by Karleen Koen
“Wine for you? No? Well, forgive me if I drink yours for you.” Guy poured himself a goblet of wine, drank it down, turned to face Nicolas. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“The court is dull without you. I came to see how you do.”
“I am dull without court.” Guy poured more wine.
“Ladies are drooping and bereft everywhere. I bring greetings from a full half-dozen.” He began to reel off names, and Guy laughed. He gave Guy the letters from little Fanny de Montalais and watched Guy drop them on a table, uninterested. “I might, if it pleased you, speak with his majesty in another few weeks or so on your behalf.” Nicolas made certain his tone was offhand.
“I’m not sure it pleases me. I’m not made to be his lapdog, gelded and safe.”
“The commander of the Mediterranean is a good friend of mine. What about a command there if court has lost its luster? The coast is beautiful, the women even more so. The sea swarms with pirates from the Barbary Coast. It’s said they wear an earring in one ear and bow to Allah before they slit your throat.”
Guy’s eyes gleamed for a moment. Nicolas could see he was stirred by the idea, but he said, “So I would be your lapdog, rather than his majesty’s?”
It was close enough to the truth to make Nicolas smile. “Impossible. You are no man’s lackey. You are the son of a marshall of France, a born warrior like your father.”
“Correct, viscount, I am bred for war, not acting someone’s toady.”
Your insolence is invigorating, thought Nicolas. Everyone was too cautious these days, his majesty’s warrior cousins quiet on their estates, La Grande sobbing about her exile like an actress on the stage. It was good to see some of the old civil-war insolence. Nicolas could feel his own rise. “Monsieur sends his greetings.”
Guy didn’t answer, and Nicolas looked around at the litter of papers on the floor, on chairs. “You write the story of your life? Or moral maxims for us to live by, like the Duke de La Rochefoucauld? Let me see if I can quote my favorite correctly.” He paused. “ ‘We are never so happy nor so unhappy as we imagine.’ ”
“I write love letters.”
“Ah, so your heart ties you to court.”
“Yes.”
“May I be of service and take one back with me?”
“Would you? How kind.” Guy scribbled something across the top of a paper already dark with inky words, folded the paper, lit a taper to melt a stick of wax. It dropped onto the last fold, and Guy pressed a seal in the wax. He repeated the actions with yet another paper.
“Come to my estate and stay a while,” Nicolas suggested, taking the letters from Guy. “The countryside is magnificent, my horses are the finest in France, as is my cook. I am there but only to oversee workmen and the details for my fête. I seldom stay the night and would welcome your presence. I took the liberty of glancing at one of your love poems before I sat down. They might improve in Vaux-le-Vicomte’s air.”
Guy laughed.
Nicolas’s finger caressed the name written across the front of one of the letters. “Your sister isn’t at Fontainebleau, unfortunately.”
“Oh? Where is she?”
“Gone to Monaco.”
“As is my father.”
The marshall was in Monaco? Whatever for? thought Nicolas.
Looking Nicolas straight in the eyes, Guy said, “It would be a service to me if you delivered the letter addressed to my sister to Madame instead. It goes without saying that I wish no one to know.”
“Of course.”
So, thought Nicolas, stepping into his carriage a few moments later, the wind blows that direction, does it? Who had his majesty’s eyes these days? The other letter was for Fanny de Montalais. How opportune. She’d have to answer some questions in return for Nicolas delivering it. He smiled to himself at the way fate played to his advantage. He must make time to visit La Grande Mademoiselle personally and hear her sad tale and so learn more of this young majesty’s machinations.
He had one more stop to make before heading south to Vaux-le-Vicomte. He stood in a dark hallway idly slapping his gloves in one hand as he waited for a servant to tell the mistress of the house that he had arrived, then he followed the servant to a back parlor, where Madame d’Artagnan, proper young wife that she was, had just risen from an embroidery stand near a sunny window and was falling into a curtsy.
She was surprised, flustered, and impressed, all of which he never minded seeing. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said to her, at his silky best. “Will you tell your husband I’ve come to see him as he asked.”
