Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  ALICE SAW THE reflection of herself sitting near a candle, opening the note. He vowed his love and devotion, told her, no matter what, to wait for him, that he’d be back to France, back to her. He wrote very firmly, very evenly. She touched one of the letters, the R in his name, before refolding it and walking slowly, wearily, like an old woman, up the stairs to the bedchambers.

  CHAPTER 9

  Paris exploded with rumors. The Chevalier de Lorraine held Madame and poured arsenic down her throat. Monsieur commanded the poisoning. No, Monsieur knew nothing of it. The poison was in the chicory water. It wasn’t in the chicory. It was on the cup. Where was the cup?

  Louis, king of France, walked a long gallery in his palace in Paris, the Louvre. He passed statues brought up from the dirt of ancient Rome, molded and shaped by other empire builders who understood the passion for empire. He passed heavy tapestries whose bright threads depicted tales of the Bible, tales of mythology, tales of his reign, which he was turning into mythology, woven by the finest artisans in the world, right here in his own kingdom, part of the industry he and his minister Colbert were creating. He passed paintings by Titian and Rubens and Correggio, a collection his forebears had begun, to which he added—some of the paintings, ironically, purchased from the Roundhead Oliver Cromwell, when England had been in its protectorate and sold off the treasures of its beheaded king, who was Louis’s uncle. The chamber was long, high ceilinged, made of marble, and cold—so that the fireplaces, big enough to roast oxen whole, never warmed it in wintertime.

  Was it true? Had his brother killed Henriette? His brother embodied—in a way that even he did not—that wild Italian streak in their heritage, that of the grand gesture, prodigious art, immense intrigue. It was why he kept him hobbled, encouraging vice, encouraging greed, encouraging pettiness—keeping his brother like an overgrown child. A child was easily diverted. A man was not.

  But this?

  Lord Montagu, the English ambassador, had been as cold as this marble chamber, accepting an autopsy by France’s most eminent physicians, but only in his presence and the presence of English surgeons. Word had just been sent: The autopsy was done. Their findings: Her stomach was flooded with bile, the organs of her abdominal cavity in an advanced state of gangrene; a natural death from cholera morbus. It would be published in the Gazette de France.

  But Louis knew—as he knew the ambassador knew—there were poisons capable of producing any symptom. The English physician insisted there were traces of poison in the body. The French disputed. A dog had been given the chicory water. It had not died. He knew that the Marquis d’Effiat had been in the pantry where cups and glasses were kept the afternoon of her death. When questioned, as were all of his brother’s household, the marquis said he’d been thirsty after playing tennis and gone into the pantry for a sip of water. Where was the cup out of which she’d drunk? Did his brother know she was to die? Had Philippe ordered her poisoned?

  No, Philippe swore. No, he wept. I regret all my sad dealings with her, he cried. If I could do it over again, I would be a saint to her. He sniveled, he sobbed, he shouted. He crawled on his hands and knees, begging Louis to believe him. I was jealous, Philippe wept. You favored her over me. I could not bear it. But I would never hurt her. You are my brother. Protect me from this vileness they whisper.

  She had brought back a treaty with Charles’s signature and the signature of two of his ministers. A secret treaty to wage war on the Dutch, for which Charles would be handsomely paid; his English cousin always needed money. But the treaty was more than a contract of war, so much more than that. It was something that would assure his name lived hundreds of years beyond his span of years.

  Charles of England swore to convert to Catholicism.

  Not only a personal conversion, but to bring the kingdom of England back within the Mother Church’s fold. England, that rogue nation, that Protestant bastion, would once more kneel, as did all civilized nations, before His Holiness the pope. And it would be he, Louis, the fourteenth of that name, who would be revered as the warrior saint king who brought it all about.

