Mistress of the Sun

by Sandra Gulland

  Petite nodded, amused by her mother’s use of the word riggish in this context. Sheep were said to be riggish when they broke through fences.

  “The appearance of sin is as damaging as the sin itself. You must never allow yourself to be seen alone with a man. This would reduce your value in the marriage market.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Petite said, dissembling her impatience. She was eager to go out into the great world (eager to be free of lectures).

  “If a man ever tries to press his way with you—to kiss you, for example—you must turn away with all your strength and give him a slap. That is the proper response of a virtuous woman.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “You will be seventeen this summer, and you must marry as soon as possible. After eighteen—” Françoise threw up her hands. “Do at least try to be pleasing. Don’t let men know that you can read. Eat as much as you can bear: you are far too thin. Refrain from riding, but if you must, ride like a lady on a quiet palfrey. You will not have much money to spare, but whatever coins you can manage to put aside for a dowry will help. The Marquis and I are saving as well, as is your brother.”

  “Thank you,” Petite said with a confusion of sentiment. Separation was truly at hand. The thought filled her with both apprehension and joy.

  Clorine appeared at the door, her hair uncharacteristically done up in ringlets. “The royal coach is here for you,” she announced. She had applied something red to her lips, and it had stained her tongue. She looked ghoulish when she smiled.

  Both Petite and her mother stood up. “I won’t go down,” Françoise said, reaching into her skirts and withdrawing a string of beads. She thrust them into Petite’s hand.

  The wooden beads were worn. “Father’s rosary?” Touched by Saint Teresa of Avila.

  “May God go with you, little one,” Françoise said with unexpected tenderness.

  “And with you, Mother,” Petite replied, her eyes stinging.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIÈRE?” A footman in mismatched livery opened the door of an ancient berlin studded with gilt nails. Petite put her gloved hand lightly on his and climbed in. Her new left boot, with the raised sole, was hard to get used to, and she felt strange in her new gown—one of Marguerite’s castoffs of heavy yellow brocade.

  An elegant young woman had taken the best seat, the middle one facing forward. “Good morning,” she said. Her blue eyes were startling, reflecting her iridescent cape, an elegant confection lushly trimmed with point-de-Venice lace. “Why—you could be my sister,” she said with a smile. Her accent was southwestern, but cultivated.

  Petite bowed her head, perplexed. They were both fair, true, with blonde curls and blue eyes, but there the resemblance ended. Although only a few years older than she was—nineteen or perhaps even twenty, Petite guessed—this young woman had a worldly air.

  “How do you do?” Petite said uncertainly.

  “I am the Marquise de Rochechouart,” the young woman said, snapping open a painted fan. Her laced gloves were embroidered at the wrist with gold thread. “But I prefer to be called Athénaïs.”

  The carriage jolted forward. Petite glanced back. She thought she saw the figure of her mother in the window.

  “After the Goddess of Virginity,” Athénaïs said, toying with a pearl-encrusted cross that hung from a pendant attached to her bodice.

  Her companion’s skin was delicate, alabaster pale. Petite felt like a rustic by comparison. “Mademoiselle Louise de la Vallière,” she introduced herself in turn, stuttering over her own name. “But people call me Petite,” she said, foolishly adding, “although I’m not.” Perhaps now she would go by her Christian name. Perhaps now she would be Louise.

  “Well, I’m not exactly a goddess either.” Athénaïs laughed, a musical sound. “You have a position at Court?”

  “I’m going to be one of Madame’s maids of honor.” Petite found it hard to believe, even now.

  “Ah, Henriette,” Athénaïs said, raising her arched brows. “You will find her amusing, at least.”

  “Are you with Madame, as well?” It would be comforting to know someone.

  “Alas, no, I serve the Queen. I’ve been with her household for almost six months.”

  “Then you must often see him,” Petite said, flushing like a convent schoolgirl. “The King, that is.” She took a deep breath and sat up straight, clasping her gloved hands in her lap.

