by EM Castellan
My heartbeat quickened again. “Where are we going?”
A smile teased the corners of his lips. “I think it’s time for a little bit of practice.” He knocked on the carriage wall to signal the driver to propel our vehicle into motion.
Our carriage lurched forward, at the same time as my heart. I hadn’t told anyone about my meeting with the king. Within an hour, my ladies would be knocking at my door, and I would be expected to attend to my daily duties and appointments. My mind whirled with frantic thoughts of what chaos my unexplained absence would bring about.
“We can’t just … leave,” I stammered.
Louis’s smile remained unperturbed. “Of course we can. I am the king of France.”
In a flash, I realized that those six words were Louis’s answer to everything. As Philippe had pointed out weeks ago, our monarch wasn’t used to hearing no. Picking up on my alarm, his gaze grew warmer.
“Henriette, don’t worry. I sent Moreau to say you aren’t feeling well, and that will keep everyone away from your apartments. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to hold a council all morning, and should I not be present … well, I have chosen my ministers for their discretion.”
His unwavering self-assurance settled some of my fears. Moreau had enough gravitas to convince everyone this charade was true. And if Philippe had found his way back to Armand as I suspected, it would likely take a while for my disappearance to register with him, by which time I would be back. I didn’t like these lies or this secrecy, but I had made the choice to lend my help to Louis, and I now had to live with its consequences, however unpleasant.
I forced myself to relax. “So where are we going?”
Our carriage splashed its way along the road leading out of the domain, the king’s musketeers trotting on either side.
“Where it should all begin,” Louis replied. “Versailles.”
* * *
The small château of Versailles stood even more dilapidated in the midsummer rain than it had in the spring sunshine. Its shutters closed against the elements, the hunting lodge sat forlorn, no sign of life within its dripping walls.
The caretaker rushed across the muddy forecourt, surprise at seeing the royal carriage pull through the estate’s iron gates etched all over his wrinkled face. Evidently Louis had neglected to warn him of our arrival. After a couple of hours being jostled along potholed roads, I was looking forward to a hot beverage by a warm fireplace, but while Moreau dismounted to speak with the caretaker, our vehicle made its way around the service buildings and along the side of the corps-de-logis.
Overgrown tree branches scraped the passing carriage and cracked under its wheels, slowing our progress, as if the forest strived to protect the château from intruders. I wiped the condensation from the window with my glove to catch a better glimpse of our surroundings. For a while, only greenery appeared in my field of vision: dripping foliage along with the occasional flash of moss-covered trunk.
Opposite me, Louis tapped his gem-studded cane on the wooden floor, his tense jaw betraying his impatience.
“The gardens, then?” I said to distract him, but also to find out what he had planned. Our ride together had been pleasant enough, though he was yet to share his plan with me.
“Indeed.” His face was inscrutable again, the polite smile back. There was something equally fascinating and disturbing in how quickly he was able to shift his expression and hide his true feelings. “I thought we could start with the water spell.”
I nodded my assent—he had mentioned this particular spell in more than one of his letters, and I had come to understand he was quite fond of it—but before I could reply, we emerged from the woods into the hunting lodge’s garden. By no means comparable to Le Nôtre’s artistic parterres, the landscape before us had the utilitarian feel of a place designed to meet the minimum requirements of what it should be. Eight large rectangular flower beds sat in a line behind the main building, a single small fountain in the center. The whole scenery might have had some charm, especially on a sunny day, however each garden plot was now overrun with weeds, and greenish moss covered the fountain, whose shape was unrecognizable.
The carriage door opened, revealing soaked musketeers and Moreau holding a very large umbrella. The king alighted, and after tightening my cloak around my shoulders for warmth, I followed suit. My satin shoes sank into the saturated ground, and I wished Louis had warned me of his plans so I had put on boots. But my irritation with him was quickly replaced by the more pressing concern of making my way to the fountain without slipping in the mud and falling headfirst onto the unkempt grass. Handing the umbrella to one of the guards, Moreau took hold of my arm with a firm hand. I was grateful for the gesture, as Louis strode forward with his gaze fixed ahead and with little regard for my well-being. I trotted to keep up with him, my dress and petticoats heavier with each step.
“This is it,” Louis announced once we stood before the derelict fountain. “We perform the spell here.”
I took a moment to catch my breath and to observe what might once have been a nymph or a Roman goddess. One of its arms was missing, and lichen covered the folds of its dress.
“Take off your gloves.”
The command startled me, until Louis peeled off his own gloves and I realized he meant for us to hold hands for the spell. Releasing myself from Moreau’s reassuring grasp, I obeyed the king’s order. Linking hands would help with the spell, and since I had decided to lend my power to Louis, I might as well stack the odds in our favor.
Self-assured and focused, Louis took my hand in his, the sudden intimacy sending a shiver up my arm. He fixed his golden gaze ahead and asked:
“Do you know the spell?”
“Yes,” I said, the trembling in my voice revealing the thumping in my heart. The last time he and I had performed a spell, it had been in an emergency, with neither of us really thinking about what we were doing. Now, however, was the real test of our partnership. I closed my eyes, forced a breath down my constricted lungs, and whispered the spell. “Écoule.”
