Plague of Lies cdl-3

by Judith Rock

  Lulu let go of the little cross and reached up a hand to him. As he brought it to his lips, she said, “I will miss you, too, Louis.” She drew her hand away. “As you see, maître, you did help me.” Changing expressions flitted across her face like cloud shadows. “What could be more resigned than sewing bridal linen?”

  Margot picked up the sheer ivory linen in her lap and shook it out, revealing a lace-trimmed chemise so finely woven that it rippled like silk. She dangled it enticingly, making it jump as though it were alive, her eyes sparkling maliciously as she watched Charles.

  A wave of anger swept through him at the woman’s taunting, but he said lightly, “I have sisters, Your Highness. I have seen a chemise before.” He forced a smile and started to invite Lulu to the chapel for one last conversation. But Madame de Montespan forestalled him.

  “It is nearly dinnertime, maître, and I am sure you don’t wish to be late at the table you are gracing.” She held out a smooth white hand.

  Lulu looked daggers at her mother, but Charles accepted the dismissal. When he only bowed over her hand-without kissing it-she shrugged slightly and then gave him what seemed like a real, though brief, smile.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Madame,” he said. “I am glad to have met you.” He bowed slightly to Margot. “Your Royal Highness.” To Lulu, whose mouth was trembling with disappointment, he said, “I am glad you are turning your attention to being a bride. I-” He stopped as she bent her head and a shower of tears broke through her control and fell on her sewing. He looked helplessly at the pale slender neck and the white ribbons trailing on either side of it from her headdress. “God can bring good out of what seems like the blackest misery,” he said softly, as though no one else were in the room.

  She dried the tears with a handful of lace from her lap and looked up. Her face was so set and bleak that Charles caught his breath in pain, as though her sore heart beat suddenly in his own chest.

  “Lulu-” He stopped, realizing he’d used the nickname he had no right to use, but no one chided him. “Obedience can begin bitterly. As yours begins. But, with time, it can grow sweet. I know this for myself, and it is hard learning. But it can happen.”

  Margot snorted loudly, but Charles ignored her. In Lulu’s case, obedience growing sweet seemed more than unlikely, but unlikely was not the same as impossible.

  She nodded slightly, and her hand went to the cross again. But her miserable expression didn’t change.

  “God go with you.” Charles turned toward the door, but she called him back.

  “Maître.” It might have been the king looking at him. Her illusionless Bourbon eyes were as dry as though she’d never in her life wept. “I am my father’s daughter. I can do what I must as ruthlessly as he does.”

  Charles found no answer to that. But as he crossed the antechamber dedicated to love, he looked back at the salon. Margot looked at Mme de Montespan, and the two resumed their sewing. Lulu took up her scissors and cut her needle free of the white cloud of lace. Charles suddenly saw the women as the ancient world’s three Fates, those daughters of the gods who spun the thread of a man’s life, fixed its length, and cut it off. He went out into the passage, trying to remember the ancients’ other name for the Fates. It came to him as he climbed the stairs in the south wing. They’d been called Daughters of the Just Heavens.

  Chapter 13

  When Charles reached Père La Chaise’s chambers, no one was there. Hoping he wouldn’t have to search the entire gardens, he went to look for Jouvancy and La Chaise but, to his relief, found them walking slowly toward him across the gravel, deep in talk, as he emerged from the palace.

  Charles reported the results of his morning’s visit.

  “I’m not surprised that Maine was there,” La Chaise said. “He’s taking his sister’s leaving very much to heart and will no doubt be her shadow until she goes. Which is to the good, since we don’t want her left alone. Ah,” he said, as bells began to ring, “that means dinner. Come. We’ll go to the Grand Commons.”

  They went into the palace and started along the ground-floor gallery, but La Chaise suddenly pulled them to a stop. A fast-stepping procession led by a gentleman with a baton of office was bearing down on them. All along the gallery, courtiers were drawing aside, sweeping off hats, bowing and curtsying nearly to the ground. A ripple of murmuring accompanied the courtiers’ reverences as the procession passed.

  “Uncover and bow,” La Chaise hissed, whipping off his own bonnet.

