The king gestured to Mademoiselle. “Take a chair.”
She gasped. “I wouldn’t sit in your presence, sire.”
The ease of the evening almost seemed shattered. Olympia plopped a chunk of cheese in her mouth and sauntered over to the chair, sinking into it.
Mademoiselle looked scandalized. I laughed and refilled everyone’s wine.
Monsieur turned to Soissons. “What will you do with such a reckless wife?”
Soissons raised his glass. “Reckless but prosperous.”
“I can afford to be reckless,” said Olympia, pointing to her palm. “It says here I would marry a content man and have sons.” She winked at her husband, who bowed. “And have a long, happy life.”
“You haven’t told my fortune,” said Mademoiselle.
I gave Olympia a warning look, but she reached across the king’s glass to take Mademoiselle’s hand, palm up. She studied it for a long while. Too long. Sneaky Olympia.
Mademoiselle yanked her hand back. “What did you see?”
“Prosperity.”
Mademoiselle glanced at Monsieur. She might have relinquished the prospect of marrying the king, but I knew Mazarin wouldn’t let her marry Monsieur either. “Anything else?”
“If you mean marriage, no.” Olympia reclined in her chair.
Mademoiselle frowned. “Superstition.”
“Forget this nonsense,” said King Louis, reaching for his glass. “Let’s go home.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until dawn?” I snatched the glass from him and pretended to sip. “Paris is dangerous at night.”
Olympia stared at the glass in my hand, stunned. I shrugged innocently.
The king looked away from me and walked to the door. “I’ll order the coach to move with all speed.”
We crowded into Mademoiselle’s coach, Olympia giving me looks that could kill. King Louis shouted orders, and we took off with a jolt down the dark streets. Monsieur slipped from the bench; we saw a flurry of petticoats and hairy legs as he righted himself.
Houses sped past, and the king’s musketeers fell behind. King Louis just laughed. He kicked open a compartment hidden in the floorboards. It held pistols, shots, and gunpowder. “Wouldn’t it be grand if assassins attacked?”
I frowned. “You are the one who is reckless.”
King Louis caught my serious tone. He tried to grab my hand, but I crossed my arms.
Why is he so careless of himself? Slowly I realized. Cold and alone in my convent cell, I had felt the same. King Louis is unhappy.
CHAPTER 17
It was the same at every masquerade and every ballet practice; Olympia fiddled with her ring, and I distracted King Louis more than I distracted Soissons. As carnival season ended, opening night of the Ballet d’Alcidiane arrived. We lined our eyes with kohl and slathered our lips with Spanish red. Peeking from behind the stage, I watched nobles and musicians fill the theater at the Louvre, cramming into balconies and packing shoulder to shoulder on the floor. The queen mother and distinguished guests took the front. The flickering lights of two dozen candelabra illuminated their judgmental stares as well as the stage. Lully summoned up the music of his violins.
Olympia, Hortense, and I danced onto the stage in supporting roles as foreigners dressed in turbans. Scarves edged with jingly gold coins hung low on our waists. We twirled, we leapt, and we finished each wave of our arms with a flick of the wrist. Professional singers played the lead roles of the warrior Polexandre and Princess Alcidiane. In three acts, we journeyed from Alcidiane’s royal court to a New World and battled a sea monster, demons, and a sorceress.
The king appeared, and a wave of appreciative ahhs swept across the theater. The spectators hung on his every move, his lunges and toe points, his expression and his eyes. In the final sequence, he danced a chaconne to baritone verses that rang across the court. “He hardly feels the power of love … I doubt he will endure love’s yoke.”
The meaning struck me. Ballets de cour were written expressly for King Louis, and he considered them an expression of himself. I struggled to keep the spring in my step as we made our final leaps to exit the stage. Was the king untouched by love? Servants and costumers bustled backstage preparing the final wedding scene. I ducked into an alcove to hide my face. I lost my chance with him anyway.
