Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  “You prefer the chase to the kill,” said the king.

  “The chase is where I excel.”

  King Louis laughed. “But can you beat me back to the palais?”

  I didn’t bother answering, just gave Trojan the signal and we were on the trail again. I barely heard the king’s musketeers cursing and shouting, trying to keep up with us. I willed Trojan on for miles. Go, my champion, fly! When I reached the front curving staircase of Fontainebleau, I couldn’t stop laughing. I hopped off of Trojan and kissed and hugged his neck as he panted and huffed.

  The king’s horse scattered gravel beside us, and King Louis dismounted. “Damn, you’re good. What will you demand as your prize?”

  “Supper and dancing in the Salle de Bal.”

  The king turned, ready to give the command. Suddenly he looked shocked. “Where are my pages? My heralds? Have we outrun everyone who could take orders?”

  “There is only me.”

  He circled my waist with his arm. “Are you at my command?”

  “Anything.” I tipped my chin up for a kiss.

  He didn’t kiss me. “Do you swear?”

  I responded without thinking. “Anything.”

  Just then the musketeers galloped into the courtyard, trumpeters and pages chasing behind. Servants filtered from the palais, and liveried stableboys appeared. I slipped away from the king and ran up the horseshoe staircase, stopping at the top to peek down. King Louis hadn’t moved.

  Pages and guards rotated around him. Stableboys took our horses. Breathless courtiers caught up to the king and bowed, offering accolades. The Master of the Hunt bent his knee, presenting the stag’s great antlers. King Louis stood amid this clamber for his attention, ignoring it, with his eyes on me. I ran inside to dress for supper.

  * * *

  We dined late, dancing to Lully’s violins between courses. We sat by the fireplace beneath frescos of ancient mythological scenes and consumed enough wine to embarrass Bacchus himself. The queen mother and her women retired, and we called for still more wine. The courtiers drank until they could no longer dance in time with the music, and watching them caused fits of laughter.

  The king leaned from his armchair and muttered into my neck, “Let me come to your bed.”

  It wasn’t what I expected. “That is your command?” I thudded my wineglass on the table, angry at how careless he sounded. How could the king respect me and all my future plans if I gave myself to him too easily?

  He seemed stunned. “I could never command your favors.”

  “I’ve no wish to flop on my back and give you favors. I will give myself to you when you have the right to command me. When I am your lawful wife and queen.”

  He stared, dumbfounded. Then he kissed my hand.

  I took it back. “Are you too drunk to understand?”

  “You know my feelings.”

  “Lust isn’t love.” I stood. “You wanted to discuss my uncle’s plan? He will march through Savoy to seize Naples and cut Condé’s supply of men so Spain will surrender, leaving you the freedom to choose your queen. Make me your choice, then you can make such commands.” I rushed from the Salle de Bal upstairs, turning the corner into my bedchamber.

  No candles were lit. The windows stood open, letting light from the full moon spill in. “Moréna, where are you?” A shadowy motion caught my attention. She huddled over something. I went to her, peeked over her shoulder, and gasped at the sight on the floor. She had taken my lock of the king’s hair, twined it with a darker lock, and splattered it with blood. A dead toad lay beside it, splayed open. Moréna dug into the toad with a knife, ripping and breaking. Finally she held a tiny, bloody bone in the moonlight.

  I knew what it was for. “Make no incantations. I want nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s done. Take this, for you are under chase.”

  “Never.” I grabbed my curls. When had she cut my hair? “I’ve put this practice behind me.”

  “Touch this bone to the king’s skin, and he’ll soon become your husband.”

  “I’ll win him by my own merit, not lust or enchantment, and certainly not because you killed some—”

  She grabbed my hands and forced the little bone into them. “I said you’re under chase—your uncle comes down from the front even now. He’ll trap you in his schemes and set you up for the kill.”

