by Karleen Koen
Soon the courtyard was filled with people, as many of them surrounding the viscount as surrounding him.
“A present for his majesty, a token of my regard,” the viscount said over and over when asked about the coach. Louis had ordered musketeers stationed at the two gatehouses that fed into this courtyard, and musketeers stood on either side of the carriage.
His mother came downstairs to mingle before her departure. He watched Nicolas take her a goblet of wine and present it on bended knee, watched her drain it as if it were ale and thank him. Will her friendship with him, her fear, win over her love for me? he wondered. It was possible. In statecraft, love was often trampled.
“Are you going on a journey?” Nicolas asked Anne.
“To visit my old friend again. As we age, we have such need of friends.”
“I am always your friend.”
If she answered, Louis didn’t hear it.
“Monsieur, can you move everyone to the fountain courtyard?” Louis asked, and in no time, Philippe and his gentlemen had laughing courtiers and ministers following them through an arched entryway as if they were the pied pipers of the folk tale.
Silently, he walked his mother to her waiting carriage, which was just outside the golden gate. Madame de Motteville stood at the door, awaiting her queen. Once inside, Anne put a gloved hand on the ledge of one of the carriage’s openings. Louis put his hand atop hers. “I have need of your loyalty,” he said.
The sun was in his eyes; he couldn’t read her face, but he thought he heard her say, “You’ve always had it,” before the carriage lurched away.
LATER, HE RAN upstairs to his chambers, thinking as his footsteps echoed on the stone of the staircases that he ought to have his entire army dress the way his musketeers did, the way the viscount’s guard did, the same uniform for all, so that on a battlefield, one knew a Frenchman from a Spaniard or an Englishman. It was what the Roman legions had done, but somewhere in the following centuries, the practice had been lost.
As he passed through his antechamber, he saw a woman sitting with Belle and realized the woman was Miss de la Baume le Blanc. Joy blazed in him, for she had been avoiding him. “What a wonderful surprise!”
“I—we come to visit sometimes. I assumed you were—”
“In council? Does my presence distress you?”
Appearing from wherever he hid himself, La Porte suddenly joined them. “You know Miss de la Baume le Blanc, sir. Madame Belle likes it when Miss de la Baume le Blanc visits.”
Yes, Louis could imagine laying his own head in Louise’s lap and having her fingers stroke his forehead, and his eyes met Louise’s. Love me, he told her silently.
“She’s leaving us, your majesty.”
La Porte grimaced at Louise’s words, and she saw it and began that blush of hers. “I’m—I’m so sorry, your majesty. I shouldn’t have spoken,” she stammered.
Louis crouched down so that he was on their level. Louise’s blush was growing. Belle made a soft whine, and he put his hand out, and she licked it. She was going to die, wasn’t she? His physicians wouldn’t say so, but it was true. A king wasn’t allowed to stay in the presence of dying, but this was one death he had every intention of witnessing. How would he bear it when the most loyal being he knew no longer existed? He’d bear it like he bore everything else, wouldn’t he, hiding its true depth from the world because there was no one who would not take advantage, except this lovely, blushing young woman who had come to visit his sick dog more than once and never bragged of it, never told others so that her kindness would be noticed, and now told him a truth few dared. She avoided him, but not dying Belle. It had been a long while since he’d been around someone innately kind. Kindness had, in fact, left his life with the cardinal’s death. He stood up, walked into his bedchamber, La Porte following.
“I won’t allow her to visit again, sire,” La Porte said to him.
“No, it’s all right. It touches me that she sees after my dog, and someone has to tell me the truth.” And I have to be man enough to bear it.
THAT EVENING, HE danced with Henriette, who was sparkling, really, full of the coming ballet she was hostessing for the court. She was arch and flirting, her fingers playing a sensuous little tapping against his wrist when they stood a moment together after the dance was ended, but for him, it was over. Now he must face the task of telling Henriette. He had loved her to madness, and now, he didn’t. He understood none of it. He lifted her hand upward and made the motion of kissing it to stop her touching him.
