Enchantress of Paris

by Marci Jefferson

  Hortense buried herself deeper under our covers. “But it’s raining.”

  I tossed the covers aside. “Then I shall wear a hat.”

  * * *

  King Louis and I rode beyond the hearing of the queen mother’s ladies, who had quickly given up riding in the rain and retreated to the carriages. They stretched from the windows, straining to hear our conversation. In a moment of downpour, King Louis took off his wide-brimmed hat and reached between our horses as if he intended to shelter me.

  I steered Trojan away a pace. “Sire, do you fear I will melt?”

  “I don’t want you to take a chill,” he said sheepishly, replacing his hat. “Don’t be indignant. I forbid you to be indignant.”

  “Just how do you intend to control my emotions?” I asked, laughing.

  He pointed to a distant hill. “I will race you.”

  I kicked Trojan into a gallop and reached the top of the hill just ahead of him.

  He beamed. “I knew you couldn’t be indignant if you could beat me soundly.”

  But he wouldn’t be able to mend my heartbreak if I lost him.

  * * *

  At Dijon, city officials gave the keys of the city to King Louis. Courtiers scattered in sumptuous houses throughout, and I was delighted to be assigned lodgings near the king’s. The cardinal stopped to inspect our chambers while servants bustled about hanging our tapestries and setting up our furniture.

  He swept from room to room, checking everything. “We will be here a fortnight while the assembly ratifies taxes for the king’s exchequer. Where is Venelle’s room?”

  I pointed. “Just a chamber away.” Had he assigned her to spy on us?

  As he left, I grabbed his arm. “Have you received any messengers from Spain?”

  “You will be the first to know.” He eyed my hand on his arm.

  I removed it. “Conceal nothing from me.”

  “Look to your affairs and leave me to mine. I must have these Burgundy Estates vote a tax of two million livres.”

  “That is an outrageous sum!” He doesn’t need it. I thought of the huge chests of gold at the Château de Vincennes.

  Mazarin didn’t respond, and I fought the urge to argue.

  * * *

  “Oh, Hortense,” I said, fluffing my curls a week later. I glanced in the looking-glass that Moréna held aloft. “I wish we could journey all the time.”

  She laughed. “Is the king hosting another collation tonight?”

  “As he will every night here at Dijon.” He spoke to almost none but me, as if I were the only person at the table, in the ballrooms, or at cards.

  “What on earth do you talk about for hours on end?”

  “The upcoming lit de justice. He’s outraged that the Parlement here in Burgundy resist coming together.” We took pains to avoid any mention of the proposed marriage. I didn’t push, and he seemed grateful.

  “He hasn’t been to the queen mother’s table even once. She’ll hold it against you.”

  I dabbed perfume on my wrists. “We visit her every morning after mass, and the king takes me to her rooms to say good night before he walks me home. She’s so complimentary. Praising my clothes or my hair, giving me little trinkets.”

  “That is because she doesn’t know your plans.”

  I tried not to look nervous. “Perhaps she will accept me if she knows the king loves me.”

  She shrugged. “Olympia sent word that she is returning to Paris instead of continuing to Lyon. Pregnancy makes her unwell. And jealous, I think.”

  “Olympia will benefit if I prevail.”

  Hortense sighed. “I hope you become queen just so I don’t have to wed that wretched Armand de la Meilleraye!”

  * * *

  The Parlement chamber at Dijon was a miniature of the one in Paris. Magistrates in red robes sat in a square against a backdrop of blue, dotted with gold fleur-de-lis. I stood well outside the square with a handful of the queen mother’s ladies, watching the king sit tall in his place of honor. The president of the lit de justice gave a polite, firm speech suggesting Burgundy was too poor and unprotected to pay for the ruinous war and overgrown government. The cardinal looked stunned. They voted merely three hundred thousand livres and concluded the session. The king seemed at a loss for words. The cardinal … could do nothing. I grinned. I might not be a bewigged parliamentarian but I, too, intended to show Mazarin the limits of his power.