  I knew she was right. Mazarin was planning something underhanded. I needed more than the king to shield me. I stared at the bone in my palm. I ran to the window and hurled it with all my might. “It will be the king’s choice. Now clean up this mess.”

  * * *

  Next morning there was no trace of blood on my floor. No frog, no bones. Moréna drew me a bath, and I combed through my hair until I found one lock snipped close to the scalp. I scowled. She showed no remorse. After the midday meal, a message arrived from King Louis.

  His young page entered my antechamber clutching his hands behind his back. “His Majesty requests your attendance at a picnic.”

  “Requests,” I said. “See, Moréna? My way wins respect.”

  It was exactly what I’d been waiting for. I donned a rose-colored damask riding gown with the overskirt bustled up in back. My liveried page walked before me, and I presented myself in the bright François Gallery.

  King Louis was leaning against the carved walnut wainscoting beneath the stucco-framed fresco of the nude goddess Diana. Mademoiselle, her ladies, and my sisters surrounded the king, and courtiers lined the walls. Everyone turned when I entered.

  He strode to my side. “Mademoiselle Mancini. At last.” He took my hand, kissed it in front of everyone. He whispered, “Forgive me.” With a sweep of his hand he called, “Come! Monsieur is hosting a picnic in the forest.”

  Half the horses stood saddled outside. The king helped me mount Trojan himself. We led the long ride through the dappled autumn light of a forest starting to turn gold and red.

  A ruined stone monastery peeked through the trees, and we came to a rocky gorge. Monsieur and his men greeted us. “Welcome to the hermitage of Franchard,” he said with a bow and a flourish. As if on cue, Lully put out both hands and signaled twenty-four of his violinists to strike up their melody.

  The king helped me dismount. “Let us explore, for we feast at sunset.”

  Mademoiselle found a bench in the garden arbor. Olympia and my sisters followed Monsieur down a winding path.

  King Louis took my hand. “I want to show you something.” He led me through the gorge, where giant rocks soared to the sky. “Look.” He pointed to one rock in particular that jutted out. It dripped.

  “The weeping rock!”

  “Commoners believe this water will heal the sick.” He opened his mouth and caught a drop.

  “Magic?” I caught a drop in my palm.

  “It must filter from above.” King Louis gazed up the rocky slopes. He took my hand. “Shall we find out?”

  I grinned. Together we climbed, one precarious step at a time, to a wide plateau.

  I heard Mademoiselle cry out from the hermitage garden, “The king will break his neck!”

  “See.” He pointed to a pool of water in a pit in the sandstone. “It must filter through the fissures. Now do you think it’s magical?”

  “We didn’t break our necks climbing up, did we?”

  Laughing, he grasped my hands and twirled me in tune with the echoing sounds of the violins. “Lully,” he called, “bring your violinists to the top! Everyone must dance atop the cliffs so all France might see us.”

  We heard a confusion of strings and bows, and half the troupe climbed the rocks while the other half serenaded from below. The courtiers huffed and puffed, slowly making their way up. Monsieur, Mademoiselle, and even Olympia with her pregnant belly scaled the cliff and joined us in dancing a branle.

  King Louis noticed the setting sun and stopped. “There is more to show you.” He pointed to another crop of rocks beyond the timbers. “Come.”

  We scrambled do
wn, leaving bewildered courtiers. King Louis led me through the woods past strange boulders in the shapes of camels and mushrooms. He showed me caves filled with roosting bats, moss-covered grottos, and tight rock passages that we squeezed through. He pointed beyond a slope of heather where a pond of still water stood. “The Lake of the Fairies.”

  I ran down through the heather.

  “I guess this means you don’t want to see the Gorge of the Wolves?” he called, chasing after me.

  At the water’s edge I peeked down at my reflection. I hardly recognized the nymph smiling back, with springy dark curls tumbling over glowing skin. I scooped up a handful of fairy water and threw it at King Louis.

