Mistress of the Sun

by Sandra Gulland

  The meal bell ran. Soon Gautier would come back. She put on her cloak. Thank God for the veil, the mask. She’d leave the costume—she wouldn’t be needing disguises anymore.

  Anymore.

  Petite pressed her forehead against Louis’s cloak. It smelled of cinnamon comfits. What would become of her now?

  She gathered her courage and left Gautier’s room, wending her way back to her chamber under the eaves, lowering her head as she passed others. At last, she arrived at her door.

  “Zut!” Clorine exclaimed when Petite removed her mask. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m ill,” Petite said, thankful that Nicole was not there. She headed for the safety of her bed.

  “You look white as curd,” Clorine said worriedly.

  “I just need to rest.” Petite’s voice broke. “I’ll be fine.” She flung her bed curtains closed and pressed her face into her pillow. Whore, he had called her. Dream images flooded her, one upon another: of a death mask, a swampy room, a masked figure holding a cross. She was a whore. The Devil was within her.

  IT WAS NOT YET DAWN when Petite sat up in bed. She’d heard the night watchman call out six of the clock. She had not slept at all. In an hour or so the sun would rise, and the world with it.

  She sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust, waiting until she could make out the three sleeping forms, dimly illuminated by the light of the night candle. The night before, she’d heard the maids making up their beds, heard Nicole stumbling in from the gaming tables, heard Clorine setting the door and shutter locks, then parting Petite’s curtains to look in at her, heard her worried sigh.

  Outside, a dog was barking and a rooster crowed. Shivering, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she put on the clothes Clorine had set out: a chemise, a bodice, two petticoats, a skirt, thick wool stockings. As quietly as she could, she took her hooded cloak down off the peg. She grabbed her boots and tucked them under one arm. She felt for a taper in the basket on the shelf and knelt to flame it on the embers. Nicole snorted in her sleep and turned, mumbling. Silently, Petite unbolted the door and crept out.

  In the dark passage, Petite set the taper in the tin wall sconce and put on her boots, fumbling with the buckles, her fingers numb with cold. She felt for her wool mitts in the sleeve of her cloak and, after a few poor attempts, managed to get them on properly. Clasping the candle first with one hand and then the other, blowing on her mitts to warm her fingers with her breath, she headed down the passage to a stairwell that opened onto the garden. It was bolted, but from within, and unguarded.

  There was a guard at the garden gate, however. She’d not thought to bring her identification papers, her pass, so she lied, telling the sleepy attendant that she served Madame Henriette and that the Princess had a sudden hunger for the gingerbread and liquorice-water sold by a vendor in the market. “You know how it is when a woman nears childbed.”

  “But it’s not yet dawn,” he said, holding a torch to her face.

  “The Princess never sleeps,” she said with a sigh. He was young, just a boy.

  “You should have a footman with you. It isn’t safe.”

  “It’s not far,” Petite assured him. “Let me through. I must hurry.”

  “Take my dog with you.” He whistled, and a mastiff appeared, yawning.

  “If you insist,” Petite said uncertainly.

  She took the dog’s lead, and the guard opened the gate. “Thank you,” she said, and headed down the narrow cobbled street, still littered from the Mardi Gras revelries. At the first corner, she let the dog go free, shooing him back to the palace. Then, holding her candle before her, tipping it so that it did not drip candle grease onto her mitt, she headed for the river.

  As she neared the water, she stopped, overcome with sobs. She stumbled, unable to see. Whore.

  The sky was lightening; the surface of the river shimmered pink, flecked by the rising sun. She blew out the candle. There weren’t many boats out yet. Charred bits of wood floated on the surface. Gulls cried, circling above.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE PRIORESS HURRIED into the convent courtyard, nearly slipping on the icy cobblestones. Who could be ringing at such an hour? She prayed it was not a drunken reveler. It was annoying to tend the gate, but the lay nun charged with the task was ill, yet again, with an ague. The ring of keys shook like a tambourine in her hand as she opened the first lock and then a second. She paused to pull her veil down over her face and cracked open the heavy gate, taking care—on pain of excommunication—not to touch the threshold.

