Mistress of the Sun

by Sandra Gulland

  “Now we can clean out his stall,” she told the ploughman, reaching up to stroke Diablo’s nose. “He’ll like being outside today,” she said, combing out a snarl in his forelock with her fingers.

  The kitchen bell rang. “Mademoiselle, how…?” the old man sputtered, speechless.

  “I told you he could be gentled.”

  “Blanche will be none too happy about the state of your cloak.” He frowned at the stains on the hem.

  “I have to go for my porridge now,” Petite said, but addressing the horse. “Come—I’ll put you outside.” She opened the stall door and the White followed her out of the barn into the morning sunlight, his nose at her shoulder.

  The ploughman jumped back as they passed.

  “I’ll put him in the front paddock,” she said, “where Hongre usually goes.”

  “Mademoiselle, you dropped something.” The ploughman held up a pin case.

  “Thank you,” Petite said, running back for it, her cheeks bright.

  LATER, AFTER PORRIDGE and small beer, after lectures and scoldings, after chores, chores and more chores, Petite washed and groomed her horse, combing his mane and tail and dressing the scabs on his haunches with liniment. Only reluctantly did she return to the manor for a meal, slipping out yet again before candle-lighting to bid him a good night, blowing into his nose and inhaling his warm, fragrant breath.

  That night, she fell into a deep sleep, the pin case tucked under her pillow.

  The sound of growling woke her—it was not as a dog growled, but deeper, and almost with pleasure. She sat up. Something was in her room.

  “Mademoiselle?” she called out to the scullery girl, but there was no answer.

  The growl had come from the foot of her bed. Petite called out again, but still there was no sound from the maid’s bed under the eaves. She’d snuck out, likely, and now Petite was alone. Something swooshed by her head. Trembling, she groped for the wooden cross above her bed. She cowered under the covers, staring into the dark, clutching the cross to her.

  In the morning, Petite woke, weakened by the faint memory of a dream of a winged creature with talons of iron. A demon had got into her head.

  Before gathering eggs, Petite buried the pin case in the dirt of her stone hovel and covered it with rocks. Saint Michel, protect me from evil spirits, I beg you. Amen. And then she went to her horse.

  Chapter Four

  LAURENT DE LA VALLIÈRE approached home on the back of old Hongre. Behind him, in the open carriage, sat his wife, his son and the boy’s tutor.

  It had been an eventful three weeks. The Queen Mother had arrived at Amboise in a burning fever and had had to be bled four times. The pain she suffered had been terrible to see. At one point she looked like one possessed, and her attendants had thought to bring in a priest to rid her of a demon. The Devil had been spotted in the shape of a goat in the village market the night before she arrived. Thanks be to Mary, Laurent had thought to bring a rabbit paw. He’d had the cobbles in front of the château threshold taken up and had buried the charm there. He thrilled at the thought that he may have saved the Queen Mother’s life.

  His wife’s thoughts were not so kindly. Laurent had endured one of Françoise’s tongue-lashings the night before. It had been unfortunate, true, that she had not been presented to Her Majesty—but how could it have been otherwise? The Queen Mother was suffering fits and fevers! As for their son, Jean, it was understandable that the King and his brother would be kept apart, not permitted to mix with the local gentry. Laurent himself had laid eyes on His Majesty only a few times. It was attested that the King, although yet a boy, had cured hundreds of people of the Evil, the disfiguring neck growths melting away at his touch. (What a thing that would be to see!)

  And then Françoise had started in about money. True, he had spent quite a sum on the royal welcome—hiring musicians and having banners and caparisons made up—but it was a privilege to serve, an honor. This his wife would never understand: it was not in her blood. “If any money’s to be spent, it’s to get back my pearls,” she’d told him, demanding that he petition the Queen Mother for favor. He had saved the Queen Mother’s life and deserved some sort of recognition—but simply serving was reward aplenty, was it not?

  Laurent had been awed to see the Queen Mother’s famously fine hands clasped in prayer as she lay stretched out on a bed, propped up against tasseled silk pillows. Although aged now, and somewhat large, it was easy to see that she had once been a beauty. He had been asked to obtain finely woven covering-sheets for her. Another expense, Françoise had complained. But to think of it: the Queen Mother had slept on cloth he had touched with his own hands.