“But he isn’t here, viscount. Did my servant tell you he was?”
“There must be some mistake. He wrote me to meet him today. He’s still on his journey, is he? Now where was it he went? Pignerol?”
“You know, then? No, he’s been there but is gone again. I just had a letter from him.” Her eyes moved to a paper on the mantel near the embroidery stand. “I am so distressed. He mentioned nothing of your calling on him in the letter. It isn’t like him to forget such a thing. Won’t you let me offer you wine? Please.”
Nicolas allowed himself to be persuaded to sit down, allowed himself to accept a goblet of wine, allowed himself to sip it and enjoy the sun in this parlor and the company of a young woman very impressed that he had come to visit her husband personally, very upset that her husband was not home, and very anxious that this oversight would not hurt her husband’s standing. With just a little prod here and there, she showed him the letter, and Nicolas was able to run his own eyes over it. It told him nothing, but then, D’Artagnan’s wife had told enough.
Nicolas chatted with her a while longer, admired the cushion cover she was embroidering, invited her to tour the tapestry works at Vaux-le-Vicomte, asked a discreet question here and there, and finally took his leave. She had no idea where her husband’s final destination was nor did she know anything about his mission.
In his carriage, he pondered what he’d just learned. What did it mean, D’Artagnan and Pignerol? What mission was he upon? Why had the king not shared it with council or at the very least with Nicolas himself?
“Are we going to Vaux-le-Vicomte, sir?” It was his secretary.
He nodded his head and closed his eyes. Some intrigue was in motion. Did he question his majesty directly? He had such an interesting new piece of information to consider. That bad poetry he’d picked up from Guiche’s chair wasn’t all poetry. On one sheet was a bit of an old Mazarinade. Nicolas certainly remembered the originals, filthy songs, pamphlets, treatises, all against Cardinal Mazarin and, often, the queen mother. Why would a wild young courtier write out a few lines from a decade-old Mazarinade? What did he do with such? Interesting.
“I’m going to Vaux-le-Vicomte. You’re not. I want you to leave for the fortress of Pignerol in all haste,” he told his secretary. “I want to know about the latest prisoners who graced its portals. Pay whatever you must to obtain the information.”
Chapter 30
N THE QUEEN’S GARDENS, LA PORTE BOWED VERY LOW TO present a key and a letter. Henriette’s dogs barked at him, and Louise knelt to pull them by their leashes and hush them.
“From his majesty,” La Porte said.
Louise couldn’t look at him. Harsh red stained her neck and her averted cheek. When she didn’t speak, he left the letter on the ground, the key atop it.
Louise tore open the letter once she was certain she was alone. This afternoon, they were to meet this afternoon.
SHE SAT WITH the others in the afternoon watching the royal family dine. Then she told Fanny that she had a headache and ran down steps and across courtyards. There was a musketeer waiting for her where Louis’s note said he’d be, by the door of the clock tower in the queen’s gardens, and he escorted her up the stairs of the tower and through empty vestibules and up more stairs before coming to a halt before a door.
The musketeer stood to one side as she unlocked the door. He allowed himself one sidelong glance at her f
ace, which was pale. She was very pretty, had a startling sweetness about her mouth. He could love a girl like her. Fortunate majesty, he thought.
Louise stood with her back against the closed door behind her. Draperies were drawn, so the chamber was dim, but she could see flowers and candles, already lighted, placed here and there. There was wine and a covered tray at a table. And then she saw La Porte running his hand across an embroidered coverlet as if he had just taken every wrinkle from it. She put her hands up to her face, her instinct to hide. She hadn’t expected anyone to be here.
La Porte made a small, neat, brisk bow. “I’ll be just outside, should you require anything. Your maid?” He raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“I didn’t bring her.” She felt stupid. She hadn’t thought about undressing, hadn’t even brought a nightgown. Women who knew brought their maids with them, of course. She looked down at her feet, the tips of her shoes just jutting out from the hem of her gown. Tears were very near. Already there were four who knew, and that was three too many: Fanny; the courtier who’d given this chamber; the musketeer; La Porte, who was now leaving.
