by Rock, Judith
Torchlight flared from the stairs, and Charles withdrew farther into the darkness. A servant with a small wax torch came from the stairs and led a chattering group of men and women along the gallery. Returning from the ball, Charles guessed, from the glitter of their clothes in the torchlight. They passed by the footman and twinkled and glimmered into the distance. As Charles settled against the wall again, the footman moved suddenly and the door opened. The Grand Duchess of Tuscany emerged, cloaked and hooded. She walked briskly in Charles’s direction, and the footman fell in behind her.
Following after her stolid watchdog, Charles breathed a prayer of thanks when she made for the forecourt where Charles and Jouvancy had dismounted on their arrival at the palace. Which seemed weeks ago now, Charles thought dismally, though this was only their third night there. From a gallery window, he watched with relief as the footman handed Margot into a waiting carriage and climbed up behind. The coachman turned the pair of horses and the carriage began to roll toward the palace gates.
But Charles would have been more relieved if Margot’s drunkenness had not disappeared so abruptly when she’d left him.
Suddenly needing to breathe fresh air, Charles went outside. The evening was mild. There was a small breeze, and the stars were half veiled in rags of cloud. The courtyard wasn’t busy; only a few carriages waited for nobles, and members of the Guard stood at their posts or patrolled their appointed territory. Charles wandered across the gravel toward the south wing, breathing in the breeze-blown sweetness of grass and trees, glad even for the pungence of horse smells and burning torches, glad for anything that wasn’t the smell of sweated cloth, dirty wigs, and bodies less clean than their snowy linen. At least, he thought, he was spared breathing air drenched in clashing perfumes, since the king had grown to dislike them.
Dogs barked in the town and dogs in the royal kennels answered them. The swift gray flight of an owl brushed Charles’s cheek. And something—the dogs, the kiss of the owl’s wing—made him nearly cry out with longing for home, for the hot dry smell of Languedoc, the call of nightjars from dark trees, the spare coolness of his mother’s old stone house. Grapes swelling in the vineyards, fatter in the morning than they’d been the night before, the sight of Pernelle at fifteen in the firelit doorway, all fine bones and a cloud of black hair, calling him to come in. Himself, seventeen and blind with love for her. He closed the memory gently, the way he closed old books, and prayed for her.
His prayer finished, Charles looked up at the windows of the palace’s south wing, most with shutters still open on candlelit rooms. Tired, but not wanting to shut himself back inside yet, he walked slowly to the end of the wing and turned toward the garden side, thinking to go in by a back door. Sounds of the forecourt fell away as he turned the building’s corner and went slowly toward the dark gardens. But when he turned along the torchlit side of the wing, he stopped short. Half a dozen chattering men in court dress came out of a door onto the gravel.
“You do me too much honor, monsieur,” a light, ironic voice said.
Charles retreated from the torchlight. The last thing he wanted at the end of this day was another meeting with the Prince of Conti. But as he watched the men stroll toward the gardens, he recognized the largest among them as Henri de Montmorency. Whom La Chaise should have had on his way back to Paris by now. Hoping that the Lulu-besotted Montmorency had not left the king’s confessor somewhere with a broken head, Charles stayed out of the light and considered what he ought to do. Montmorency was following Conti like an overgrown puppy, all but treading on his heels. That the boy would want to curry favor with a Prince of the Blood was no surprise. The surprise was that Conti was tolerating him, and it seemed politic to find out why. Not least for Montmorency’s sake.
Charles set himself to follow the courtiers. Unexpectedly, Conti turned suddenly aside, through the gate of one of the walled gardens. Charles had thought the men would stroll the paths, chattering and vying for Conti’s attention, and had intended to come upon them as if by chance and draw Montmorency away. But now, full of misgiving, he stepped off the gravel onto soft turf and slipped into the garden. At first, he heard nothing. Then he caught a low urgent voice away on his left, and as he moved toward it, he realized it was Conti’s.
“Of course,” Conti said, “Monsieur le Dauphin is the—mildest, shall we say, of men. He understands that he will need the help—”
Someone sneezed and covered Conti’s words. Then Charles heard, “…and last winter, we all—um—feared—the time had come.” There was a low rumble of exclamation and a snigger of laughter, quickly hushed.
