Bitter Greens (50 page)

‘Meet me in Paris, at the house of my cousin, the Comtesse de Murat,’ I said. ‘She lives at Place des Vosges, near the Bastille. She will hide us until you come of age. Then we can be married. Oh, Charles, do not fail me! These last few weeks have been so awful.’

‘For me too,’ he said and put out his arms as if to embrace me. He could
not hug a dancing bear, though, and his arms fell down. ‘I wish I could kiss you,’ he said unhappily. ‘I’d like to tear that bearskin away from you!’

‘Jean de la Fontaine said “Never sell the bearskin before you’ve killed the bear”,’ I said rather shakily. ‘Oh, Charles, please, make it soon!’

Charles and I signed our marriage contract on 22nd May 1687, my thirty-seventh birthday. Two weeks later, on 6th June, we were married by a priest, before witnesses, at the Eglise Saint-Sulpice, one of the largest and grandest churches in Paris, second only to the Notre-Dame. It was a dark, vast, gloomy place, but my happiness made it bright and warm. The priest blessed us, and Nanette and my sister, Marie, wept with joy.

My husband and I spent a few glorious days in Paris. We walked hand-in-hand along the Seine, went to the theatre and the ballet, and made love every night in our own consecrated marriage bed. ‘At last!’ Charles exulted. ‘No more making love with all our clothes on.’

‘We had better go and confess,’ I said, after a few days. ‘The King did give us his permission, after all.’

So we packed our bags and went to Versailles, to present ourselves to the King and beg his pardon for marrying without notifying him first.

The King was looking weary and sick, his pendulous cheeks purple as eggplants. He simply nodded and said, ‘Ah, young love. You are of age now, Monsieur de Briou?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Charles replied.

‘Very well. Ask the maître d’hôtel to find you an apartment. And Madame de Briou?’

‘Yes?’ I answered, thrilling to the words.

‘Let us have no more scandal.’

It was too much to hope for. Ten days of happiness was all I had, ten days of being called ‘Madame de Briou’, ten days of going to sleep in my husband’s arms, ten days of waking to his kiss, ten days of midsummer madness.

Then the Baron de Survilliers contrived to have our marriage dissolved by an Act of Parliament. I had, he said, seduced a minor and married
him without his family’s consent. Charles raged and declared he was of age and could do as he wished. I wept heartbrokenly. It did no good. Charles was imprisoned once again, this time in the old leper hospital at St Lazare, which had been turned into a gaol for people who had proved an embarrassment to their families. The Baron offered me a bribe to revoke my marriage vows. Icily, I refused. So the
putain
took me to court. The whole court came along to watch the proceedings. I was called a strumpet, a sorceress, a succubus. Jean de la Fontaine, shocked at my treatment, wrote a few verses in my support. At once, he was mocked and vilified, and people said I had worked my wicked wiles on him and made him fall in love with me too. The court proceedings were nothing but a brouhaha, designed to humiliate me in every way possible.

On 15th July 1689 – more than two years after our ill-fated wedding – Parliament declared that there had been an abuse of position, and I was fined one thousand gold
louis
. This was as much as a year’s pension from the King. Charles was fined three thousand gold
louis
. Even the priest who had married us was fined. Charles was set free from the prison but joined the army at once and was sent away to fight in one of the King’s never-ending wars. I never saw him again.

I did not sleep well again that night, the sour smell of rue on my skin bringing back such dark memories. From the creaking of Sœur Emmanuelle’s bed, I guessed she too was sleepless. Before dawn, I heard her rise and whip herself again, mumbling heartbroken prayers. Part of me wanted to rush in and take that knotted cord and fling it out the window, but I lay still, my ears buried beneath my hands.

I could not take refuge in the garden for the next few days, for it was Easter and the nuns had their vigils to keep and their Exultet to chant. I wondered what all my friends at court were doing. Feasting, probably,
glad that the long days of Lent were at last over. I ate my pottage dourly and wished that I was at the Château de Meudon, playing cards with the Dauphin and the Princesses de Conti, drinking champagne and eating foie gras, a fire roaring on the hearth.

