A Woman of the Road

by Amy Wolf

  I could not speak for several moments. Finally, I cried, “Are all the Stuarts lunatics?!”

  “One could say,” said Aventis, “that they are mainly Catholics.”

  Jeffries slowed his horse to fall back and join us.

  “I could not help but overhear,” he said. “Charles may be wanton but be is not a fool.”

  “How can you say that?” I asked. All the evidence pointed otherwise.

  “He is a politic gent,” said Jeffries. “That is why he remains on the throne. There is a very real chance that the ‘secret’ clause of the treaty will never see the light of day.”

  “In the meantime,” said Aventis, “he collects his tournois.”

  “And Louis’s love,” said Jeffries.

  “Very well,” I said, “but what if Cromwell gets his hands on the treaty in France?”

  “That is why we ride,” said Jeffries.

  After a breakneck journey, we arrived for the third time in Dover. I confess I was feeling bone-tired but after what I had learned, I was anxious to get to France.

  “Do not forget your pledge to me,” I told Jeffries, and he laughed as we boarded a ship nearly the size of Henrietta’s. Now this was the way to travel: instead of a leaky rowboat, we strode on a deck of good wood surrounded by billowing sails.

  “Ah,” I said, leaning over the side—and for the first time, not being sick. “Fitted out like this, I would not mind going to Spain, or perhaps as far as the Americas.”

  Beside me, Aventis and Jeffries just laughed.

  On this voyage, I could actually take in the view: the sea was calm and blue, and the whip of the wind refreshing. In just a matter of hours, we crossed the canal and disembarked at Calais. I saw our journey from there would likewise be one of comfort, for once off the boat Jeffries hired a coach-and-four.

  “Captain, this is how we should always proceed,” said Carnatus, as we took our places within. It was a tight space for four “men,” but we lightened discomfort with discourse.

  “Would you have us rob coaches from one of our own?” asked Aventis.

  “Why not?” shrugged Carnatus. “After the robbery, we might join them for supper.”

  “He is mad as Charles,” I mumbled.

  As I looked out the window, I could hardly contain my excitement. At last, I would see Versaille and all her fabled beauty! But joy gave way to despair when our coach turned west to Paris.

  “I do not understand,” I said. “Does not Henrietta live in Louis’s palace?”

  Aventis shook his head.

  “You will recall,” he said, “that she is wife to the king’s brother, the Duc d’Orleans. Phillippe has two estates: the Palais-Royal in Paris, grand enough on its own; and the Château de Saint-Cloud, which is said to rival Versailles.”

  “I care not for palaces,” said Carnatus, “but would bet he’s in Paris. Who wants to lay down ten louis?”

  Since none of us spoke, he sighed, then picked at a biscuit he had brought from the ship.

  “I must respectfully disagree,” said Aventis. “Phillipe despises Versailles, and Saint-Cloud is his personal passion. Upon his wife’s return, he would undoubtedly take her there.”

  “Our success depends upon this,” said Jeffries. “We cannot, as Carnatus would say, place all our bets on one hand. Therefore, we split our party: Carnatus and I to Paris; Aventis and Megs to Saint-Cloud.”

  I could not have been more shocked. Why would Jeffries divide us thus? Did he think to dispense his best minds—his own, and Aventis’s—to each destination? I snuck a glance at Aventis, but he did not look my way.

  Since we changed horses frequently, we arrived in Paris in just five days—which involved me, naturally, sleeping on floors at inns. I could not say the French wood was less hard than the English. In a less than sanguine mood, I noted our arrival at the capital. Once we reached the Palais, Jeffries bade the driver halt and stepped out with Carnatus. Before I could speak to Aventis, the captain appeared at the window.

  “I am putting my faith in you both,” he said. “Recall the gravity of our task. If Cromwell beats us to the mark, he will become Lord Protector.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, with a sigh.

  “We understand,” said Aventis.

  We both watched him and Carnatus disappear into a crowd.

  “Well,” I said to Aventis, trying to fill the silence, “how do you propose we gain entrance to the chateau?”

  “By boat,” he said, and I put my head in my hands.