  Now Charles was distraught, unapproachable, seeing no one. And yet Louis knew a wise king recovered from disloyalty, disobedience, treason. Had he not done so himself? Had he not feelings himself? She was one of his first loves. She died a sister, a friend, an aide to grander schemes. All of thirty and two, handsome, revered, and increasingly feared, the king of France continued to walk the long gallery of his immense palace, his heart the growing stone it must be for the sake of the greater glory he pursued.

  PHYSICIANS AT SAINT CLOUD, the princess’s body being opened and explored, sent Barbara into a state of near hysteria. Unlike Barbara, Alice lingered near the chamber in which the autopsy was being performed, then bribed the footmen to tell her when the physicians were finished with their grim work.

  A footman found her sitting by herself in the circular chamber that had been Princesse Henriette’s favorite. “They’re cleaning themselves now.” The princess’s body would be touched this evening by yet another set of men—the embalmers.

  Alice ran down side steps to catch the carriage of the English physician. She was wearing a mask on her face. A footman was holding a torch to light the man’s way into his carriage. Like a slim, black-gowned ghost, Alice opened the door on the other side and slipped inside. The physician stepped up and sat down with a groan, then saw her.

  “Who are you?” he asked, and put his hand to the pull to stop the carriage.

  “Please, I must ask some questions. I mean no harm, and I will pay you well.” She put a small leather bag of coins on the seat beside him.

  He lifted the sack of coins, testing its weight, and set it down again. The carriage lurched forward, began its slow rattle down the driveway of Saint Cloud.

  “The princess?” She didn’t finish, left the sentence open. In the dark, she couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his heaviness, his tiredness.

  “Dead and gone, that’s for certain.”

  “I have to know. Did she die of poisoning? Please. There’s more where that came from.” Alice pointed to the sack of coins.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I loved her. Because someone must know the truth.”

  He sighed. “There were traces of poison, I’m certain of it. But my distinguished French colleagues disagreed. And I must tell you, they performed the autopsy like butchers, as if to hide truth rather than reveal it. If I had to swear in a court of law, I’m not certain what I’d say. There’s nothing left I could point to.”

  Alice opened the door of the carriage.

  He put out his hand. “Young lady, wait. I don’t want these coins—”

  But Alice had already leaped to the ground, catching herself as certainly as an acrobat, and was running back through the gardens, to the palace.

  PRINCESSE HENRIETTE LAY in state at Saint Cloud. King Louis and Queen Maria Theresa, accompanied by courtiers, sprinkled holy water over the body and prayed at solid silver prayer stands. Alice, Renée, Barbara, and the other maids of honor huddled in a corner like lost kittens. No one paid them any mind. Candles burned everywhere, casting odd shadows. A small silver casket lay at the foot of the corpse. It was Princesse Henriette’s heart and would be taken to Val-de-Grace, a convent that had comforted both her and her mother when they had been hangers-on to the French court, despised, pitied because they had nothing, their men dead or in exile, their kingdom lost. Alice held hard to Barbara’s hand, and Renée held hard to Alice’s. They felt abandoned and frightened. No one had any time for them. Everyone was impatient, wept easily, rushed here and there, accomplishing nothing.

  Alice glanced over to where Monsieur’s men were gathered. Their clothes were darkest black, the lace at their throats and sleeves white as first snow, like their faces, handsome faces, young faces, cheekbones angular, making shadows in the candlelight. Despite their beauty, their appearance brought to mind unholy things, creatures of the night who ta
pped on closed windows and brought bad dreams. Her eyes met those of Henri Ange. His face was as smooth as a marble saint’s, no puffy lids, furrowed brow, or twisted mouth to mar it. He looked kind, approachable, almost simple, like a handsome boy in a village somewhere, heart still pure. Did you poison her? thought Alice.

  As if he read her mind, he winked at her. Dropping her eyes, she squeezed Barbara’s hand hard enough to make Barbara wince. He frightened her.

  The praying, the viewing of the body, ended. The majordomo of the household made a gesture, and people of the household began to file by, taking a last look before the lid of the casket closed.

