And prepare to redraw the horoscope I never should have burned.
* * *
I made Moréna undergo preparations with me. She balked at going to church. She shot me bored looks during mass. For nine days I made her receive the priest’s blessing.
No one noticed I was fasting. I ate so little normally, and by moving food around on my plate enough to distract my sisters, I got away with just taking water for three full days.
I sent Moréna out for extra candles and kidskin parchment and a clay pot and clean white linen while I studied the book Mazarin coveted, Heptameron. She went daily to the docks looking for a ship trading sandalwood powder. I drew Solomon’s star on the kidskin parchment and took it with me into confession. I managed to unburden myself of pride and vanity without giving the priest too much to gossip about, then swiped holy water from the baptistery font when he wasn’t looking.
On the ninth day of daily mass, the third day of fasting, the sixteenth of November, I felt my hunger no more. Excitement coursed through my limbs. I packed a sack and told Moréna we would leave at midnight.
When the hour arrived, I donned a white linen gown and a heavy cloak with a hood that shadowed my face. Moréna pulled the sack from its hiding place beneath the bed. But not quietly enough.
Hortense sat upright. “Marie?”
“Lie back down,” I said.
She didn’t. “You’re going to conjure, aren’t you?”
I’d assumed that she wouldn’t notice, that she’d been too young when our father had prepared for conjuring to recognize what I’d been doing. I didn’t answer.
“Don’t go far from the citadel. A storm is blowing in from the west.” She lay back down and pulled the covers over her head.
We hurried out. Moréna paid the soldiers standing guard at the Royal Gate and told them only to come after us if we didn’t return by dawn. The ocean air felt heavy. A wet breeze from the west dampened our skin and made it glisten in the waxing moon. Moréna carried a lantern, and we walked past the marshes, beyond the quiet docks, into the salt beds I’d come to know.
I put the sack at Moréna’s feet. I took out my ink, quills, paper, and almanac from 1638. “You know what to do,” I said, and knelt to re-create my nativity.
With the foolscap on the salt bed and the waxing moon as my light, I drew a large square, with a smaller square inside it. In the space between them, I drew zigzagging lines until I had twelve triangles, the twelve signs of the zodiac. I consulted the ephemeris and found the true place of the sun on the twenty-eighth of August. It was in the sixth sign, the house of Virgo. I found the hour and minutes in the Table of Houses and drew the sun symbol in the sixth triangle. Working up the houses and down the columns, I tracked hours and minutes and plotted every planet. I went through it again to note each planet’s degree, then sat back on my heels and studied my work.
It was much as I remembered. With Saturn well dignified in the house of Aquarius, I would be imaginative. The lunar node called Head of the Dragon was in Sagittarius, which meant happiness for me. Jupiter in Scorpio made me tenacious. Venus, well dignified in its own house of Libra, indicated my attractiveness, suggesting I might be the cause of jealousies, and that I valued my freedom. My Virgo housed three whole planets, including Mercury, well dignified and almost too strong, making me so intelligent and gifted in the art of divination, it might actually cause my downfall. Mars was not at all dignified in Leo, making me willful. With my moon on the cusp of Leo, I could be hot-tempered. Venus reinforced this in the west, masculine angle.
Had my mother considered me too smart for my own good? Too willful to be corrected? So gifted I might be dangerous? I had tried to take control of my own fate. Perhaps the world wasn’t ready for such a woman.
“Did you find it?” asked Moréna.
“Not all of it.” I ran my finger over the house of Libra. The mysterious planet my father had noted there, the one indicating I’d leave my husband, simply didn’t exist. Could he have been wrong? “My father must have consulted the angels.”
For the first time, Moréna seemed hesitant. “So you’re going through with it?” She had started a fire in the clay pot and arranged my sandalwood powder, holy water, and kidskin with Solomon’s star.
I nodded. The position of the moon indicated it was now the first hour of the Lord’s Day, more than a week before the autumnal equinox. To call upon the hour’s ruler, the archangel Michael, I needed to begin. Moréna took my cloak, and I kicked off my satin slippers. I stood barefoot in the salt bed wearing nothing but white linen. I grabbed a walking stick Moréna had left in the fire and studied the charred, smoking tip. Perfect for drawing on the crusty salt bed.
