The Collector of Dying Breaths

by M. J. Rose

  “It has a pleasant odor, thank you, Maître René. I’m sure Lady de Poitiers will appreciate you thinking of her.” He smiled when he said her name.

  I knew that the hours Henry spent with Diane de Poitiers were an escape. The cream I was giving him would hopefully make that time unfulfilling and leave him hungry for a woman. If my efforts were discovered, it could mean banishment from court. But if Catherine couldn’t produce an heir, the marriage would be annulled and we’d both be banished anyway.

  He closed the jar, signaling the end of the meeting. But giving him this gift wasn’t all that was on my mind.

  “May I speak, Your Highness?”

  “Of course, René, what is it?”

  “It is very delicate.” I glanced at the men in the room with us. There were over a dozen, too many I didn’t know.

  Henry dismissed all but his valet of the bedchamber, with whom I was familiar. Perhaps it was dangerous to speak in front of him, but I had no choice. I would just bribe him later with gifts for his lady.

  “Two days ago I took some lotions to the princess . . .”

  As Henry allowed his man to tie his doublet he asked, “Why do you hesitate, René?”

  “Before I continue, I must be sure you understand that what I am about to tell you I am relating only because I believe it is for the good of the Crown.”

  “All right then, I understand.” He was annoyed at my coyness, and I resolved to speak without delay.

  “When I went to visit the princess, that astrologer was there. The filthy Ruggieri with all sorts of talismans and amulets.” I described what I had seen. “I even saw vials of blood.”

  “The devil you say! Whose blood?”

  “That I don’t know for sure. Ruggieri said it was the blood of an infant, but he might have said that for effect. It could have been the blood of any animal. But the purpose of my telling you this is that the princess is becoming more and more dependent on him, and it is a threat to your position. There are spies and enemies everywhere, as you know. What if the church were to hear black magic is being practiced in the court? Catherine would be blamed when it is not her fault. Like me, he hails from her hometown, and she’s comfortable with him. But there are more important things now than her having Florentines around her.”

  Henry quizzed me on the details of what else I had seen and heard, then turned and walked to a chest of drawers. Opening one, he pulled out a small packet on a string.

  “Does this look familiar to you? The princess gave it to me yesterday and begged me to wear it.”

  I took it from him.

  Hanging from a red silken cord was a small leather pouch. It had been tanned and infused with a boring fragrance of basic lemon and myrrh.

  Leather had to be scented after it was tanned, or it stank. This was not the scented leather I sold in my shop. Thinking he was capable of all things, Ruggieri must have done this himself.

  “Open it,” Henry ordered.

  I released the knot and pulled apart the folds.

  Inside was a miniature glass bottle filled with clear liquid. Swimming inside were three heliotrope stones and a piece of black jasper. The top of the bottle was bound with some kind of hemp twisted with the iridescent threads from a peacock feather.

  “Yes, these were the kind of things I saw.”

  “Catherine told me it was a good luck charm and begged me to wear it. I didn’t pay much mind. A few stones and thread. She has her ways, and I do want to please her. But this sounds as if it’s getting out of hand. I have heard rumors about the astrologer and his magic, but if you saw him performing it with the princess there, it is more serious than I thought.”

  “Yes. I saw him saying spells and teaching Her Highness how to say them as well.”

  The conversation could not have gone better had I written it myself. This is for you, Ruggieri, I was thinking. Not just for trying to oust me but for what you are doing to corrupt and endanger Catherine. This is for your dark ways and corrupt practices. For trying to sway the princess into believing you have powers and wisdom you do not have.

  “His time at court must come to an end,” Henry said. “You are right. If the Protestants were to hear that my wife was engaged in black magic and spread rumors to that effect, it could be ruinous for her and for me.”

  He held out his hand for the amulet, which I gladly gave him back.

  “Thank you, René. You’ve proved yet again that you are a good friend to our family.”

  “I consider it my duty.” I hesitated. “One other thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Having the princess trust me allowed me to discover this travesty. If she were to begin to doubt my loyalty, then—”

  He cut me off. “Have no fear. I would never tell her who spoke to me. As you said yourself, it is of greater benefit to me to have her faith in you unsullied.”

  I bowed. “Thank you. And you can tell Madame de Poitiers that the cream can be applied in both the morning and night generously. There’s enough for a month in that jar.”

  It was easy to keep abreast of the gossip making its way through the court. Especially for me. I had learned early how small gifts to Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting and the prince’s men and even de Poitiers’s ladies engendered confidences. Everyone who came to my shop had tales to tell. So I knew swiftly that there had been a huge row between the prince and princess on the day after my visit.

  Lady Closier—one of Catherine’s ladies and a member of her esteemed escadron volant, her flying squadron of ambassadors and spies—sat on the couch in my shop, and there she repeated most of the conversation to me as I plied her with wine. My fragrance emporium hung above the Seine, perched on the bridge as if it were a nest built by a bird. Unlike other stores, mine resembled a sitting room. I had chairs and settees. Glass vitrines filled with exquisite bottles created by fine jewelers. My laboratory, in the back, was an exact duplicate, in miniature of course, of the one at Santa Maria Novella where I had learned my trade. Sometimes I would be so caught up in working that I’d stop and listen for Serapino’s footsteps.