Alone, she sat down in one of the big armchairs pulled up to the table, afraid to move, afraid to touch anything, uncertain of what to do. Before she could decide, the door opened, and she started and stood up, her awkward movement making the chair push back with a grating sound against the floor.
“You’re here,” Louis said. “I wasn’t certain—” He stopped. Shyness was suddenly so great that he couldn’t cross the space between them and take her in his arms the way he’d pictured himself doing. His being king didn’t matter at this moment.
But his hesitation, his uncertainty made Louise smile, and her smile, because she was relieved to see him awkward and fumbling too, was its incandescent best. She felt bold, suddenly, teasing, full of life. The handsome young king of France was hesitant before her. The handsome young king of France desired her. The handsome young king of France loved her. It was as if bubbles were twisting into invisible, effervescent ribbons inside her. She curtsied, pert and quite charming. “Will your majesty eat?”
“No.”
She curtsied again, even more pert. “Will he have a goblet of wine?”
“If you will.”
She poured them both wine, pulled out the armchair for him. He sat down in it, raised the goblet, and she did likewise.
“To us,” he said, and some spark from his dark eyes caused such a swell of love in her that she thought she’d die from it right then and there. How happy she felt. How free. There was no one else in the world but them. She would be his mate, his plaything, his lover, his friend, whatever he desired. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, she thought, and the thought was on her face, unspoken, but read by the other heart in the chamber.
“I was afraid you might change your mind.”
“I did, a thousand times. You ask much from me.”
“I know I do.” He put down his wine, pushed back his chair, knelt before her.
Her heart had begun to beat hard. To have him so close was wonderful. She could feel heat between her legs, in her breasts, as they kissed and twisted their hands in each other’s hair. How were we able to stop before? she wondered.
Her hand in his, she followed him to the bed, where he sat down and turned her so her back was to him. The handsome king of France is unlacing my gown, she thought. When it was open, and her back was almost bare to him, she felt his kisses on the thin fabric of her chemise. He unfastened the hook that held her skirt together. The material made a sighing sound as it fell to the floor. Now she wore only her opened top, her chemise and hose, and his hands were gone from her. What was he doing? She turned around.
He was unfastening the ribbons and buttons of his tight doublet, pulling at them like an impatient boy. “I seldom undress myself,” he said.
“Shall I call your valet?”
“No!”
The blaze in his eyes was enough. She let go the top and stood before him in her thin chemise, helping him to undo buttons and ribbons. He shrugged out of his doublet, its intricate cut satin and leather; he pulled his voluminous shirt over his head. So, she thought, he has a mole on the right shoulder. He moved himself back on the bed, not yet taking off breeches or hose, and she was glad of that. She wasn’t quite ready for that.
He had hold of her wrist, and she joined him in the bed. They sat a moment gazing at each other, and then she reached out to trace the fullness of his mouth, and he made a sound as she did so, and she suddenly felt incredibly provocative and seductive. It was exhilarating. She ran her hand down the curve of his neck, leaned forward, and kissed the mole on his shoulder.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I think it will likely hurt you because it is the first time.”
She didn’t answer; she was too absorbed in touching his bare chest with her hands. He began to kiss her hard. The chemise was gone; she had no idea how, and he touched her breasts, and she closed her eyes. No one had ever touched her like this before. He ran his hands up and down the sides of her body, and she tried to kiss his mouth whenever it came close enough. He was kissing her everywhere, places she’d never imagined being kissed, and finally his breeches were off and she saw what a handsome young king looked like naked, and it was very beautiful. She lay back, and it did hurt when he entered her, but it didn’t matter. He was whispering a hundred wonderful things to her, that she was so soft, that he adored her, that this was so good, that she was his sweetest heart. When he made a sound as if he’d been stabbed and fell against her, she just lay there under him, content.
