The Rose of Provence
by
Susanna Lehner
Arian Books
The characters in the novel are partly fictitious, partly historical figures. The plot of the story is partly based on actual events and is partly a work of imagination.
Note from the author
I would like to thank you for choosing my book, I hope you enjoy it!
Feel free to contact me and let me know what you thought of the book:
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Website: www.susannalehner.com
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Copyright © Susanna Lehner, 2014 (Smashwords Edition)
Translated by Tímea Boglárka Abonyi
Revised by Delilah & Tracy Brown
ISBN 978-963-08-7247-8
All rights reserved
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Princess’ Lady
Bloody Brocade
Infetile Decade
Ruby of Provence
The Plague Doctor
Red Rose of Arles
Star of the Valois shines
Glance behind the Veil
Vengeance
Flames flare up
Appendix: Historical figures and places in the novel
Appendix: Recipes of the rose dishes and drinks in the novel
Appendix: Book recommendation
Chapter 1
The Princess’ Lady
Louvre, Paris – 31 March 1543
“Do you think the army of fancy guests will notice that I’ve just got out of the bed?” The man patted the naked bottom of the woman stretching lustfully beside him.
“If any of them have ever seen the same satisfaction on their lover’s face after spending the night together, then they certainly will,” hummed the woman and coquettishly took a flower-fragranced bonbon between her lips from the silver bowl beside the bed. “However, that is why your wife won’t find out anything,” she laughed ironically. “If what you say is true, and she is really as cold as an icicle. Because then, she cannot know this face.”
“You know, Diane, that both of us were almost children when we got married, and none of us had any experience. Though, since then, I’ve lavishly compensated for the deficiencies with others, but Catherine obviously couldn’t have done this. At first, she couldn’t have learned anything from me and now, I hardly feel like going to bed with her,” the man pulled his mouth.
Henri Valois was not the only French noblemen in his middle twenties. But the women, who lured him to bed, did not give themselves so easily to him, not because he was the rightful heir to the throne, but because he was said to be a unique lover. He was not the most beautiful man in France, but the carefully trimmed reddish-brown beard framed an attractive face, and his hazelnut-brown eyes were also talkative: they spoke the blood-boiling language of passion.
“You’re so chivalrous, Henri. You protect her in spite of the fact that in over ten years, she has not given birth to an heir, not a single child,” noted the woman irascibly, and started to put on her clothes.
Diane de Poitiers was exactly twenty years older than the crown prince, but the signs of withering have hardly shadowed her body. She had flawless skin, full breasts, and it was not a coincidence that her thick maroon hair and finely chiseled face inspired numerous painters. Her beauty, her shrewd mind and nearly thirty years of experience – which she gained in various beds – taught her such tricks that have chained Prince Henri of Orleans to her for nine years.
“However, you are not short of children if we take your bastards into account as well,” Diane added dry. “But none of them can be king, ever.”
“What’s wrong with you? It hurts that you cannot bear me a child anymore?” the man asked as he also got up.
“God forbid! A few years ago, I could have given birth to children, but I took appropriate measures to avoid that. You know that I already have two grownup daughters, one of them is a year older than you, and the other is only two years younger. The last thing I want is to have my child be of the same age as theirs."
“Then leave me alone with this topic, you know that I don’t like it.”
“It’s time for you to go, the guests are waiting,” the woman looked at the wall clock. “They are celebrating your birthday after all.”
The castle’s assembly hall was full by the time Henri popped in. The guests were freely conversing around the groaning, long boards, covered with appetizing dishes and heady drinks. Besides their flamboyant clothes and luxurious jewels, it would not have been necessary to have additional finery, but busy hands decorated each and every corner of the hall with colorful flowers. The aroma of the spicy roast meat and the stout Burgundy wine mingled with the stupefying fragrance of the roses and lilies to finally merge with the delightful sound of the chamber music filtering from the nearby hall.
The music and the murmur of the loose conversation ceased in a moment when the prince entered. All eyes were fixated on him, cheerfulness twinkled in them. Only the bloomy glance of the young woman, sitting at the head of the table, stood out from the crowd and Henri did not see anything else, just the reproach heaping from the grayish-blue eyes.
“Do you think I’m blind?” hissed Catherine when the prince sat down beside her. “You are coming from one of your whores again, and I can guess from which one.”
“You are not in the position to haul me up for anything,” whispered Henri. “Or shall I call you on account for when you will bear me a boy? Or at least a girl? Because we all know that it’s not my fault.”
The otherwise average features of the woman became even paler. She pressed her narrow lips and wrapped up in headstrong silence. She just fumbled the honey glazed chicken on her plate, and , she did not speak to her husband the rest of the evening. The prince did not mind it anyway when he caught sight of the flaming red-haired beauty sitting at the other end of table. Her snow-white skin and queenly posture suggested that she may be the offspring of an ancient, noble family. Her emerald-green eyes scattered sparks as the light of the flaming torches reflected in them. Her moss-colored dress stitched with golden thread emphasized the special tone of her eyes, and her smile lit up the great hall. The prince was so enchanted by the magical sight that he did not notice the jealous look setting on him from the other direction. Diane, with infallible instinct, realized the danger at the moment when the girl caught the heir’s eyes.