  Barbara shrank back. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  Alice and Renée walked forward, Renée crying. Alice took a quick glance at the face, but it seemed to belong not to Princesse Henriette, but rather to some badly done wax figure. As she moved away, she had to pass the gathering of Monsieur’s men, and one of them caught her by the arm. Then handsome young men in darkest black surrounded her on every side. The circle they made around her was too close. She could feel their breath on her. She pushed forward and was pushed back. As simply as that, she was encircled and cowed.

  “Stop it,” she whispered, and her voice cracked.

  From behind, someone put arms around her like a lover, whispered in her ear, “I’ll rescue you.”

  She swallowed back a sob.

  “But first you have to say thank you. Thank you, my dear Henri Ange.”

  “Thank you, Henri Ange,” she whispered. Tears rolled out of the corners of her eyes.

  “My dear Henri Ange,” he corrected.

  “My dear Henri Ange,” she repeated.

  The circle opened, and ahead, in the half-light made by candles, stood Barbara and Renée, waiting for her. Her dignity broken, Alice managed not to run, managed to swallow back sobs.

  “You’re someone else when you’re with them,” she accused Beuvron furiously later.

  “I am,” he answered. “Beware us all.”

  THE NEXT EVENING, the body left Saint Cloud by torchlight in a magnificent procession of priests on foot and royalty in carriages. The princesses of the blood, those descended directly from kings, were the handmaidens. Barbara and Alice stood at windows overlooking the courtyard, watching as the train of horses, people, and carriages wound down the long driveway, on to Paris, to the Cathedral of Saint Denis, to the Abbey of Kings. It would be hours before they would arrive. A drum beat out a solemn, eerie rhythm. They could hear it long after they could no longer see anything but the flames from the torches in the distance.

  Monsieur was already waiting at the cathedral with his household guard and bosom companions to receive the body of his wife, and then he would stay in his Palais Royal in Paris, receiving condolences, dressed in black from head to toe like a god of the underworld. His two daughters, princesses of the blood, were in the procession bringing their mother’s body, even though one of them was a baby. Little Lady Anne was in the procession, though Alice hadn’t wanted her to be. It is not your decision to make, Lord Montagu had told her. It is her duty as a princess of England. Lord Montagu was in the courtyard. He’d come to see off the procession. His carriage was in the courtyard. He would join the procession at some point, see the princess into the abbey. Alice left Barbara and went downstairs to speak to him.

  He turned at the sound of her footsteps in the gravel. “I want to thank you for your care of the Lady Anne. She tells me you were very kind to her, slept at the foot of her bed every evening.”

  “I wanted no harm to come to her in this house.” There was silence as they both considered the implications of what she’d just said. “And I thought she might be afraid to sleep in a house in which her aunt had died.”

  “You’ll be pleased, then, to know she leaves for England tomorrow.”

  “Very pleased. How does His Majesty King Charles?”

  “Not well. He is holed up like a fox to the den, will see no one, speak to no one. He refused to receive the special messenger sent by Monsieur to announce the death and extend condolences.”

  She heard satisfaction in the ambassador’s voice. Monsieur and Lord Montagu were not on good terms. In the hours after Princesse Henriette’s death, when everyone was bereft and emotionally drained, Monsieur had walked into his wife’s chambers, demanded her keys from the ladies-in-waiting, and opened cabinet after cabinet, taking jewels, a small casket holding letters—which Alice had learned from Beuvron were from the king of England—as well as another holding coins King Charles had given his sister as a parting gift. Alice had walked in on a scene in which Lord Montagu was shouting that Monsieur was a thief—and worse. She had asked that those coins be given her servants, Montagu was shouting. But Monsieur was not moved by deathbed requests and English ambassadors.

  “London is as aflame with rumor as Paris,” said Lord Montagu. “The apprentices have set fire to a house in which Catholics live, they burn effigies of the pope, the Duke of York had to order a guard around the house of the French ambassador, and I’m told the poor queen dares not set foot outside of Whitehall for fear a mob will pelt her carriage.” Queen Catherine was Catholic, a princess from Portugal.

