Mistress of the Sun

by Sandra Gulland

  Heralds were sent out to announce a tournament in honor of the King’s fat son. Foreigners filled the city as news spread that the King himself would compete. In the evenings, men arrived at the salons complaining of sore muscles and smelling of the stable. Everyone was in a state of excitement, talking of armor and horses, anticipating an old-fashioned carousel with tilting at the ring and chariot races, dancing bears and chattering monkeys.

  “Just like in days of old,” Henriette said in an effervescent rapture. “Just like in the celebrated days of King Henry II,” she added (for she’d been studying her French history).

  King Henry’s tragic death by jousting had spelled the end of the grand tournaments, and Louis was intent on bringing back shows of bravura—safer, of course (jousting contestants would aim their long lances at rings now, not at each other), but every bit as thrilling.

  “His Majesty has been practicing with a lance,” Henriette said, her dog Mimi under one arm.

  “I saw him yesterday morning, Madame,” a new maid of honor said. “He missed one ring, but got another.”

  “And he’s taking lessons every day in tumbling,” Yeyette said. “Monsieur Lauzun told me.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Petite said (without flushing), and Henriette nodded approvingly.

  When the day finally came, the Queen and Queen Mother took their places under a gold and purple velvet canopy set up in front of the arena on the east side of the Tuileries. Petite sat with Athénaïs in the section reserved for the maids of honor, listening to the excited chatter, women talking of their husbands, fathers, lovers and brothers. The ladies laughed sharing stories of helping out with the men’s costumes, the frantic and inevitable search for lost items, the last-minute changes. They talked of special diets, sleepless nights, how best to soothe riding sores. They talked of giving their loved ones a scarf to wear, just like in the days of chivalry.

  “And who, might I ask, is carrying your scarf?” Athénaïs whispered to Petite.

  “No one,” Petite lied, wondering how much Athénaïs knew. At Louis’s insistence, Henriette had been careful about keeping silence, but many were suspicious, nonetheless. Fortunately, the Queen was not one of them (it was impossible for her to believe that the King could love a woman of such inferior nobility).

  “See that man down there?” Athénaïs pointed her fan at a tall cavalier in ancient armor, riding a stubby mare. “That’s the Marquis de Montespan, brother of the young man who was killed in the duel.”

  Five months had passed since the tragic affair that had spelled the death of Henry d’Antin and the ruin of so many others, including Athénaïs’s fiancé, the Marquis de Noirmoutiers.

  “And that’s my scarf he’s got tied to his lance,” Athénaïs said, “although it’s not what you think. He took it from me. He’s horribly persistent. Flattering, I suppose, but somewhat disconcerting.”

  A clang of cymbals and a blast of trumpets announced the opening procession: mounted pages in gold-embroidered tunics and squires in Roman dress were followed by the King’s two equerries, one carrying his lance and the other his shield, emblazoned with an image of the sun.

  Petite’s heart swelled to see Louis appear riding a chestnut stallion at the head of a Roman squadron. Dressed as Emperor of Rome, he looked afire with diamonds (tiny tin mirrors, Petite knew). His spirited horse’s gold-embroidered harness threw off sparks of light. Even his leather ankle boots were gilded and the sword at his side covered with “gems.”

  “The Sun King!” someone called out, and people cheered. Several times that winter Louis had danced the part of the Sun God Apollo, and the nickname had become popular.

  “Mon Dieu, it’s enough to make a girl faint just to look at him,” a young woman exclaimed, violently fanning herself.

  Indeed, Petite thought pridefully.

  Louis’s silver helmet was covered with gold leaves and crested with flowing scarlet plumes. He looked out over the crowd, searching the faces of the ladies under the velvet canopy—searching for her, Petite knew. She waved her lace shawl, hoping he would notice, but everyone, it seemed, was waving something.

  Four heralds trumpeted: may the games begin.