The music ended, and the audience applauded. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
It was King Louis. “The verses about me aren’t true. I do feel love.”
I smiled. “You won’t suffer its yoke.”
“I want to. Please tell me you’ll let me. That you won’t shy from my kisses.”
Everything inside me wanted to pull him close. “A kiss from me is a yoke from my uncle. You could never trust me.”
“Trust implies risk.” He wrapped his arms around me.
I savored his warmth and the musk of his ambergris perfume. “To love is to risk.”
“You won’t run from me again.” He kissed me softly and I let him. It happened as suddenly as it had before, the rush of urgency and fire that terrified and exhilarated. I couldn’t have run again if I’d wanted to.
Someone far away cried out, “Where is the king?”
He broke the kiss but pulled me closer. We held each other, breathing heavily, unwilling to part, understanding the line must be drawn.
Behind us, a page cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the audience!”
The king pulled me by the hand into the light of the stage. I laughed at the smeared Spanish red on his lips, and he laughed at mine. Olympia stared, astounded. She knows. She would be furious. Courtiers threw flowers at our feet. What would they think when they found out?
Everyone with access to court followed the king to the Pavillon du Roi for a collation. Mazarin and the queen mother clung to his side as everyone congratulated his performance. The king winked at me from across the chamber. Tomorrow, he mouthed. A promise. I slipped away unnoticed.
* * *
At Palais Mazarin, Moréna wasn’t in my bedchamber to help me undress. A servant pointed to the window. I pushed it open. On the terrace below was a great circle of candles. In the center, a pyre of sweet-smelling herbs went up in smoke. Moréna danced around it, humming, hands raised to the light of the full moon. She’d worked some spell.
“Clean that up,” I cried.
She stopped. “Is he yours?”
“On my terms. Not because of this.”
She grinned, bright teeth shining. “At last!” She hopped around, victorious. “You will live a life of freedom and you will take me with you.”
“Hush, fool. Come up at once!”
I pulled the window closed and told myself tonight had nothing to do with Moréna’s magic or her drive to be free. My relationship with Louis would be entirely my own. I would brook no more interference. Not from Olympia, and certainly not from Mazarin. If I had to deceive Mazarin, so be it. Love takes risks. To truly love King Louis would be to risk my very freedom.
CHAPTER 18
Spring 1658
Marie was the best and the wildest of all the Mazarinettes.
—LOUIS DE ROUVROY, DUC DE SAINT-SIMON’s memoirs
A huge fire warmed my salon, and half-emptied bowls of strawberries and peas sat alongside platters of fruit tarts upon my table. Monsieur, Soissons, and Conti sat at another table, looking bored while Louis and I huddled on a divan discussing Jerusalem Delivered. We sat so close you couldn’t slide a piece of paper between us. I treasured every moment of the king’s daily visits, savoring his musky ambergris perfume. But Soissons’s eyes were on me. I knew he reported everything he saw here to Olympia. The husband was jealous that I’d snatched his wife’s lover. If only I could wrap my hair around the king and tie him down with braided flower vines to keep him as Armida had done to Rinaldo.
“Summer approaches,” said Monsieur. “The war campaigns will soon begin.”
I frowned. The cardinal had tried using these visits to broach his Naples Plan. He’d given up, as I
managed to turn every conversation from business to literature.
“Sire,” said Conti, “will you inspect Cromwell’s troops at Mardyck?”
King Louis glanced at me. He knew I didn’t want him going near the troops again. “Don’t worry, my mother will follow as far as Calais.”
“That gives me an excuse to follow as her lady in waiting. I shall take my own carriage.”
“Take whatever means necessary,” the king said, standing to go. “So long as you come.” He kissed me soundly on the mouth, right in front of the others. He’d managed to avoid the question about the troops.
When he’d gone, Soissons remained. “Olympia wants you to stay behind.”
“Why should I?” I wished Olympia would stay.
