The Shadow Queen

by Sandra Gulland

  “Dominus Inferus vobiscum.” Lord of the Grave, be with you.

  “Et cum tuo,” the valet responded. And with you.

  A bell rang three times. A door creaked open and shut.

  The priest was now hunched over a bundle on the sideboard. “In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrito suscipiamur a Te, Domine Satanas; et sic fiat sacrificium …”

  Sacrificium. In sacrifice?

  Something gleamed bright in the torchlight. A blade? And then I thought I saw the bundle move, but it was dark, too dark to be sure. A baby’s sharp cry startled me, and then—chillingly—there was silence.

  Athénaïs did not stir. Had she not heard?

  “That’s enough,” the priest said, and the valet left with the bundle.

  I held onto the table to steady myself. What had I witnessed?

  “Speak your wish, Madame,” the priest instructed Athénaïs, holding the chalice above her.

  I touched Athénaïs’s shoulder. “Madame?” Was she asleep? My mind recoiled from the thoughts that were forming—too horrible to believe.

  “Speak your wish,” the priest repeated, a little impatiently.

  “I ask for the exclusive love of my paramour,” Athénaïs said, her voice rasping.

  Chanting, the priest spilled something dark from the chalice onto her bare belly. She giggled in protest as drops trickled down her sides.

  The priest put the chalice back down on the sideboard and sounded a bell. He held his hands out over Athénaïs, his fingers hovering over her skin.

  “Ecce sponsa Satanae.” Behold the bride of Satan.

  “Ego vos benedico in nomine Satanae.” I bless you in the name of Satan.

  I was shaking. I feared I might faint.

  “Ave Satanas.” Hail, Satan.

  Athénaïs began softly snoring.

  “In nomine Satanas. Amen.”

  “You may dress now, Madame,” the priest said, and disappeared the way he had come.

  “Madame?” My voice a croak.

  Athénaïs stirred. “Is that it?”

  “Don’t move,” I said. “I have to clean you.” I used a nose cloth to wipe her belly. I sniffed the cloth: blood. Almost retching, I did my best to help Athénaïs back into her gown.

  “What was that all about?” Athénaïs asked, lifting her mask. Her face looked ghostly in the candlelight.

  “I’m … I’m not sure,” I said, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. It was warm in the chamber, yet I felt chilled to the bone.

  “So long as it works,” Athénaïs said, securing the diamond-studded clasp of her cloak at the neck.

  CHAPTER 54

  I couldn’t sleep for nightmares, the suffocating spirits that rose up in the dark. Even among the scented courtiers at Versaie, even in the blooming palace gardens, even deep in the heart of the palace Labyrinth, where I could usually find respite from my cares, even there I could smell ambergris, a haunting reminder.

  Athénaïs seemed entirely unaware. Confident, she regained her wit, her humor, her charm. And now, with the King’s ardor “magically” aflame once again, she was considering a second ritual to ensure her dominion over the royal scepter.

  “Madame, please—don’t.”

  “Claude, it works!” She leaned forward, peering into her looking-glass and stroking her chin. “I have nothing more to fear. This afternoon that trollop Angélique paraded before the King half-naked, but he didn’t even lift his eyes.”

  I tried to swallow, my mouth dry. “But it’s the Devil’s power, Madame.”

  She burst into a gale of laughter. I’d begun to fear that she’d been taken over. Was she under a spell? Had her spirit been stolen?

  “You’re talking like a peasant,” she said. “It has nothing to do with the Devil. A priest officiated, calling on the Divine.”

  “You were asleep. He invoked Satan.”

  “You keep telling me I was asleep. I wasn’t asleep! Why are you not pleased? This is a miracle.”

  I wanted to cry. “Your eyes were closed. A swaddled baby was brought in and … and murdered.” I pressed a hand over my mouth. I was sure of it now. A horror!

  “You were seeing things. You took some of my opium pills, confess.”

  “The priest spilled the baby’s blood on your belly, Madame. I smelled it.”

  Athénaïs snorted with amusement. “Next you’ll be telling me there are werewolves in the garden.”

