by Karleen Koen
No one answered.
It’s not a good sign, Louise thought, as she tried to settle under the covers, that we’re talking of this. If we are, others are, too. Her most recent canter had taken her to a farmhouse near Vaux-le-Vicomte. Beware on your way back, said the farmer, leaning against a rake. There was a werewolf seen. My cousin saw it. Wolves and legends about wolves were part and parcel of country lore. When? Louise had asked. In the spring, he’d answered. A werewolf, she’d thought, riding out of his farmyard, might just be a boy in an iron mask, weeping and howling as he ran through the forest.
LOUIS STARED DOWN at the Mazarinade that had been left in Belle’s collar. It had fallen onto the bed as he touched her neck. The words were cruel:
Licentious birds of a feather,
she a tool of unnatural passion,
he a tool of unnatural ambition.
The “she” was his mother; the “he” was Mazarin.
Chapter 11
HE NEXT DAY, INDOLENT AND SAD AND YAWNING, ANNE, QUEEN mother of France, lay in a special daybed her beloved Cardinal Mazarin had commissioned for her from Italy. The finest artisan in Rome had carved its frame, and soft padding covered with lustrous silky fabric lined its exterior. She could half-sit, half-lie upon it, and she did so now, facing tall doors opened to the terrace and pond and gardens. Curtains hung down to protect her from the sun pooling into this chamber—she was vain of her white complexion, her equally white hands—but the wind lifted the fabric in graceful arcs that allowed her glimpses of the palace gardens. All about her was the finest of furniture and paintings and tapestries. Above, her initials were handsomely carved in each honeycomb of the coved ceiling. A little brazier sent out the sweet scent of a perfumed lozenge, for she couldn’t bear even the hint of an offensive odor. Over in a corner, her favorite musician played the guitar.
She craved sleep. Since Mazarin’s death, she slept little. The music lulled; she began to doze as her mind darted lightly here and there among impressions from the previous night … surprising how Henriette had turned out so well … Philippe settled … thank the Holy Mother and all the saints for that … no need to worry anymore … Louis seemed almost a little too appreciative of his new sister’s grace … A soft snore wafted toward the honeycombed initials on the ceiling.
Madame de Motteville, her favorite lady-in-waiting, who had been with her forever, in good and bad times, who carried secrets that if ever uttered would send the woman, no matter how favored, to the deepest dungeon of the terrible Bastille prison in Paris, entered the chamber, stepped to the daybed, and said loudly enough to wake, “Your majesty, he demands to see you.”
Anne opened blue and still quite lovely eyes. “Tell his majesty—”
“It’s Monsieur, and he won’t be denied.”
Oh, bones of Mother Mary, the last thing she wanted to deal with at this moment was her excitable, high-strung, talkative second son. She sat up, a frown on her face. From being pleased at the thought of the way he’d settled down, she moved to feeling extreme annoyance. After the lovely fête only last night, what could he possibly have to complain of?
“He says ‘Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Your majesty naps,’ ” said Madame de Motteville.
“What on earth does that mean?”
Madame de Motteville made a gesture, and at once a woman of the bedchamber glided forward to hold out a bowl of water. Anne dipped her hands, patted her face, took the crisp, starched, white-as-snow linen, her initials painstakingly embroidered in a corner—she would have no other touch her, never had—to wipe her face. Her tastes were fastidious and had been a hugely civilizing influence on the court. Courtiers no longer spat wherever they pleased or blew their noses on their sleeves. She had become queen of France at ten and four. She’d been vivacious enough to learn French and hate her husband’s chief adviser. She’d been strong enough to outlast not bearing an heir for years. That strength served her now, though she was a ghost of the self she’d been before Mazarin’s death. She would need her wits about her if Philippe were in a temper.
