Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  Carriages waited, and beyond them, in the shade of trees, a buffet, so that they might eat before they journeyed. Colbert was nothing if not efficient.

  “I’m already tired,” Barbara said after they pushed their way through courtiers to get something from the buffet. Richard, Alice saw, made certain Renée received a full plate of food, found her a chair, and then draped himself at her feet to smile up at her as she fed him with her fingers.

  “We’re leaving.” It was d’Effiat, snapping at Alice and Barbara as if they were disobedient dogs. With him was Henri Ange, who lifted an eyebrow ironically to Alice.

  “Now?” Alice said. She and Barbara had not eaten more than a few mouthfuls.

  “We depart for Saint Germain immediately. It is Monsieur’s wish. Find your carriage and place your bony English ass into it.”

  Ignoring his insult, Alice put down her plate, walked over to Renée. “Renée,” she said, “we’re ordered to leave. See if you can get into the princess’s carriage, and save a place for Barbara and me. Hurry, or we’ll have to ride with the Dragon, and you know what she’s going to say to you.”

  Richard stood, dusted himself off as Renée rushed away. “What will the Dragon say to Mademoiselle de Keroualle?”

  “She’ll lecture her about allowing you to take so much of her time on the journey over, not to mention kissing her fingers as we all just witnessed.”

  “I intend to marry her.”

  “Excellent. The sooner you let the Dragon know, the better. And I’d call upon Madame, if it were me.”

  “You would, would you? Do you always know what everyone else should do?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed Barbara’s hand and ran to the princess’s carriage. In the carriage, Princesse Henriette sat silently, her face stony. Beside her, sitting gravely and quietly, as if she felt the upset, was her little niece the Lady Anne, York’s daughter.

  “No chatter, please,” said Princesse Henriette. “I have the headache.” She looked down at the Lady Anne. “Do you think you can be very quiet for me? Just for a while.”

  At a knock upon the carriage door, a lady-in-waiting leaned out the window and took a small glass bottle from Henri Ange. His eyes met Alice’s, and each considered the other for a long moment.

  “For your headache, ma’am,” said the lady-in-waiting, and Princesse Henriette uncorked the bottle, drank the liquid in a gulp, and closed her eyes.

  THE JOURNEY TO the royal palace of Saint Germain was a tooth-rattling five days by carriage. On the first day, when they stopped to rest at a château, Richard found Alice, who’d hidden herself away in a window seat to read, and he asked her about Monsieur and the household, watching her face closely as she marked her place in the book with a finger and bit her lip, thinking, he could see clearly, about what to say, considering every word. Her caution amused him, but it also alerted him. There were undercurrents in this household that even he, a stranger to it, could feel.

  “There is no love between them anymore, though she tries to do her duty. It is a most unhappy household. There was a lover, his—”

  “The Chavalier de Lorraine?”

  “Yes, and Monsieur was besotted with him, and the chevalier hated her, took command of the household, began dismissing her servants, Monsieur doing anything he asked, and she fought him, going to King Louis, who has a high regard for her. At any rate, the chevalier encouraged Monsieur to disobedience and arrogance against his brother, which was a mistake, and he was exiled. Monsieur blamed Madame, and even now he stays in contact with his loved one.”

  “Tell me about Monsieur.” The information in the official file on Monsieur was thus—loved by his brother, the king, yet allowed no responsibility, no real service. He did not sit upon the council. He did not even have the governorship of a city or a province. Spoiled by the court, his brother, their mother. Petty and cruel as well as brilliant and sometimes kind. A man of discernment and distinctive taste. Still distraught over the exile of his lover, the Chevalier de Lorraine, a troublemaker to the highest degree.

  Alice wrinkled her nose. “A man who may weep for days over nothing and shed not a tear for that which matters. He worships his brother and yet is not always loyal. Fickle. Vindictive. I have a few questions for you, Lieutenant. Why are you here? I find it hard to believe that your task is the simple one of teaching English.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the old saying?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  She frowned and went back to her book.

  ON THE SECOND DAY, Richard managed to obtain an interview with Princesse Henriette. He was brought to her bedchamber in the château at which they were resting by one of her ladies-in-waiting. The princess sat in a chair in afternoon light made by long, opened windows that overlooked the château’s park; Alice, sitting on a footstool, read to her. It was the duty of the maids of honor to accompany, to amuse, to assist. At a gesture from the princess, Alice glanced at Richard and then moved away obediently.

  He’s going to ask for Renée’s hand, she thought, and something in her didn’t like it, but she walked over to Barbara and Renée, who played cards in a corner of the bedchamber. Women were in and out, bustling everywhere, taking the gown the princess would wear that night to be pressed, choosing the jewels she’d wear at supper, brewing the special chicory water she liked to drink in the afternoons, doing all the necessary small chores that made her life comfortable.

  “I think he’s going to ask for your hand,” Alice whispered, her eyes sharp to see what would show on Renée’s face. Happiness. Alice went to a window, pleating the long drapery there, staring out at the stretch of lawn, the trees that made a shady walking path, gardeners moving to and fro. Barbara came up behind her.

