along one side of the garden. Stalk, Madame de Choisy called her. A first cousin of the king, she was the richest princess in France, had once been traitor to the king, but had been forgiven.
“I don’t want to have to talk to her.” Like a boy, Louise whistled for the dogs, then, as they clustered at her feet, she said, “Does this mean you won’t go exploring with me anymore?”
Furious, Choisy stood. “Have you not understood a word I’ve said? No, I won’t go exploring! And neither will you! This isn’t a game, Louise. Forget the boy.”
“What if I can’t? What if I won’t?” She ran off toward the orangery, the dogs right beside her. He saw that she took neither the bag of gold nor the rose with her.
“Whoo-hoo,” called La Grande, waving a long scarf and carrying one of her pet dogs. She was past her first youth, still unmarried, but that was her choice. I can’t bear to leave France, she told one and all. Those who knew her best said she couldn’t bear to have a master, but since the existence of a married princess very much depended upon the kindness of her husband, perhaps she was more wise than headstrong.
Cursing silently, Choisy turned, bowed low. He could not ignore this princess whose family was intertwined with his. He walked toward her, to play courtier, to pretend to be interested in what she said, to pretend she was a fount of wisdom or goddess of beauty or however it was she wished to be perceived today.
“Where did La Baume le Blanc run off to?” she asked him. Her scarf had fallen from her hands, and she ignored it, waiting for Choisy to pick it up, which he did.
“She had to return at once to Madame’s,” he said. “She sends you her respect and greetings.”
“Tell her to come and examine my dog. My precious hasn’t been piddling the way she should. Look at the way they pee.” She pointed to the bronze dogs. Sunlight played on the water arcs made.
Choisy coughed not to laugh. “Forgive me, but those are male dogs.”
“I know how a dog ought to pee, male or female.” La Grande took a deep breath of garden air. “Ah, it’s good to be here. Now, walk with me around the garden and tell me all the gossip.”
Choisy bowed obediently, amused now rather than irritated. This statue with its dogs was his favorite, for the impudence of it if nothing else. The ancient Romans had wrapped their art in the sacred and the profane. For them, the borders blurred. Choisy liked that blurring. It mirrored his own. As for Louise, he’d find her in the evening and insist she do as he said.
June 1661 …
Chapter 9
OUISE AND CHOISY WEREN’T SPEAKING.
He paid elaborate court to La Grande Mademoiselle, but if he expected upset from Louise, he was mistaken. Choisy was the last thing on her mind. She was determined to find a map, and she asked innocuously pointed questions of ladies-in-waiting and footmen and his majesty’s flirtatious entourage until she had her answer.
It was an evening in early June, the day having been devoted to the feast of Corpus Christi. The royal family had led a procession of monks, nuns, courtiers, and villagers to the chapel while bells rang endlessly and candles shone like beacons in the chapel dark. Afterward, the palace was silent, courtiers snatching a bit of rest from a morning spent on their knees in long prayer and contemplation. Those more worldly met a lover at some prearranged place, which is what Madame was doing. Her household thought she was asleep, but Louise knew she’d crept from her bedchamber and had gone to meet the king.
Louise was exploring the oldest part of the palace, the medieval keep that King François I had made the center of the palace’s rebuilding in the 1500s. He’d added a gallery to link the palace with a monastery that had once stood nearby, and on the ground floor of that gallery were the king’s tile-and-marble bath and steam-rooms, such as the Romans had created. She was told that in other chambers were kept treasures: paintings, engravings, medals, coins that kings and queens of France had collected for more than a century. But that wasn’t what she searched for.
One of the footmen who thought she was pretty had assured her this corridor held a room of royal books. Where there was a chamber of books, there would be maps, she reasoned.
Musketeers stood here and there along the corridor, and as Louise walked on, one of them stepped in front of her. Stocky, the way men become as the middle of their life settles in, he stared at her with intent, twinkling eyes. Louise recognized him as the lieutenant of the king’s musketeers. Was the king in his bath? She would die if she had ventured onto this floor when he was in his bath. But he wouldn’t be in his bath, would he? He was meeting Madame.
“Are you lost, miss?” the musketeer asked.
Louise hesitated, bashfulness taking her by the throat. “No, sir. I was searching for a room of books.”
“You wish to read, miss?”
“I, well, I wish to find maps of the surrounding countryside. I’m from the country, you see.” You’re talking too much, she told herself, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “And I knew every hill and dale and farm for miles. My father and I rode them together. And I still like to ride, oh, I ride all the time if I can, but I don’t have a sense of where I am, and I wanted to know the country around the palace.” Her voice trailed off. She felt tired from her lying. He won’t believe me, she thought. She didn’t even dare look at him.
“My father was Laurent de la Baume le Blanc de la Vallière.”
“I knew him. He was a fine soldier, and now that I look at you, I see you have his eyes. He was a most gallant warrior.”
Touched, she smiled, and D’Artagnan blinked. Well, now. Her smile was something else again. What an enchanting young woman. He touched at his moustache, pulled in his stomach, the automatic gestures of an old flirt.
“Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he said, feeling fatherly with a pinch of palest lust thrown in. “I am Charles de Batz-Castelmore d’Artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers and proud of it. You’re in Madame’s household, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, come along, there is indeed a room of books, and I can well imagine in it there are maps of the countryside. You like to ride, miss?”
“More than anything.”
He opened enormous double doors to a chamber lined floor to ceiling with books. Low cabinets sat in the middle of the room and atop them onyx vases with gold or silver handles as well as bronzes of heads, the hair on them short and combed forward, reflecting another time, another empire. D’Artagnan strode at once to the low cabinets, pulled open one of the narrow, long drawers.
“If there are maps, miss, they will be in here. Now, I must go, but I wish you happy hunting.”
Left alone, Louise stood still a moment. So many books together in one place were a rarity. There was also the luxury of a thick rug on the floor, draperies falling in folds at the windows, embroidery in silver and gilt thread picking out patterns on pillows fat and tasseled, lying in piles before the shelved books. There were tall figured candle stands and even a clock.