  What a show! The spectators grew hoarse cheering. Their shoulders ached from waving colorful scarves, pennants, flags, inflated pig bladders. One of the best moments was the Course of Heads, a contest rarely seen. Solemnly, a row of paste “heads” was set up along a barrier: several Turks, two Indians and a Medusa and other monsters from antiquity. Louis entered, first galloping at the heads with a lance, and then with a javelin, and then with a sword. The cheers turned to a stunned silence as, one by one, he mowed down all sixteen.

  During the tilting at the ring, Petite recognized Jean. “I think that’s my brother,” she told Athénaïs. “It’s my father’s suit of armor he’s wearing.”

  The horseman charged the post at full speed, piercing the ring with his lance. A cheer went up. He circled the arena, his visor up. “It is him!” Petite yelled to get Jean’s attention, but she could not make herself heard over the crowd.

  She climbed down the crude wood benches and circled round to the back of the arena where a military tent had been set up for the knights. She hovered with the crowd that stood waiting in hopes of seeing the King or some illustrious Court personality emerge. She recognized Lauzun and ran to catch up with him.

  “My brother is in there,” she said. “Could you go get him for me?”

  “Do you know how many men are in there? And all of them dripping with sweat,” Lauzun said with mock disgust.

  “I haven’t seen my brother in over a year. I didn’t know he was coming to Paris. He’s with Tellier’s men, wearing black chain mail and an old-style helmet, but with a visor. No breast plate, just a leather cuirass.”

  Reluctantly, fingers comically to his nose, Lauzun turned back toward the tent.

  Jean emerged shortly after, drenched. “Michel de Tellier dumped a bucket over me,” he said with a laugh, wiping his face with his sleeve. “If he weren’t son of the war minister, I’d thrash him. Come, I’m dying of thirst. I know a watering hole not far from here.”

  The “watering hole” was for men only, of course, so Petite waited by the river while Jean downed a mug or two of beer. “That’s better,” he said, joining her. “Michel and I were in there last night. The stories he tells!” He offered his arm to Petite as they strolled along the river. “He’s the one who told me about the tournament—it was his idea, you know—and suggested I come up for it.” He picked up a rock and threw it at a duck floating on the water, but missed. The duck dove, surfacing by a laundry boat. “Michel is a friend of the King, so he knows what’s going on. He told me the King is putting together a company of light horse for the Dauphin.”

  Petite nodded. It was no secret: everyone knew about it. “The positions are going to high-ranking veterans,” she said.

  “But with his pull, Michel thinks I might have a chance,” Jean said, throwing another rock, and hitting the duck this time.

  “That would be wonderful,” Petite said, but knowing that Michel de Tellier had little influence with Louis.

  “Speaking of the mighty, did you know Minister Fouquet?” she added.

  “Everybody at Court knew him. Mother said you guarded him at Amboise.”

  Jean laughed. “What a complainer. He expected a feather bed, rose water in his wash basin. Rose water—in a prison?” He paused. “You know, there was the strangest rumor going around: people said that Fouquet tried to bribe you because he’d found out that you were ‘close’ to the King.”

  “There are lots of rumors at Court, Jean.”

  “Of course that’s ridiculous. The King can have any woman at Court he wants.”

  Petite picked up a flat stone and skipped it across, three jumps.

  THAT AFTERNOON, LOUIS was distant with Petite. He lay beside her on Gautier’s bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “What’s wrong?” Petite finally asked, slipping a
hand under his shirt. It was unlike him not to embrace her hungrily. “You usually ravish me,” she said teasingly.

  He exhaled. “I saw you cheering someone during the tournament.”

  “I was cheering for you.”

  “This was at tilting at the ring. You were cheering a man on Tellier’s team.” He sounded miffed.

  “Oh—my brother Jean,” Petite said with a smile. “I was surprised to see him here in Paris. You weren’t jealous, were you?” she asked, incredulous.

  “You were cheering with such passion. I was watching you.”