  He splashed me back. I squealed and ran along the bank until I could safely scoop up more, but he grabbed me before I could toss it. He carried me into the heather and we collapsed in a giggling heap. He kissed my wet hands. “I wrote to Mazarin urging him to take Naples. With luck and Savoy’s cooperation, we might be victorious next summer. Then I will prove my love with a ring and a crown.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  He grinned. “I appreciate you joining me upon request today, but I prefer the right to command you into my bed.” I slapped his arm, and he laughed. But then he was serious again. “I’d do anything for you, my Marie.”

  My heart seemed to soar. “There is the matter of my brother to discuss.”

  Just then Olympia called from the path above. “Mon dieu!”

  Monsieur panted at her side.

  I sat up. “Is something the matter?”

  “Yes,” she shouted. “I’m starving! You lovebirds need to come back to the hermitage so we can have supper. Right now.”

  We laughed so hard we clutched our bellies.

  We supped under the red and purple sunset, then rode back to the palais in the royal calashes with dozens of torchbearers. We reclined, gazing at the stars. I pointed to the watery part of the sky. “Aquarius is bright because we’re under a new moon. This is a time for new beginnings.”

  Bats ascended from their caves in swarms, leathery wings dark against the moonless constellations.

  “Do you believe the stars predict our fate?”

  If the stars are right about me, I shouldn’t be here with you. “My father did.”

  “I don’t,” said King Louis firmly.

  “I hope you are right,” I replied.

  CHAPTER 22

  October 1658

  “You wanted to see me?” I clasped my hands behind my back as I stood before the vast table in my uncle’s private study at Palais Mazarin. He’d just returned from Calais. The king and I had just returned from Fontainebleau on horseback, to the general rejoicings of the Parisians. I still had flower petals they’d thrown from their windows stuck in my hair.

  He shuffled papers, dipped quill into ink, and signed something before speaking. “You were busy in my absence.” He looked up. “Interesting that your brother Philippe should be appointed captain of the King’s Company of Musketeers while I was not near enough to prevent it.”

  “Philippe has your old spy Charles, comte D’Artagnan, as his first lieutenant should he need assistance.” I’d suggested King Louis arrange it this way to prevent Mazarin from revoking it. “Do you think Philippe incapable?”

  He glowered. “I know you are not trustworthy.”

  “The king made up his mind without my influence,” I lied.

  He pounded the table. “You elevated your brother so you would have someone besides me to depend on. What’s next? Will you have the king make him duc de Nevers?”

  That was indeed the title I had in mind. I shuddered.

  “I wanted to believe you would carry out the plans I set into motion when I die.”

  “Believe it. I want the king to be great, too.” My tone didn’t sound convincing. Pretending we had the same definition of “great” had grown too difficult.

  He slumped in his armchair. “The king is more taken with you than ever. I take it you haven’t spread your legs for him yet?”

  I frowned. I would not answer that.

  “Do not capitulate.” He thumped the table again. “Damn Condé. He charged right through the center of our entrenchments to relieve Dunkirk. We surrounded him, even killed the horse underneath him. But his captain put him on his own horse and sacrificed himself while Condé made his getaway under a shower of musket fire. The bastard.”

  “Spain will concede when they are unable to conscript soldiers through Naples.”

  “Oliver Cromwell is dead. Alliances may shift.”

  “Help Charles the Second reclaim England, then. Charles will keep England faithful to France, especially if you marry him to Hortense.” I held my breath.

  He waved the idea off as if swatting a fly. “Spain could rebuild their army through Savoy if we don’t get there first. I need you to be brave now. Brave as one of our men in battle.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  “For years Savoy,” he said, pointing between France and Modena on the map on his table, “has claimed neutrality. The queen regent, Christine of France, a daughter of Henry the Fourth, has refused to help France. Disloyal snit. The only way she’ll even meet with me is if I agree to marry her daughter to King Louis.”

  “No.” I tamped down my panic. “I cooperated. King Louis agreed to the Naples Plan because I pushed it. You said I could be queen.”