  There was no way to stop her. I heard my father’s voice. There are things we do not do, things we will not do. My heart skittered, knowing the risks: Gaston could be forced to leave his beloved monastery, Sweet Pea could be taken from me—or worse. I arranged Athénaïs’s silk shawl around her shoulders and stood back. I felt numb from lack of sleep. “I have to go,” I said finally, bluntly.

  Athénaïs pulled old Popo onto her lap and turned one of the pug’s ears inside out, examining it for mites.

  Had she heard me?

  She folded back the dog’s ear and set him down on the tiles. He ambled over to his pillow by the fire. “How long will you need, Claudette?”

  Claudette. She’d first called me that at the ball at the Palais-Royal. We were so young. “Forever, Madame. I’m … I must leave your service.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked, looking up at me, her enormous eyes searching.

  I bit my lower lip. I’d known Athénaïs as a girl; we’d been through so much together. I understood her in a way nobody else did; understood her temper, her frustrations—her pain. I understood what she’d once had, and what she had lost. “My health has not been good.”

  She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re as healthy as a beast of the field.”

  I felt a cat rub against my ankle. “I don’t care to burden you, Madame, but I do have problems.” My sleepless nights had weakened me; I feared the Devil’s presence.

  “I’ll have my doctor attend you,” she said kindly, applying the blade of a pair of scissors to her chin. It was a small pair used for cutting nails, but sharp as a razor, useful for eliminating unseemly hairs. “Just get some rest, my dear. You’ll be fine. I’ll have one of the cooks make you a healing gruel.”

  My ring of keys was heavy: I fumbled detaching it from my underskirt. I clunked it down on the marble toilette table amongst her jumble of gems, the crystal perfume bottles with solid gold stoppers. “I’m serious. I can’t be part of this.” My voice quavered dangerously. “I’m leaving … today.”

  The frown lines between her brows were caked with powder. “Is it money you want?”

  “It has nothing to do with money.”

  She stared at me, harder now. “You are serious.”

  “Oui, Madame. I am.”

  “And you actually think you can leave me?” She smiled, a cold mocking look. “Take back your keys, Claude. You’re not going anywhere,” she said, turning back to her image in the glass. “His Majesty will forbid it.”

  Was I indentured for life, a slave? I looked out the window. The brocade curtains had been pulled open, tied back with ropes of braided silk. The summer light was bright. “He would agree were you to press my case.”

  “And why, pray, would I do that?” she demanded, toying with one of her lovelocks. The stiff curl of bronzed hair was lacquered about her ear like a tragedy queen’s.

  I heard heels on the parquet outside the door, animals scurrying, the thrumming wings of a bird allowed to fly free. “Because there are things you would not want His Majesty to know,” I said evenly.

  She turned to me with tears in her eyes. “You’re threatening me?” The spots on her cheeks stood out like those on a clown’s sad face.

  Her eyes, so transparent and blue, had always had a captivating power over me. I looked away. Oui: I am threatening you. It’s all I have, all that is left to me, the knowledge of your secrets.

  “You threaten me?” She stood with such violence that the table overturned, glass shattering on the tiles. The air filled with the stench of he
r musky perfumes. “Do you not understand that I am queen of this damned country!” she shouted, spittle flying in her fury.

  A guard and a maid burst into the room. “Out!” she screamed, and they hastily backed away, stumbling over each other. She pointed the scissors at me. Although small, they could be deadly if aimed at an eye or the throat.

  Shards of glass crunched under my feet. “An infant was murdered at that ritual,” I said, my voice rising. I no longer cared who might overhear. “The priest spilled its blood on your belly.”

  “Don’t lie to me, you whore.” Her teeth, her lovely teeth, were stained pink from wine, like the teeth of the condemned at hangings. “There isn’t a confession you’ve made to Père d’Ossat I don’t know about. You think I didn’t notice my missing trinkets, the opium pills that disappeared? Taken, you no doubt told yourself, to ease the pain of your floozy mother.”

  “You will go to Hell, Athénaïs.”

  “And you’re so virtuous? You used me to fulfill your lusts. You’re an unnatural woman, feigning to be above your station, among the quality. You think you belong here? You’re no different from the beggar women in the market, your hand always out. You’re loveless—and it’s no wonder! You’re a leech, one big hungry mouth, never sated, never satisfied.”