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s a good match. She hasn’t the dowry or name to attract a soul here, so it’s a good match. You know how I want all of us married well. I’m happy for her.”

  “Alice, you don’t…”

  “I don’t what?” The question was sharp.

  “Mind, do you? Because you seem out of sorts.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not out of sorts. Leave me alone.”

  Richard knelt on one knee before the princess.

  “Now, my dear tutor,” she said, “shall we speak in English or French?”

  “French might be easier for what I wish to ask.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Your permission to court Mademoiselle de Keroualle.”

  “I thought so. You’ve been very open in your regard.” There was reproof in her tone. Before marriage, a woman’s reputation was as important as her inheritance. “What can you offer her?”

  “My heart. My most steadfast regard, the promise that I would treasure her all the days of my life.”

  “Very prettily said, but life, as you know, requires more.”

  “My estate is not all that it could be, I will not lie. We have not recovered yet from the war. But I can offer her a good home, with farms and orchards and sheep, which keep us from lack and provide some income, and I mean to make it better, to add to it, to build it back to what it was and more. I mean to make her a countess one day, if she will have me.”

  “What need do you have of my permission? I am not her father.”

  “I would not want you to think me forward, to think that I have improper intentions toward her, when what I feel is respect and what I wish to do is take care of her in all ways. I would teach her, as I have been taught, of love, that it bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, that it never fails.”

  “What do you quote to me?”

  “From the Bible, Madame.”

  “The Bible. You are a man of God, then?”

  “I would hope so.” He leaned toward her. “And I would say to you, while I have this opportunity to speak so privately, that I am commanded by your brother His Ma
jesty to watch over you, and I take that command to my heart. I am your praetorian guard, Madame, your defender, your protector, your champion. Whatever you need of me, you have only to ask.”

  He knew she was aware of the fiction of his being a tutor, but he’d been wishing to say something to her since the return voyage began. In Dover, they’d called her fairy princess because she was so enchanting and charming. Now, it was as if he witnessed invisible gossamer wings fold back into themselves.

  After Richard was seen from the bedchamber, Princesse Henriette motioned for Renée to join her at the window, examining the maid of honor’s face in light that hid nothing. Words came into the princess’s mind, words the English trooper had sung in his tender voice: There’s garden in her face, where roses and white lilies grow. Dangerous to be so beautiful. There were already those who desired her for it. “You know what he wished to speak of?”

  “Yes, Madame, I do.”

  “It pleases you?”

  The cheeks were suddenly, vividly roses. “I would like to be a wife.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes, if it please you.”

  Princesse Henriette was stern. “Please me? I’ve nothing to do with it. A husband and wife must please each other. I want you to remember your reputation. Don’t allow your regard for him to make you less than all your mother would expect. And he must ask permission from your father to court you.”

  “Of course.”

  Relenting a little, remembering her own happiness at what now seemed long ago, the princess said, “I imagine I can find a little something extra to put in your dower.” She reached out and touched one soft cheek. “He seems a good man. You are fortunate in that. Tell Alice to come and read to me again.”

  LATER THEY ALL walked in the park of the château, down a lane of chestnut trees toward a landscape canal, the latest fashion, a long rectangular pool of water set in a garden. Richard walked among the maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting, as if he were one of them. In high spirits, he teased one and all; his sisters had taught him much about teasing females. He insisted on beginning English lessons, making them laugh as he called out words in English, then explained them in French: “Tree, leaf, sunlight, stones, bad dogs, beautiful women.”

  At a bench, Princesse Henriette sat down abruptly, waving the others onward with their walk.

  “I’ll stay with her,” Alice said, and she sat on the bench, watching the spaniels, who were running back and forth, torn between their loyalty to their mistress and the delight of a longer walk. Alice had something she must ask the princess; this thing with Richard and Renée brought it to the forefront, and here was her moment, but the princess did not seem well. Her face was pale, even with the rouge on it, and there was perspiration above her lip. Dark circles were under her eyes.

  “Are you well, Madame?”

  “I feel strange.”

  “Madame, had you time to speak with His Grace the Duke of Balmoral about me?”

  “I did not.”

  Hugely disappointed, Alice turned her face away, but the princess was no fool. She put her hand on Alice’s chin and made her look into her eyes. “I’ve disappointed you.”

  “No.”

  “You lie, but you do love me, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s what Queen Catherine said, that you serve firmly and steadfastly, that I was fortunate to have you in my household. I know you don’t tattle on me, even though you’ve been offered a pretty coin to do it. I will write your duke a letter broaching the subject as soon as I’m settled. I promise.”

  They could hear laughter from the direction of the landscape canal. Princesse Henriette stood up, smiling. “Whatever is he saying to make them laugh? Monsieur would disapprove.” She smiled more genuinely at the thought of that. “Come, no sulks from you. They are not becoming to a future duchess. We mustn’t miss the fun. I must learn my English, too. It will upset Monsieur. I think I approve of this Lieutenant Saylor. What do you think?”

  “There’s something fine in his eyes.” Something strong and solid, thought Alice, that a woman could warm her hands and heart upon in a cold, cold world.