“How do you know what to do?”
I smiled. “I watched my father.” The necromancer. And I’d prayed every day of my fast that his method would conjure only good spirits.
Now I walked a circle, nine feet in diameter, dragging my stick, drawing a ring. I drew another circle about a hand’s-width inside it. Then a third inside that, and then a fourth. In the outermost ring, I wrote names I’d memorized from the lists of Heptameron. The angels of the air for Sunday, Varcan Rex—Tus—Andas—Cynabal. The next ring was the real work. I wrote the name of the first hour of Sunday and its ruling angel, Yayn—Michael. Then I drew Michael’s sigil from memory, with its sharp angles and crosses. The angel of Sunday was again Michael, and his ministers, Dardiel—Huratapal. I wrote the name of autumn, Ardarel, and the angels of autumn, Tarquam—Guabarel. I poked my writing stick in the fire for a moment, then used it again to write the sign of autumn, Torquaret, then the names for earth, sun, and moon in autumn, Rabianara—Abragini—Matasignais.
Heavy clouds rolled over the ocean, and I felt myself growing tired. In the innermost ring I wrote four of God’s divine names, Adonay—Eloy—Agla—Tetragrammaton, and drew crosses between them. Finally, in the center of the circle I drew a great cross. On the east side I wrote Alpha, and on the west, Omega. My stick had grown faint again, so I stepped out of the rings and shoved it deep in the fire, stirring the embers. Moréna tossed more wood into the flames. I quickly drew four Solomon’s stars, one on each side of the fire and two opposing them on the other side of the circle. I looked at everything I’d done and grabbed Moréna’s hand. “Come into the circle with me. Whatever you do, don’t step out.”
Her voice sounded nervous. “I thought you were calling on your God’s forces of good.”
“I am.” I took up the flask of holy water, arm muscles shaking with fatigue. “But some of these angels might have fallen, and one never knows if demons might respond to the call.”
I poured holy water into my palm and began committing sacrilege. I threw handfuls on the fire, the pot of sandalwood powder, and the kidskin parchment, reciting the fiftieth Psalm. “Purge me with hyssop, Oh Lord, and I shall be clean: Thou shalt wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.” I sprinkled holy water over my entire circle. “Asperges me Domine. In the name of Adonai, the Living God, and Ruler for generation upon generation, Amen.”
I walked my circle, stopping in every quadrant of the cross to pray, “Father have mercy on me, make appear the arm of thy power.” From the center of the ring, I tossed the sandalwood powder into the fire. It popped and hissed and released its musky sweet smoke into the air. I knelt and called the name of every angel I’d written in the rings. The words rose to the heavens with the smoke. I stayed on bended knee out of reverence and exhaustion and cried, “Being made in the image of God, endued with power from God, and made after his will, I adjure and call you forth! Appear before this circle in a fair human shape.” I stared into the sandalwood smoke, which swirled and danced as gusts swept in off the ocean.
I stood and threw the last of the sandalwood on the fire. I turned as I called an angel from each direction of the fourth heaven. “Aiel from the north. Uriel from the south. Gabriel from the east.” Finally I turned west, to the ocean and the incoming wind, and raised my hands. “Anael from the wes
t!”
The western wind rose.
“What’s happening?” called Moréna over the rushing sound of the winds. She crouched behind me, holding her turban.
The parchment with Solomon’s protective star tore from my hands. Were the angels coming? I struggled for breath. “Come without delay and make rational answers unto all things I shall ask of you!”
The gale roared in my ears, and I fancied it was the collective voice of all the angels in heaven. The strength of the wind pushed my body, and I fell to the salt bed, clawing the crosses I’d drawn into it, clinging to hold my ground in the circle. Sparks scattered from the fire pot. The smoke stung my eyes and seemed to enter my very mind. The musk of sandalwood filled my lungs, and I coughed out my questions, voice lost in the wind. Angels, tell me what to do.