  “You’ve written the king about the autopsy?”

  “I have.”

  “May I ask what you wrote?”

  “That the majority of the physicians believed she died of cholera morbus. Anything more is conjecture.”

  “Conjecture? She said herself she was poisoned. She said it to you—”

  He interrupted her. “She said many things to me, Mistress Verney.”

  Alice pushed on. “I think Henri Ange did it.”

  “Who is no longer to be found in the household of Monsieur.”

  “He was there last night.”

  “He is not there now.”

  “They’re horrid. They deserve to die.” She wiped at a tear that trickled down her face.

  “It is an ugly business.”

  “And King Louis?”

  “Distraught, I promise you that. Dismayed and shamed by the rumors sweeping the streets. Comfort yourself by the fact that what princes do is not always punished by man, but all must be judged by God.”

  God? thought Alice. How can God allow what He does? “I want to go home.”

  “Yes, of course you do. I have coins from your father, and I’ve booked passage for you and Mistress Bragge. In a week you’ll be in England and away from this place.”

  “Lord Montagu, I don’t wish to stay here in this palace another moment. Might you help me find suitable lodgings in Paris?”

  “You’ll come and stay with me in Paris until you leave for England. Let me take care of our little princess, see her on the road, back toward the arms of England. By the way, Lieutenant Saylor was sent to escort her back. He wished to come here, but I wouldn’t allow it, asked him to join the procession when it reaches Paris, to stay with the Lady Anne from then on. He bade me give this letter to you.” Lord Montagu reached into a pocket, fixed her with a stare. “I’m not aiding a romance, am I?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good, for I don’t believe in them. I’ll send a coach for you first thing in the morning. Can you be ready?”

  “Yes.”

  When he was gone, she ran to an empty chamber, shutting the door behind her, and opened the letter. Out dropped two more, one addressed to Renée and one to Barbara. Why would Lieutenant Saylor be writing to Barbara? It made no sense. One eye on the door, the other on the letter, Alice opened the one to Barbara. Inside was yet another letter, and this handwriting was not the lieutenant’s. Opening it, Alice read the words. It was from John Sidney. So. Lieutenant Saylor acted as a go-between for his cousin. She wondered if there had been other letters. Likely. She tore it into pieces and put the pieces inside a perfume brazier as something dawned on her, something forgotten in all the drama of the last days.

  Princesse Henriette had never written to the Duke of Balmoral.

  Sh
e went to the bedchamber of the maids of honor, but Barbara was nowhere to be seen. Alice found her on her knees in a small chapel, praying. Alice waited in the hall until her friend was finished, then grabbed Barbara by the hand as soon as she walked into the hall. “We’re going home.”

  “When? How?”

  They walked arm in arm toward the bedchambers. “Lord Montagu is sending a carriage for us in the morning. And Beuvron left me a note. He says that I can rest easy; they’ve all gone to Paris. Not that I will.” Alice pulled the cord that summoned servants. “We’ll spend the next few days in Paris, too, with Lord Montagu, until we travel to the coast to catch a ship home.”

  “Home.” Barbara rushed to put her things in a pile, her brush, her silver hand mirror, a box of ribbons. She stopped at one point and hugged Alice, who smiled to see happiness back in her friend’s face and felt not a shred of guilt about tearing up the letter.

  Word of their departure, the fact that Alice had asked for her trunks to be brought from the attics, spread through the household. Hearing it, Renée entered the bedchamber and saw Poll placing clothing in a trunk.

  “You’re leaving?” Her eyes filled with tears. “What will I do? The Dragon hates me.”

  “Write to your father and have your family come to fetch you,” suggested Barbara.

  “They need me here. They won’t want me to come home.”

  “Her stipend,” Alice whispered to Barbara. “I have something for you.” She waved the letter from Lieutenant Saylor, and Renée took it and read it, but it brought no smile to her face.