  Charles and Jouvancy did the same, and when the procession had nearly reached them, Charles heard what the courtiers were murmuring as they bowed.

  “The king’s dinner,” La Chaise and Jouvancy said in their turn, as the line of gentlemen carrying covered silver dishes passed, leaving a savory smell behind. La Chaise elbowed Charles. “Say it!”

  Speechless, Charles turned to La Chaise.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” La Chaise hissed, as the three of them replaced their bonnets.

  “Yes, mon père. But-why were we bowing to the king’s dinner?”

  “Because it is the king’s dinner,” Jouvancy said, scandalized. “It is soon to be part of the king.”

  Biting his tongue to keep from asking if they must bow to Louis’s chamber pot as well, Charles followed the others to the Grand Commons across the street.

  The Grand Commons was enormous and new. La Chaise told them that it contained a plethora of kitchens and a nicely graded series of refectories, where courtiers, guards, and flocks of servants ate. The kitchens also prepared much of the food for private chambers and rushed it across the road and through the galleries to its destination. Which made Charles think of the abortive dinner at La Rochefoucauld’s table. The food had been delicious, but nothing he’d eaten had been more than faintly warm.

  After a surprisingly good dinner of roasted cod in a butter sauce with cloves and capers, and a side dish of spinach with raisins, they went back to La Chaise’s chamber. Charles gathered his and Jouvancy’s belongings, and the three Jesuits made their farewells.

  “And I beg you to remember,” La Chaise said, “it is imperative to keep a close eye on Henri de Montmorency. Especially you, maître. He must not leave Louis le Grand until Lulu is gone. Not for any reason.”

  “But”-Jouvancy looked in confusion from one to the other-“if his mother demands it-”

  “Forgive me, mon père,” La Chaise said. “I forgot that you have not been part of all this. Your Henri de Montmorency fancies himself in love with Mademoiselle de Rouen and talks foolishly of stopping her going to Poland.”

  Jouvancy’s eyes rounded in horror. “That beggars belief. How could even Montmorency be so stupid! Of course we must keep him inside the college. For his own sake!”

  “And for ours,” La Chaise said dryly.

  Charles picked up the saddlebags and the three of them went out into the gallery.

  “Are you sure you can manage both horses, maître?” Jouvancy said anxiously.

  “Assuredly, mon père. But first, I will get you a carriage.”

  La Chaise shook his head. “You go ahead, maître. I will see Père Jouvancy into a carriage and on his way.”

  Charles bowed to the two of them, shouldered the saddlebags, and went decorously to the stairs. When he was out of sight, he bolted down the stairs two at a time, feeling like a boy let out of school and caring nothing for the looks he got from people climbing past him. Outside, the air was warm and fresh, and the afternoon promised settled riding weather to accompany two of his favorite earthly pleasures: riding and solitude. A whole afternoon of privacy rarely came his way.

  But first, he had to make the long trudge from the palace to the stable. When he finally arrived there, he found himself facing a stone façade worthy of this palace for horses. The large cobbled forecourt was mostly empty, but inside the stables, he found a small army of grooms, ostlers, and saddlers currying horses as glossy as polished parquet, putting fresh straw down in stalls far larger than his b
edchamber at Louis le Grand, polishing saddles and harness until the leather gleamed like the king’s mirrors. Somewhere a blacksmith was making the air ring with the blows of hammer on anvil, like bells clanging above a busy city. Wishing he could have spent his days at Versailles here instead of in the palace for courtiers, Charles wandered happily between the stalls, stroking velvet noses and admiring the elegant, long-legged English hunters the king favored for the chase.

  “Need something, mon père?” A sandy-haired groom with freckles across his nose came out of a stall.

  “Yes, thank you. I have two horses here. They’ve been in your keeping since I arrived on Monday.” With a shock, he realized he’d spent only four nights at Versailles. It seemed like a month.

  “What are they called?”

  “Flamme and Agneau. From the college of Louis le Grand.”

  “Follow me.”

  Before they reached Flamme’s stall near the end of the aisle, the gelding put his head over the door and whickered, scenting Charles. Agneau, in the last stall, looked up from her hay rack, saw the saddlebags Charles was carrying, and redoubled her efforts to eat while she could.