  “Do not bestir yourself, Megs—it is but a short river trip. A dawdle down the Seine and—voila!—we arrive at the back of the place. When I was at the Abbey, I would sometimes come to view the gardens.”

  “Very well,” I said, trying not to sound petulant. “You and Jeffries know best.”

  It took no time at all for our coach to reach the Seine. Stepping out, I saw the river teemed with traffic like its sister the Thames. Aventis approached the owner of some small craft and spoke to him in French. After handing over some coins, he motioned for me to get in. Once again, we were off, with Aventis taking the oars and a westerly route. I lay back on a bench, noting how the water around me picked up flecks of sunlight. If only we could go forever, embarking on an endless voyage where there were no rules, no Cromwell, no foolish kings to be saved . . .

  “Megs!” called Adventis, breaking my reverie. “Look! It is the Grande Cascade.”

  I rose with reluctance, but this soon fell away. I saw a pool that fronted the Seine whose backdrop was a waterfall, while its own deep waters were lined with postlike fountains. The visitors in the foreground, their clothes colorful as Carnatus’s, and the manicured trees behind made me give a cry: “How beautiful!”

  “There is nothing like it in England,” said Aventis.

  We drifted over to the pool, where he tied our boat. Leading the way, he climbed onto a walkway filled with sauntering French and headed for the trees before shoving me through them.

  “Is the entrance in this shrubbery?” I asked, wiping leaves from my mouth.

  He gave a low laugh.

  “Did you think we could simply knock at the door and ask to Monsieur?”

  I shrugged, acknowledging his wisdom. After a time, the green grove ended, and we stood at its perimeter, surveying the gardens of Saint-Cloud’s. At that moment, I lost all regret at not seeing Versailles, for these grounds were like Paradise. Perfect plots of grass bordered by cheerful fountains stood off the bank of the Seine. When I gazed opposite, I sighted a stone chateau that frankly put Whitehall to shame. Like Carnatus, I was no great lover of buildings, but would be content to pass my life inside that one—or just stare at its walls.

  “Megs!” Aventis said sharply. “We must find a back entrance.”

  I nodded, feeling dwarfed by the chateau the closer we came to it.

  “If anyone asks,” said Aventis, “I am a priest and you are my convert.”

  “This sounds familiar,” I said, trying not to gape at a perfect tree-lined walk. “Why must I always be Catholic?”

  “Shhh,” said Aventis, sidling his way toward a promising door. With a push, it opened: onto another world. As we tiptoed inside, I saw delicate white marble statues; ceilings painted with scenes that overwhelmed in their vibrancy. From every corner hung tapestries, overlooked by chandeliers secured by velvet ropes! If this is not Heaven, I thought, then I do not want to go there . . .

  Of course, we were apprehended by the time we reached the hallway. A uniformed maid stood before us, wielding her duster with menace. Aventis engaged her with French and a smile, until she likewise smiled and curtseyed. Leading us through silver-and-gold-plated doors, we found ourselves in what must have been a wing. Stopping before a wide door, the maid knocked softly, then motioned us into a chamber which made Catherine’s look like a milkmaid’s!

  The decorations were lavish yet tasteful. Directing my eyes to the maid, I saw her curtsy before a young woman who was no stranger to me. Though I had only g
limpsed her from afar, there could be no doubt: she was Princess Henrietta of England, the Duchess of Orleans. After conversing with the maid, she turned to Aventis. I felt only frustration as French swarmed all about me.

  “What are you saying?” I asked, tugging at Aventis’s cloak.

  “Just some pleasantries about the health of Monsieur and Louis,” he said. “The king, it appears, has recovered from a bad cold.”

  “Can’t you tell her,” I asked impatiently, “that we are in a great hurry?”

  “Why is that?” Henrietta asked me in English. “Must you return to England? I have but lately been there myself.”

  “We know,” I said.

  With a clear desire to exclude me, Aventis switched back to French.

  “What are you saying now?” I asked when he paused for breath.

  “I am relating,” he said, “the great danger that treaty presents to her brother. She does not understand.” He smiled at the princess. “She has been gone for so long she is no longer sensible of how they feel about us.”

  By “us” I knew he meant “Catholics.”