“You must behave yourself,” she said. “You’re making my maid of honor sigh too much. Look at her.” And she pointed in Louise’s direction. “She’s drooping, as am I.” She met his eyes directly, no smile now upon her face.
“Who else shall I flirt with, my very dear sister? Your wish is my command.”
“I can still command? I thought my power over you less.”
He didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.
Henriette watched as he crossed the ballroom. I’m losing him, she thought. She felt like weeping, but one didn’t weep in public. How delighted the queen mother must be. She must swallow tears for hours yet, and so she sashayed over to Guy and demanded that he dance with her. She knew she shouldn’t encourage him, but what was in Guy’s eyes was flattering. What was in Louis’s these days was painful.
Louis went to Fanny, who rose up so abruptly that the chair she was sitting in fell over. He escorted her to one of the arches in the ballroom. “During supper I wish to speak with Miss de la Baume le Blanc. Will you escort her to the bench we met at last week?”
“Oh, yes, of course, whatever you ask—” Fanny babbled, still talking, even after he’d bowed and walked away. Holy Mother of God, thought Fanny, was he in love with Louise? A glimpse of the riches and regard that lay ahead showed itself in Fanny’s mind. The world was about to be placed at Louise’s feet.
Louis danced with others before, finally, he allowed himself to ask Louise to dance. She was very pale and didn’t meet his eyes once. It was all he could do not to drag her out onto the balcony and kiss her until she begged him to stop. He felt so protective of her, of her nervousness, that he scowled, even though he knew he had caused her distress, and courtiers, watching, all felt sorry for Miss de la Baume le Blanc, who clearly had few social graces. As the dance ended, and the final notes of the violins spilled over the musicians’ gallery, he and she faced each other in the final position of the dance.
“I must speak with you later,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she answered.
Crushed, for a moment he couldn’t think. “It isn’t a request,” he said.
What happened next was a blur. He knew he was walking about the chamber, dancing with other women, with his wife again. He knew he was talking with this person and that, greeting the viscount and his wife, who was in from Paris. Everyone knew that the viscount had brought the king money that afternoon. He was like a blazing sun. All eyes followed him. Everyone wanted at least a word with him.
“The oddest thing, your majesty,” said Nicolas, “there’s a mysterious tale circulating through Paris that your Grays took monks to the Bastille.”
Gone was dismay about Louise. Louis was instantly alert. Was the viscount on the scent already?
“That monastery near Vaux-le-Vicomte burned down. Surely you didn’t have the monks there arrested for accidentally destroying good wine?” Nicolas continued. People standing with them laughed.
“One of them came to the palace begging aid, and I sent my men to put out the fire, but they were too late. The Grays were in Paris to take the unfortunate boys to convents. The monks are on their way, at my expense, to Rome.”
“Bravo, your majesty,” cried Nicolas’s wife. “How generous of you. I’ll be the first to give something toward the reestablishment of their monastery.”
“I knew there was a good explanation,” said Nicolas.
“You must allow me the honor of dancing with your cha
rming wife,” Louis said. He heard himself make polite conversation with the viscountess, who wanted to talk all about the monks and must compliment him again and again on his kindness to them. He returned her to Nicolas, standing now with Catherine, who wore bold, scarlet feathers in her hair.
“My dear,” said Nicolas to his wife, “I believe you know the Princess de Monaco.”
Louis went to his friends, Vivonne and Péguilin and Vardes. “Make certain the viscountess has partners for every dance until the dancing ends,” he told them. “See that she has an escort for supper.”
Later, as people crowded toward a table where food was piled in high pyramids and the amount of silver serving pieces was dazzling, one of Nicolas’s most reliant spies bustled forward, a certain Madame du Plessis-Bellièvre, plump and gray, her manner so innocuous, so kindly, that people were always telling her things they shouldn’t. She sat down by Nicolas. “His lieutenant of the musketeers hasn’t been seen.”
“Where is he?”
