The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Yves looked away. Count Lucien could do nothing; he was as ignorant of natural philosophy as all the courtiers; he could not prove Yves lied.

  Count Lucien handed the King a flat square box of exotic wood inlaid with a coruscation of mother-of-pearl. His Majesty opened it. On black velvet, a gold disk bore a representation of His Majesty in Roman armor, riding bareback on a charger, his hair flying in the wind. His Majesty lifted the medal. It twisted on its heavy chain, turning to reveal an incised portrait, Marie-Josèphe’s drawing of Sherzad, leaping joyously through the waves.

  Yves realized what he had done.

  He stumbled, his legs weak. Catching the side of the carriage, Yves kept his feet. He tried to raise his head. Short of breath, he stared at the ground, at the sparkling wheels, thinking, I could fling myself beneath them. How else can I do penance for my deceitful words, but by casting myself into hell? I’ll never have to face Marie-Josèphe when she understands what I’ve done, never hear the sea woman’s death scream, never see His Majesty’s disappointment, when he dies…

  His Majesty placed the medal around his neck. The audience murmured its approval. Yves raised his head, tears running cold down his face. His Majesty smiled.

  “You show a charming and modest sensibility, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “Come. Ride with me.”

  Yves climbed into the carriage, as weak as if he had been felled by a tropical fever. He sat beside His Majesty, wiping his tears on his sleeve, forcing himself not to throw himself at the King’s feet, confess his dishonesty, and destroy himself as well as the sea woman.

  The carriages looped around, clattered through the gateway, and conveyed their passengers to the Place d’Armes. An enormous grandstand surrounded the parade ground. Velvet cushions softened the gold-painted wood; great sprays of flowers brightened every corner. Lavender, strewn on the steps, perfumed the air. Servants stood by to conduct His Majesty’s guests to their seats, to serve them a modest repast, to present each guest with a silver goblet commemorating Carrousel. Jugglers and troubadours and trobairitz strolled past, playing and singing.

  Cardinal Ottoboni and the rest of His Holiness’ delegation conducted Pope Innocent to his place of honor in the royal box. A footman opened His Majesty’s carriage.

  “Take your place in the royal box, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “And cheer for my team.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Yves stepped down.

  “I’m proud of you,” Louis said. “Very proud, my son.”

  Yves turned back, bewildered. “Your Majesty—?”

  “Your mother would forgive me for telling you now,” His Majesty said. “She would not have me acknowledge you while her husband was alive.”

  His carriage grumbled away across the hard-packed earth. The Princes of the Blood and the other favored courtiers galloped after, to prepare for the competition.

  His Majesty’s son? How could it be?

  Yves followed the servant blindly to the grandstand.

  It explains so much, Yves thought. Our family’s exile to Martinique. The King’s attention. My rise at court…

  The servant showed him to the royal box. Yves collapsed on the bench, torn among elation, grief, and guilt.

  “Father de la Croix,” said Mme Lucifer. “How kind of you to keep us company, when all the other men desert us and give us no place in their games.”

  She slipped her hand across his knee, casually, as if only to support herself while she leaned close to inspect his medal. Madame and Mademoiselle sat nearby, with Marie-Josèphe in attendance. Yves could not meet his sister’s eye.

  I cannot bear it, he thought.

  But he must. Mme Lucifer and Mlle d’Armagnac pressed him close between them, crushing him with their touch, their voices, their perfume.

  “Are you here to make a sinner of me?” whispered Mme Lucifer, his half-sister.

  While Lucien rushed into his Carrousel costume and checked Zelis’ decorated harness, Jacques ran away to the pigeon loft and returned downcast.

  “No message, sir.”

  Lucien nodded. He had hoped for news of the treasure, but he had not expected it. He hurried to the stableyard. In a silken pavilion, the King prepared for the games.

  “M. de Chrétien. I approve of your costume.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  The Roman teams of the past always wore red trimmed with white, rubies set off with diamonds. Lucien disliked bright red; it flattered neither his fair complexion nor his light eyes. In general he preferred auburn, blue, or gold; he even used blue silk ribbons to tie his baudruches.