  “He got the ring on the first pass,” Petite said proudly, laying her head on his broad shoulder. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

  He kissed her passionately—but all the while she was thinking, Why don’t I just ask? It pleased Louis to help, she knew. He was a generous man.

  “And?” he said, drawing back, sensing her detachment.

  She sighed. “It’s to do with the light horse brigade you’re putting together—for the Dauphin? My brother is truly a wonderful horseman, Louis, and he’d—”

  “Thy will be done,” Louis said with a smile, loosening her laces.

  IT WAS WINTER when Jean moved back to Paris to take up his new position. “Imagine, the rank of cornette,” Françoise said, fanning herself in spite of the chill.

  “Congratu—” the old Marquis sputtered. He’d shrunk over time.

  “Congratulations.” Petite raised a glass to her brother. He looked splendid in his new uniform, a red coat with silver lace edging and a silver-edged bandolier to match. She had helped Louis with the design.

  “I always knew you’d go far, Jean,” Françoise said.

  “In truth, I owe this to my friend Michel de Tellier,” Jean said, “the war minister’s son.”

  “That was kind of him,” Petite said, dissembling her surprise. Michel de Tellier had had nothing to do with her brother’s promotion “And imagine: a pension of four thousand livres,” Françoise said incredulously. “Now we’ll finally be able to save toward your sister’s dowry.”

  “I have a few prospects in mind,” Jean said.

  “Good,” Petite said, fainthearted.

  ON EASTER SUNDAY, Jean stopped Petite at the stairwell entrance to Madame’s suite. “I have to talk to you,” he said, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward the porticoes outside.

  “I don’t have a wrap,” Petite said. Her shawl was summer-weight. “Or boots.” The weather was cool still, and wet.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he hissed.

  Petite studied his eyes. He knew.

  “I finally got around to going to Michel de Tellier to thank him for the promotion, and—what a surprise—he said he had nothing whatsoever to do with it. And then he told me the truth.”

  Petite looked away, her heart jumping about like a rabbit on the chase. All her childhood, her mother had lectured her on the importance of chastity. “I’m sorry.”

  Jean laughed.

  Petite looked up at him: why was he smiling?

  “Have you any idea what position this puts me in?” he asked, cocking his hat.

  Petite put her hand on his arm. “Jean, it’s not like that.”

  “Not like what? We’re talking about the King.”

  “Be careful what you say,” Petite said in a low voice, noticing Athénaïs on the arm of her new husband, the persistent Marquis de Montespan.

  “Listen: I’m head of our family. Don’t think I don’t understand the ramifications. You’ve been sullied—that doesn’t come free.”

  “I’m serious, Jean,” Petite said, offended by his attitude.

  “I guess I don’t need to find a husband for you now. Mother’s constantly onto me about it. She’s driving me crazy.”

  “Jean, if you value your new position, I advise you to listen to what I’m saying,” Petite said, taking care not to raise her voice. “Nobody must know.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Especially Mother. She’d tell the Marquis, and then…”

  And then the world would know.

  ALL THAT HOLY SEASON, Petite prayed for her courses to come. Despite their abandon, she and Louis had been careful—most of the time.

  Perhaps royal seed is different, she thought as days turned to weeks. Then, after the Feast of the Ascension, she upheaved, and at Pentecost, Clorine had to loosen her corset laces.

  “You shouldn’t be riding,” her maid scolded, clucking with concern.

  Petite felt a sick despair, but at the same time she could not help but think that it was a most wonderful thing. Their seeds had mingled. She was carrying his child.

  LOUIS LOOKED AT PETITE in amazement. “Truly?”

  Petite nodded, smiling uneasily. She had put off telling him. Everything would change now; nothing would be the same.

  He embraced her carefully, as if she might break.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  He seemed strangely at a loss. “My mother must not find out.”

  “Or the Queen,” Petite said, chagrined that the Queen Mother was more of a concern than his wife.

  “Or the Queen,” Louis echoed with a wince. He sat Petite down beside him and took her hand.