He was. He marched into her bedchamber in a fury. Anne surveyed him coldly, as if he were an opponent. It was second nature to do so. No one who survived on the throne could do any less. Both her boys were so handsome. This one’s hair was darker than his brother’s, more magnificent, thicker, but he was slighter than his brother, more like a boy. Sensitive and intelligent, he tried always to please. She didn’t love him the way she did Louis, never had.
“He’s fallen in love with my wife! He is seducing her right under my nose!”
With one gesture from Anne, the chamber emptied. Only her lady-in-waiting remained, standing silent against one wall. There was no point to hide anything from her. Sooner or later, Anne would have to make use of her.
“I’ll kill him! I will, Mother!” ranted Philippe. “First he denies me the governorship of Languedoc, which is mine by precedent and right, then he doesn’t appoint me to his council, again my right as a prince of the blood, now this—”
She slapped him.
He was stunned into silence, his eyes wide, his expression hurt, as she selected words to underscore her gesture.
“He is the king of France! You owe him all obedience! I could have you arrested for what you’ve just said! If I ever hear you say it again, I will order you sent to the deepest dungeon in the kingdom, from which you will never emerge, not while I’m alive!” Always, she had striven to make certain he knew his place in their life, behind Louis, behind he who was king. “Sit down and be silent,” she ordered, trusting his respect for her to make him obey. “Now, what in God’s name has summoned up this hatred for your brother, a hatred I won’t countenance, by the way.” She already knew the answer. Last night. The regard between Louis and Henriette.
“He courts my wife in front of my face! And she responds! People are beginning to talk—”
“What people?”
“The Count de Guiche, for one.”
“Well, isn’t this pretty? We’re going to take what an arrogant troublemaker like Guy-Armand de Gramont, Count de Guiche, says seriously, are we? Doesn’t he always stir up trouble between you and his majesty?”
“Henriette—”
“—is young and high-spirited. I was the same at her age. Men flocked to me like birds to a flower. Was it my fault? No. Did I enjoy it? Yes. Was I unfaithful to your father, bless his sacred memory? Of course not! But that didn’t stop people from talking, gossiping, flies making muck. Revel in her success, my darling. It’s your success for having had the good sense to marry her. She would never do anything to hurt you, Philippe, I’m certain of it.”
“I won’t be shamed!”
“The only shame I perceive is in having allowed someone to plant such thoughts in your head. I demand that you go immediately to your confessor and pull this sin of jealousy and suspicion from your heart. Trust Guiche to make trouble between you and his majesty. I have half a mind to have him sent from court—”
“Don’t do that! He’s the only one I—”
“Trust? Was that the word you were going to use? He certainly served you no good three years ago.”
“I was never treasonous! And neither was he!”
“So you say. When I remember how his majesty forgave you—we had only to ask, and it was done—your evil suspicions of your brother at this moment break my heart. I want you on your knees repenting before God. Here,” she held out the ornate silver cross that hung from the long necklace she wore. “Kiss this, swear you will put vile thoughts from your mind for my sake. Swear it! Now. For my sake.”
The cross was made from Spanish silver mined in the new world, rough emeralds on its four ends, ground bone from the Montezuma said to be mixed in with the metal.
Reluctantly, Philippe knelt, took the cross, and kissed it. Like her, he was extravagantly religious. The face he raised to her was stunning in its even male beauty, in its desire to believe, in its struggle for humility and obedience to his brother.
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“High spirits,” she said. “That’s all. Diversion. It’s the froth of youth, my darling. Don’t let a serpent in the garden spoil this. One day you’ll be old like me, and these times will seem another world, and you’ll regret any waste of them. The king—your brother and my son—” her voice throbbed with sincerity and high drama “—has no desire to do anything but honor the charming young woman you’ve had the cleverness to choose! It’s those with perverted minds who take that honor, that lightheartedness, that gallantry, and twist it! It’s innocent.”