  “Their fight rang through the halls of the palace,” Lady Closier whispered as she drank more of the robust red wine I’d offered. Customers engaged in conversation and plied with wine or chocolates always purchased more goods, so I always had plenty on hand.

  “Henry demanded that Catherine tell Ruggieri to leave the court, or Henry himself would go to the church and report the astrologer as a heretic and sorcerer.”

  “And what did Catherine say?” I asked as I offered Closier a bonbon.

  “She was furious and demanded to know who had told him about Ruggieri’s spells.”

  “Whom did he name?” I held my breath.

  “No one. He told her it was common knowledge that the astrologer was doing more than reading the stars and making entertaining suggestions about what the future may hold.”

  “How did she take that?”

  “You know my lady is not afraid of her husband. Ever respectful, she is an independent and intelligent woman and never pretends otherwise. So she proceeded to argue with Henry, telling him that astrological predictions were not entertaining but rather important, and that banishing Ruggieri from court would hurt them all. Even be dangerous for the future of the kingdom.”

  “I can’t imagine he took well to that,” I said.

  “Not at all. He was furious and told her that was nonsense. That he hadn’t realized how far her reliance on Ruggieri had gone and she was confused about the man’s abilities. She countered by reminding him that Ruggieri had foretold her future, saying she would be a queen years before she even married the prince.

  “Then Henry said, ‘Not a very difficult guess. You were the richest young woman in all of Europe. Certainly everyone knew a marriage would be made to put you on the throne or close to it.’ ”

  �
��And what was the result of this bickering?” I asked as I refilled her glass. Closier gave me one of the coy smiles that she was known for and, though we were quite alone, leaned closer as if to tell me a secret she didn’t want anyone else to hear. Like all of Catherine’s ladies, she was not without her charms, and I had slept with her. I knew how she smelled when she lay in my bed, satiated and spent. She was neither an inventive nor exciting lover, and after the conquest was over, I lost interest. That was usually the case with the women I bedded. The chase excited me, but then I grew bored. The ladies never seemed to mind when the liaisons ended as long as I gave them expensive bottles of perfumes and creams, promising them they were the very same the princess used. It often seemed they were more pleased with my gifts than they had been with my attentions. And my coterie of bright and beautiful chirping birds continued to return to the shop.

  At that point I was unmarried but had two daughters and one son that I supported. I planned to take my son as my apprentice and give him my name as soon as he was old enough.

  “My lady lost the battle,” Closier said. “The prince, who rarely makes such demands on her, insisted that she send Ruggieri away or she would leave him no choice but to do it himself.”

  I turned away to fuss with a bottle of perfume I was filling for her lest she see the delight on my face.

  “And did she agree then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Ruggieri still at court?”

  “No. My lady called him to her chambers and told him that for his own safety he needed to leave Paris. She was upset and wept as she bade him good-bye.”

  I wondered if Catherine would cry if I left the court. Lady Closier drank more of her wine.

  “But I don’t think that she’s thinking that much about Ruggieri now,” she added.

  “Why is that?”

  Outside a ship was going down the river, and shouts from the men on board filled the shop. I glanced out and saw the sails of the king’s barge.

  “The prince has been more attentive to Catherine than usual.”

  I sat down beside Lady Closier and touched her cheek with my finger. “Your skin looks lovely. You are using all the lotions I’ve given you in the morning and before you go to sleep?”

  “Yes, yes, but don’t you want to hear about the prince?”

  I did, but I couldn’t appear to be too interested. And besides, the idea of Ruggieri being gone had pleased me so much I felt a celebration was in order.

  “I do, of course I do. But first . . .” I leaned over and kissed her. It was an easy way to test the waters and see if she would allow me to take pleasure with her.

  My advance was met with a surprised resistance for a moment, and then her lips parted and welcomed me. It was late in the day, and I didn’t concern myself with locking the door. I gently pushed her down on the chaise. I was pleased that she, along with the princess’s other intimates, was following Catherine’s regime and bathing once a week. Closier smelled of my perfumes mixed with the natural healthy oils of her own skin, and the scent aroused me.

  It was not my artistry, but rather it was the art of perfumery that did it. Aromas bypass thoughts and go straight to one’s emotions. Smelling Closier, I felt fulfilled, excited and desirous all at the same time. I wanted to bury my face in the flesh that was presenting the scent so gloriously.

  A woman wearing my perfume was a gift to be enjoyed and reveled in.

  I released my cock from my pantaloons and found her waiting for me, wet and wanting underneath her voluminous petticoats. Stroking her slowly, I felt her slickness build. If a woman is freshly bathed and you excite her, the salty scent can inflame the senses. Like ambergris, it isn’t flowery or quiet. There are no blossoms it brings to mind. But it can drive a man mad. I lifted my fingers to my nose and inhaled. And then I burrowed under her skirts and buried my face between her legs. My lovers told me few men did this to them, and I was astounded. I found such excitement there in the dark, my head cosseted by the soft silks and laces that tickled my cheeks and forehead. In the quiet world between a woman’s legs a man could forget the intrigues of the court and the quest for power and riches. The past disappeared; the future did not matter. The world existed in the woman’s quivering flesh, the straining and throbbing between your own legs. Nothing else mattered but the want—the pure and demanding want. And to give yourself over to it was to indulge in the most perfect of moments.