“The king hasn’t visited us since Lent began.”
“He shows you both favor.”
“She wants … time alone with him.” He clenched his jaw.
I didn’t envy Olympia, whose husband would willingly lead her to the king’s bed for his own benefit. “What? She wants a turn, as if the king is some plaything?”
He turned ruddy red and said no more.
* * *
The court left Paris in a fanfare of kettledrums and trumpets, with commoners waving from every street corner and leaning from every window. Standard-bearers rode one behind the other the entire length of our train, flags snapping in the breeze. Drivers cracked whips, and postilions called, “Ho!” In the rear, coaches packed with servants, cooks, musicians, and artists were followed by wagons of furniture, food, wine, and gunpowder. I had my own carriage, with my own servants and footmen and drivers. Moréna sat where the postilion usually stood, and my postilion rode Trojan. Hortense, Marianne, and Venelle traveled inside with me holding baskets of breads and wines and smoked salmon. A chamber pot was stored beneath one seat. I was not unprepared for this journey. We slowly rolled northwest to Calais by way of Amiens. The king rode at the head of our cavalcade and did not allow us to stop.
When the sun dipped into the afternoon side of the sky, I opened my carriage door.
“What are you doing?” asked Venelle.
I didn’t answer but called to my postilion, “Throw me Trojan’s reins and climb onto the carriage.”
He tossed me the reins and scrambled up. Hortense cried, “Be careful, you fool!”
“Mind the door.” I stepped out, securing one foot in Trojan’s stirrup. “Easy, boy.” Holding the pommel tight, I threw my other leg over the saddle. I straddled it perfectly, and my skirts fell neatly into place. I kicked Trojan into a trot.
Gendarmes and musketeers gaped as I passed, and every carriage rang out with cries of shock. “It’s that Mancini girl!”
I approached the musketeers that flanked King Louis and slowed to match their stride. One of them was Philippe, who laughed when he saw me.
“Lovely day for a war, Your Majesty,” I said.
King Louis never looked more surprised. “You’re either wild or mad.”
Trojan pranced beneath me, tossing his head, itching for a run. I laughed. “Those meadows are begging to be ridden.”
He heeled his horse and took off, breaking through the musketeers. Trojan galloped after him through the fields. Philippe and three other musketeers followed. We scaled outcropping rocks and a winding stream and left the train inching slowly behind. At the top of a hill King Louis stopped, signaling for the guards to keep a good distance. I pulled Trojan to a halt beside the king, and we looked back at the court, now just a thin line in the distance. He jumped off his horse and helped me dismount. We embraced between the horses, kissing until I wanted to fall into the tall grass and have our fill of one another.
“One day,” murmured King Louis, “I want to be alone with you.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
He laughed. We led our horses down the other side of the hill.
“If you must go near the fighting, I want to be with you,” I said.
“No. I must go to Mardyck, where Turenne has his headquarters. It is too close to the front.”
“Then it is too close for you to go!” I dropped his hand.
He grabbed it again. “Don’t be angry.”
“You mistake fear for anger.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I will be careful.”
I slipped my hand into my hanging pocket and brought out the white silk pouch hanging from a long silver chain. This time, it contained more than merely blessed rue. It held vervain, the Heavenly Letter on a miniature fold of parchment, and a cross of brown agate. “Wear this around your neck.”
He looked skeptical.
“Keep it by your heart. It will bring you back safely to me. Please.”
He let me loop it over his head and unbutton his doublet enough to tuck it under his shirt. I stroked his chest. His breathing grew heavy, and he pulled me close. I planted one kiss in the hollow between his collarbones and slowly buttoned his doublet, wishing I could tear the thing to shreds and kiss every inch of him. He propped his chin on the top of my head, and I rested my ear over the sound of his heart.
“Return to me,” I whispered. “If this heart stops, my life will end.”
Philippe interrupted. “Your Majesty,” he called, pointing to the cavalcade. It had come around the hill by a bend in the road. “We must keep near the others.”