  Laurent patted his leather pouch where he kept his rosary. He had put it with the coin the Queen Mother had given him. The gold louis had slipped from her hand, rolled across the floor, and the young King himself had scooped it up. The Queen Mother—saintly woman—had asked her son to give the coin “to this kind man here.” The King’s hand had brushed his own.

  “Only one lousy louis? Is that all she gave you?” Françoise had wept. “You spent a hundred! We could have used that money to repair our leaking roof, or replace the broken window in the sitting room, or mend the chimney so we could burn a fire without being smoked out, or…”

  Or buy back his wife’s pearls. Laurent pressed old Hongre forward over the bridge with a touch of his spurs. Françoise was young and ever so pretty. He wished he could make her happy. Ever since the loss of the baby, her humors had been out of balance.

  “Papa?” he heard his son call out as they approached the gates to the family manor.

  Laurent looked back to see Françoise standing up in the carriage, holding onto Jean’s shoulder for support. “Laurent, do something!” She pointed at the manor and burst into tears.

  Laurent turned, and gasped, for there, at the entrance to their courtyard, was his daughter—riding the White.

  He crossed himself. Mon Dieu. What a glorious sight! It was the White, surely, yet this horse was combed and groomed, his mane plaited with mismatched ribbons, his haunches draped with one of Françoise’s old comforters, like a royal caparison. The steed lifted his hooves neatly, stepping lightly.

  “Yes, Father—it’s Diablo,” his daughter called out, grinning proudly. She was riding astride without a saddle, her skirts bunched around her thighs. She looked like a pixie atop such a large animal—such a large beast.

  “Laurent, that horse will kill her,” he heard his wife cry out behind him.

  “Get off!” he bellowed, finding his voice.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “Fie!” he cried, panic filling him.

  “But he’s gentle now,” his daughter said, holding the reins loosely. The White’s head bent submissively, one ear pricked back.

  “Get off, I say,” Laurent commanded, a sudden pain piercing his heart.

  “Father?” Petite called out as he toppled. “Father!”

  PETITE WATCHED IN CONFUSION as her father slumped and slowly slid off his horse, his foot caught in one stirrup. She jumped from Diablo and ran to him. Her father was pale and clutching his chest.

  “I will be fine, little one,” he said slowly.

  Petite wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead with her hand.

  Jean appeared. “Papa?” He let his father’s boot out of the stirrup and took up Hongre’s reins.

  “Laurent!” Françoise cried out.

  Petite looked up to see her mother running with her hoops lifted.

  “That horse,” her father gasped, struggling to sit.

  Petite felt a warm breath at her shoulder: Diablo. “Ho, boy,” she said, touching his nose. “Back,” she commanded, holding up one hand. The White took five steps back, and stood.

  Her father crossed himself, his eyes on the stallion.

  “Laurent, you are not to die,” Françoise said, panting from her run. She knelt beside her fallen husband, her face powder streaked.

  Die? P
etite closed her eyes, praying silently.

  IN THE DARK DAYS that followed, Laurent slowly recovered. “I told you not to go near that horse,” he reprimanded Petite from his bed.

  “Forgive me, Father,” Petite said as she stoked the fire in the massive stone fireplace. She stood, tracing with her fingers the words etched into the mantel: Ad principem ut ad ignem amor indissolubilis. For the King, love like an altar fire, eternal.

  “Little one?”

  Petite turned.

  “Come here.” He patted the bed.

  Petite climbed up and sat beside her father, chewing on the end of one of her braids. An image of the Virgin had been propped on the candle stand next to the bed. Beside it was the stoppered bottle her mother had made of Laurent’s water, a fingernail and a lock of his hair together with two nails and two rosebush thorns. It would vanquish the evil spirit that had tried to kill her father, she’d told Petite—but Petite feared that she herself was that evil spirit and had twice uncorked the bottle while her father slept.