  “I’ll talk to Colbert tonight.”

  Petite was taken aback. Monsieur Colbert was Louis’s new minister of finance, a humorless, dutiful man who kept lists.

  “His wife is about to have their fifth child. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Louis—” Petite paused, collecting her thoughts. She’d had a daydream—a foolish one, she knew—of living in a little cottage in the woods at Versaie, raising the baby herself. She could be happy with a simple life. “Is there no way that I could…keep the child? I’m serious,” she said, in response to his look of alarm.

  “You know that’s not possible, Louise.”

  “But why?” This was not how she’d imagined the conversation would go.

  He opened his hands in frustration. “You don’t understand the dangers. This isn’t just any child. You’d be found out, and the baby—” He shook his head. “He could be spirited away.”

  He. Petite smiled. They would have a son; she thought so too.

  “Listen to me.” Louis took both her hands in his.

  Petite watched him solemnly.

  He looked up at the ceiling, as if the words he was seeking were there. “The blood of a prince is believed to have magical qualities. It’s only a superstition, of course—but that doesn’t make it less powerful. People believe what they will.”

  Petite nodded. She was saddened to hear Louis say that it was only a superstition. She wondered about the other beliefs.

  “Even your birth secretions will have to be guarded,” he went on. “The after-burthen can be sold for a high price. It’s disgusting, but it happens. One learns to be realistic.”

  Petite recalled the care that had had to be taken with the Queen’s placenta.

  “So, you see? It’s just not possible for you to keep the baby. He must be carefully hidden away.” He opened his arms. “You’re not to worry: Monsieur Colbert will find a good home for him…and a house for you,” Petite heard him say as he stroked her hair. A hideaway for her confinement. “I’ll see to it that you have everything you need.”

  Everything you need…

  Petite listened to the beating of Louis’s heart.

  She needed him—now more than ever. She’d half imagined that Louis was immortal, but now she couldn’t afford that luxury. Now there was too much at stake.

  She looked up at him. “What would become of me if you were to die?” Or be killed: the common fate of kings. Without Louis, she’d be at the mercy of the queens.

  He smiled. “Are you plotting?”

  “I’m serious.”

  He frowned in thought. “Your brother needs a rich wife,” he said finally. “That way, you will always be taken care of—no matter what happens to me.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Petite
said with quiet passion, keeping the Devil at bay.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE WEDDING TOOK PLACE at the Church of the Assumption. Over sixty of the most noble men and women of France were to be present—even the King, even the Queen, even the Queen Mother. The bride’s family had insisted.

  Petite took her place beside her mother and stepfather in the chairs of crimson velvet set in front of the pews.

  “Soon it will be you,” Françoise whispered in a consoling tone as Jean and his bride advanced to the high altar.

  Petite bowed her head at the sound of the organ. The statue of the Virgin stood before her, glowing in the light of six massive candles. She felt light-headed, fatigued to her core. She was three months along now, and she recalled women saying that it was hardest at the first. The air reeked with the sweet scent of the flowers that had been strewn in the bride’s path. With child. She would never marry, never wear the bridal wreath.

  Jean, well shaved and dressed in military attire, rocked on his heels nervously beside his bride. Gabrielle Glé, a plump brunette with a cupid mouth, stood stiffly encased in white satin, a high ruff extending up to her ears. A wreath of tiny pink roses sat atop her dark curls.

  “She is comely,” Françoise said, fussing with the gauze shawl Petite had given her the year before.

  Petite nodded, watching as Gabrielle Glé bowed her head for the priest’s blessing. Privy to the secret—a secret the family had vowed to keep (on pain of exclusion from all material benefits)—they had bargained hard with Louis, demanding that the Vallière property near Reugny be designated a Marquisate (giving Jean the title Marquis), that Jean be named captain-lieutenant of the Dauphin’s Light Horse, that Gabrielle herself be made maid of honor to the Queen and given the privilege of sitting at the head table with the royal family as well as the right to ride in the royal coach.