Louis pulled at my magic, which sparked in golden dots and spread into the ground. I caught a fleck in my mind’s eye and followed it beneath our feet, where it mixed with the raindrops and melted into the rivulets that twirled toward the base of the fountain. Louis tightened his hold on me, crushing my fingers and making me gasp as he drew more magic from my core. Pain spread through my limbs and I wrenched my hand out of his grip. The spell broke.
“What on earth, Henriette?”
Louis’s pale lips were tight with anger, his expression furious. I took a step back from him, my pulse thrashing in my temples. I wanted to help him, but I refused to be hurt or to endanger my health in the process.
“It’s not working,” I said. I panted, sweat beading on my forehead despite the chills that ran through me.
“What?”
“It’s not supposed to feel like this.” I swallowed, and gathered my wits so my body would settle. “This felt … wrong.”
“What do you mean? You’re not supposed to feel anything. I’m performing the spell, not you.” Louis’s tone still rang impatient, but his anger had receded, and his gaze on me was attentive, waiting for an explanation.
“Yes.” I nodded, my mind replaying the last few minutes in an attempt to figure out where we’d strayed. “You do the spell. But I give the magic.”
Louis’s eyebrows pulled into a frown. “Exactly. I take your magic to do the spell. It’s simple.”
I opened my mouth to reply, then paused, Sister Marie-Pierre’s long-forgotten words echoing in my head from the depths of time. The Source controls the magic. The magicien has power over the spell. This was where we’d gone wrong. Louis was trying to control everything: not only the spell but also my magic.
“Well?” Louis said, his grip on his cane tightening as he grew annoyed again.
Hesitation made me ponder my reply. Since childhood, Louis had once said to me, I have been led to believe my magical abilities
were limited. He had assumed he wasn’t a talented magicien because his gift hadn’t been nurtured. Yet it dawned on me that there might very well be another reason behind his lack of magical skills. Louis had been raised to be king. To his own mother’s admission, he had been taught to be selfish and to be in control at all times. Of course he would struggle with an endeavor that required collaboration with someone else. But how could I say so without insulting him?
I clasped hands with him again to meet his gaze. Mother always said my diplomatic skills were among my most appealing features. Now was the moment to test them.
“Sire,” I said. “I fear whoever taught you about magic misled you. Of course you control the spell. However, the Source is the one who lends you the magic. This means I give it to you. You do not take it.”
His eyes widened in understanding, and for a heartbeat I wondered if my careful choice of words had still been too bold. I had just told a king who was used to taking anything he wanted he couldn’t have something if I didn’t choose to give it to him. I had just told a king no.
But Louis’s expression turned thoughtful. “Of course. The Source gives the magic.” He spoke as if to himself, repeating my words under his breath like he could hear the sense in them for the first time in his life. “If the magicien takes the power, the Source dies.”
As recent unfortunate events had proven, he was right. Taking the magic by force resulted in the death of the Source and the magicien becoming a murderer—a dark magicien according to François I’s law.
Louis patted my hand, his features relaxing. “I understand. It’s obvious once you’ve said it. I should be able to do the spell now.” He smiled, confident again, and turned back to the fountain.
Nervousness still gripped me, but his touch was light and his manner focused. Trust between the Source and the magicien is the key to a powerful spell, Sister Marie-Pierre always said. And trust had to begin somewhere.
“Écoule.”
This time, Louis’s tug on my magic was tentative, and the golden specks of my power slipped into the ground in gentle waves toward the fountain. It merged with each droplet of water contained in the soil and the abandoned sculpture, molding them into a distorted shape in the rain. I stared at the spell taking form before my eyes, my mouth gaping despite myself at such a wonder.
Under the heavy skies, the former fountain stretched and disappeared under curved jets of foaming water sprung from the ground. From the mass of twirling liquid, a four-horse chariot emerged, glittering tritons and whales peeking out from the churning water of the pond underneath. The water horses stamped their hooves and shook their translucent heads, while a man-shaped silhouette materialized on the chariot, the reins held in one hand and a laurel wreath in his hair.
Louis let out a delighted laugh, and the spell came crashing down. The water we had summoned from the ground collapsed into the fountain and overflowed, a muddy wave washing up at our feet, before settling into a rain-battered pond once more, the broken statue of the nymph at its center.
Louis let go of my hand, and I turned to gauge his reaction, expecting disappointment. Instead, a thrilled smile illuminated his face, and he clapped. “Well, that was amazing.”
Behind us, Moreau and the musketeers stood in the rain, dripping wet and their mouths gaping.
Confusion at his reaction gripped me. “But … the spell didn’t hold.”
Louis chuckled. “Does it matter? Henriette, for a first time, I think we did well. We just need more practice now.”
We. My heart swelled at the word. The king of France thought of me as a partner. We weren’t attuned enough to each other to perform a long-lasting spell yet, but for a first attempt, Louis was right: We had managed to work together and to create something wonderful, even if only for a moment. Which meant we could do it again.
Still grinning, Louis rubbed his hands together and stepped back toward his carriage. “That’s enough for today. Let’s go home.”