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED in Paris, Princesse Henriette ordered her ladies to dress in their finest, and she returned to her chambers in the Palais Royal, her palace in that city, to do the same. Everyone was on alert. Only the handsomest, fastest horses would do, only the most decorated of carriages, of harnesses. Everyone was to sparkle with jewels. They would go to Saint Germain in grand style, as befitting a princess of England and of France. Alice was excited that Barbara was finally to see the grandest, most sophisticated court in the world. They journeyed toward Saint Germain en Laye, King Louis’s favorite château, the palace of his ancestors where he himself had been born. It nestled on a high hill overlooking the Seine River. When the palace was in sight, word passed through the entourage that His Majesty himself waited outside the forecourt, all the court with him.

  The carriage Alice and Barbara and the maids of honor were in stopped. The Dragon was at the door, breathing fire. They were to assemble behind Madame, and quickly. Princesse Henriette had stepped from her carriage, was going to walk on foot to the king. It was the kind of gesture the French adored. Alice and the others hurried to take their places behind her ladies-in-waiting. It was a perfect day, the sun shining down on grand spectacle. Troops were lined all along the road, to honor the princess. They stretched for a mile or more. Ahead could be seen the king, behind him his court, and behind them, behind an enormous opened gate, the beautiful towers of the huge palace of Saint Germain en Laye.

  “My soul,” breathed Barbara, taking in the gowns, the jewels, the feathers and laces, the silver and gold trappings on horses, the ribbons tied in manes and tails, the troops of soldiers, both household and army, standing at attention, the full spectacle of the court gathered in a semicircle behind King Louis. Princesse Henriette, hand in hand with little Lady Anne, walked to King Louis. He was the altar she must approach before she could properly return to court.

  “There he is,” Alice said to Barbara, though any fool could have told which man was king. “Isn’t he handsome?”

  “Yes.”

  The word was a gulp. King Louis was dark eyed from his Italian forebears, with a sensual mouth from his French ones; he was muscled and lean from acrobatics and dancing, from riding and walking, from hunting and fencing. A man of all parts, he was a graceful dancer in court ballets, an accomplished musician, a patron to artists and craftsmen, a firm ruler over his kingdom, and a warrior. He’d spent the last year conquering the Spanish Netherlands to the shock and dismay of the rest of the world. The only man wearing his hat, its thick white feathers nesting about the brim like birds at rest, he raised Princesse Henriette up out of her curtsy and kissed her cheeks before taking off the hat—an enormous compliment—to bow to the Lady Anne.

  “Which one is Monsieur?”

  Alice scanned faces, not believing what she saw—or didn’t see. “He isn’t here.” If the insult at Calais had been huge, this one was even larger. There would be fireworks, and not the ones King Louis had likely ordered, over this.

  “Which one is Madame de Montespan?” asked Barbara. The new mistress had been the talk of the visit to Dover, with the French bragging on her as if she were a goddess.

  “That one, see? In the blue.”

  Barbara took in the sight of a lovely, lively, smiling, smooth face with big eyes and a painted red mouth and the thickest head of blond hair possible, hair woven through with sapphires and pearls, which also were in ropes around her neck.

  “And La Vallière?”

  “There. In ivory.”

  A very slender woman stood beside the sparkling Montespan.

  “I thought she would be more beautiful.”

  “She is.”

  “She looks sad.”

  “Yes. He has not treated her well.”

  “The queen?” asked Barbara, when she could tear her eyes away from t
he slender woman who did not smile and the lively one who did nothing else.

  “There.”

  Barbara took in the sight of a woman so short, she was barely taller than the dwarf standing on each side of her. Stout and short armed, the queen had a large nose, and her hair, never mind the many diamonds sparkling there, was frizzy. Barbara was silent with amazement, and Alice was pleased, so pleased, to show her friend this new glamorous world where the handsomest king in Christendom, the young lion of Europe, did as he pleased with a practiced politeness and grace that put other men to shame. He ruled his court with a courteous iron will. A morning frown from him could distract everyone for hours. This was the center of the world, and one ought to see it, at least once.

  King Louis led his sister-in-law toward the palace. Official decorum was breaking as courtiers rushed to surround them and watch, never minding now who should be where.

  “What’s happening?” asked Barbara.

  “Oh, there will be some endless banquet or another. Just stay by me. Renée, there’s the Prince de Condé. Introduce Lieutenant Saylor to him.” Alice shook her head at Renée’s lack of imagination. She’d overheard Richard talking of the French general, and here the great man was, only a few feet away. Princesse Henriette was a favorite of his. For that, he’d be polite to her maid of honor, and Renée’s beauty usually assured politeness anyway. If she was going to be wife to this young man, who had his way to make in the world, she was going to have to do her part.

  RENÉE AND BARBARA cowered together, their hands over their ears at the sound of the quarreling, which came from Madame’s bedchamber in this, the part of Saint Germain en Laye that Monsieur used; but Alice had her ear to the door to hear whatever she could. It was night. The quarrel that had been brewing since the return, the quarrel that never ended, was in progress on the other side of this door. Her eyes moved over the other women in this outer room. Let them tattle on her all they wished.