  “Our enchanter?” Athénaïs’s teeth were small, straight and pearly white.

  Enchanter? Yes.

  “Certainly—although I dare say you’ll likely see more of him than I do, for he’s more often in Madame Henriette’s chambers than in those of his wife.”

  Petite was uncertain what Athénaïs meant, but assumed that it could not be what was implied.

  THE COACH STOPPED to pick up two other young women—newcomers to the Court like Petite—before heading south out of the city. Petite was happy to sit by the window, in spite of the grime. She was intrigued by all that she saw: the pilgrims on foot, the pack-mules laden with sacks and sticks, the barefoot man leading a donkey, an old woman in a horse litter. Once she noticed four covered wagons, and she looked to see if it might be the Romany troupe of her childhood (it wasn’t, of course).

  The coach darkened as they entered a deep green shade. Labyrinths of broad alleys wound through groves of majestic oak, beech and poplar.

  The driver yelled out to the footmen to take up their swords.

  “Perhaps we’ll have some excitement,” Athénaïs said lightheartedly, but clasping her cross. The forest and rock cuts surrounding Fontaine Beleau were a known haven for bandits.

  One of the girls took out a rosary and began to pray, but at the first decade there was such a stink that she was forced to stop and hold her nose. Hanging from the limbs of an oak were the bodies of three men.

  “Finally,” Athénaïs said, coughing. “The King has been after those rogues for months.”

  Petite closed her eyes until they were well past.

  Gradually, the road leveled. They entered a silent village through a long avenue of trees, pulling finally—and safely—through an ivy-covered arcade into the outer courtyard of the ancient hunting château.

  Petite took in the vast quadrangle punctuated by high-roofed pavilions, the long facades with many windows. The want of uniformity, the weeds coming up through the cobblestones, the ornate if crumbling grandeur gave her an impression of melancholy, of wanton neglect. An evil Médicis queen had lived in this palace as well, Petite knew, and here, only four years before, Queen Christina of Sweden had commanded one of her footmen—her amoroso, according to Nicole—stabbed to death. It was said his ghost was here, as well as that of Diane de Poitiers and Mary, Queen of Scots. The château’s history was long, tragic and very romantic.

  From somewhere came the sound of a violin and a woman singing an aria. “Welcome to Paradise, fair maidens,” Athénaïs said as the coach lurched to a stop. “And may maidens you remain,” she added with a wry smile, adjusting her hood.

  “Where does the King sleep?” the plump girl sitting next to Petite asked, then giggled.

  “You can’t see His Majesty’s bedchamber from here,” Athénaïs said. “It faces east, onto the gardens, but his cabinet is over there.” She pointed through the inner courtyard grillwork to a bank of windows.

  Awed, they craned their heads to look.

  A horse caparisoned in blue and gold came cantering through the gates, stopped smartly beside their carriage and reared. The boy riding the black courser waved a feathered hat.

  “Lauzun,” Athénaïs called out, “stop showing off. We’re not impressed.” But her smile told another story.

  The rider vaulted off the horse, throwing the reins to a page who came sprinting across the cobblestones.

  “He’s a good rider,” Petite said, “for a boy.”

  “He’s not a boy, I assure you,” Athénaïs said.

  A masked wom
an with gray hair and a nose cloth in her hand appeared at the top of the staircase. She looked in their direction.

  “It’s the Duchesse de Navailles—superintendent of the novices—come to meet you.” Athénaïs gathered up her cashmere shawl as a footman opened the coach door. “Madame Jailer, we call her,” she said in a low voice, for Petite’s benefit. “I will see you tonight?” She planted a breathy kiss on Petite’s cheek before climbing down.

  “Oh, yes,” Petite said with warmth, both proud and pleased to have made such an acquaintance.

  “WELCOME,” THE DUCHESSE de Navailles said, removing her black velvet mask. “I am your supervisor.” She looked over the three newcomers standing before her in the courtyard: a short, plump girl with acne, a thin one with wispy golden curls, a stout brunette. How long would they last at Court? How long before a protective parent recalled them in a panic? How long before one of them was required to “disappear” mysteriously for six months?