They stayed intertwined. She lifted her leg to run her toes along the long line of his thigh, his buttock, up as high as her leg would reach. She felt adored and safe to do whatever she wished.
“I love you.” He kissed her face, repeating the words, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” It was as if he poured shiny light into her heart.
At a soft knock on the door, Louis raised his head. “I must leave soon.” He nuzzled his head into her neck and held her so tightly she could hardly breathe. Then he sat up, began to dress himself, but gave up and went to the door, and La Porte entered, his face empty of expression. He did up all the ribbons and bows, tied the garters of the stockings, brushed Louis’s hair into its curling abundance.
I want to do that, thought Louise, but she didn’t dare come out from under the covers. When Louis was dressed, looking as splendid and beribboned as he had when he’d entered, the valet disappeared.
Louis sat down on the bed, pulled Louise out of the covers. He kissed the delicious part in her hair, and his hands moved up and down her back. “I don’t wish to leave you. There’s dinner for you. Eat it. You have to keep up your strength because it’s all I can do not to throw you back in bed and make love to you again, so you’d better be ready for the next time.” He laughed, his expression teasing.
She smiled into the fabric of his jacket. The next time.
“I have to go.” With a last kiss on the part of her hair, he walked to the door. “Knock on the door, and my valet will help you dress. My musketeer will see you to the gardens, and you can go back to Madame’s from there. I love you with all my heart. Don’t doubt it. Wear the bracelets tonight, as a token of what is now between us. You are my heart, Louise.”
And then she was alone. She sat among the mussed sheets, this or that detail of their lovemaking coming to mind. She felt as if she had a million bee stings all over her body, each one a place where he’d kissed or touched her.
She got up from the bed, washed herself with water in a bowl. She was sore, but it wasn’t a terrible thing. She was very curious about what they’d just done. She’d have to think about it more. She found her chemise, put it back on, stepped into her skirt, began to hook its waist. There was a polite knock on the door, and she hurriedly found her top on the floor and thrust her arms into the big, full sleeves.
La Porte stepped in, not looking her way. “May I assist?
”
She didn’t want him to, but she couldn’t lace this top herself. The shoulders hung too low; the sleeves were too heavy. It was cut to embrace a woman just at her shoulders, to graze across the top of her breasts. She turned her back to him, and he began to tie the cords so that she was encased, a slim reed rising out of the bell of her skirt. She stayed where she was when he was finished, willing him to leave, ashamed before him, ashamed of her presence here, of the mussed bed, of the blood there, of what he had to be thinking of her, no longer a virgin now, but the fallen woman, the Magdalene.
“If I may,” he said, quite gently, “I will do miss’s hair.”
“No! Yes! I don’t know.” She felt inarticulate, uncertain.
“If you prefer, I can send for your maid.”
“Oh, would you?” She felt stupid that she hadn’t thought to keep her maidservant near. But she hadn’t thought any of this out.
He was at the door, speaking to someone. How many more people know? she thought wildly, and when he turned back to her, everything must have been written on her face because he crossed the chamber, picked up a brush that Louise had not even noticed, stood behind her and began to brush her hair, her shining, thick, silver moon hair, into the required fashionable curls about her ears and neck.
“It’s only the musketeer I talked to. He’ll find your maid.”
She remembered something. “The bracelets—”
“Here.” The brush came around in front of her to point. “Miss de Montalais found them and gave them to us.”
She had to sit still a moment at the power and might that Louis could summon, which he had summoned for her. She swelled with the knowledge of his love, opened to it like a flower unable to withstand the power of the sun’s light. Violet, people would say of her later, a year from now, when her relationship to the king of France could no longer be kept a secret. A beautiful shy wood violet is how she would be described.
La Porte’s hands were certain. Her hair was pulled back into the requisite bun, ringlets pinned to cascade over her ears. He brought a mirror and held it for her. She looked lovely. He’d done her hair perfectly. She blushed at the sight of herself. She put a finger to the glass, to the wide, not quite smiling mouth, swollen with a king’s kisses. Without realizing it, she straightened her back pridefully.