  Closier was writhing beneath my tongue, and I played with her a little bit longer, knowing that the more I waited, the greater would be my release. Finally she arched under me. Then came that odd tightening of her muscles, and I knew she was caught up in her own pleasure and enjoying “la petite mort,” as the French call it. So apt a name for it too. For is it not a little death? A short time when your thoughts disappear and you become nothing but your own body.

  I had heard men and women talk of romantic love and wondered what that must be like. I knew other kinds of love. For Catherine, my savior, the strong, willful, intelligent woman who I believed I would die to protect. For my creations. For Serapino, my beloved teacher, protector and family. But passionate love? No, that compartment of my heart had never opened. I satisfied myself with moments such as the one I was enjoying with Closier.

  As I slowly entered her body, gliding in on her slickness, I felt the red hot-blooded warmth of her engulf me and surround me and throb to welcome me. It did not take long then. From her breathing I knew she had already exhausted herself, and I remembered she was not easy to please twice in one session.

  I thrust into her deeply, again, and then again, and then let go with wonderful abandon, feeling elation and release.

  As she cleaned up and I poured her a bit more wine, I asked her when the court was next leaving Paris. I was pretending to have forgotten that she’d been about to tell me something before our trysting began.

  “The prince wants to go to Fontainebleau,” she said and then remembered that she had gossip to share. “The most interesting development, René. The prince has been to visit Catherine every night for the last week and he has been more passionate than ever. I can tell from the look in her eyes.”

  “Really?” I asked, trying to sound only mildly interested.

  “Yes, and Catherine is giving you the credit. She says it is your perfume, René. She has told me he is more aroused with her and that he does things to her that he never did before.”

  “The things I do to you?” I leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek—in that moment so pleased by the news I needed to express myself.

  She giggled and then continued. “There’s more gossip too. Diane de Poitiers seems to have taken to her bed because of it. She sleeps and sleeps. The doctors have been called, but they can’t find any malady.”

  “How upsetting,” I said, feigning surprise and then curiosity. “She just sleeps?”

  “They are saying that the prince must have turned away from her or that she’s found out about his new passion for his wife and it’s depressed her so much that she is looking for solace in dreams. Why are you smiling at this news, René? What is your secret? You have the most inscrutable eyes. I can’t tell what you are thinking at all.”

  I didn’t tell her, but at that moment I was thinking about Ruggieri and that I had bested him in this round of the dangerous game we were playing against each other.

  Chapter 21

  THE PRESENT

  THURSDAY, MARCH 20

  BARBIZON, FRANCE

  He’d called her an hour ago—the last voice she’d expected to hear, the only voice she’d wanted to hear—and told her that he was at the inn in town and wanted to know if she could meet him. Jac had been expecting Griffin to send her the results in an email or via a package. Not to bring them to her in person.

  When she asked why he was in France, he said he’d explain everything when he saw her.


  And now they were in the lobby of the hotel, and she was smelling his wonderful lemon-and-honey-and-musk scent and wanted to cry. Why did she have to keep losing this man? This was who she was meant to be with. And yet he’d caused her more pain and longing, more lost lonely nights than anyone else in her life. She should hate him. But she couldn’t. He was in her blood.

  Jac’s whole body vibrated like a violin string, reverberating from just this one brief embrace. Griffin let her go. She didn’t want him to. She wanted to stay within the familiar world created by his arms. Wanted to keep smelling his skin. No matter how much time passed, no matter how long it had been since she’d seen him last, as soon as they were together, she felt connected to him. No man had ever affected her on such a deep visceral level. Never had she met anyone who just glancing at across a room made blood rush to her face and heat her skin.

  It was chemical. No, alchemical. Their connection was a combustion. Separate elements, when combined, caused a unique reaction. Just looking at his cheekbones, at the fine skin. His full lower lip. The thick hair shot through with gray. The hooded eyes. She always wanted to laugh at her first response to seeing him after any time had gone by—she actually felt weak. The word “swoon” had been created for this response, she thought, not for the first time. This man’s unintentional physical power over her scared her.

  “I thought that it would be better to explain all this in person,” he said and smiled. “Would you like to have a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, I would. I’m still in shock that you’re here, in Barbizon.”

  “You need help, don’t you?”

  He pulled out a chair.

  Jac was caught off guard. She had never doubted that once Griffin had loved her. She’d been sure of it. At least for a time. And she had never doubted that he was attracted to her still. The week they’d spent in Paris, searching for Robbie, had proved that to her. But she had no idea if she was important to him. Or how deep his affection still went. She didn’t know if he thought about her the same way that she thought about him. He had been the single most important romantic relationship in her life. The one by which every other was measured.