  At thirty-five, the Duchesse de Navailles had already gone gray, in large part due to the magnitude of her responsibility. As superintendent of the maid-attendants, her job was to protect the chastity of thirty-two young women: eleven serving the Queen Mother, twelve serving the Queen, and nine serving Henriette, the King’s brother’s new wife. It was not an easy task. Most of the girls had only recently been released from the protective custody of a home or convent school, and the warm breezes mingled with the exotic perfumes of the handsome and ever-so-charming courtiers were intoxicating indeed.

  It didn’t help that Madame Henriette was only sixteen herself, a madcap young woman with flaming hair and an unpredictable imagination. It was already known throughout Court that her husband was jealous, not so much because his flirtatious wife smiled brightly upon lusty young men, but because the lusty young men preferred his wife to him.

  Nor did it help that the King was of an extraordinary virile beauty and restless, it appeared. Not even a year had passed since he married, and already His Majesty showed signs of being weary of his devout Spanish wife.

  Not that he could be faulted, the Duchesse de Navailles thought disloyally. The Queen was, after all, newly with child, and required to abstain from the royal biweekly coupling—but it wasn’t just that. If only the Queen would learn a few words of French. If only she didn’t consume quite so much garlic and spend all her time at devotions. If only she weren’t so dumpy, and—yes, the Duchesse de Navailles had to admit—somewhat dim.

  Ah well, such was the way with royal marriages. Soon, no doubt, the King would crown some seductive beauty with his favor and all would be well—so long as that beauty wasn’t one of her girls…or, for that matter, his brother’s wife.

  “Follow me.” The Duchesse de Navailles led her newest charges through an entrance to the right of the inner gate and up a spiral staircase to a vaulted gallery with rows of trestle tables and benches set at one end. The flagstone floor was sticky, flies hovered and the air smelled strongly of mutton and onion.

  A lackey came running with a chair. The Duchess sat and addressed the girls, fanning herself. “This is the common room, where you will take your meals and, more importantly, where you will receive instruction—which will be continuous so long as you remain at Court.” She fixed them with a glare. It took time to teach girls how make their toilette, how the fan should be carried when walking, and how to curtsy and bow. With the precision of a military drill, she would require them to practice the basics—the passing incline, the cold bow, the slight bow, the acknowledging bow, the bobbing curtsy, the full curtsy, as well as the ceremonious kneeling and groveling bows. Devotion and obedience must be evident even in their fingertips!

  “Your rooms are above. You will rise at daybreak,” she intoned as the servants trailed in, hefting the trunks. She raised her voice. “On waking, your maid will say ‘Jesus,’ and you will respond ‘Deo gratias.’ You will get out of bed without lingering, fall to your knees and say a prayer.”

  The girls nodded.

  “You will be required to wear a fresh shift every day.” She would address the details of personal cleanliness later in the week. Immersion was not healthy, but that didn’t mean that certain parts of the body could not be washed—with the exception of the face, of course, which developed wrinkles, it had been proved.

  The Duchess patted her neck with her prized cambric nose cloth and examined it for signs of grime. She feared that they were in for a hot summer. How would she ever be able to enforce the rule that the girls keep their shutters locked? “An open window at night will be counted as a full transgression. Three transgressions and you will be required to leave Court.”

  The girls murmured.

  Good: they were paying attention. “Your rooms must be kept tidy and free of fleas. Alder leaves will be provided to scatter on the floor. A candle set into a trencher of bread covered with bird lime will work overnight if the leaves prove insufficient.”

  She would spare them the rat lecture. That would come later. “Warm chocolate and rolls are available here each morning at six. The day’s schedule will be posted on the door.” She held out a sample so that they could see. “One thing is invariable: you must attend Mass every morning at ten of the clock along with the King.”

  “Cock-a-hoop!” The brunette slapped her hands over her mouth, mortified by her outburst.