Lightning split the sky, and thunder shook the earth. I heard something as the rains blew in. It was not so much the roar of angel voices, but the still cry within my heart that I’d refused to listen to all along.
The right thing to do is let him go.
* * *
We returned to the citadel in silence well before dawn. Hortense had a fire crackling. She asked no questions, just helped us change our wet clothes. When warm and dry, I wrote a letter to my uncle submitting to the marriage alliance he intended for me.
CHAPTER 48
Paris
June 1660
Paris was at its best in spring, before piss-filled gutters became too pungent in the summer sun, and when winter branches in the courtyards were outlined with green buds. Birds fluttered overhead, nesting in every eave, their cheerful twitter making me forget my grief for a moment. Only a moment. In the six months since I’d cast my magic circle and decide to give King Louis up, I had thought of him each day.
On this particular sunny day, I walked in the Gardens of the Tuileries with Prince Charles of Lorraine as we’d become accustomed to doing. We talked amiably of the weather and the variety of flowers emerging from the ground. Sometimes we talked of the potential size of my dowry or whether a marriage between us might gain him enough favor to help reclaim his family duchy from the crown. We even talked of how I’d prefer to marry him and stay in France rather than marry Colonna, my uncle’s choice, which would move me to Rome. But we only discussed this if Venelle was out of earshot.
Today Venelle walked several paces ahead of us with Marianne on her arm, occasionally glancing back. Several paces ahead of them walked Hortense and Meilleraye. That man talked of nothing but his adoration for Hortense and his zest for religion, which bored her thoroughly. Mazarin had not yet responded to Meilleraye’s latest request for Hortense’s hand. Praise God.
Lorraine cleared his throat beside me. “Would it pain you to discuss the king’s recent marriage?”
It had happened at the beginning of June. I had done my best to avoid the celebrations in Paris and tedious descriptions of the ceremony and of how seventy-five horses were required to carry the new queen’s lavish household.
“It grows easier,” I replied.
Lorraine went on. “Soon after I requested your hand in marriage, Mazarin entered an article in his peace treaty to restore certain disgraced nobles to favor. Now that the treaty is ratified, my uncle the duc is out of prison. He is blocking our marriage because—well, he wants you and your uncle’s favor for himself!”
I almost laughed. “This means Mazarin opposes you both. He knows I’ll refuse to marry an old man; thus he keeps your family’s duchy for the crown.”
“I’m sorry for it. You and I get along quite nicely,” he said, bewildered. “Really, I’m quite shocked at the move your uncle made.”
This time I did laugh. “How can you be surprised? My uncle said he opened negotiations with you six months ago.”
“He never did.”
“Exactly. Because he wants me to marry Colonna so he can send me to Rome. He controls me as he controls my brother and sisters and the king. Do you know when my brother was released from prison? The moment I agreed to give up King Louis.”
“Is it so bad?” Lorraine loosened the cravat at his throat.
I smiled grimly. “You heard Mazarin tried to imprison Colbert de Terron for smuggling letters between the king and me, but do you know how Mazarin found out about Terron?”
Lorraine shook his head.
“Because Mazarin paid a spy in the king’s household … the king’s own valet!” Terron had narrowly escaped, saved at the last minute when the king ordered Mazarin not to arrest him. “Mazarin is like a sorcerer,” I said bitterly. “He will find a way to make me marry Colonna.”
* * *
In our chamber at Palais Mazarin weeks later, Hortense was attempting to distill jasmine. She watched the bottles and tubes bubble over her flame. She’d become rather clever at concocting beauty elements.
Marianne bounded in. “I’ve a letter from Philippe,” she cried. We sat on my bed while she summarized. “Condé gave up his best château in exchange for the king’s pardon, then was forced to beg our uncle’s forgiveness on bended knee.” We each knew how vital the moment must have been for Mazarin and how he must have gloated. He’d conquered with diplomacy rather than battle, just as Moréna once predicted. Marianne went on. “The court is slowly traveling back to Paris. He complains of the agonizingly slow pace.” She paused to smirk. “And he wants to know about Olympia’s new baby.”