  For Carrousel, he had indulged himself with a tunic of cloth-of-gold beneath the red leather armor, knowing the King might command him to change it at the last minute.

  “Your Majesty, you’ve done me the honor of offering me a favor.”

  “Right now, M. de Chrétien?”

  “Tomorrow I will not want it, Sire.”

  His Majesty’s voice grew wary. “If it is in my power.”

  “I ask for the life of the sea—”

  “Do not!” His Majesty cried. He spoke again, in a normal tone. “Do not ask the impossible of me.”

  “You have, on occasion, asked the impossible of me.”

  “Don’t reproach me, either,” His Majesty said. “Don’t you value my life, Chrétien?”

  “More than my own, Sire. As you know well.”

  “Mlle de la Croix leads you to this folly. Talking monsters, secret treasures! I never thought to see you—you!—baffled by a woman. You should have taken her—”

  “I do not take women, Sire,” Lucien said, offended.

  “You’re too scrupulous by half. One could mistake you for a Christian.”

  Lucien bit back his reply. Responding to the insult would not benefit him, or Marie-Josèphe, or the sea woman.

  “Your Majesty, Mlle de la Croix’ opinion is common sense—and unlike her brother’s, it’s disinterested.”

  “You’d have me believe my own blood lies to me.”

  “Would this be unique in your experience, Your Majesty?”

  If Louis expected the revelation of Yves’ parentage to surprise Lucien, he would be disappointed; but the King must be aware it was not much of a secret. Except, of course, to Yves and Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.

  Louis drew himself up angrily, suddenly burst out laughing, stopped, and regained his dignity.

  “I value your candor, Chrétien.”

  “I don’t say Yves de la Croix is a liar,” Lucien said. “I do say he has good reason to deceive himself.”

  “And Marie-Josèphe de la Croix has none?”

  “What reason? The brother wins your favor. The sister risks your ire.”

  “I cannot give up the sea monster,” Louis said. “I will not. Don’t ask me for the creature’s life, so you and I may remain friends.”

  Lucien bowed. I’ve done my best, he thought. I cannot do more.

  He had not expected to succeed, and though he hated to fail, he was surprised not to be disappointed.

  He was angry.

  Marie-Josèphe gulped wine from her silver goblet. As soon as the servant refilled it, she drained it again.

  A week ago, she thought, the gift of a silver goblet from the King would have pleased me beyond all measure. Only a week! She waved away the servant and put the goblet on the floor. Getting a little drunk might benefit her courage, but getting very drunk would impede her.

  Trumpets sounded a fanfare; drums announced the beginning of Carrousel. The jugglers and singers ran from the parade ground. Torches flared, hundreds bursting into flame simultaneously, filling the air with smoke and pitch, illuminating the Place d’Armes with harsh light and long shadows. The full moon hung huge and orange in the eastern sky, opposing the sun.

  Sherzad had only a few hours to live.

  The Carrousel teams galloped onto the practice field.

  His Majesty, as Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Ancient Rome, led the proce
ssion, riding the tallest spotted Chinese horse. Its red leather harness sparkled with an encrustation of rubies and diamonds; its crest exploded in pompoms of red and white feathers. Every buckle and fastening on saddle and bridle, breastcollar and crupper, glinted gold. Red and white ribbons fluttered from the horse’s mane and tail.

  The King wore a tunic paved with diamonds, while rubies nearly covered the lambrequins of the skirt and sleeves of his red leather armor. Silver ribbons, studded with diamonds, fastened his high-heeled red sandals. Gold dust adorned his bright blond perruke. A fantastic headdress of white ostrich plumes fastened with enormous rubies arched over his head; the plumes cascaded to his horse’s rump. He carried a round Roman shield. His device, the sun in beaten gold, dispersed clouds of burnished silver.

  The grandsons rode at His Majesty’s right, each in a variation of His Majesty’s costume, each on a spotted Chinese horse: His Majesty on a warhorse, Bourgogne on a cavalry charger, Anjou on a palfrey, Berri on a pony. The rest of the Roman team rode dapple greys.

  Lucien rode immediately behind the King. His shield bore the full moon, shining with the light of the sun.