  “Tell me how it came about,” he said, taking the braid out of her mouth. “With the White.”

  Petite shrugged one shoulder and grinned. (She knew she could charm him.) “I prayed, and it just happened,” she said. It was a partial truth, but mostly a lie.

  “Praise be,” Laurent said. “But promise me this: don’t ride him, not until I’m well enough to coach you.”

  THREE DAYS LATER, Laurent came slowly down the winding stairs, holding onto his wife for support. Jean, Petite, the tutor and the household servants all cheered as he emerged into the sitting room.

  “Behold,” Laurent said, like one risen from the dead. He lifted his nightcap as if it were a hat. He hadn’t been shaven and looked like a ruffian.

  Petite was filled with delight. Soon she could ride Diablo again.

  IN THE CONFINES OF THE PADDOCK, Petite rode Diablo as her father watched. Proudly, she took the stallion through the walk, trot and canter. He went smoothly, without overreaching or striking one foot upon another.

  “A horse for a prince,” Laurent said, shaking his head.

  My horse, Petite thought, for the stallion would not allow anyone but her near.

  Thereafter, weather and her father’s health permitting, Petite schooled Diablo every afternoon. He was not so much skittish as eager, and she learned to focus his restiveness, teaching him to tread in large rings, to stop, retire and advance. Much to her father’s amazement, he learned to perform a capriole and could even bound aloft on all four (which Petite loved best). After each lesson, she rubbed his neck with a light, soft hand, stroking as the hair lay.

  By mid-April, when the grass was green and full of sun, Diablo was put into the back pasture, his provender supplemented with baked loaves of peas and meal. There, following her father’s instructions, Petite accustomed him to rough ground for an hour or two a day—first at a foot pace, and then at a trot, and finally at a swift trot mingled with a few strokes of gallop. Then, and only then, did Laurent deem the stallion ready to ride into a newly ploughed field, thereby teaching him to take his feet up roundly and set them down surely, never to stumble.

  “But he is not to go hoodwinked,” Laurent explained to Petite one day, lying abed with a hot wrapped brick on his chest. “That’s what Monsieur Bosse and some of our neighbors do, I know, but depriving a colt of sight takes away his delight and stirs up an excess of fear.”

  “Yes, Father,” Petite said, eager to get Diablo beyond the pasture. She longed to see how fast he could go.

  “Enough of this horse-talk, Laurent,” Françoise said, coming into the room with a basket of needlework. “Louise is almost seven now. It’s time our daughter started acting like a girl.” She handed Petite her unfinished sampler.

  Chastity, humility, piety: Petite groaned.

  PETITE SANG AS SHE CLIMBED the narrow path to the back field where Diablo grazed. The spring woods were sprinkled with lily of the valley, periwinkle, and, in amongst the holly, a blue orchid she called “wishes.” She noted the narrow rabbit tracks running toward rock outcroppings and hoof-marks where deer had jumped the path. The melodic chirps of spring birdsong intermingled with the staccato tap of a woodpecker and the raucous calls of the jays.

  As Petite emerged from the woods, Diablo whinnied. She climbed over the fence and stood as he cantered to meet her. She made a motion with her hand and—slowly, ponderously—he knelt before her. She pressed her face into his neck, stroked his velvety nose. Then she slipped onto his back and commanded him to stand, her bare legs hugging his sides. She sat for a moment, enjoying the vista, the gentle rolling hills, the river, the woods. She felt like the goddess Diana, fearless and strong.

  It hadn’t taken her long to learn that she only had to think slow and Diablo would slow, think canter and he would canter, think gallop and he would race like a courser. It hadn’t taken her long to discover that she had no need of a bit, much less a bridle, that he responded fully to the slightest pressure from her legs. At her command he would jump any log, bush or gully. He trusted her. Today they would leave the confines of the pasture, go up the hill and into the woods.

  She put him through his paces and then nudged him into a canter, steering him towards a low point in the fence. “Yep, yep!” she said, grabbing a fistful of mane as he surged over the fence and up the trail. The wind brought tears to her eyes. They were flying! At the crest of the hill, Diablo slowed, then stopped. Petite fell forward onto his neck, weak with the thrill of it.