It was the Great Silence of the abbey that I found hardest to bear. It was hard for someone who loved words so much to be forbidden to speak for the greater part of the day. Only in the early evening, as we gathered by the fire in the parlour, were we permitted to talk among ourselves. Sœur Emmanuelle always sat behind the novices, her cane resting against her knee, ready to strike out at any sign of frivolity.

On the evening of Easter Monday, I noticed, as I came into the parlour, how the girls drew their chairs away from their novice mistress, closing her out of their circle, exiling her to the cold edge of the room. I saw a flash of pain in her eyes before she folded her lips grimly and bent her head over her sewing. For a moment, I hesitated, then I drew a chair beside her. ‘I believe you were once at court in Paris, Sœur Emmanuelle?’

She glanced at me in surprise. ‘A very long time ago.’

‘I went to court in ’66. Were you still there then?’

Her face twisted. ‘No.’

I soldiered on. ‘Were you in Versailles for the great fete of ’64?’

‘I was.’

‘I have always wished I was there! I’ve heard it was an astonishing spectacle. Is it true they shot fireworks into the sky that made the shape of two intertwining ‘L’s, to signify Louis and Louise de la Vallière?’

‘Yes, it’s true,’ Sœur Emmanuelle answered. ‘We did not know whether to be shocked or jealous. The King was very handsome back then.’

I think she surprised herself as much as she surprised me by this rejoinder. She bit her lip and jabbed at her sewing with her darning needle.

‘Is it also true that the King had his menagerie paraded through the fete on golden chains?’

She nodded again. ‘Lions and tigers and an elephant, the biggest creature I had ever seen.’ Her hands stilled on her sewing. ‘It had a silk tent on its back where its keeper rode. And all the servants were dressed
as fairy gardeners, carrying around trays of ices in all the colours of the rainbow. I ate so many I was almost ill and my mother wanted me to go back to the palace, but I would not. I wanted to see the ballet and then, of course, Molière was putting on his new play,
Tartuffe
.’

‘
Tartuffe!
I never got to see it. The King banned it straight afterwards and it was never staged in public again.’

‘Justifiably so. It was most irreligious.’

‘But very funny, I believe,’ I said.

For just a moment, her thin lips quirked. ‘I must admit that Athénaïs and I thought it very funny at the time. We laughed till we wept. Girls can be very silly.’ She cast a look, half amused, half exasperated, at the novices who were peeping over their shoulders at us.

‘Athénaïs! She was the first friend I made at court. You knew her?’

‘We were great friends when we were girls. But then our paths parted. It has been many years since I have paid her much thought.’ Sœur Emmanuelle’s voice had cooled again.

‘I was her maid of honour for a while, till she fell out of favour.’

‘She was a vain and silly girl when I knew her.’

‘I always thought her very kind.’

Sœur Emmanuelle twisted her lips. ‘She was kind, I suppose. Although the Montemarts had the cruellest wit of any family at court, when they wanted.’

I nodded, knowing this was true.

‘She was most unkind to her poor husband,’ Sœur Emmanuelle went on. ‘The Marquis de Montespan was devastated when she became the King’s mistress. Did you know he had the gates of his chateau taken down because he said his cuckold’s horns were too high for him to pass beneath them?’

‘No! Really?’

‘Oh, yes. He even had his carriage decorated with antlers. I think he went a little mad.’

‘Poor man.’

‘He had an effigy of Athénaïs buried in the graveyard and made their
two children wear mourning for her. I believe he orders a requiem mass to be sung in her memory every year.’

‘Wouldn’t that be awful? For her, I mean? Being mourned as dead when you’re still alive.’

‘She did sin against him.’

‘Yet what other choice did she have? The King will brook no resistance to his will.’

‘Well, I believe she was exiled to a convent in the end, just like us,’ Sœur Emmanuelle added with more than a touch of malice in her voice.

‘Except the King gave her a dowry of half a million
francs
,’ I answered.

‘I warrant she does not have to sleep on a pallet of straw with a blanket as thin as a wafer.’

I smiled and, to my surprise, saw Sœur Emmanuelle’s lips twist in what was surely a smile too.

The next morning, I went with quick steps to the garden to meet Sœur Seraphina, who was cutting chervil to make soup. She said, teasingly, ‘I’m guessing you wish to hear the rest of the story.’