  The Duchess sighed. The girl would not last one month; she should begin looking for a replacement immediately. “Your trunks have been taken to your rooms, where you may freshen. You will find necessaries at each end of the passages and in the courtyards. Meet me back here at six of the clock to be shown to your respective courts. There is an outdoor entertainment tonight, so be sure to bring a wrap.”

  A PAGE SHOWED Petite to an east-facing attic room, where Clorine was already busy checking the lock and key to make sure that they worked.

  “Do you know who that was you were sitting across from in the coach?” Clorine asked, yanking on a leather strap and pulling the trunk lid open. The ceiling was so low she had to stoop.

  “Mademoiselle la Marquise de something-or-other,” Petite said, staring at the ceiling. There was a spiderweb in one corner. The room was conveniently close to a necessary, but consequently somewhat smelly. “She calls herself Athénaïs.” Petite smiled. Athénaïs had called her sister. “After the goddess,” she explained.

  “The Marquise de Rochechouart, by chance?”

  “That’s it,” Petite said, feeling the blankets, bolster and pillow to see if they were dry. She checked under the bed for creatures.

  “Did she happen to mention that she’s a Mortemart—from Poitou?”

  “Really?” Petite stood up, astonished. Her father had talked of the Mortemarts. The family was of old nobility and had held important positions at Court for generations. Whenever a Mortemart had come through Amboise, her father had had to put on a royal welcome.

  “That’s as highborn as you get,” Clorine said, shaking out a dark blue brocade skirt, one of the ones Princess Marguerite had passed on. “Higher even than the King, some say.”

  “No wonder she’s so pretty,” Petite said. Her little window over-looked a moat edged with dirty suds. Beyond, she could glimpse parterres, overgrown gardens and a mossy grotto. A group of stable boys was sitting in the shade of a grove of trees, one holding the reins of a mouse-colored pacer with a bushy mane. Petite wondered where the stables were—not far, to judge by the smell. She wondered if Athénaïs liked to ride.

  AT SIX OF THE CLOCK Petite and the two other new maids waited in the common room as instructed. The Duchesse de Navailles entered, attended by a footman and two pageboys—one carrying her train, and the other fanning her with ostrich plumes.

  “Ready, girls?” she said after a quick demonstration on how to melt into a reverence with dutiful subservience. She instructed the footman to show the plump girl to the Queen’s apartment and the brunette to the Queen Mother’s suite.

  Leaving Petite.

  “I’ll take you
to Madame Henriette myself,” the Duchess said, looking over Petite’s bodice. “It fits you ill.” She frowned.

  “It was given to me,” Petite said. The gown, a heavy winter-weight brocade, was all she had suitable for the evening, adorned as it was with ribbon rosettes and full sleeves bunched with matching rosettes down the arms. She was sweltering in it.

  “The corset must come to more of a point.” The Duchess fluffed Petite’s curls to hang onto her shoulders. “Madame Henriette insists that her attendants be ‘in the fashion,’ as the young people say. She has a creative sensibility, an imbalance of yellow bile that should soon be remedied by motherhood. Your job will be to please her, but at the same time to exert a calming influence. One reason that the Queen Mother, in her great wisdom, approved your appointment is that you have a reputation for virtue.”

  Petite was surprised that she had any reputation at all.

  The Duchess smiled, but not kindly. “Never forget, child, that at Court, everything you do and everything you say is observed and recorded.” She tapped her head. “Here.”

  “Yes, Madame la Duchesse,” Petite said.

  Petite followed the superintendent through a dark passage into a galley, which opened onto yet another courtyard. At the far end they climbed a wide stairway, emerging into an elegant antechamber richly decorated with tapestries and paintings.

  “We are expected,” the Duchess informed the two guards, who threw open the doors.

  The room was Oriental in its opulence, every peeling surface ornamented, the walls hung with dark pagan art: Venus reclining nude, the rape of Europa. The air was perfumed with the sweet rosemary scent of Hungary water. Servants in red livery stood like sentinels in the shadows.