  I felt a choking sob rise up in my chest. “I saw it.” I was bigger and stronger than Athénaïs—and quicker too, no doubt. My eyes on the scissors she held, I scooped up the splintered stem of a glass. “I’ve served you loyally, but I—”

  I’m sorry, I wanted to say. Sorry for the monster she had become, sorry for the horrors I’d witnessed, been part of. The temptations I’d given way to. Encouraged. I’d given evil counsel.

  “You thankless slut! I raised you up out of the gutter. I gave you everything! You’d have nothing were it not for me. I bought your idiot brother’s salvation.”

  “For which I’ll always be grateful,” I cried, weeping now, buffeted by a confusing welter of emotions.

  I glimpsed a hint of sadness in her eyes before she turned away. She stood still as stone. I waited, holding my breath, violently trembling.

  “I will have your trunk sent on,” she said finally.

  I breathed with relief.

  “To the world, this will be an amicable parting. You’re never to say a word about what has passed. Understand? Not one word. Or—!” She faced me, her features hard. “Or I’ll have your precious baby thrown into a bear pit.”

  Deus! I believed her, believed she could do such a thing. “I won’t speak of it, Madame.” I threw down the shard, as if it were a sword. “I vow to that—so long as my brother and daughter are not harmed.” I was striking a deal with the Devil.

  The pendulum clock chimed the hour.

  “Damnation,” the parrot squawked.

  I turned to the door, glass crackling under my feet. Was it possible to walk away from this world, as if exiting a stage?

  ACT V

  LABYRINTH

  (1680, Château de Suisnes)

  CHAPTER 55

  I was in the kitchen helping Gaby salt the Martlemas beef when I heard their dog, Bruno, barking, followed by the sound of horses and wagon wheels.

  “Who could that be?” Gaby asked, tucking a stray curl under her crisp white bonnet. Monsieur de Maisonblanche had gone to the horse market early that morning and wouldn’t be back until sundown.

  We rarely had callers; it was one of the things I loved about my visits to Suisnes. After leaving Court—leaving Athénaïs—more than three years before, I’d sold my jewels and gowns. With that, and living sparely, I’d been able to get by, coming as often as I could to spend time in the country with my daughter, Gaby, and her husband … especially of late. Madame Catherine’s arrest and horrifying execution had plunged Paris into an endless inquisition. The air of the city was foul with the scent of burning flesh.

  La sorcellerie, daemonomania. In our enlightened times, witchcraft was no longer a punishable offense—but murder certainly was. The revelations, one upon another, had been shocking. It was as if a stone had been lifted, revealing a mass of maggots feeding on rot. Who could have believed that there were hundreds in Paris selling poison, and often to the nobility, members of the Court.

  In spite of my hermetic life, I’d been suffering queasy fears. So many had been arrested, tried, and convicted. Who was exempt? Rumor had it that even Racine was to be tried, accused of poisoning Thérèse du Parc.

  “Maybe it’s Père Petit,” my daughter said, sprawled on the stone floor with her wood dolls.

  The cheerful village priest was a welcome visitor. “I don’t think so,” I said, lifting the child and setting her onto a chair. She’d turned four that summer and was growing tall as a maypole, her smocks already in need of lengthening. “He always comes on his mule,” I explained, kissing my daughter’s russet curls and setting the three dolls on the table in front of her.

  Bruno barked again and a horse whinnied. “I’ll go see who it is,” I told Gaby, taking off my apron and hanging it over the back of a wooden spindle chair. I slipped outside and closed the door behind me to keep in the heat of the fire. A gust of bitter wind cut into my cheeks, making my eyes water. I wound my shawl around my neck.

  A rooster crowed. Bruno had stopped barking. As I rounded the corner of the château, I saw that it was a carriage. The driver, a pudgy man in livery, was petting the dog, his matched team of four handsome blacks looking on warily.

  “He gave my horses a fright,” he said.

  “He’s big, but gentle,” I said, taking Bruno by his rope collar. “Are you lost, Monsieur? May I help?”