  As their discourse went on, I started to wonder why I was there. Was it just to admire the paintings? Serve as Adventis’s Gad? Just when I thought to leave, the princess’s tones grew heated, then became amenable as she gave Adventis her hand.

  “She has agreed to give us the treaty!” Aventis said with relief. “Though it is not in her hands, she’ll have de Croissey deliver it here.”

  “Thank God!” I breathed, then bowed and smiled at the princess. “You have helped to save England,” I said.

  “That is my hope,” she answered. She addressed her maid in French, who cordially led us back to where we’d come in.

  “Avoir!” said Adventis, then turned to me. “That could not have gone better.”

  “No,” I said, as we hiked back through the trees. “But what of Cromwell?”

  “He has not seen her,” said Aventis. “He must have gone to the Palais.”

  “Wouldn’t it be rich if he ran into Jeffries?” I asked.

  “If he did, I imagine he’s no longer living.”

  We retraced our steps on the walkway, then set off in our boat down the Seine. Looking back at the Grande Cascade, I felt truly grieved to leave behind such beauty. Would I ever see it again, or the chateau for that matter? Despite the warm July sun, I felt encircled by gloom.

  Back in Paris, we hurried to a taverne known to Aventis where we were to meet our friends. As Aventis made his report, Carnatus raised his fist in triumph.

  “Superb!” he cried. “Magnifique! Don’t you think so, Jeffries?”

  “Indeed,” said the captain, but he was more circumspect. “Still, there is one thing we do not know: where the devil is Cromwell?”

  “He can go to the devil for all I care,” said Carnatus. “What concerns me now is French fare—a great deal of it!” He called to our serving girl, “Du vin tout autour! Et vos plus beaux vittles!”

  His plea was answered shortly as food and wine arrived at our table. When Carnatus had eaten his fill, he turned to Aventis and said, “Our mission is near complete! Who knew it would be this easy?”

  “Do not tempt fate,” said Jeffries. “Until that treaty is in our hands and put to the fire, I will not rest easy.”

  But rest is what we did that evening, in two beds this time at an inn. The captain, true to his word, remained restless at my side, while I thought chiefly of Aventis just a few feet away.

  I gave a long sigh.

  “Do not fret, Megs,” Jeffries whispered, “for there is an end to all things.”

  What did he mean? An end to our company, or merely the Treaty of Dover? Too afraid to seek the answer, I remained awake until morning.

  After the others dressed, I followed them to our taverne. When I walked in, I could feel something amiss: it seemed a deep sense of grief had fallen over the place. The serving girl from yesterday worked in a kind of daze, while many patrons were openly shedding tears.

  “What has happened?” I asked Jeffries, who had gone to speak with the girl before coming back to our table.

  “Madame se meurt,” he said, sinking into a chair.

  I looked to Aventis.

  “Madame is dead,” said Aventis.

  “I am sorry—who is Madame?” I asked. “Do you mean the French queen?”

  “No,” said Jeffries, his head in his hands. “She is Princess Henrietta, the Duchess of Orleans.”

  “How could that be?” I cried. “When we saw her yesterday, she seemed perfectly well!”

  “I noted that her skin was pale,” said Aventus. “And her eye dull.”

  “Great God! Was she poisoned?” Carnatus asked.

  “Who would do such a thing?” I queried. “Monsieur?”

  Aventis shook his head.

  “Phillipe may have his oddities, but he would not kill his wife. For her, he reserved a great tenderness.”

  “But . . . the treaty!” I cried. “How is it to be obtained?”

  “If de Croissey has come,” said Aventis, “as he would in light of this sad news, I would think that all Madame’s papers are now held by Monsieur.”

  “Thirty July,” Jeffries muttered, raising his ashen face. “This is the worst day for England since Oliver Cromwell won.”

  “Cromwell!” we all said as one, then ran into the street to hail a public hack (or whatever they called them here). It was but a swift ride to Saint-Cloud, where we clambered out amidst a jumble of coaches. Many were ornate, but none could rival one boasting the emblem of a face wrought as the sun. My God, I thought, amazed, King Louis himself is here!

