by Karleen Koen
“Did anyone see us?” she asked.
“Only those who passed.”
“Lovely,” she answered.
“You like the danger?”
“Don’t you?”
He laughed. “I believe I do. But then again, perhaps not. Your cousin looks as if he’d like to run someone through these days.”
“Péguilin? Don’t worry about him. You’re my secret.”
“I love secrets. I love collecting them even more. Can you make a copy of his majesty’s love notes to Madame?”
“If I wished to.”
His hand found a breast, pushed back the fabric, pinched it cruelly. “Can I make you wish to?”
She reached up and kissed him, then let her tongue lick all around his lips. Her hands were flying here and there, and the next thing he knew, she was standing, hood over her head, a specter, silent and unknown except to herself. More slowly, he stood, not bothering to arrange his clothing. No one could see under the cloak. “Some day, I’d really like to do this in a bed.”
The specter laughed. “It isn’t half as much fun.”
And then she was gone, melting into the dark of the trees of the gardens, among the other courtiers farther away, who’d given them their distance, the courtesy of court, where lovers must take their chances as they could.
IT WAS LATE. Cinq Mars stood before Queen Anne, wrapped in shawls like a mummy of that ancient land of Egypt. Outside opened windows, he could hear the sound of laughter and talk. The young court played in the gardens like children. The queen mother looked fatigued and haggard, the way he must look.
“I think he should be moved,” Cinq Mars repeated.
“And my answer is always the same. Where might be safe? Right now, he’s hidden in plain sight. I blame you. Don’t allow him out.”
Cinq Mars shivered. This was part of his duty, to take the criticism from her who never saw the boy. It had been the cardinal who carried a mother’s love for the child, always. Cinq Mars had confessed the escape. And he’d just told her of the unexpected visitors, but not that the boy had been seen. He didn’t know why—or he did. The ruthless cruelty of her. He didn’t want to be ordered to kill the girl. “He musn’t be cooped up like—”
“Do as I say. He isn’t to go out anymore.”
He’ll die, he wanted to shout, but he knew she really desired that. He despised her for it.
“Be gone.”
Cinq Mars bowed and went into another chamber. Her lady-in-waiting, her faithful dog, his dear love, as old and tired now as he was, and for what, whispered to him. “Have you need of anything? More coins?”
“He has need of her seeing him. Do his needs count for anything?”
Madame de Motteville pressed her lips together, held out a bag of coins like a supplicant.
“He’s growing,” Cinq Mars said. “We need to move him, sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll come and see him, soon, I promise.”
They looked at each other, their dramas, their passions, their mistakes all there. Now there were simply the embers of duty, not enough sometimes, but all there was. When did we become old? thought Cinq Mars. His love for her flickered and finally caught fire. He felt its light. He put out his hand to her cheek, and she turned her face into his palm and kissed it.
“Will you—” She didn’t finish, but her eyes told him everything. Gently, carefully, as if she would break, he pulled her into him, breathed the fragrance of her hair, graying now, like his. “I must leave before dawn.”
She took him by the hand and led him to her chamber. They undressed, held one another, no passion between them, not for a while. First, they had to become used to one another again. When they finally made love, it was without the unthinking ease of their younger days; but its slowness had a sweetness all its own.
“I’m too fat,” she said, but he kissed her mouth closed, kissed her eyelids. How tender was the touch of a beloved’s skin. How could he have forgotten this? How did he endure without?
Before dawn, he strode down the king’s road, staying under the shadow of the row of trees that outlined one side. He had a horse tied to a tree far down past the landscape canal. To his right, across the road, a stray gondola or two floated aimlessly. He’d had a maid of honor more than once, in that other court, under that other king, the father of this one. He’d thought the queen the most beautiful woman in the world, fiery and Spanish and dark-eyed. Then he’d met Motteville, and she’d taken the whole of his heart. If it had been to seduce him into their scheme, she had been seduced, too, their love ebbing and flowing with their meetings. With what joy he had looked forward to their trysts, joy a fainter glow now but enough there to warm a man’s heart. His chest felt warm. He had run his hands over her plump flesh this night and worshipped her as best he could. His beloved. What a web deceit made, its strands strangling the innocent and the guilty alike.