  The boy went into Agneau’s stall. “Shall I saddle her for you?”

  “My thanks-what’s your name?”

  “I’m Laurent.”

  Charles smiled at the boy and went to saddle Flamme. But first he stroked the horse’s shining neck and laid his cheek against the warm muzzle, contentedly breathing in the welcome smell of clean horse. As he pulled the saddle and its blanket from their long thick wall peg, Flamme butted him in the back, clearly pleased to be going somewhere.

  “Be sure you check the mare’s girth,” Charles called to the boy. “She’ll blow up like a bladder to keep it loose.”

  The boy laughed. “I know that trick, I always check.”

  They worked in silence for a moment and then the boy said, “Mon père?”

  “Maître,” Charles said absently, letting the stirrups down to fit him.

  “Oh. maître, then. I heard-Jacques Prudhomme said that a young Jesuit prayed over poor Bertin. Was that you?”

  “Bertin?” Charles took the bridle from its peg, trying to think who Jacques Prudhomme and Bertin were. Guilt assailed him as he remembered the dead man beside the lake. “Yes,” he said hastily, “I did. Did you know him?”

  “Jean Prudhomme is my uncle. Bertin Laville was married to his daughter.”

  Charles pushed the bridle between Flamme’s teeth, gave him a pat, and went into the stall where the boy was. “So you knew Bertin, then. Do you have any thought about who killed him?” he asked quietly.

  Laurent shook his head and gave Charles a wary sideways look. “I only wanted to thank you for looking after him.” He stepped away from Agneau and turned his back on her. The mare sighed out a great breath and the boy spun around, grabbed the end of the girth strap, and pulled hard. “Ha-ha!” He grinned at Charles, who was laughing, too.

  “Well done!” Charles patted the displeased mare’s round rump and waited to see if the boy would say more about the dead man.

  Laurent took down Agneau’s bridle from its peg but made no move to put it on her. “My cousin-Bertin’s wife-has just had another child.” He sighed. “She cries all the time. At least she found money he’d hidden in the house. So she has something till she can find another husband.”

  Charles’s ears pricked. Money and murder were so often locked in a deadly embrace. “Gardeners are paid well, then?”

  The boy’s sneer was too adult for his years. “Who’s ever paid well? And Bertin couldn’t hold on to money any more than he could close his fist on water. No, I think it was gambling money. He diced. Mostly he lost, but every man wins sometime. Maybe he called someone a cheat and was killed for the insult.”

  “That could be,” Charles said. Men were often enough killed when gambling quarrels flared. “Do you have any other thoughts about what might have happened?”

  The boy’s face flamed and he turned away to bridle the mare, dealing expertly with her efforts to resist the bit.

  “Your uncle thought Bertin might have been killed over a woman,” Charles said mildly.

  Laurent nodded, still with his back to Charles. “He had a-a woman in the town. And others. I suppose one of them might have killed him.”

  “Could a woman have hit him hard enough?” Charles asked skeptically.

  Laurent turned, with a look that plainly said Charles must be a simpleton. “My mother can butcher a hog. Swinging a shovel is nothing.”

  Charles nodded, thinking that his own mother could probably butcher a hog, too. Though she’d probably talk the poor animal to death instead of using a knife.

  “Anyway, maître, thank you for praying over him. He needed it.”

  “I’ll go on praying for him.” I imagine he still needs it, Charles thought. He looked into the stable aisle to be sure they weren’t being overheard. “Is the Guard still trying to find his killer?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But probably not. He was-well-only Bertin.” Laurent turned Agneau and led her out of the stall.

  That was true and nothing Charles could change. He followed Laurent into the aisle, put both saddlebags on Agneau, and secured them to the saddle. “Can you lend me a leading rein?”

  Laurent ran to the end of the aisle, vanished into an adjoining room, and came back with a long sturdy rein that he buckled to the mare’s bridle.

  “My thanks. I’ll send it back. If you’ll take her out to the forecourt, I’ll follow with the gelding and we’ll be gone.”

  Charles led Flamme after the mare, mounted, and took the leading rein from the boy. “Thank you, mon brave.” He realized that Laurent was waiting for a coin, and at the same moment realized that Jouvancy had the small purse the rector had given them. “My apologies. My companion has gone on in a carriage with our small store of coins.”