  * * *

  We followed the River Saône through the countryside, finally crossing it onto a peninsula, the heart of Lyon. To the right ran the River Rhône, and beyond its banks rose a hill with monasteries and the Archbishop’s Palais. To our left beyond the Saône, the land was dotted with silk factories and merchants that made the city wealthy. Windows started opening everywhere. People leaned out, waving colorful silk scarves, cheering for the king and his supposed marriage. As the king and I approached the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste in the city, the Cardinal’s Guards galloped between us. They surrounded me.

  “What is this?” called the king.

  “Cardinal’s orders,” barked a guard. “Mademoiselle Mancini must return to her carriage and wait until he assigns quarters.”

  The guards made Trojan nervous. I let him buck and rear, but they wouldn’t back down. Keeping a tight ring, they ushered me toward my carriage. “Philippe,” I called to my brother on the far side of the King’s Musketeers.

  Philippe looked astounded, glancing left and right for some means to help me. But he couldn’t break ranks. The procession forced him and the king to move forward. The archbishop arrived, and I lost sight of the king as he helped his mother from her carriage for presentation. The counts of St. John began the formal welcoming harangue.

  As I climbed into my carriage, Marianne said, “Flames and fury, are they starting those eternal speeches again?”

  I didn’t bother answering. After an age, the long train of carriages started breaking up and moving. I hung out the window. The king and queen were headed to the hill across the Rhône, and we were heading deeper into the city. In the opposite direction!

  * * *

  In the Place de Belle Cœur a noble family welcomed us. Silk adorned every wall and window and bed. The cardinal came, as usual, sweeping our temporary chambers, making his inspections.

  “Must we stay here?” I asked my uncle, careful to keep the edge out of my voice. “There is room at the Archbishop’s Palais, and it’s closer to the king’s quarters.”

  He pointed at me. “The Archbishop’s Palais is for me and the Savoyard party.”

  “You’ve arranged for Margherita to be closer to the king? I don’t understand.”

  “This must start well. Don’t make a fuss. They will be here in a few days. You will not go to the fields with the court to meet them.”

  “That’s unfair. What news from the Spanish king? Tell me you’ve had a message.”

  “No fuss!” he yelled, and he left in a huff.

  CHAPTER 24

  I did not fuss when we missed that night’s dinner banquet. I did not fuss at having no place in the next day’s ceremonious parade. I did not even fuss when the king was surrounded by the officials of Lyon on the third evening’s ball.

  But on the fourth day, Moréna announced, “The royal households are riding outside the city to greet Princess Margherita.”

  “Have Trojan saddled.” I pinned on a cape.

  “You can’t ride through the city alone,” she cried.

  “I won’t make it in time if I don’t.” I rode Trojan fast through the streets, over the Rhône to my uncle’s quarters at the Archbishop’s Palais.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said to him, breathless.

  A footman helped him into his carriage. “You are staying put.”

  “You want me to fail,” I cried. “Since the moment we left Paris, you have announced this marriage publicly.”

  Trojan’s ears flattened as Mazarin signaled to his tallest footman. The man yanked me from my h
orse and pushed me into the carriage. My loyal steed reared and kicked the equerries that rushed to surround him.

  My uncle slammed the door. “The Savoy marriage is a ploy to force Spain into peace.”

  “It’s a ploy to get rid of me so you can have the king’s ear to yourself again.”

  He stood over me. In a frenzy of blows, he brought his fist down on my ribs, my back, my side. I screamed, kicked him, and yanked the door handle. It didn’t budge. The guard on the other side held it fast. Trojan whinnied outside. The cardinal grabbed my hair in fistfuls by my ears and pulled.

  A fury like I’d never known came over me. I will let him kill me before I let him see my fear. I wanted to open his throat with my teeth. Instead I grabbed his ermine cappa magna, pulled him close, and spat in his face.

  He released my hair. “You can thank your saints or your stars or whatever it is you believe in that I haven’t marred your face or made you bald. I won’t show the same grace next time.”

  I felt no pain. My entire body shook with rage. I put my hand out, pointing at his legs, and whispered, “As you betray me, so shall your body wither and your bones ache.”