Chapter 21
ROM A SECOND-FLOOR COLONNADE, OLYMPE WATCHED Madame hurry across paving stones toward the huge, arched opening that would lead her to another part of the palace. Gone to call on her mother. Rumors were flying about why the queen of England had come to Fontainebleau, rumors that made Olympe wild with jealously and malice. The court had stayed out until nearly dawn, but not the queen’s ladies, never the queen’s ladies. Back in the long, ornately decorated gallery that was the queen’s, she stalked like a tiger toward Maria Teresa, who sat quietly embroidering with her ladies; lawn gowns for the dauphin must have their embroidery by the highest ladies in the land.
“Did his majesty come to your bed late, majesty?” Olympe asked.
Maria Teresa looked up from her needle. “Yes.”
“Madame kept everyone out until dawn, I hear,” said Olympe. “She has no thought for anything but her own pleasure.”
There was a stir. Olympe turned. Louis walked toward them without his usual retinue. Had he heard her words? Her face turned a little pale.
“Who thinks only of their own pleasure?” he asked Olympe, no customary smile for her. His face looked drawn.
“I asked who thinks only of their own pleasure,” he repeated, when no one answered.
Maria Teresa held her breath, not certain what to do. She had never seen him angry, wasn’t certain he was angry now, but his expression was stern as he gazed at the Countess de Soissons. She could feel her dwarves gathering at her back, as if to protect her. “You were out very late, my husband,” she said. Did he think she never noticed?
“I was. But no one bears responsibility for that save me. I dislike the bearers of gossip,” he looked around, holding the eyes in turn of each woman in the chamber. “The innocent are always the most hurt.”
No fools as to what he meant, the ladies around the queen quickly lowered those eyes, even Olympe.
“Come, dear heart,” he said to Maria Teresa, presenting his hand to her, giving her his best smile, “walk with me up and down the gallery and tell me how my dauphin treats you this morning.”
Maria Teresa dropped her embroidery. Louis paused long enough to give Olympe a significant look, his face hard, his eyes showing a warning that no one could mistake, and then he led his wife away. Her ladies watched them smiling and talking to one another as they moved down the long, long length of the gallery. They were like the best of friends, Maria Teresa chattering away in Spanish, and Louis listening with grave courtesy. In the morning light coming through the tall, opened windows, he looked like a prince out of a folk tale.
The women felt a little afraid of him, and somehow that increased their desire. He had not shown them sternness before. They were aware in a way they had taken for granted before this morning that he was king of them all and that he could banish them from court with a simple command. That he would. As easily as that he’d established their place and his. They were to say nothing to the queen of any rumors about him and another woman. Even Olympe understood.
HENRIETTE HURRIED TO the set of buildings where her mother was lodged. She’d ma
naged to keep the court up nearly all night. They’d walked on the rampart above the ballroom, where there was a cupola and two very small, open, temple-like structures that could have graced a Roman city once upon a time. Last night was the first time she’d seen her mother since her wedding. I can’t command your love to continue, Louis had written in a note this morning, and I cannot command mine to disappear.
Her mother sat now surrounded by her ladies, the old faithfuls who had kept her company in all the dreadful years and who were now rewarded. Her mother’s gown was new, as were her jewels—the others having been sold years earlier for her father’s sake. There were young girls who were maids of honor to her mother, part of the largesse of having a king with a country again as a son. But her mother’s face was as bitter, as discontent as ever.