‘Yes, please,’ I replied, pulling on my gardening hat and gloves.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is what happened …’

The dagger plunged towards Margherita’s throat.

She caught the witch’s wrist. To her surprise, she was strong enough to force the dagger away. La Strega had always seemed so much bigger than her. Yet Margherita now realised she was as tall as the witch. She wasn’t a little girl any more.

The dagger clattered to the ground. Margherita scrambled to her feet, looking around for some kind of weapon. La Strega seized her dagger again, lips drawn back over her teeth, her breath hissing as the silver blade flashed down. Margherita stumbled back. Her hip banged into the dresser. She groped with her hand for something with which to strike the witch. Her hand found the heavy silver snood. She flung it at the witch with all her strength.

In her heart was a wordless shout.

Somehow, mid-air, the snood twisted, spread, transformed. It fell over the witch, vast as a fishing net. It pinned her to the ground.

For just an instant, Margherita was transfixed, staring in astonishment. Then a great joy flooded her. Enunciating each word very clearly, she said:

The witch gasped and put one hand to her heart. Her tawny eyes were dark with rage and fear. She struggled to speak, but her tongue refused to obey her. Margherita laughed shakily. She caught up her winter cloak and the sack with her provisions. Her hair felt strange, so light and soft, brushing the back of her neck. Hastily, she fished in the flour sack and drew out her wedding ring, blowing the flour dust towards the helpless witch.

‘He loves me, and I love him. You poor thing, have you ever been able to say the same?’ She slipped the ring onto her finger. The witch’s dagger lay gleaming on the floor. She picked it up with a fold of her cloak and tossed it out the window – she would touch nothing that had been La Strega’s – and fished under the bed for Lucio’s knife. She strapped it about her waist, a dangerous giddy exhilaration taking hold of her.

Now, how to get out? La Strega was pinned to the carpet by the silver fishing net, heaving with all her strength against its weight. There was no way that Margherita could roll back the carpet and prise up the trapdoor to find the coil of rope Lucio had left her. Her wild raking glance took in the comb and the coils of silver ribbon discarded on the dresser. The snood the witch had given her had turned into a net to bind her. What could Margherita do with a comb and a ribbon?

Margherita laughed. She caught them both up, shoving the comb into the pocket of her cloak and hurriedly tying one end of the ribbon to the hook in the wall. As she tossed its silken end out of the window, it twisted and thickened and transformed into a sturdy silver rope that snaked down the dizzying fall of the tower, disappearing into darkness.

Margherita clambered out of the window and began to climb down the rope, the sack slung over her back. Her hands were slick with the sweat of terror. Her body was heavy and weak, her arms trembled. She concentrated on stepping down one foot after another, not allowing herself to think of the dreadful fall below. Her sack grew heavier and heavier.

The climb down seemed endless. At last, though, the wind heaving at her body grew less and the sounds of the night changed, growing more intimate. She risked a look down and saw that the blackness of the ground was nearby. When at last her questing foot felt something solid
below her, all her muscles gave way and she collapsed onto the ground.

‘
Signorina
, what is wrong?’ a high squeaky voice said from behind her. A giant loomed out of the shadows. Margherita screamed and reached into her pocket, flinging the comb at the giant’s feet. A thicket of thorns at once sprang up around him, and Margherita ran away into the darkness.

The slope was steep, rough and stony, lit only by the light of the moon. She fell often, grazing the heels of her hands, tearing her dress. Her stomach cramped with pain. She tried to moderate her pace, to have a care, but fear was a hellhound baying at her heels. She ran on blindly.

I must find Lucio
, she thought.
He was headed north, to the place where the lemons grow
. She was not sure which way was north but she followed the curve of the lake away from the tower, remembering a casual gesture of Lucio’s hand.

Every rustle in the shadows made her gasp, her heart jerking. The world seemed immense and dangerous. She soon could run no more. She sat for a while, a sharp stitch in her side, then got up, staggering on through the night.