  “Did you forget that Savoy’s cooperation was part of the Naples Plan?”

  “What is my role in this?”

  “Princess Margherita is an ugly little thing. King Louis will meet her.” He curled the edge of his mustache. “You must ensure he doesn’t like her.”

  “You expect Savoy to cooperate and grant safe passage for French troops after King Louis rejects her?”

  “I will seal the alliance. Margherita will be relieved if you do your job right.”

  “The Savoyard court will think I’m some all-powerful, shrewish maîtresse-en-titre.”

  “Consider this an opportunity to prove your loyalty to me and keep your king.” He paused. “Olympia is with child again. Will you force me to use Hortense in your place?”

  Not my sweet little sister. I shook my head, stuck obeying the cardinal’s orders. Again.

  He stacked papers and took quill in hand. “My household follows the king’s court south within the week.”

  “The queen mother’s household isn’t going? What excuse do I have to travel south?”

  “Figure it out.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I didn’t attend the queen mother’s toilette. I stayed abed, sick in mind if not in body, and waited. It didn’t take long for King Louis to visit. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know perfectly well.” I reclined on ten feather pillows in a red silk undress gown clasped up the front with rubies.

  “Your uncle told you about Savoy.”

  I clutched the embroidered coverlets.

  He saw my frown and slumped. “No matter who I wed, you know you will always rule my heart.”

  “How can you say that when you want to marry me? I won’t be your whore.”

  King Louis rubbed his face with his hands. “My family expects me to take a wife of royal blood. Our position in Europe is insecure. Royal marriage is a political alliance.”

  I closed my eyes. “We should have discussed these things before.”

  “You’re right. I just couldn’t face it.” He sighed. “Why can’t I have a wife to secure alliances and provide heirs and keep you by my side?”

  I sat up. “You swore never to command my heart, and my heart will not share you.”

  “Think how lonely a political marriage will be for me. Say you won’t leave me.”

  “You are leaving to meet her. Who knows how long you’ll be gone? Lyon is a long way south.” I cringed. Hinting and fishing was more underhanded than outright lying and cheating.

  “I will beg my mother to go so you have an excuse to travel with her
household.” He took my hand. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  I had done it again. Damn my uncle. “As you wish.”

  * * *

  Days later, the entire royal court stood in Notre Dame Cathedral listening to mass, listening to the echoes of the organ, listening to boyish Latin voices rise like the song of angels in four-part harmony, and listening to prayers for the marriage of King Louis and Princess Margherita of Savoy. Anyone not listening gossiped about the marriage behind feathered caps or fluttering fans. A sparrow soared through the nave between the arches of the aisles. We set out from Notre Dame. Outside the birds flew south, the same direction our train traveled, one rumbling coach after another.

  The blue cornflower petals the commoners had thrown days earlier to greet the king had shriveled on the paving stones. Now the Parisians threw a shower of sunflower petals. Even with standards, guards, drums, and the fanfare of trumpets in our procession, the people only had eyes for King Louis. His white horse draped in red velvet, his hat topped with a red plume, his head held high, they cheered at the sight of him. They never looked at me, riding horseback close behind him, and they didn’t throw mud at the cardinal’s carriage. They waved banners and hoisted children upon their shoulders, shouting, “Long live the king!” and “Bring us a queen!” Even they expected a queen of royal blood.

  CHAPTER 23

  The King, as if inspired by this new devotion to Mademoiselle Marie de Mancini, was always in the best humor—indeed quite gay.

  —MADEMOISELLE DE MONTPENSIER’S MEMOIRS

  We stopped in a town well past Fontainebleau. We endured the usual welcome harangue from city officials. They thanked the royals for the honor of the visit, then begged us to make ourselves at home.

  In the morning, the king’s page found me bundled together with my sisters in some drafty room in some crumbling castle. “The king requests Trojan made ready, that you might ride with him again today.”