  And that old expression, that vague sense of fear, reemerged. Shadows of it played on his features. Then it disappeared. “Go back to the Place de Belle Cœur and await the morrow. You will receive a summons to a reception here at the Archbishop’s Palais.” He pounded the wall of the carriage, and the door finally opened. “When I send for you, I will put you before the king. Until then, stay out of sight.”

  * * *

  I could hardly mount Trojan for the violent trembling in my limbs. I scrambled up the saddle in a clumsy disarray of skirts and cape. We rode hard through Lyon, getting lost in the winding streets of the city, skirts, cape, and mane flapping wildly. I ignored the strange looks that the flower sellers on the streets shot me. When a shabby man leapt from the gutters trying to grab my reins, Trojan kicked until the man fell back. I rode without fear. I no longer feared the convent. My uncle could banish me, marry me off, he might even kill me. But I refused to fear him. I rode until my limbs stopped shaking, and found myself in a small square. Pigeons scattered, and I halted, searching the skyline for the hill. I kicked Trojan into a gallop in its direction. It took me another half hour to find my way through the city, but I finally arrived at my destination, panting and sore. Twilight began to fall on the royal quarters.

  I marched inside, upstairs, and demanded to see Mademoiselle de Montpensier.

  “She won’t see you,” said a footman.

  But she entered the antechamber at that moment, riding hat in hand. She greeted me with her usual tall, graceful poise. “I’m just back from the queen mother’s chambers. We escorted Princess Margherita into the city. The entire Savoyard party is here except the duc. He won’t enter until we grant his branch of the family precedence over ours. Can you believe his audacity?”

  “I didn’t see the king’s carriage outside.”

  “He is taking the princess to the Archbishop’s Palais.”

  “Do you think he liked her well enough to … marry?” I asked, unable to summon the wit to construct something clever.

  “He complimented her eyes, and they conversed a great deal.” She studied me. “But there is little chance of a marriage happening now. The cardinal just rushed into the queen mother’s rooms with a remarkable message from the Spanish king.”

  Spain. My uncle had been telling the truth! “He surrendered?”

  She paused. “Not exactly, but he did offer peace as part of a marriage agreement between King Louis and his daughter, the Infanta Maria-Thérèsa.”

  Another marriage? I stood speechless.

  Mademoiselle stepped to me. “You will have to give up this pursuit sometime. The king must marry the daughter of some great country for the sake of his kingdom.” I stared, and she flung out her hands. “I cannot make you understand how royals think.”

  “Try,” I said. “Explain my obstacles.”

  “We trace our noble heritage back hundreds of years. We have generations of royal blood, descendants of Saint Louis himself.”

  “Mancini is one of the oldest noble families of Rome. How conveniently you forget that your family tree is littered with two Medici women, decidedly nonroyal Italians raised to queenship.”

  She sighed. “There is a difference between you Italians and us French. Louis was raised with a sense of duty. We submit to our parents as royals are expected to do. King Louis won’t act against his mother’s wishes regarding marriage.”

  “The queen mother adores me.”

  She shook her head. Of all people, Mademoiselle understood matters of precedence best.

  Everything will depend on King Louis alone. “Forgive my outburst.” I curtsied deep and stepped to go, but she grabbed my arm.

  “Tell me something in return. Would Cardinal Mazarin approve my marrying Monsieur?”

  “You killed my oldest brother the day you fired cannons from the Bastille.” I slipped from her grasp. “His Eminence says you also killed any chance he’d let you marry anyone.”

  I left her standing agape, relieved that she no longer aimed to wed King Louis. The downstairs hall of the abbey where the royals were housed seemed sparse. Bare. They must have sent their wagons of royal furniture to the Archbishop’s Palais to impress Princess Margherita. Part of the farce.

  I recognized one of the king’s guards standing sentry and went to him. I stared at him as he stared dutifully ahead. “Admit me to the king’s chamber.”

  He folded. “That I can’t do.”

  I whispered, “Please.”