“Who is that appetizing cattle?” Henri leaned to Earl Marais sitting on his left side, and waved his head towards the red-haired creature. “I’ve never seen her here.”
“Don’t you know? But she is your wife’s chaperon,” the Earl laughed conspiratorially. “She is called Amrita, the daughter of the late Earl du Bois. A flower from Provence, she has just recently arrived at the court from Arles.”
“Well, I think I must get to know her better,” murmured the prince excitedly.
“Beware! The bloodhound keeps her eyes on you!”
“Come on, Catherine is licking her wounds now,” Henri glanced towards his wife. “If she starts to bother me with anything, it’s enough to mention the descendant issue, and I can silence her immediately.”
“I wasn't talking about her, but the other one,” Marais raised his eyebrow meaningfully.
At that moment, the prince, himself felt the icy look penetrating him. He suddenly looked at Diane, as if he was caught at fault, and the woman unflinchingly stood his glance. She knew that she had to get rid of the alabaster skinned newcomer as soon as possible.
Amrita pretended that she did not catch sight of the flattering attention of the crown prince, but she was very well aware that Henri Val
ois, who is rumored to be an incorrigible lady killer, put her onto his fictional waiting list, at a very distinguished position. She felt increasingly embarrassed that the prince was overtly gazing at her, and her refined senses warned her that this may offend not only the princess’ self-esteem. It couldn’t fail to be seen that the heir’s first lover would gladly drown her in a teaspoon of water. She tried to blunt the strength of the dark thoughts coming from Diane, and she was surprised how great the strength was hiding in the fragile female body. An hour later, she felt totally exhausted, so she asked for permission from her mistress to leave.
Near the assembly hall, wine flushed people were wobbling everywhere in the corridors; others were sitting in armchairs covered with light blue silk, and few people were leaning against the tapestried wall under the portrait of some late monarch. A few greedy, uninhibited hands snatched at her, so she accelerated her steps. When the music could hardly be heard, and the befuddled bluster had died away in the shaggy carpets of the long corridors, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was not the first time that she was living in a royal court, but she still had not got used to the everlasting power and love intrigues, the baffling thoughts of the voluptuous ladies and gentlemen, and the desires of real passion requiring souls and bodies, forced into marriages of convenience.
Her heart was heavy, since she left the castle in Arles, surrounded by great lands. In her recurring dreams, she was still cradled by the endless, purple lavender fields, and the bright, colorful rose arbors, put her into slumber. At this time, she felt in her nose the fragrance of thyme, nestling in the lawn, the honey flavor of golden grapes on her tongue and in her soul, the same caressing sunlight glittered, the beams of which were playing on the azure frills of the sea at home. Sometimes when she was awake, she daydreamed about walking among the snow-white and cyclamen oleanders in a solitary bay, especially, when the atmosphere of the royal court strangled her too much.
Now, spiritually, she escaped again to the seashore from the inebriated company, so she did not realize that she was not walking down the corridor where her room was waiting for her. She turned the corner and opened the third door. She was paralyzed at the sight in front of her, and from the imaginary heaven, she quickly fell down on the filthy ground.
Chapter 2
Bloody Brocade
Louvre, Paris – 31 March 1543
A young woman was lying unconsciously on the sofa sitting under the huge canvas portraying Louis XII. Her dark brown, wavy curls spread on the drapery decorated with blue and golden stripes; blood was leaking from her neck. The crimson moisture, like a narrow brook, poured along her snow-white neck, then down her shoulders, and finally, gathered in a palm-size patch on the expensive fabric of the sofa.
A man leant over the unconscious body, and to the noise of steps he turned towards Amrita. His domed cheekbone, strong angular jaw, and Grecian nose would have made his face statue-like, but his blue eyes flashing under the dark eyebrows were very much alive. Scarlet red blood leaked on his chin from his pointed canine teeth, appearing among his nicely curved lips, and as he caught sight of the newcomer, strange desire flashed in his eyes. He stood up, not caring about the unconscious woman lying on the sofa anymore; he focused all his attention on Amrita. His tall, erect figure, towered above the girl, and his partly unbuttoned shirt showed his domed, tanned chest. With his long fingers, he pulled out a white kerchief from the pocket of his overcoat and wiped the blood off his mouth. His glance eagerly ran along the red-haired beauty, and then with a sudden motion, he reached for her, grabbed her arm and pulled her close to himself. The girl didn’t even have time to shriek before the man’s lips stuck to hers. However, as she felt the metallic flavor of blood in her mouth, she gathered all her strength and tore herself out of his embrace.
“Oh my God, Morgan! How dare you kiss me with blood on you!” She grimaced.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I got carried away again! But you know what kind of effect you have on me… Anyway, you don’t have to call me God; I know that you’re hooked on me,” said the man, and his smile softened his attractive but cool features.