“No one knows. There was some kind of special mission, just a few days ago. The whole company left the palace in the evening and didn’t return until the following day. Our loyal lieutenant never returned at all.”
Monks and musketeers yet again, thought Nicolas. Now why would Lieutenant d’Artagnan not return from the fire? She left him, and here now was Catherine, those crimson head feathers furling against one silky cheek.
“And who was that?” she asked.
“Someone from my home province, an old friend. Surely you’ve met her. Her son-in-law is his majesty’s commander in the Mediterranean.”
“Your wife is charming,” Catherine said, glancing back toward the dancing, where Nicolas’s wife moved and swayed, jewels as glittering as the crystal drops of two chandeliers.
“She will be gratified to hear so.”
“There’s dismay in paradise. Madame cried half the day yesterday, and she hasn’t been alone with him for days. You men really are too cruel to us poor creatures who adore you so.”
“I hear Lieutenant d’Artagnan is missing from action.”
“Visiting his wife in Paris, no doubt.”
“No doubt. But if you should hear otherwise, you will let me know?”
He watched Madame, surrounded by admirers, his majesty among them. Had their affair died already? Words from a song he’d heard the king sing only a few days earlier came into his head. His majesty had played the guitar and sung the words in a low, sweet tenor. No one watching could conceive the young king capable of guile. Perfidiousness underlay the heights he and the king operated from. Could it be that his majesty already understood that? Meet me by moonlight alone, he’d sung in his tender voice, I would show to the night flowers their queen, nay, turn not aside that sweet head—’tis the fairest that ever was seen, then meet me by moonlight alone.
FINALLY, IT WAS time for supper, and courtiers crowded around the tables set in chambers down the hall from the ballroom. Food spilled over silver trays, pigeon and braised quail, turkey served with partridges, ham, tarts, truffles. Louis saw that Maria Teresa, her plate full to brimming, was talking to someone with her mouth half-full as she fed her dwarves, as usual, with her own fingers, dropping food into their open mouths as if they were dogs.
He shut his eyes to the sight and half-ran down servants’ steps into his gatehouse, his special entrance to his courtyard, stepping out the door cut into the wooden gates, and there Louise was, sitting on a bench with Fanny, who immediately flitted somewhere out of sight. Louise stood up at the sight of him.
“See that we’re not disturbed,” he told his musketeer.
He felt uncertain. Did she find him distasteful? Boorish? Wasn’t that what Madame called Guy? A boor? He searched for something to say. His mind was empty. Boldness deserted him. Cure me, he thought, as you do my animals. Be my darling, my beloved. Take my heart in your tender hands and cherish it. Heal it.
She peered at him, not smiling. Her face was mainly shadow, but there was enough light from a nearby torch to see some expression. My flirting hurts her, he thought. And then words just fell from his mouth. “Tell me how to talk to you. I so want to talk to you, and it seems that all I do is make mistakes.”
“Why would you want to talk to me?”
“I love you.”
“Don’t say that!” Before she could run, he grabbed her by the wrist. “I’m not pretty enough! I’m not clever enough! You’ll tire of me in a fortnight, and it will break my heart!” she said.
“Why will it break your heart?” He didn’t let go. His eyes didn’t leave her face, the shadows and light playing over it. “Do you—could you care for me?”
Her expression became disbelieving, almost disdainful. She has feelings for me, he thought. “Sit down.” He was urgent, at his most coaxing. “Hear me. Trust me, please. I would never hurt you, never.”
Louise sat down, on the very edge of the bench, and he let go of her wrist.
“What do you want?”
Her voice sounded despairing. How serious her expression was. No flirtation, not the least flutter. No guile, as Choisy had warned. To love you, to worship you, to adore you, to take care of you. The words were there on his lips, but he couldn’t say them. The truth was if he truly wished to protect her, he wouldn’t ask her to be his mistress. There was pride, precedent, history, in being the king’s mistress. It was a position of power, but she was too gentle. The sudden conflict between desire and chivalry silenced him. He didn’t want to hurt her, but, oh Merciful God in heaven, he wanted her, so he sat silent, knowing he should be saying loving words; he knew the lines of a hundred ballads, poems, he could recite to her, but at this moment, not a one came to mind.