  A rustle made the horse startle, and Petite looked back. It was the runt, scrambling up the forest trail, panting and wagging its tail. Petite groaned: she would have to lead it back home. She turned Diablo around, toward a path that came out behind the barn.

  Diablo’s pace relaxed into an amble. As they headed back, she sang “Ave Maria,” letting her feet swing with his steps. The puppy followed, staying out from underfoot as Diablo picked his way through brambles and then through a mud sink, a boar wallow Petite hadn’t seen before. The boar must be of good size, she guessed—it had rubbed mud onto tree trunks fairly high up. She noted the location: about five strides northeast of a sweet chestnut tree felled for shingles. Her father would want to know. He and three companions, gentry of the neighborhood, went boar hunting on Michaelmas, when wild pigs were high in flesh.

  “Pup,” she called out, looking behind. The shadows were lengthening, and she knew not to be around a boar bog late in the day.

  Diablo’s ears swiveled. Petite turned the horse and trotted back. At the bend, she spotted the puppy, snarling and growling. Suddenly, a boar charged out of the bushes. It caught the pup with a cheek tooth and tossed it into the air, splattering blood onto the leaves. Diablo planted his feet, and Petite tumbled over his head.

  Petite tried to rise, but her left leg collapsed under her. The boar lowered its head, its little pig eyes on her, one of its tusks bright with blood. Petite pressed her face into the dirt. It would kill her.

  She felt the earth shake and heard thudding, and she looked up. Diablo was facing the boar, rearing and striking. With each blow, the boar grunted and staggered back. Then Diablo twirled and kicked out, catching the beast square in the head.

  Even the birds were silent. Diablo ambled up to the boar’s body, sniffed it, then turned back to Petite. She signalled him to kneel and, almost swooning from pain, she draped herself over his back. He headed slowly down the path, toward home.

  IN THE LONG WEEKS that followed, Petite didn’t know what was worse: her mother’s fretful tongue-lashing or the painful ministrations of the town surgeon, who first braced her broken ankle to make it straight and then bled her from the foot. For over two weeks she lay on the daybed in the sitting room, her injured leg encased in splints and propped up on pillows. The days were long. Were it not for her father’s tutoring (he had decided to teach her to read Latin), she would have been unspeakably bored.

  And then, for over a month, she endured hobbling about the house on crutches, he
r leg strapped to boards. At long last, the splints came off. Leaning on a hickory crutch, she eased her weight onto both legs. She felt lopsided.

  “Like the village idiot,” Jean taunted.

  “Son,” Laurent said in his warning voice.

  Françoise burst into tears.

  Petite turned to face her mother. If only she could calm her as easily as she could calm a horse. The horrid brace was finally off and she was standing, at least. She took two careful steps.

  “Why couldn’t that surgeon have set it right, Laurent?” Françoise said. “We paid him good money.”

  “She will be fine, Françoise.”

  “But her left leg is short: she’ll walk with a limp.”

  “She just needs a little practice. How does it feel, little one?” Laurent asked.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Petite lied. “May I ride Diablo now?”

  “You’re never to get on that horse again,” Françoise said.

  Laurent objected. “The White saved our daughter’s life.”

  “I begin to think you’re both bewitched,” Françoise said, stirring the fire with tongs. “Nothing would have happened if she’d been at her needlework.”

  “Françoise, calm—”

  Françoise banged the tongs onto the stone hearth. “Don’t you be saying calm to me, Laurent. Nothing has gone right since you brought that horse home. First, you and your pains, and now our daughter with a limp. That horse brought a curse down on our house, and you know it.”

  PETITE WAS AT her embroidery frame in the sitting room when she heard a knock at the door. She was supposed to have been reciting the ten commandments as she worked (no false gods, no misuse of God’s name, honor the Sabbath, honor my father and mother, no murder, no adultery, no theft…), but instead she’d been dreaming of Diablo, imagining racing him at the village fair next week and winning the prize. She would give the money to her mother, and her mother would praise Diablo (as well as her).