“But if—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “Do you think I would allow something as foul as that in my court? I’m watching, my darling. Always. Trust me. Take this cross.” She pulled the necklace over her head, dropped it into his hands. “Take it as a pledge that all is well, that you must and will purge your heart of these thoughts. Go now to your confessor and empty that heart, your beautiful heart, my prince, my Monsieur, of its dross. Don’t trust Guiche. Not again. Surely you realize you cannot.”
Tears welling in his eyes, Philippe clutched the cross in his hands. “But—”
“Trust in the Lord, my son, and in me, your mother, and in the purity of your brother’s heart.”
Chin lifted, demeanor calm, Anne watched her second child bow to her, then walk away. The moment the door closed behind him, doubt flooded her. Louis wasn’t a full year married. Maria Teresa carried their first-born. Could he … would he? His own sister-in-law? Her mind flew to Henriette. Could she … would she? Things she’d done herself in her youth, and even past it, rattled warnings at her. She turned to her lady-in-waiting.
“Can this folly be true? I won’t believe a word of it!”
“Best begin.”
IN ANOTHER PART of the palace, unaware that her little world had suffered its first crack, Henriette scribbled a love note to Louis in her private closet. The walls were lined with portraits of her family. There was one of her father, with his fine and sensitive features, wearing a huge lace collar and the single pearl earring that had been fashionable at the time. Her prayer stand was placed beneath his portrait, but she had no memory of him whatsoever. Her oldest brother had fought beside their father on the battlefield and assured her that their father had been all that was honorable and proper in a man and a king. A portrait of her mother, painted before the civil war in England, showed a beautiful woman, but Henriette had never known her like that. And there were portraits of her brothers and sisters, the large family she’d never known, all gone now except for the three who remained. And their mother. It will take a stake through the heart to kill her, her brother Charles jested.
She raised her head at a tap at the door, and a page entered to tell her the Princess de Monaco asked to see her.
“Of course.”
She was surprised to see the princess wasn’t alone. Her brother, the Count de Guiche, accompanied her and was frowning, and as he walked toward Henriette, she felt something like foreboding run through her.
“On your knees before her, merciless creature,” Catherine said.
Guy dropped on both knees before Henriette.
“Monsieur went this morning to the queen mother to complain of your behavior with his majesty. Here’s the troublemaker, kneeling before you. He is the reason Monsieur is upset. He has betrayed you!” Catherine said.
Henriette fell back in her chair. She thought for a moment she was going to faint. “Why?” she asked when she could speak. “Why would you do this to me? I thought you a friend.”
“I’ve never felt friendship for you.” Guy grabbed her wrist, and dread opened in her like a terrible, huge, black cloud. It had all been a dream, hadn’t it, that she and his majesty might do as they pleased forever and ever without being seen, caught, lectured, judged. Her head felt light.
“If I’m not a friend,” Guy said, pulling her forward, closer to him, “what am I?”
“A fool!” cried Catherine.
“Take your hands off me! I don’t know what you are, and I care even less,” said Henriette.
But he didn’t let go of her wrist. “I love you,” he said.
There was silence. Neither Henriette nor Catherine spoke a word.
“If I can’t have you, no one will.” Fierce, wild-eyed, Guy spoke through clenched teeth. “Certainly not him!” He let go her wrist, flinging it away.
“He’s the king,” said Catherine, aghast. “Kings must be obeyed!”
“Kings are made and unmade,” Guy replied. “History has shown us that.”
Catherine hit him on the shoulder, a hard shove, and he stood to face her. “I grew up beside Louis de Bourbon. He is a man, no more, no less. He bleeds just like I do.”
“You are not the king! And you’re speaking treason—”
“Stop it!” shouted Henriette. “I am the one who is ruined. I am the one who must face Monsieur. How can you say you love me and yet put me into this awful situation?”
Guy turned to her. “Lie,” he said. “Tell Monsieur that you love him only and that others are jealous—as they are—that I am jealous, as I am, as I will tell him myself, and that his majesty has done nothing more than honor a new sister. Have you graced his bed?”