We returned to the train, and I’d extracted no promise from my king.
* * *
“You should hear how people talk when you break free riding with the king!” Cardinal Mazarin paced the tiny chamber allotted to my sisters and me in his Calais lodgings.
“I do hear. I don’t care.”
Hortense pretended to be asleep on the bed. Marianne snored in earnest.
“Don’t care that they call you a wild pagan? That you ride like a man? That they can’t see what the king sees in you?”
“Jealous spite.”
“Their spite will reach his ears and turn his mind against you.” He crossed his arms. “I expected decorum. Olympia never behaved thus.”
“We never get time alone.”
He stepped to me. “So you stole some. What did you learn in your time alone?”
“We discuss books and poetry.”
“Has he mentioned Naples? Cromwell’s troops?”
It was the first time my uncle had questioned me on this score in weeks. Praise heaven I could answer honestly. “No.”
He flung his hands out. “Do you want to be queen or don’t you?”
His words froze me.
“Find out what he thinks, girl. See if he makes the connection between victory and his ability to choose a wife. If he doesn’t, plant the seed.” I nodded, and he went on. “Most importantly, make him promise to capture and execute Condé!” He bid me good night so fast, with little more than a wave, that he didn’t notice my shock.
Hortense sat up. “Did he say you might be queen?”
“Never repeat that.”
“The queen mother will tear out her hair.”
“Swear, Hortense!”
“You better follow Uncle’s advice.”
“What do you mean?” I threw open a trunk, hauled out a feather mattress, and tossed it on the floor.
“Know the king’s mind and have him firmly in hand. Be certain of his love, or his mother will take you down.”
I snatched her pillow.
“Do you want to be his queen?”
I collapsed on my makeshift bed. “All I know is—” I couldn’t say it. I love him.
* * *
As part of the cardinal’s household, we didn’t have to wait upon the queen mother. But the next morning she summoned us to her lodging anyway. My sisters and I dressed each other quickly. We met Olympia in the queen mother’s antechamber.
“There is the wild Mancini,” Olympia said quietly. “Step aside and let me handle the king without scandalizing the family.”
“He is nothing but a prize to you,” I said.
I gasped. A handful of ladies looked our way. Hortense started talking loudly to Marianne to obscure our conversation.
“He tried that with me,” Olympia muttered. “Mazarin will use your own heart against you.”
I tried to look amused. “I have no doubt he would have elevated you to queen if he could have. But there is a difference. The king never loved you.”
She bit her lip. “I need royal favor for my son’s benefit.”
I put my hands on her shoulders. “You would have everlasting favor if I were queen. For once, give me a chance.”
Madame de Motteville opened the doors to the queen’s chambers, and Olympia moved to the head of the line of ladies. Olympia said nothing as we dressed the queen and said nothing at mass. She said nothing as we served the queen’s dinner and nothing when we played cards. Finally, as the hour we anticipated news about the war approached, Olympia seemed to come to a decision.
She yawned loudly and stretched her arms. “Our queen must be bored to tears!”
The queen mother smiled indulgently.
Olympia grabbed a lute. “My sister must regale us.” She handed it to me. “You’re the only one here with any talent, Marie. Won’t you play?”
I took it with a grateful smile. She nodded and walked away. I strummed chords and hummed tunes to old Italian lullabies. The chamber fell quiet except for my music and the other ladies humming along. Thus, when King Louis crept in, I held the floor. When my song ended, he was first to applaud.
The queen mother opened her arms to receive his kiss. “What news?”
“Cromwell’s men joined General Turenne’s at Mardyck, six thousand strong. Provisions are in. They move toward Dunkirk to engage within days. I leave for Mardyck before dawn.”
The queen mother nodded. “We will be ready.”
“No,” said King Louis. “Your household will stay at Calais.”
She frowned. “You will take your physicians and best musketeers?”
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