  “I’m looking for—” He withdrew a note from the cuff of his jacket and squinted at it. “Mademoiselle Claude des Oeillets.”

  Sun glinted off the official seal. “That’s me.”

  “You’re wanted.”

  It was a document from the office of Louvois, the Secretary of State for War. I struggled to control my voice, my sudden urge to run. Madame Catherine had been arrested at the doors of her parish church, having just attended Mass. “What’s this about?”

  “All I know is that you’re to come with me,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Kindly inform the Secretary of State that he may have the pleasure of my company in ten days, when I plan to be back in Paris.”

  “Mademoiselle …” The driver pressed his gloved hands together. “This isn’t an invitation; it’s a command.”

  From the Secretary of State. From Louvois, who was in charge of the poison trials. “May I have a moment?” I asked, overtaken by an inner trembling.

  Tugging on Bruno, I headed back to the service entrance of the château, trying to compose myself. “I’m needed back in Paris,” I announced, descending into the basement kitchen. The warmth of the blazing fire made my skin burn. I sighed dramatically—as if it were a mere annoyance. It wouldn’t do to alarm Gaby or my daughter.

  “Something to do with your brother?” Gaby asked, wiping her hands on her hemp smock.

  “In a way,” I answered vaguely. “I have to go to the city,” I told Sweet Pea, unable to stop the catch in my voice. I pressed my cheek against her soft locks. “I’ll be back soon,” I said, wanting to believe it was true.

  Calm! I admonished myself. “I’ll bring you a toy,” I promised. A spinning top.

  THE HôTEL DE LOUVOIS on the rue de Richelieu in Paris comprised an impressive block of stone houses. The iron-studded gates opened to let the carriage in. Guards were in evidence everywhere—it looked like a military encampment.

  “Bonne chance,” my driver said kindly, opening the carriage door and letting me down.

  An officious valet and two guards—their hands on the pommels of their swords—showed me through a series of stately but unornamented rooms bustling with activity. Clerks stooped over documents and maps, ignoring us as we passed.

  I came to an antechamber where three people—a man and two women—were s
tanding. The valet scratched on the oak door, then slipped inside, the door closing behind him.

  One of the women, a young sort with a rakish air, looked me over. I stared down at the floor.

  “Mademoiselle des Oeillets,” a clerk called out.

  I was led through yet another series of rooms to a chamber at the back.

  “Monsieur,” I said on entering Louvois’s cabinet, where he was seated at a tiny desk. “Monseigneur,” I added, recalling something Athénaïs had said, about his vain insistence on the feudal title.

  His considerable girth, lascivious lips, and small, appraising eyes always reminded me of a pig. I’d seen him many times at Saint-Germain-en-Laye and Versaie, but even here, where he ruled, he seemed not in his element. There was something of the sloven in him.

  Athénaïs had often mocked Louvois’s boorish manners. Because of his insistence on being addressed as “Monseigneur,” the nobility jokingly referred to him as “Illustrissimus” behind his back. Over the years I had heard other things about him as well, things that weren’t laughable in the least: that he had no scruples, that his temper could turn violent, that he preyed on women, that he openly bedded the wife of one of his clerks. Players had always been wary of him, even when he was young.

  Louvois pulled out a thick portfolio.

  I stood before him, my hands clasped. I suspected he had his eyebrows plucked and colored. The chamber was lavishly furnished, yet nothing in it—not even the quill stand—had aesthetic merit. I recalled, with revulsion, the story of his killing a cat.

  He cleared his throat, studying the papers. Reading, he reached over and rang a bell. A clerk popped into the room. “Was there not something in Voisin’s confession?” Louvois demanded.

  La Voisin. I was alarmed at the mention of Madame Catherine’s name. It was rumored a register of all her customers had been discovered.

  “Only that of the daughter,” the clerk said.

  Young, wily Marie Marguerite …?

  Louvois made a dismissive motion with his hand and the clerk backed out. “Mademoiselle des Oeillets, in my discussions”—he said the word with irony—“with several of the prisoners, your name has been mentioned.” His voice was high and thin, nasal. Four of his teeth were capped with gold.