  He turned, walked through the doorway, and gestured to another door.

  I pulled out one of my pearl drop earrings and handed it to him. “See to it I get time alone with the king before his men enter behind him.”

  The guard refused my bribe. “I’ll do my best.”

  The king’s bedchamber seemed dim, so I opened the curtains. Soon I heard a brief exchange with the sentry; then King Louis appeared.

  He smiled the warmest smile. “Marie.”

  I ran to embrace him.

  He held me close. “Does this mean you’ll forgive me if I marry her?”

  “The cardinal never intended you to marry Princess Margherita,” I said. “Spain sent an emissary with a letter from the Spanish king. Mazarin is coming here to tell you his conditions for peace.”

  He smiled. “He’s surrendered?”

  “No. A peace treaty sealed with your marriage to the infanta Maria-Thérèsa. Mazarin flirted with Savoy only to make Spain feel threatened into a peace. Mazarin knew all along we wouldn’t get as far as Naples.”

  He seemed stunned. “That’s too simple. There are too many details, too many territories to allocate.”

  “My uncle used you. He’s using me in a worse fashion. He staked everything on my ability to separate you from Margherita so he wouldn’t look underhanded.”

  “I cannot believe he would put you in such a position.”

  “Us. He counted on your loyalty to get you to play the believable suitor. He sent heralds announcing the Savoy marriage to the four corners of the earth to ensure Spain would hear of it. Now he waits to see if I will become his scapegoat.” I took a deep breath. “Now you have an excuse to assert yourself.”

  He hesitated. “I have no proof.”

  Proof? I hid my frustration. “Your mother and Mazarin will take drastic measures to show you don’t like Margherita. Tomorrow their actions will be your proof.”

  “You and I are no closer to wedlock if they have yet another match for me.”

  “Expose them and claim me.”

  He stooped to kiss me. I enjoyed him for just one moment, then pushed away. “Tomorrow.” I opened the door. The sentry nodded. The king’s men in the hall were busy comparing the size of their scabbards, and I left unnoticed.

  * * *

  When I finally found my quarters in the Place de Belle Cœur, Moréna had a hot bat
h waiting.

  “How did you know?” I asked. She wouldn’t answer. I stripped off my chemise. She didn’t seem shocked by the red marks on my skin that were turning to bruises. The water smelled of heavenly spices. I sank into it, and the stiffness in my muscles slowly melted.

  “Fetch the St. John’s wort tincture,” I said.

  She fished it from my trunk, but hesitated. “This is all you have.”

  How long had it been since I’d harvested this herb properly under the sun and sign of Leo? If country healers could be condemned as witches for trying to heal the sick with prayers and poultices, inquisitors would find the effectiveness of my herbal tinctures and decoctions suspicious. I couldn’t risk making more. “Pour it in.”

  The oily red mixture swirled around me like blood. Moréna gave me the bottle, and I gulped the last swig.

  “Why treat your bruises? Show the king Mazarin’s fury.”

  The king had asked for proof only hours earlier. “What, show the king I am weak and easily battered? Incite pity rather than respect? I need to show the king my strength if I’m to lead him away from Mazarin.”

  “Your brother can command the King’s Musketeers. Seize the cardinal. France would rejoice.”

  I shot her a warning look. “The king loves Mazarin. He must be convinced subtly, and that will take time. But when I’m ready to tell the king what I know, it will shake the very foundations of Paris.”

  CHAPTER 25

  St. John’s Wort doth charm all the witches away

  If gathered at midnight on the Saint’s Holy Day;

  Nor devils nor witches have then power to harm

  Those that do gather this plant for a charm.

  —FROM AN OLD ENGLISH POEM DATING AROUND 1400

  The next morning I endured Moréna’s worst-smelling unguent and facial scrub. We perfumed my hair and curled it into puffs above my ears. Moréna laced red ribbons up the back of a rose satin bodice with great paned sleeves that rested off the shoulder. I wrapped a gauzy rose scarf around my shoulders, gathered it in the front, and tacked it into place with a ruby pendant.