There was no sign of the needle-sharp eye-teeth in his perfect denture.
“Don’t be so self-conceited, you haven't kissed me for years,” Amrita stepped back. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”
“No way! I promised you not to do such things. She just fainted a bit… These noble ladies are so bloodless nowadays,” he hummed in his deep voice, and sank his look into the girls.
“Don’t try your charm on me,” Amrita turned her head away.
“I don’t have to try, it’s already worked.”
“Oh, really?” The girl raised her eyebrow. “We both know how long you’ve been chasing me futilely.”
“Chasing you? Tut, tut, what a dirty word!” Morgan bantered. “I’d rather call it a courtship, the expression of my eternal homage. I haven’t told you yet, but recently, I’ve obtained the name de la Roux as the sign of my admiration towards your wonderful hair. And I wouldn’t say that my endeavors are completely inefficient, because your heart has been mine for a quite a while now. The rest will come; I’m not impatient. I’ll kill time with others till then.”
“With Mademoiselle Prévin, for example?” Amrita glanced toward the sofa.
“You see, now you are jealous again,” said the man, contently. “But no, I don’t sleep with her. We have common interest with her father, and I don’t want to ruin the fruitful business relationship. And our Jeanette won’t remember this little feast anyway.”
“By the way, feast. Shouldn’t you be at the birthday celebration?”
“I should,” clouds gathered in the man’s eyes.“ But I didn’t feel like meeting Diane.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Despite the fact that she is cheating on her lover, the crown prince, with me, and it’s becoming increasingly embarrassing for me? Nothing,” Morgan swayed his head resentfully.
“Oh, my God, you don’t say that you are the lover of Madame de Poitiers?” Amrita’s eyes widened.
“Why?” The man asked with theatrical incomprehension. “Though, it’s true that she is not such a velvety flower as Jeanette, but she is still very attractive. And if I tell you what she can do in bed, you wouldn’t be surprised for a minute!”
“You know, I didn’t mean it this way,” waved the girl resentfully. “It’s not a great idea to sleep with the crown prince’s first concubine. If you don’t want Monsieur Prévin to be angry with you, it’s not advisable to do it with the future king either.”
“Such a ready tongue you have since you’ve come to the court from that hick town.” smiled Morgan with the smile that always caused Amrita’s legs to grow weak.
“Are you insinuating that you helped me with this?”
“Far be it from me to flaunt my merits,” winked the man. “If I start once, when would I get to the end? But it’s evident that it was time for you to leave Limoges to my effectual intervention before someone would have started to have misgivings.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” the girl’s face darkened, because homesickness revived in her heart. “It’s time to get back to my room, and you had better not to draw attention to yourself with your absence, and take part in the celebration.”
“You’re right, it’s time to leave, because Jeanette is about to regain consciousness,” nodded Morgan.
He stepped to the inlaid table, dipped the clean corner of his handkerchief into the beau-pot’s water and wiped the congealed blood off the girl’s neck and shoulder. On the porcelain-white skin, there was no sign of the wound inflicted by the canine teeth.
“And the sofa?” Amrita pointed to the bloodstain being an eyesore on the bright tapestry.
“Even I cannot remove it with the tools at my disposal,” Morgan shrugged his shoulder and made the girl lie down so the patch was next to her face.“ For want of better, they will think that the lady’s haughty nose gushed out with blood.”
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br /> He spied out down the corridor, and made sure that it’s empty in both directions. He let Amrita go ahead, and then stepped out of the room too, and closed the door silently. The girl has already set out towards the nearer corner, but Morgan grabbed her waist and pulled her toward him again, but this time more tenderly then before. Amrita did not resist now. She closed her eyes and felt the man’s heartbeat on her chest as it slowly took over the rhythm of her own heartbeat. Morgan bowed his head and buried his face in her neck. The man’s yesterday stubble was poking Amrita’s soft skin, but she did not mind that at all. She knew that Morgan would never give her greater pain than this. However, before she could have been lost in the embrace, the strong arms released her. For a few moments, she kept her eyes closed, but by the time she glanced up, she did not see the man anywhere. As if the ground had swallowed him.
Chapter 3
Infertile Decade
Louvre, Paris – 3 April 1543
“Amrita!”
The princess’ voice sounded resolutely, but it wasn’t commanding.
“I’m here, Madam!” She entered the boudoir where the wife of the crown prince was broodingly fixing her long, light-brown hair.
The vivid shade of her sun-yellow gown made the color of her skin and curls even paler.
“I’ve already told you to call me Catherine, by my first name. I would like us to be friends, because we are of the same age.” Her mistress glanced at her in the mirror. “Help me pin up my hair,” she smiled at Amrita, but her eyes were not laughing.
“You look worried, Catherine,” she noted silently.
“Why wouldn’t I be? That slut is aiming at my place more and more shamelessly. Though, no matter how much she wants, she could never be queen, but she can inhibit me from becoming one,” the tension that has been accumulating for days broke out of the princess.
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