  The teams circled the parade ground at a gallop. Riding his black Spanish charger, Monsieur carried a mirrored shield, to reflect the rays of his brother the Sun King. Lorraine rode beside him, on his matched black stallion. Together, in Japanese robes, lacquered armor, and fanciful helmets, they led their team two abreast.

  M. du Maine’s following, in turbans and voluminous desert robes, rode red-gold bays. Silk tassels of all colors trimmed their silver bridles. M. du Maine carried a branch of the laurel tree, sacred to the sun.

  Chartres led his band of ancient warriors, in their translucent Egyptian linen. He carried a tall sheaf of sunflowers that whipped in the wind, shedding yellow petals. His band of chestnuts challenged Maine’s bays, until the two troops raced head to head, running up on the heels of Monsieur’s team.

  Emeralds studded Monseigneur’s leather leggings and gleamed in the fur of his breechclout. The cloak of iridescent feathers fluttered from his shoulders. The Grand Dauphin carried a leather shield edged with egret plumes and painted with a silver eagle, its eyes turned to the golden sun.

  Monseigneur’s war-party crossed the parade ground in a wild bright chaos of feathers and jewels, leather fringe and beads, fur and ribbons. Each rider vied with all the others in extravagance and color; no rider had matched his horse to any other: piebald galloped next to skewbald, paint next to claybank. The Huron war chiefs rode with his group, as exotic as all the others in borrowed body-armor, lace, and their plumed Parisian hats.

  In the grandstand, the Prince of Japan looked as if he wished he were part of Carrousel, while the Shah of Persia looked as if he were glad he was not. The Queen of Nubia lounged upon cushions, protected from the moonlight by an awning of black silk held by her handmaidens.

  Each team rode its pattern. Monsieur, Chartres, and Maine strove for speed and precision, while Monseigneur’s band—to the astonishment and delight of the audience—excelled at feats of daring and bravado, standing upright on their saddles at the gallop, swooping down to snatch golden hoops from the ground.

  The moon rose halfway to its zenith. The galleon had sent no further news.

  In His Majesty’s Roman cavalry, Lucien rode Zelis into the Place d’Armes.

  As in their practice, the Roman troop split into two lines, into four, mirroring, double-mirroring the design.

  The riders turned inward from the corners of the parade ground and urged their horses to a dead run. All four lines of horses galloped straight for the center of the field, straight toward each other. The audience cried out in anticipation, and fell silent in apprehension.

  Lucien raced after the King, holding Zelis in her place.

  A moment’s hesitation, a moment’s change of speed, would explode the maneuver, crashing it into a pandemonium of screaming horses and fallen riders, a disaster as brutal as war. After such a collision—a collision involving the King and three of his four legitimate heirs—no one would think of the sea woman. She might disappear…

  Lucien could not bring himself to sabotage the drill.

  Zelis raced through the pattern, performing it cleanly. The four lines melded to two, to one; the horses pranced toward the aristocracy’s side of the grandstand. The audience screamed and cheered and threw their flowers to the ground before their King.

  The King rode to the foot of the grandstand. His subjects bowed; even the visiting monarchs rose in salute. At his signal, a line of baggage-wagons rolled onto the parade-ground. Ribbons festooned wagons and draft horses.

  “Cousins, I bring you tokens of my esteem.”

  He spoke to James and Mary of England. The footmen on the first wagon pulled a white silk cover from a painting twice the size of the portrait James had given Louis. The image of Louis, riding bareback in Roman armor, gazed majestically upon his exiled cousin.

  “So we shall never be parted.”

  “For our most distant cousin, come from his island fortress—”

  The second wagon bore an enormous tapestry, rolled like a scroll. The footmen wound it on its rollers, displaying to Japan its entire length in sections. Twice as tall as a man, a hundred paces long, it documented His Majesty’s triumphs, guarded over by the gods of classical Rome.

  “—a tapestry from the Gobelin manufactory, the finest in the world.”

  Three wagons glittered and sparkled and chimed with a trio of crystal chandeliers, which the King presented to the Queen of Nubia.

  “To illuminate your palace…though your beauty outshines their light.”

  The Shah of Persia’s gift required ten wagons, each carrying several enormous mirrors mounted in baroque frames.