  It was no trouble for us to go down that tree-lined walk and enter Saint-Cloud from the front, for the door hung open. Even from outside, we could hear a great melee, and when we entered, we saw servants going about their work in tears, while conclaves of richly dressed nobles stood talking in whispers. As we passed one, I heard the word “poison” (prounced as a haughty “pwa-zone”). Could Carnatus have been right?

  Aventis and I pointed the way through marble and velvet to the wing we had visited yesterday. There, before the poor princess’s shut door, we joined a long line of mourners. Staring at the silks and frills in that hallway, more foppish than even England, my eye was naturally drawn to three in plain black dress.

  “Jeffries!” I hissed, “there!”

  I pointed out the Puritans.

  When Carnantus likewise saw them, he put a hand on his sword.

  “No!” said Jeffries softly, “we cannot make a scene. Not when Monsieur has just lost his wife.”

  Aventis nodded.

  “It must be left to him,” he said, “to dispense the treaty as he will.”

  I wondered at that moment who was more disgusted: Carnatus, or myself. For once, I doubted our two wise men: what if Monsieur hated Charles? What if Cromwell offered him dazzling bribes? Had it been left to me, I would have stormed the chamber with my pistol, seized the treaty, and run. In their three-inch high heels, these nobles could not catch me!

  “Megs,” Aventis whispered, “your face is flushed. How may I help calm you?”

  “Tell me about the duke,” I said. “What sort of man is he?”

  Over the next half hour, I strained my eyes from the sheer effort of widening them. What stories I heard! Such contradictions! By the time Aventis finished, I was using the wall as a prop.

  It was then that Jeffries acted.

  He stepped forward in line, beckoning us to join him. He in turn joined Cromwell, Smith, and Hyde.

  “Richard!” cried Jeffries, with a smile, “such a happy coincidence! Whatever brings you out here?”

  “Get away, Jeffries,” growled Cromwell, fumbling for his pistol. Carnatus cut this short by holding his own to the Puritan’s back. Hyde and Smith did not look pleased.

  “Let us make this a merry party!” cried Carnatus. “We shall enter the chamber together.”

  After some minutes passed, we heard
a stir from within. When the door opened, I saw at least twenty nobles in extravagant dress. But these were mere planets revolving around the sun, for at their center was Louis XIV, the resplendence of his dress at great odds with his countenance. How he’d loved his sister-in-law! It was spread across his face for all of France to see. As he stepped down the hall, all gave way and bowed deeply. I turned for one last glimpse: though his dark wig bounced, his stride was slow and mournful.

  Now it was our turn to pay respects. We jostled with the three Puritans in our haste to reach Monsieur. I saw that on the bed lay poor Henrietta, her face paler than her sheets. I prayed that she had died naturally and not at some enemy’s hand.

  I looked up at Philippe, who stood in the center of the rooom. What struck me at first was just how handsome he was: he was comlier than his brother, his features perfect beneath his wig.

  Both Jeffries and Cromwell took turns offering sympathy. Monsieur nodded, though he seemed in a daze, and who could blame the man? One moment, he had a young, vibrant wife; the next, a pale corpse with hands folded demurely. If I were him and the body on the bed was Aventis, I would have gone mad with grief: but, as a royal, he could not raise his fist to the heavens or even weep.

  Now came the awkward matter of bringing up the treaty. How, I wondered, did Jeffries intend to do it? Of course he was beaten by Cromwell, who half-ran up to Monsieur and nearly grabbed him by the collar. What I next heard from both of them was a babble of French.

  When they were done, my three fellows looked disgusted.

  “What did the rogue say?” I asked.

  “What one would expect,” said Jeffries. “He has offered Monsieur sixty-five-thousand pounds—once he becomes Lord Protector.”

  “It will never occur,” I said. “Besides, what does a duke need with money?”

  “Also,” added Aventis, “he promised to give him land—no less than the port of Dover.”

  “It is not his to give!” I roared, and, preceding even Carnatus, drew out my sword with menace.

  “That’s the way, Megs!” yelled Carnatus, swinging his pistol around to aim at Cromwell.

  Hyde defended his master by shooting his own and causing Carnatus to miss.