“I wish it had!” The voice was Montmorency’s, and his words created a taut silence.
Charles winced, wondering if anyone could really be as innocently stupid as Henri de Montmorency seemed.
“Well—I mean—if he’d died, Lulu wouldn’t have to go to Poland!” Montmorency said lamely.
“Your heart does you credit, does it not, messieurs?” Conti said softly.
The others murmured agreement with the prince. Charles’s hair rose on the back of his neck. Neither Conti nor the others were laughing.
The prince said, “And exactly how will you help her?”
Charles barely stopped himself from charging into the little coterie and dragging Montmorency out of it by main force. Conti was smoothly herding the boy to the edge of treason—treasonous talk, at least. And doing it before a gathering of avid courtiers in the palace garden.
Charles ran soundlessly out of the garden and a small way along the turf back toward the palace. Then he stepped onto the gravel, faced away from the walled garden he’d left and shouted, “Monsieur Montmorency!” That, of course, got no answer, and Charles walked innocently on, peering into the darkness, until he reached the edge of the torchlight from the palace. “Monsieur Montmorency,” he called again, “are you here? Madame, your mother wishes to speak with you.”
He waited until he heard heavy quick steps on the gravel behind him. Then, as though he’d heard nothing, he called again, facing along the building, “Monsieur Montmorency, are you in the garden?”
“I am here,” Montmorency panted, and Charles turned to meet him with a creditable show of surprise. The boy’s face loomed anxiously in the torchlight. “Where is she?”
“We must go inside.” Charles led him into the first door they came to and hurried him along the corridor to the gallery leading to the south wing.
“But where is she?” Montmorency’s eyes were searching the gallery in confusion. “Why is she here?”
“She’s not. Though wherever she is, I’m sure she always wants to talk with her son. We’re going—”
“You lied?” Montmorency stopped short and scowled at Charles. “I don’t have to go—”
“I didn’t lie. Not technically. We are going to Père La Chaise. Unless you did away with him when he tried to send you back to school.”
“He has no right to give me orders.”
“You are still a student and under the college’s protection, and therefore the protection of Jesuits. And I am your professor and do have a right to give you orders. Come.”
“I do not need your protection.”
“Oh, but you do, monsieur,” Charles said grimly.
Montmorency was tall and broad, but he still had to look up a little at Charles, and what he saw in Charles’s face closed his mouth. Charles gripped the boy’s arm, and they made the rest of the long walk to La Chaise’s door without speaking.
They found La Chaise dozing in his chair by the light of a single candle, to the accompaniment of Jouvancy snoring lightly in the next room. The king’s confessor opened his eyes and regarded them owlishly for a moment. Then he swore and leaped to his feet.
“What in the name of all hell’s devils are you doing back here?” He scowled at Charles. “And you—is the lady gone?”
“Yes.” Charles pushed Montmorency farther into the room. “And Monsieur Montmorency has come to tell you what he�
�s doing here, mon père.”
“I haven’t come to tell you anything.” Montmorency gripped the hilt of the light, slender court sword hanging at his side.
“Unless you are thinking of relieving your feelings by drawing on me,” La Chaise said, “remember the manners our college has taught you and leave your sword alone.”
“Oh.” The boy dropped his hands to his side as though his sword had caught fire. He blinked at La Chaise and bowed slightly. “I wouldn’t. Draw on you, I mean.” And then he added, “You’re not armed.”
Charles and La Chaise exchanged a look, and Charles had to turn his face away to hide his incredulous grin.
“When did you ever see an armed Jesuit, Monsieur Montmorency?” La Chaise raised a hand as Montmorency opened his mouth. “Never mind. Maître du Luc, perhaps you could jog this noble pupil’s memory about what he’s come to tell me.”
“I came on him in the garden, in company with the Prince of Conti and his friends.”
Montmorency’s gasped. “You didn’t—”
“I did. I saw you leave the palace and I heard you talking. Monsieur Montmorency told the prince that he wished the king had died last winter. And said again that he intends to prevent Mademoiselle de Rouen’s going to Poland.”