Something in his eyes made her lean back in her chair and put her hands over her ears.
Catherine beat at her brother’s back. “You have to stop, now, Guy-Armand!”
“You’ve ruined me,” said Henriette. “You say you love me, and you’ve ruined me! I never want to see you again as long as I live.”
Guy’s face went white. He made a move to touch her, but she turned her face from him. “Get out!”
Guy bowed, an abrupt, jerking movement, and left the chamber. Henriette collapsed, beginning to sob. “What am I going to do?”
ANNE PACED HER balcony, her mind working with all the vigor that rebellion had once brought to the forefront. Intolerable, she was thinking. It must be headed off, scotched, stopped in its tracks. She’d take Henriette off at once to a dear friend of hers where the child could cool down and reconsider this flirtation. And a note was already written, already on its way by special messenger to Henriette’s mother, the queen of England until her son married. If two queens, who between them had faced revolt, betrayal, widowhood, and more than one impossible choice, couldn’t snuff this out without anyone being the wiser, they deserved to die quietly right now in their beds. This just proved once and for all that Louis needed her, that he hadn’t the maturity yet to manage the throne by himself. Deciding to take care of the state in person and to rely on no one. Ha. They were little more than children, Louis only twenty and two, her confessor reminded her. She’d called for him at once, flung the news at him as if it were his fault. She must not judge until she knew more, he had soothed. Ha. She’d had a warning word with Monsieur’s, too. Now she waited for the Viscount Nicolas.
She was ready to tear out the viscount’s heart when he was finally ushered into her chamber, but her anger melted slightly at what was held in his outstretched hand, a black pearl, quite large, quite wonderful, quite rare.
“For you,” he murmured, smiling at her.
She loved his extravagance. It suited her own. Her jewel boxes were littered with his little gifts. And if there was a need for extra funds, for some discreet favor done, he quietly took care of it. He had been a good friend to her.
“All is well, I trust,” said Nicolas. The expression on her face told him otherwise.
Anne made no attempt to be discreet. She and the viscount had known one another too long. “Have you noticed anything untoward in his majesty’s conduct?”
“Other than that he insists on handling all state business himself?”
“That will pass. It’s too much for any man, as we both know. He’ll weary of it. His father did. I did. I meant unseemliness in his personal life, his private time with friends. Is there talk of his—his flirting in particular with anyone?”
“He’s quite taken with Madame, but all are,” Nico
las answered smoothly, and as Anne’s face stiffened, “perhaps a little more than partiality toward Madame, but they’re young, after all.”
She told him the story of Philippe’s visit this morning, his anger and accusation. “I’ve already spoken to Monsieur’s confessor. And I shall broach his majesty’s also. And you, I plead with you, do what you can to see this—this—dreadful infatuation ended. The right word at the right moment from a man such as you …” She let her words trail off.
“I will do whatever I can.” Nicolas allowed some silence to pass, then added ruefully, “You may give me too much credit, however. I sometimes wonder if I’ve inadvertently offended him. I live to serve him. I am not certain he accepts that.”
“He is aware of your loyalty in every way, my dear viscount, as am I. It’s the novelty of ruling by himself. It’s been only three months since—” Anne’s composure cracked, and tears began a slow course down her cheeks, ruining her carefully applied rouge and powder.
“Majesty,” Nicolas said, thinking how swiftly the currents of power move. She who had been the heart of this court no longer was. “If I may,” he held out his hand, and she clasped it.
Anne sobbed rage that Mazarin should be gone, rage that she should be forced to make decisions on her own, rage that her children should misbehave when she needed quiet. “I miss him so,” she finally said to the gilded wainscoting, the woven tapestries, her initials carved in each honeycomb of her ceiling.
“We all do. He was a great man,” said Nicolas. “May I call for your ladies?”
“Send in Motteville. She’s the only one who knows what to do with me anymore.”