  “Mirrors of French manufacture, the finest and clearest, for your hareem. And for our allies in New France—”

  A single wagon sufficed, but the gift to the Huron war chiefs was the most costly of all. Two mannequins, made to look like wild Americans by the feathers in their perrukes, displayed suits, with hats and gloves and shoes to match, of white velvet covered with diamonds.

  “—suits made to our own pattern.”

  Finally, His Majesty addressed Pope Innocent.

  “And for our holy cousin of Rome…”

  Two wagons rolled forward. Behind panels of patterned silk, an animal shrieked.

  “Exotic creatures.”

  Hope flashed through Lucien’s heart. He did not wish Pope Innocent’s inquisitors on any being, much less on the sea woman. Being butchered and cooked by M. Boursin might be more merciful, but being imprisoned by the Church was a postponement of death. It contained the possibility, however remote, of reprieve.

  “One wild man.”

  The footmen whipped away the panels. In the first wagon, a baboon screamed and bared its fangs and rattled its cage and shat copiously through the bars.

  “Two serpents, to remind us of the Garden, the fruit of knowledge, and our sins.”

  Two immense anacondas twined about each other, weighing down the branches of an orange tree.

  “And three great steeds, to carry the message of Holy Mother Church.”

  The three Grandsons of France rode forward, dismounted, led their spotted horses to the foot of the grandstand, and knelt before His Holiness. Bourgogne and Anjou performed their duty stoically, but when the Pope’s Swiss Guard took the reins of his pony, the duke de Berri burst into tears.

  Innocent’s disappointment could not match Lucien’s, but Lucien had to conceal his.

  “Bless you, children,” Innocent said to the princes. He rose to reply to the King. In a voice grave enough for a funeral oratory, he said, “Cousin, I will pray…for your soul.”

  Louis wheeled his horse and galloped from the parade ground. His teams clattered after him, ribbons streaming, jewels glittering, harness chiming with gold, leaving behind the steeds, the serpents, and the wild man.

  I can endure this no longer, Lucien thought.
The knowledge dismayed him, and freed him.

  26

  MARIE-JOSÈPHE SLIPPED AWAY from Lotte and Madame, losing herself in the crowd. She must creep unseen to the west side of the chateau and into the garden, where she could bribe away or steal one of the gardeners’ mule-carts.

  She wished she were riding Zachi. Then she could lead the cart instead of driving it, and put less burden on the mule. But if she took Zachi, she would implicate Count Lucien.

  Count Lucien rode in front of her, barring her way. In the moonlight he gleamed with rubies and diamonds.

  “You shouldn’t leave supper before the King.” He nodded toward the courtyard, where the strains of a merry dance intertwined with the fragrance of meat and wine and honey.

  “It’s nearly midnight. Sherzad has no other friend to be with her when she dies.”

  With a sharp gesture, Count Lucien flicked away her false explanation.

  “You have no intention of letting her die,” he said. “This will mean your downfall.”

  “I have no choice. There’s no word from the treasure ship—”

  “An hour ago, there was not. Now? I shall find out.”

  Boldly, she took his hand. “How is it that you always appear when I am thinking about you?”

  “It is because you think about me all the time.”

  “Sir—!”

  “As I think of you.” He bent down and kissed her fingers. He turned her hand over, gently, delicately, and kissed her palm.

  He wheeled Zelis around and galloped into the shadows.

  Supper was laid out under the moon in the Ministers’ Courtyard. The meal was light, only fourteen courses, to leave the guests a fine appetite for the last event of Carrousel, tomorrow’s banquet.

  “Do escort us to supper, Father Yves,” Mme de Chartres said softly. Her hand on Yves’ thigh traced out all the reasons her husband referred to her as Mme Lucifer. “My husband has deserted me to polish the dust from his serpent.”

  Her comment shocked Yves until he realized she meant the cobra on the headdress of Chartres’ costume. Then he wondered if she did mean the cobra. She held his right arm, Mlle d’Armagnac his left, and they led him to the courtyard. Trestle tables covered the cobblestones, candelabra lit the tables, and servants offered food and wine.