I shrugged. “We will have to confess we haven’t been to visit our newest nephew.” Olympia had returned to Paris for the birth a fortnight earlier. I just didn’t have the stomach to face her.
Marianne gasped. “Philippe describes how the king took a detour to Brouage. He watched the king shed tears in the room where Marie slept.”
I grabbed the letter. Philippe went into great detail about how King Louis slipped into melancholy while walking the shores I’d walked. It had alarmed the cardinal. I looked up from the letter to see my sisters staring at me.
I remembered my conversation with Lorraine in the park, when I’d told him how deftly the cardinal controlled us all. “Now Mazarin will stop at nothing. He will find a way to make me want to go to Italy.”
* * *
The next week we packed freshly cut herbs, which I’d finally managed to plant in the pottage garden behind Palais Mazarin, a bottle of Hortense’s new jasmine perfume, and a box of nebât into a basket for Olympia. We reported to the Hôtel Vendome.
The footman at the door looked apologetic. “His Eminence summoned her to join the court at Fontainebleau.”
But the comte de Soissons called cheerfully from the inside hall. “Come in! I’ll take you to the nursery to see my newest son.”
We entered the nursery, and the firstborn, Little Louis, bounded to me, trying to climb my skirts. “Maah-ree,” he said, practicing my name to the best of his three-year-old ability.
It made us all laugh, and Marianne rewarded him with a nebât.
“Where is your little brother?” I asked.
He pointed to the wet-nurse, suckling the one-year-old Little Philippe. Little Louis was too preoccupied with his nebât to show us the newest brother.
Soissons took us to a cradle, pulling a coverlet back to reveal the baby. “We named him Louis-Jules.”
Despite all she’d done, seeing Olympia’s boys made me proud.
Back in the carriage, Hortense asked, “Why would Mazarin bother with Olympia now? So soon after the birth and with the king safely married?”
I sighed. “Because the king still loves me, and the cardinal can’t stand the thought of me regaining influence. Just wait. We’ll soon find out how Mazarin has employed Olympia against me.”
CHAPTER 49
Queen Maria-Thérèsa feels great jealousy when she sees the king making new demonstrations of love to Mademoiselle Marie Mancini and would like her to leave France as quickly as possible.
—PAPAL NUNCIO MONSEIGNEUR CELIO PICCOLOMINI IN A LETTER
The summons arrived at the end of July. We were ordere
d to Fontainebleau to pay our respects to the king and his new queen. The moment I’d been dreading. We dressed in our finest court attire and rumbled south along the River Seine to the Fontainebleau I’d once adored, shining green in all its summer glory.
The Cardinal’s Guards took us directly to the François Gallery, where Olympia, wearing new diamond hair combs, stood behind King Louis. His skin seemed sallow, with dark circles under his eyes. I felt a rush of worry for his health but tamped it down. The cardinal, standing behind the queen mother, shocked me. His hair had grayed, and he stooped over his cane, making himself seem inches shorter.
Where is the new queen? I curtsied, my sisters dipping behind me in unison. We held our low pose.
The king finally cleared his throat. “I see you’ve returned to court.”
I rose, feeling my hands tremble. “I wish to heartily congratulate Your Majesty on the happy event of your marriage.”
The king frowned. My sisters remained silent behind me. Venelle hadn’t even entered.
The queen mother’s eyes flicked to her son and back to me. “We decided you shouldn’t meet Queen Maria-Thérèsa yet.”
So this is a test. To see whether Olympia had effectively turned the king against me.
“You can meet my queen this evening,” King Louis said to me. “The cardinal invited us to sup in his apartments. You may serve my queen her supper.”
The queen mother beamed. I felt the color drain from my face.
Olympia snorted with laughter. “Welcome back to court, sister.”
Mazarin had paid her to play this role. I ignored her. “Your Majesty, being assigned to serve her comes as quite a blow.”
He straightened abruptly. “So did your betrayal.”
I forgot the others and spoke to King Louis in my old way. “You engaged yourself to be married and started an affair with my sister but accuse me of betrayal?”
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