  The boy’s face fell, but he shrugged philosophically. “Oh, well, you can pay me with prayers for Bertin. A good ride to you.” He lifted a hand and loped back to his work.

  Charles rode under the sculptured arch and turned the horses toward Paris. Before he’d gone more than a few yards, a gleaming, red-wheeled carriage hurtled toward him and he drew rein. But Agneau, on her leading rein, plodded into Flamme from behind and the gelding curvetted into the middle of the road. The coachman swerved, shouting angrily at Charles, who was too busy fighting Flamme to a standstill to heed him. Charles quickly got the gelding under control and started to call an apology to the driver, but the carriage’s occupant put his head out a side window, and the sight of him struck Charles mute.

  He hadn’t seen Michel Louvois, the king’s minister of war, for nearly a year. And had hoped never to see him again. Louvois, perhaps the second most powerful man in the realm after the king, was not a man to cross. Let alone threaten. And last summer, Charles had threatened him, because he’d seen no other way to try for at least a measure of justice. For months, he’d lived looking over his shoulder, waiting for Louvois’s retaliation, but it hadn’t come. Charles had decided he was too small an enemy to merit the attention of a man with so many enemies. Now, though the malice on Louvois’s heavy-jowled face sent fear rippling through him, he made himself hold the war minister’s gaze until Louvois drew his head back inside the coach and left Charles choking in its dust. Charles pressed Flamme into a trot and put a quick mile between himself and Louvois. And between himself and the palace, and La Chaise, and Lulu, and all the rest. He could hardly remember wanting so much to be gone from a place, wanting so much to be home. As he rode, though, he prayed for Lulu and that good would come to her. He also prayed for the grave and lonely little Condé princess, Anne-Marie de Bourbon.

  As he left Versailles behind, his body let go its watchfulness, and he began to look around him at the June day. The cold spring had made the birds’ nesting late, but now harried parent birds flew from tree to grass to bush, searching for insects and worms. When lulls came in the road’s car
riage traffic, he could hear the small shrill cries of nestlings demanding to be fed. But thinking about nestlings made him think of the boy Laurent and his cousin’s new baby, and soon his mind was once more circling around the problem of the dead workman Bertin.

  Charles didn’t believe in the theory of a furious, shovel-wielding woman. What the boy had said about Bertin’s hidden money seemed a much more likely piece of the puzzle. Laurent hadn’t thought much of Bertin’s gambling skill. But as he’d said, every man won sometime. But if it hadn’t been won, could it have anything to do with Bertin’s murder? Perhaps he’d sold something. But what would he have to sell? Charles greeted a walking group of men and women, singing and passing around a leather bottle. Small craftsmen on holiday, he guessed from their dress and manner, as they shouted greetings back at him, on their way to marvel at Versailles from their lowly place on the social ladder. Bertin’s status had been still lower. Perhaps someone had owed him money. Or a relative might have died and left him a little something. Though that was unlikely, since Laurent was kin and would probably have known about it. Or perhaps Bertin had stolen the money. That could end in murder, if the theft was discovered.

  Charles stretched himself in the saddle and reached to stroke his horse’s neck. “Flamme, mon brave, let’s move! And you, ma chère Agneau, will have to put up with it.” He nudged the gelding to a canter and tugged on the leading rein. Alternately cantering, walking, and trotting, they reached the village of Vaugirard and Charles turned off the royal road to take the smaller road to the Left Bank gate. He was thirsty, and in his haste to be gone from Versailles he hadn’t filled his leather water bottle, so he made for the village fountain and watering trough. He drank and watered the horses, then sat down on the bench where he and Jouvancy had rested on Monday, thinking how much longer this week had seemed than other weeks. Women and a few serving men came and went from the fountain, exchanging news as they filled pitchers and buckets. Customers went in and out of the few shops around the square, and Charles’s thoughts floated and drifted like lazy fish in a stream. A pair of beggars approached him, one missing an arm and the other half a leg. Old soldiers, they said, and Charles thought it was likely true. But he had only his blessing to give them, which they let him know was worth little.