With my freezing feet and soaked skirts, I welcomed his decision with a sigh of relief. The horse-drawn vehicle wasn’t the warm fireplace I dreamed of, but it was dry and it provided blankets to keep me warm for the journey. Still, it took a good half hour before my limbs stopped shivering and my breathing settled. Undeterred by the cold or the wet, Louis didn’t ask after my health, too focused on his plans to notice much around him.
“There’s something I wish to do,” he said, as we splashed our way through one of the small villages we had to pass between Versailles and Fontainebleau. “I wish to perform a spell at the ballet.”
I tore my gaze away from the hovels outside to meet his eyes.
“A public display?”
My heart quickened again. Even if practice ensured we were able to perform a proper spell together, I wasn’t ready to disclose my powers in front of the whole court, especially when the number of Sources dwindled with every murder.
“In a way.” Louis leaned into me, and it was a struggle to remain focused on his eyes and not let my attention drift to his lips. “I want to do a spell, but I don’t want people to know you’re my Source.”
Relief made my shoulders sag. I should have expected he’d be thoughtful enough not to put me in danger. I still wasn’t sure how he planned on managing this though. A spell did require the Source and magicien to be in close proximity.
“What do you have in mind?”
His expression became triumphant, as if he were a cat that’d just been handed a bowl of milk.
“We’re going to use a decoy.”
CHAPTER X
On the eve of the premiere of the Ballet of the Seasons, the Queen Mother summoned me to her apartments. I hadn’t seen much of Anne d’Autriche in the last couple of weeks, as the rehearsals kept me busy all afternoon and my mornings were dedicated to my training with Louis. By now we had a well-established routine: I went for my morning swim in the canal, he met me on my way back, and under the pretense of a walk in the forest, we practiced spells and discussed magic until midday. For appearances’ sake, I was forced to choose a lady to chaperone us, which meant letting her in on my secret. As Louise had proven the most loyal and discreet so far, she was now the one who accompanied me on my morning outings. At first I had feared she would be reluctant to partake in a lie, but once Louis’s name had been spoken, she had been keen to help, even showing pleasure at serving the king of France in such a special way. Meanwhile, Athénaïs had struggled to hide her relief when I had told her I wouldn’t need her every morning anymore. Her reaction had stung more than I cared to admit, as I had grown to enjoy her company during those outings.
So when the letter from Louis’s mother arrived on Sunday morning, I welcomed the invitation: A visit to my mother-in-law was long overdue. After mass, I made my way to her apartments, and she received me in her salon, sat by the fireplace with the portraits of the king’s ancestors looking down at us with judgmental glares. It was only when she didn’t offer me any refreshments and dismissed all our ladies instead that I noticed her own severe expression, and my heart dropped.
“Henriette.” The smile she gave me was sweet, but the way she folded her hands with her shoulders straight in her black mourning dress made me wary. My cough had been intermittent since the morning, and I pulled out my handkerchief to hide my discomfort.
“I thought it was time we had a talk,” she said.
My mind raced as I flicked through the reasons behind her request for a discussion. Had she found out my marriage hadn’t been consummated? Did she know I was a Source? Was she concerned my lead role in the ballet would overshadow the queen? But her next words left me stunned.
“What do you know about the Fronde?”
I gaped for a second before remembering royal princesses don’t leave their mouths open, and I scrambled for an answer, piecing together long-buried facts.
“It was a revolt … ten years ago? When the king was a child.” My voice grew more confident as memories resurfaced. “The Parliament rebelled fi
rst, to defend their rights and liberties, then the nobles, and in the end the people of Paris. You had to flee the Louvre, with your sons and Cardinal Mazarin.”
My earlier panic receded, replaced by compassion when I recalled the Queen Mother’s part in the revolt. The start of the rebellion in France had coincided with the civil war in England, and the execution of my father. It had gone on for a few years, until the Queen Regent and the cardinal had crushed it.
The Queen Mother nodded, as if impressed by my recollections. “We did. And do you happen to know how we came so close to disaster? How my son almost lost his throne and his life?”
Her composure remained calm, the strain in her voice the only sign of how distressing these memories were to her. I shook my head. To protect or to avoid upsetting me, my mother had never recounted the events of those years in any more detail. Six years younger than Louis, I had been a child when they’d happened. We’d been living at the convent then, and I had had no firsthand experience of this turmoil.
“I don’t.”
“We were betrayed,” she explained. “My late husband’s brother, my son’s uncle, who was in charge of stopping the uprising in Paris, chose to side with the rebels instead.”
“Gaston d’Orléans.” I blurted out the name as it came back to me. He had died the previous year, allowing Philippe, as the king’s brother, to inherit his title and his charges.
“Yes.” The Queen Mother’s golden stare was sharp and her tone uncompromising. “Gaston was a prince of the blood, he could pretend to the throne, and he chose to go against us. We pardoned him, but we didn’t forget what he’d done. What he’d tried to do.”
Her posture remained rigid and poised, but her fiery gaze let on how much passion still resided inside her. Here was a woman who’d married a king, been regent, ruled a kingdom while raising another king, and survived more than four decades of politics and intrigues at the heart of the French court.