She can’t stay here in England, her brother had told Henriette last year. She’ll drive me mad. Of course, their mother disapproved of Charles’s liaison with the wild Barbara Palmer, who did exactly as she pleased and seemed none the worse for it. But then Barbara Palmer wasn’t a princess, bound by duty and birth. They’ll break you, the duchess’s words echoed in her mind. Her mother’s dogs ran to her, and she knelt to pet them, dear things, old friends.
“You’re late,” her mother said.
“Do forgive me, Mama, I overslept.”
Henriette continued to play with the dogs, as if she didn’t notice that the space around her and her mother was emptying of ladies. Avoiding what was coming next, she cooed and talked to the dogs, but her mother indicated that she was to follow her, and they went into a small chamber off the gallery.
“I’ll come to the point,” said her mother. “Your husband has gone to his mother to complain of your behavior. You haven’t been married four months and yet you flirt disgracefully. What are you and his majesty thinking of?”
“We’re not thinking of anything. There’s nothing between us, Mother, but admiration and friendship. I make him laugh.”
“You make him sigh. Do you think I’m blind? I watched last night. He couldn’t take his eyes from you.”
It was difficult for Henriette not to smile. “Really, I didn’t notice.”
“Minette, listen to me. You are young and don’t know the snares of the world. You are playing with fire.”
“I am carrying Monsieur’s child, Mother. Do you really think I would do something unworthy?”
Queen Henrietta’s expression changed entirely. She kissed her daughter. “My darling! My dear one! Already? It’s quite, quite wonderful!”
“Yes, I think so too, though it’s too early to share the news with the court.”
“Well, you must certainly end these late nights. The swimming in the river must stop, too.”
Another bar in the cage they wished to build for her loomed. “Not yet.”
“Oh, you must be careful. If you lost it, you might be blamed like Queen Anne.” Her mother leaned forward, savoring old gossip, the opportunity to tell it. “She lost at least two little ones sliding in the halls of the Louvre like a hoyden with the Duchess de Chevreuse.”
“When was this?”
“A very long time ago, long before his majesty and your Monsieur were born, and so you must be careful with yourself. My brother was furious with her, didn’t forgive her. So, it’s good I’ve come for a visit. We’ll begin work this night on a christening gown for your child.”
“I’m going to dance tonight, Mother, and the night afterward, and the night after that.”
“Minette!”
“I don’t want to be wrapped in cotton wool like a delicate vase.”
“Have you made love to him?”
“Of course I’ve made love to my husband. How else—” She stopped, realizing what her mother had implied. Her face went red. “How dare you ask such a thing of me?”
“You need to do as I say. You need to stay quietly in your chambers—”
“Like the queen? Why do you think his majesty enjoys my company?”
“You don’t need the approval of his majesty—”
“Are you quite mad? We all need his approval.”
“Henriette, Queen Anne sent a special messenger to me she was so concerned. If you aren’t in love with him, then what does it matter whether you spend time in his company? You are one of the presences of this court, and you must set an example—”
“As she did, with her lover the cardinal?”
“It isn’t your place to judge others—”
“Others judge me! I’m pregnant and that should please you and her. There will be an heir. Isn’t that my most important duty? To provide an heir! Well, I’ve done it! Now leave me alone before I miscarry from your quarreling!” She could hear her voice becoming higher, could feel hysteria rising.
“My darling, I simply don’t want there to be any kind of gossip about you. It does such harm, Minette. People like to believe the worst.”
“Too bad for them.” She walked to the door.
“Stop, Minette. You must listen. Go to Saint-Cloud for the rest of the summer. That will end the talk.” Saint-Cloud was her husband’s beautiful estate on the outskirts of Paris.
Henriette walked out into the gallery. Her mother’s ladies, their needles paused, had their eyes on her. Defiant, she walked by. Louis must understand. She would go mad if she were going to be the focus of all eyes all the time. She wanted to love him, she did love him, but this was awful. You’ll break, said the duchess in one of their wonderful discussions. She was right. The scandal of their love fell on her shoulders, rather than his. It wasn’t fair.