  “Mary,” she exclaimed, startled to see a young woman of the nobility before her, splatter-dashed with mud. How old was she? she wondered. Even yet twenty? It was difficult to tell.

  “Mother, I beg you, may I enter?”

  Her voice was soft, her enunciation refined, but with a hint of the land to the south. Golden curls flew out in wisps around her waiflike face, which was unadorned, without paint or patches. Her red-rimmed eyes were those of an innocent—luminous.

  The Prioress opened the gate enough for the young woman to come through, then pushed it closed and double-locked it. “You’re chilled,” she said, taking her by the elbow lest she fall. The hem of her cloak appeared wet, and her boots—one with a thick raised sole—were covered with mud. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve come from the city,” the young woman said. Her breath was coming in gasps.

  “All that way on foot? Glory—you’re shaking like a leaf.” There was no hint of liquor on her, so it wasn’t that.

  In moments, the Prioress had her settled on a wood bench in the parlor. “I’ll have a trencher and small beer brought to you,” she said, stoking the fire.

  “No, thank you. I will be fine,” the young woman said, then slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  HOURS LATER, THE Prioress made her way through the various chambers and along the inner courtyard to the reception chamber. It was not even prime, and already it had been a busy morning: Ash Wednesday rituals, the girl falling unconscious in the parlor and now—she’d been informed—a man demanding entrance.

  The hinges of the shutter covering the grille squeaked as she opened it. “Adoremus in eternum,” she intoned to the tall young man wrapped in a gray cloak.

  “Sanctissimum sacramentum,” he answered, awkwardly sitting on the little cushioned bench in front of the grille, his spurs catching on the fabric. His hazel eyes were dark with emotion.

  The Prioress studied his face, his proud hooked nose and high cheekbones. An unusually comely man, tall and broad-shouldered, he was clearly of the noble race. Where had she seen him before? “I understand you demand entry, Monsieur, regarding a young woman in our care.” She had fallen into a trance, an insensible swoon, and looked to be more dead than alive. They’d tried giving her syrup of dry roses, an excellent cordial against tremblings of the heart, but without success. If she didn’t waken before terce, they would send for the priest. “We don’t allow men entry.” Especially on Ash Wednesday.

  “I am the King.”

  She tried not to scoff.

  “I am the King,” he repeated with passion, “and if you don’t allow me in to see her, I will have this convent destroyed.”

  Mon Dieu, she thought. He is the King. She recognized him now. Years ago she had seen him touch the sick, cure hundreds of the Evil. She crossed herself, bowing her head. “The young woman, Your Majesty, she’s—” She paused to catch her breath. “Insensible,” she warned, opening the door and leading the way into the visitors’ parlor, still bone-chilling cold in spite of a crackling fire.

  The young woman was as they had left her, lying stretched out on the floor. The Prioress and two of the nuns had considered moving her onto the bench, but decided it best to make her comfortable where she lay, taking off her wet boots and stockings, and wrapping her in fur and woolen comforters.

  The King fell to his knees. “Louise,” he whispered, touching her hand.<
br />
  She opened her eyes.

  Thank the Lord, she’s alive, the Prioress thought. She looked like a wounded angel, her curls spread out on the wax-greased floor—but she was no angel, the Prioress knew, to judge by the King’s treasuring words. Hurriedly, she withdrew behind the grille, chanting the rosary to keep out the sounds.

  PETITE FELT RELIEF, then alarm. Louis was with her—but where was she? What had happened?

  Something.

  She tried to sit up, but she was too weak.

  “Don’t,” Louis said.

  Why was he crying?

  And then it came back to her in dreamlike fragments: their fight, the water. “What happened?” she asked, clasping his warm hand, pressing it to her cheek.

  “I’m not sure.” Louis looked up at the ceiling. Took a shaky breath. “You don’t know?”