“You young idiot!” La Chaise was white with anger. And fear, Charles suspected. “Are you too stupid to see that you spoke treason in the hearing of a Prince of the Blood? If the Prince of Conti chooses to use that against you, you will most likely find yourself the object of a royal lettre de cachet and locked up in the Bastille.”
To Charles’s astonishment, Montmorency blazed back at La Chaise. “That kind of letter comes from the king only if you disgrace your family, and I will never disgrace the name of Montmorency. I only said what I feel. The king is breaking Lulu’s heart, and I won’t let her go to Poland! And she is not my only reason for hating the king. He beheaded my kinsman—I don’t forget that, even if everyone else does!”
La Chaise and Charles looked blankly at each other.
“What kinsman?” Charles said. “When?”
“The one I’m named after. Henri de Montmorency.”
La Chaise rolled his eyes. “Who was beheaded more than fifty years ago by Louis the Thirteenth, the present king’s father. For joining the present king’s uncle in rebellion. Do you learn no history at Louis le Grand? Louis the Fourteenth did not behead your kinsman. Louis the Fourteenth was not even born when your hapless ancestor died.”
Stubbornly, Montmorency plowed on. “Anyway, King Louis is banishing Lulu. And I will say what I like to the Prince of Conti. He is my kinsman, too. And that makes the other Henri de Montmorency his kinsman. Don’t priests say that the crimes of the fathers fall on the sons?”
“Not precisely,” Charles murmured absently, trying to work out Montmorency’s relation to Conti. He looked at La Chaise. “How are the Montmorencys kin to the Contis?”
“Henri the Second of Montmorency’s sister married the Prince of Condé,” La Chaise said impatiently. “The prince who was the Great Condé’s father. And Conti is the Great Condé’s nephew.”
Charles gave up trying to untangle the twisted family tree. “Is everyone here related?”
“More or less.”
Montmorency, slightly openmouthed, had been straining to follow the talk. Seeming to find himself on solid ground again, he wrapped a meaty hand around his sword hilt as though taking an oath. “So it is my sacred duty—”
“Hold your tongue,” La Chaise said dangerously. “It is your duty to return to Louis le Grand. And to stay there, monsieur, until your schooling ends in August. No.” He held up a hand. “Say nothing.” La Chaise sat down at the small table that served as his desk, found paper, inked a pen, and wrote. Then he turned to Charles. “Keep him here.” Folding the note, he went swiftly out into the gallery.
Montmorency started after him, but Charles stepped into his path. “If you defy Père La Chaise any more tonight, who knows what might happen? You wouldn’t want to find yourself as beheaded as your kinsman, monsieur. Then you could truly do nothing to help Mademoiselle de Rouen.”
“No one’s going to behead me.” Montmorency’s eyes shifted uneasily.
“Beheading is very bloody,” Charles went on conversationally. “Very painful, I imagine, unless you have an experienced headsman. And there are fewer beheadings these days, so”—he shrugged—“you can imagine the lack of practice.”
Montmorency stared, wide-eyed.
Fortunately, La Chaise swept back through the anteroom and into the chamber, the footman Bouchel at his heels.
“This time you will arrive at Louis le Grand, monsieur, because our good Bouchel is going with you. He will get you a carriage in the courtyard, and he will not leave you until you are inside the college. He will also deliver the note I have written to Père Le Picart, telling him why you have been sent back. And that you are to be kept there. Unless you want heavier penance than you ever imagined possible, you will make no trouble over this or anything else. And you will keep your tongue behind your teeth concerning the king or his daughter Mademoiselle de Rouen. Whom you will not, under any circumstances, see again. Go.”
Though he was a head shorter and built altogether on a smaller scale, Bouchel had Montmorency out of the room before he could splutter out a protest. Charles and La Chaise listened to their steps receding along the gallery, and then La Chaise flung himself back into his chair.