Her mother didn’t bother to follow, went instead to a window to look out at the spreading gardens of this ornate palace. She had begged Anne to match Henriette and Louis, but Anne and her cardinal wouldn’t deign to consider it. Charles wasn’t on his throne yet. Henriette was the nobody princess. And Anne must have a Spaniard. Anyone with one eye in his head could have seen that Louis would be stimulated by his very French cousin. Ha. She laughed to herself.
All last night she’d been thinking, what’s happened to the court? There was something lighthearted about it, a spirit of adventure and secret excitement that had not been there even after his majesty’s marriage. And now she realized: it was her daughter. Her daughter brought an atmosphere of fun, which Louis’s marriage to the infanta had not achieved. The new queen had instituted nothing original, been content to leave things as they were. Dutiful. Too dutiful. She remembered the stir she herself had caused at the English court in the other life she’d once possessed. She’d turned everything topsy-turvy, and even while quarreling with her, her husband had fallen in love. Yes, Henriette inherited her charm. Anne was dreary, out of touch, behind the times, the queen she’d chosen for Louis little better. The times were being redefined by her daughter. Like mother, like daughter. If she hadn’t been so angry at Henriette’s foolishness, so worried for her mortal soul, she’d have congratulated her. The apple, indeed, did not fall far from the tree.
LATE THAT EVENING the court walked again along the ramparts of the ballroom roof. Musicians were stationed in the gatehouse gallery, and the soaring swell of violins spilled out over the courtyard and moat, over the chimneys and blue roof tiles, into hearts, the music piercing and sweet. Nicolas leaned against a balustrade of the roof, enjoying the high spirits and élan all around him. This was how life should be lived. Beautiful music. Interesting, cultivated people. A grand palace as backdrop. In a secret compartment in his chambers there was a note from Queen Anne’s confessor. Madame and her mother had had a serious discussion this afternoon. There was also a note from Queen Anne, telling him again how much she depended upon him to talk sense into his majesty, asking him to call upon her the next day. And he’d finally finished buying the command of the Mediterranean galleys for a friend’s son-in-law. The son-in-law was commander in name only. The galleys were Nicolas’s. The seas were his. Someone had said whoever is master of the seas has great power on land. He now owned the commanders of the A
tlantic and Mediterranean fleets. He didn’t know why he had to, but he did. It was another triumph, another safeguard, just in case. All was ready for a tête-à-tête later with Catherine. In his chambers, wine cooled, sheets were turned back. He’d show her what delight could be had in a bed.
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, Louise and Fanny sat with their backs against the steep stone steps of an outside staircase. Fanny was crying. Her clever, never-at-a-loss-for-words Fanny. Too much wine. She’d had a little too much herself. All she could think about was the musketeer’s threat and the urge within her to tell someone what she’d seen. But who? Everything seemed more frantic since Madame’s return, gaiety forced, stretched, contrived, Madame the same way.
A shout rose up from the courtyard. Courtiers were walking along the balustrade of the suspended garden, seeing who could keep his balance. Fanny stopped crying long enough to ask, “What is it?”
Louise stood up carefully. “I think the Count de Guiche just fell in the pond.” She laughed, but Fanny began to cry harder than ever.
“What is it?” asked Louise. “Are you so in love with him?”
“Of course I am!” Fanny was fierce, as if there could be no other way to be in love.
“You didn’t—you haven’t—”
“I did and I have and I’m glad. The world’s different after you’ve done it, Louise.”
Sweet Mary, thought Louise, digesting the fact that Fanny was no longer a virgin. A year ago, watching an Orléans princess sully her reputation, they’d made a vow to stay pure no matter what temptation brought them.
“He’s cruel,” said Fanny. “Do you know what he makes me do? Deliver love letters that he writes after we’re finished. While I’m still lying on his bed. Love letters for Madame. And he makes me do other things, too.”
Love letters from the count? But Madame loved the king, thought Louise. She felt deeply shocked. “Tell him no.”