  “Is this a convent?” she asked, looking around. They were in a small chamber with a stone statue of Christ on the cross at one end and a fireplace at the other. Biblical tapestries hung on the stone walls. There was only one small window, high up and barred. She closed her eyes against tears. “I tried…I tried…” she stuttered, her breathing coming in gasps.

  “Hush,” Louis said with tenderness. He took her in his arms.

  Slowly, very slowly, she returned to the world. They sat huddled for a time by the fire as her socks and boots dried.

  “I would never strike you,” Louis said, repentant of his rage. “And I’m sorry…about what I called you. I love you.”

  Petite looked away, her eyes filling. Whore. She could forgive him—but could she ever forget? “I made a vow to secrecy, Louis, and I had to honor it. To do otherwise would have been a sin.”

  “There can be no secrets between us.”

  Petite thought about this. “I wish you weren’t King,” she said, her head on his shoulder. The nuns could be heard singing in choir.

  “But I am, and I must know what is going on at Court. It can be no other way.”

  Petite stirred the embers with an iron. She loved Louis with all her heart—but she did not love the King. How could she live with both? “I love you.”

  Louis placed two small birch logs on the bed of glowing embers. The paper-thin bark flared and sparked. “Then you must choose,” he said sadly.

  Petite looked into his eyes, his soft hazel eyes so full of feeling. She saw traces of his tears—his love—but she saw his resolve as well. He was King. She had to accept that. “I choose you,” she said quietly, holding her palms to the flames for warmth.

  PETITE’S CARRIAGE JOLTED FORWARD. She leaned back against the hard leather seat. She was still quite weak, overcome with fatigue. Louis had kissed her, promised the Prioress a generous compensation (the price of her silence), ordered a coach to take Petite back to the Palais Royale and then left, spurring his horse into a full-out gallop, his cape billowing out behind him.

  Petite pulled her cloak closely around her. She had broken her promise and told Louis what she knew. There was no other way: she saw that now. She’d been naive. He was the King, after all. The security of the realm rested on his shoulders.

  The sun was well up, the water congested with boats.

  The water…

  What had happened? She remembered looking down at the river, longing for relief, for sleep. But then…?

  And then all that she could recall was lying on the bank in the cold mud, her boots and the hem of her cloak soaked through. She had a faint recollection of a woman singing, and a horse’s scream. A chill went through her. She remembered sitting up, dazed. She remembered looking for hoof marks in the mud—but of course there were hoof marks everywhere.

  Tears started to come again. Gone to the river. What did it mean? And then she recalled: it had been said of a man who had used bone magic, lost his senses. Long ago. Men who used bone magic went lunatic—“gone to the river,” it was said.

  But what of girls? What of a girl who had used the magic—a child?

  Petite lowered the leather covering so that she could not see the water. She closed her eyes, lulled by the rumbling sound of the wagon wheels on the cobbles, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. O Mary…

  IT WAS DRIZZLING rain by the time Petite’s coach pulled up in front of the Palais Royale. She gathered the hood of her cloak up over her head and alighted, heading quickly for the stairwell that led to the servants’ wing.

  Clorine cried out when Petite pushed open the door to her room. “Dieu merci,” she exclaimed, then burst into tears. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mademoiselle,” she said angrily.

  “I’m sorry,” Petite said. “Where’s Nicole?” Her trunk wasn’t against the wall and her pomade jars, ribbons and pins had been cleared from the little table by the chimney.

  “Banished. She even took that useless maid with her,” Clorine said, “thanks be to Mary. But she left you this.” She handed Petite a rolled-up length of rag paper.

  My dear friend, I’ve been found out. Princess Henriette won’t even speak to me—after all I did for her! I think that cow Yeyette snitched. I’m being banished from Court and will be locked away in some musty convent for good measure—in the south, I hope, where at least it will be warm. You were right—I should have listened.