He heard the rustle of her gown as she made a movement, felt her hand touch his, gently, delicately, a thing of beauty, that simple touch, and again, such a turmoil of feeling was in him that he could not speak. Her kind gesture moved him. All his life he had used silence to escape, to buy time, and later, after he had learned how his lack of words affected people, to intimidate when often it was he himself who was intimidated. But there was no motive to his lack of words now. His quiet came from an impulse to love so immeasurable he couldn’t express it. He was nothing at this moment but a young man in the presence of someone he was growing to adore, and behind the adoration was the amazed certainty that he could lay his beating, desirous, tumultuous human heart in her hands, and she would not drop it. His throat hurt from all that he wasn’t saying, but her silence was easy to bear, unquestioning. No performance was required from him. He shut his eyes to that gift. Had there ever been a moment in his life when he had not had to perform?
“I can’t love lightly.”
She whispered the words. She’s warning me, he thought. Protectiveness rose, the lion in him coming to attention. All his instincts were to shelter, to aid, to spread his cloak before her so that her shoes should never touch dirt. He would keep the world at bay. She was not a brittle court creature, able to survive the envy and hatred, to thrive on it, as others did—not Henriette, of course. Here his thoughts stumbled, fell over themselves like buffoons in a play. He would deal with Henriette later. He brought Louise’s hand to his lips. The moment his lips touched her, desire took him. He saw himself biting the flesh his lips touched, turning her palm over and licking it, but he stopped himself. “Will you at least consider my regard? I know that to return it means much sacrifice for you, but I swear I would guard you from any harm. My love for you is not light, not facile.”
He thought she nodded her head, before she rose and walked away, her tread light upon the gravel of the road to the stables. He remained where he was. If he should be so fortunate as to win her love, there must be a way love might be consummated without hurt to her. As it was, she was now under his protection. Should she reject him—anger rose here, fiery, a panther’s night scream—should she reject him, he would see that anything she desired was hers, that she had a position at court beyond maid of honor, that offices and s
alaries of some kind were hers, that her husband—Merciful God, the thought of that word made his jaw clench—was a good man, worthy of her.
Worthy of her.
Pray God he could be that himself.
THE CARRIAGES HAD been rolled out of the stables and lurched now to the landscape canal for a night’s drive. The queen mother hadn’t managed to squelch the nightly trysts. Henriette sat in hers with only Catherine across from her. She sat near the window opening, waiting.
And then there Louis was, his horse seeming to dance up beside the carriage. In another moment, he’d dismounted and was inside, his horse trotting obediently alongside.
“I’ve missed you so.” Henriette grabbed his hands. “It’s wrong of me, but I hate that which takes you away, your kingdom, your duties. There, I’ve said it. Punish me with twenty kisses.”
“I’m wrong to love you.”
Frozen, Henriette didn’t reply.
He rushed on. “It’s weighing on my conscience and oppressing me. You are my sister in the eyes of the church. My confessor tells me so, all the holy men I consult. You are my brother’s wife, and I must love you as a sister.”
“You don’t love me anymore?”
Louis took her hands and kissed them front and back. “I am in agony over this, over the hurt I’ve brought. I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me, but I do beg forgiveness most humbly. I am king of France, and so I must set an example to my people, to my court. There is no one like you. You’re the brightest ornament here. I adore you. I always will, but I may love you only as a sister. Forgive me!”
And somehow he opened the carriage door and bounded out of it, was atop his horse and had galloped away before she could speak. Catherine and Henriette listened to the fading sound of his horse’s hooves on the gravel.
“The queen mother,” Catherine said. “This is her work.”
Henriette crumpled into a little heap, and Catherine moved across the space between them so that Henriette’s head could lie in her lap.