“Dear God, the boy is a menace! At the worst possible age for fancying himself a hero and even stupider than the other Henri de Montmorency. If he eludes Père Le Picart’s surveillance and comes back here before Lulu’s gone, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
Charles was suddenly too tired to care much about hell, or anything else but sleep. “If I may excuse myself, mon père, I will wish you a bonne nuit and a blessed rest.”
“You may not.” The king’s confessor was looking at him as though he were something on a buffet table that might or might not be worth trying. “I saw the way the girl looked at you tonight.”
“What girl?”
“Lulu. Mademoiselle de Rouen. Who else are we talking about? You could make yourself very useful while we wait for Père Jouvancy to improve. I want you to talk to her. Counsel her. Amuse her; keep her away from Margot and Conti.”
Charles couldn’t believe his ears. “I cannot play the attentive courtier to the king’s sixteen-year-old daughter! I’m a Jesuit!”
“Precisely. You are a Jesuit. And I am the king’s Jesuit confessor, and I need your help.” He eyed Charles. “I presume you anticipate ordination at some time in the future.”
Startled, Charles nodded.
“Well, let me tell you, when—if—you become a priest, you will face situations that require you to counsel women. So what if they flirt with you? Lulu flirts with every handsome man of quality she sees—and some neither handsome nor of quality. No one will pay any attention. Tell her that you want to help her find some peace in accepting this marriage. For the good of her soul. Spend some time with her, gain her confidence, counsel her to be dutiful.”
“Why not set one of her women to watch her? I think Père Jouvancy may be well enough tomorrow to take a carriage back to Paris. And I will take both horses back.”
“Even if he should be well enough to travel tomorrow, he will no doubt be willing to extend his recovery a little while you do what is in the king’s best interest.”
With a sudden pang of sympathy for the flailing Lulu, Charles folded his hands and stared down at his hard clasped knuckles.
La Chaise said softly, “Are you afraid of your own response if she flirts with you?”
Charles’s head came up. “No! But I do feel sorry for her, because of all the ways people are manipulating her. Now you are telling me to manipulate her. For your own ends.”
“For the Society’s ends. And how is that different from what you did just now to Henri Montmorency?”
“I did not�
�”
“Oh, but you did. You are young Montmorency’s superior, his professor. You used your knowledge of him and your authority over him to make him behave appropriately and do what was necessary. What I am asking of you is even more necessary.”
Stinging from the lash of unwelcome truth, Charles stared at the darkness beyond the window. He felt pushed into a spinning whirlpool. The coolly ruthless part of himself he so disliked suddenly spoke. You might at least be honest, it said. You’re noble. Now you’re a Jesuit. Your kind is always near the heart of power. And when you’re a priest, you’ll be even nearer.
Chapter 10
THE FEAST OF ST. GUY, THURSDAY, JUNE 12, 1687
Charles woke to a dark day and a darker mood. The only bright thing was that he felt much better, and Père Jouvancy seemed better, too. When Charles had him sitting up and hungrily eating the fresh bread and rich broth Bouchel had brought from the town, he left him in the footman’s care and took himself to the chapel. Père La Chaise was already out and about his own business, and Charles was relieved to avoid more talk about last night. Facing his assignment for today was enough.
The chapel was empty of people and full of early morning quiet. Charles knelt at the Virgin’s side altar. He prayed for Jouvancy’s quick recovery and then gazed disconsolately at the large gilt-framed painting of the Madonna and Child hanging above the altar. She and the baby in her arms had none of the homely peace of the little painting in Charles’s bedchamber at the college. This Virgin’s robes billowed around her, as though a strong wind blew from the world into her frame. The stern-faced baby looked as though he were already judging that world as irredeemable. Charles bowed his head onto his clasped hands. It was so easy to believe that this world of Versailles had fallen further from grace than the rest of the world he knew. Maybe he himself was the one judging too harshly. Maybe doing as Père La Chaise had asked, helping Lulu reconcile herself to her duty and go peacefully to Poland, might be a means of grace to her. Except that the king’s sending her there had nothing to do with wanting good for her. Just as La Chaise’s concern was for the king, for France, not for the girl herself. Unless, of course, you granted that doing one’s duty helped one’s soul. Which Charles usually did at least try to grant. Except…