  Your friend, Nicole

  P.S. Keep an eye on our Goddess of Virginity. Dead Antin’s brother has been sniffing at her like a shit-nosed hound. P.P.S. I overheard la Grande Mademoiselle saying that Princess Marguerite has had a baby (or two?) and that her Tuscan husband is a beast. Poor dear.

  Petite sat on a stool as Clorine unbuckled her muddy boots. She felt sick with remorse.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take her bed,” Clorine said.

  “I’m going to miss Nicole,” Petite said.

  “Zut. Are you serious? We haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months. Let me get you into a clean gown. Madame has summoned you.”

  HENRIETTE SENT THE SERVANTS out of the room as soon as Petite appeared. “Well,” she said, lowering herself slowly onto a wide divan. But for her hard, protruding bulge she was stick thin. “You told the King,” she said accusingly. “The King who just happens to be your lover,” she added with contempt. “Quelle surprise.” She’d been crying too.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Petite lowered her head. So, now Henriette knew. “I had to.”

  “My husband must never find out,” Henriette said, her hands over her belly.

  “I know.” Pretty Philippe, who would not kill a bird, could be cruel in his jealous contempt for his wife.

  “His Majesty has forced my hand. I must give Armand up.” Henriette’s voice quavered in speaking her lover’s name. She took a sharp breath. “Mademoiselle de Montalais has been banished, of course.”

  “Nicole is innocent of wrong,” Petite protested.

  “None of us are innocent,” Henriette said wearily, her tone that of a much older woman. “And particularly Nicole, as you no doubt know,” she added. “The King was none too pleased by her role as…matchmaker, shall we say? And certainly she should never have told you.”

  “She vowed me to silence,” Petite persisted.

  “As I vowed her. She’s deceptive by nature, given to schemes and intrigue. Time locked away in a convent may even be for the best. And in any case, the King has spoken and there is nothing more to be done.”

  Petite’s eyes stung with tears. There would be no imploring Louis, she knew, no way to protest. She knew the rules, and she had made her choice.

  “Plus,” Henriette said sharply, her voice bitter, “in addition to giving up my beloved, I must keep you on as my attendant”—she stood, walking the length of the room, her arms crossed tightly, her hands gripping her sleeves—“so that His Majesty can have his secret pleasure.”

  She turned to face Petite, her eyes red-rimmed, her neck flushed. “I ask you: do you not find that ironic?” With abrupt passion, she swept the pomade jars off her toilette table. One shattered, filling the air with the a
roma of Hungary water. “I hate this stinking world!”

  “I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” Petite said with feeling, falling to her knees. It was said that Court was a country where the joys were visible but false, and the sorrows hidden but real. “I understand your torment.” She shared it.

  Petite felt Henriette’s finger lightly tap her shoulder. “Rise, Mademoiselle,” the Princess said.

  Awkwardly, wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve, Petite got to her feet.

  “It won’t do, you know, for the King’s paramour to grovel.” Henriette smiled sadly. “You’re going to have to be stronger.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  AS THE LEAVES of the chestnut trees unfurled, Henriette went into childbed. Her doctors feared she would die. After two days of pain, she gave birth to a weak baby girl. “Throw her in the river,” the Princess cried out in her rage. Only a girl, after all that. Two weeks later, she uprised, churched, and was ready to entertain.

  It was May now, after all, the old “Joy Month.” Court festivities continued unabated in spite of duels and infidelities, tragedies and scandal. Nicole disappeared without a trace into a convent somewhere in the south. The duelists—including Athénaïs’s intended—disappeared into foreign realms. And the Court? The King and his courtiers disappeared into the wilds, hunting, hawking and riding.

  The Court returned to Paris in June to find preparations underway for the next grand event. In the quadrangle between the Louvre and the Tuileries, where the bread ovens for the hungry had been not long before, stands were being constructed to hold five thousand spectators. The city was now enlivened: the people had survived a famine and escaped the Plague. The weather had turned fine: crops were growing and money was flowing once again. Their Spanish queen had birthed a healthy baby boy: the Dauphin was now six months old and thriving. There was cause for celebration.