The panorama of dawn was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Vast and strange, the sky stretched above her, streaked with long clouds like a girl’s hair flying, coloured crimson and rose and blue and gold. The lake shimmered with the same vivid shades. Everywhere she looked was a new sight to delight her eyes. Mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, tipped with indigo and bronze. A boat sailing on the water, its sail ochre-coloured, its twin flitting along beneath. Birds sang and warbled, every note delighting her ear.

A small village lay nestled in the curve of the bay, smoke drifting from tall chimneys. Margherita limped closer, wondering if she could go there and beg for help. Surely someone would help her? But then she saw men on the shore, their brawny arms bare, shaking out fishing nets. The sight stabbed her with fear, and she remembered the witch struggling under the silver net. Surely La Strega would have got free by now? Surely she’d be close behind?

Margherita turned away from the village, pressing on through the forest.

The day passed slowly. Margherita walked and rested, walked and rested. Her feet hurt dreadfully, and her stomach was swollen and distended, as if something she had eaten disagreed with her. By midday, she had reached another town, but she gave it a wide berth, frightened by the idea of having to speak to anyone or trying to explain her predicament. Her only thought was to find Lucio.

Mountains began to press down upon the shoreline, immense and grey. By dusk, there was no way forward. The sides of the mountain rose directly from the lake and soared high into the air, as steep as – and infinitely higher than – the walls of her tower.

Margherita was so exhausted she could not take another step. She wrapped herself in her shawl and lay down under a tree, so cold and uncomfortable she thought it impossible she could sleep. Somehow, though, she did.

In the morning, she lay for a while under her cloak, too stiff and weary to move. Frost glittered on the cloak’s hem. She heard a rustle in the bushes behind her and sat up, gripping the hilt of her knife. A deer stepped delicately out of the undergrowth, its liquid black eyes fixed on her. Margherita sat still, enchanted. It paced past her and disappeared into the bushes. She rose and followed it along a faint rough path through the trees.

The path led her to a clearing in the forest. An old woman sat on a rock, spinning handfuls of lambswool into a smooth thread with a distaff and spindle. She was dressed in the rough clothes of a countrywoman, with silver hair twisted up and secured with a clasp made of leather and wood. Her dark eyes were heavily hooded. She looked up and smiled as Margherita stepped out of the shadows.

‘Good morning,’ she said creakily. ‘Lovely day for a walk.’

Margherita nodded shyly, instinctively drawing away.

‘Are you hungry? I was just about to break my fast and would love some company.’ The old woman put down her distaff and lifted a basket into her lap, unfolding a napkin to reveal fresh dark bread, filled with nuts and fruit. It steamed gently in the chilly air. Margherita’s stomach
grumbled loudly. The old woman grinned, showing a mouth full of gaps. She broke off one end of the loaf and passed it to Margherita. It smelt so good it was all she could do not to cram her mouth full.

‘Are you thirsty?’ the old woman said, gnawing at the heel of the loaf. ‘I have fresh goat’s milk.’ She drew a ceramic jug out of her basket, uncorking it and passing it to Margherita, who drank thirstily.

‘So where are you off to this fine morning?’ the old woman asked.

Margherita summoned up enough courage to tell her. ‘Limone. Can you tell me which way to go?’

‘Limone?’ the old woman answered. ‘The best way to Limone is by boat. If you go down to the port at Desenzano, you’ll be able to buy passage on a cargo boat.’

‘I have no money,’ Margherita said.

The old woman looked troubled. ‘It’s a long hard way if you don’t have a boat. Are you sure you wish to go there?’

‘Yes,’ Margherita answered. ‘I must.’

‘There’s an old mule track over the mountains,’ the old woman said doubtfully. ‘It’s steep and rough and wild, though.’

‘I have to try it,’ Margherita said. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’

‘Can you not wait here? I live in the forest nearby and will gladly give you shelter if you need it.’

‘I cannot wait.’ Margherita imagined the witch and the giant stalking her through the shadowy forest, coming ever closer to her. She dared not wait a moment longer. So the old woman told Margherita the way through the mountains, though her wrinkled face was worried.

‘Thank you so much!’ Margherita cried.

‘Take it easy along the way,’ the old woman advised. ‘You don’t want to bring on the birth of your babies too soon.’

‘Babies?’ Margherita was amazed and frightened. ‘What do you mean?’

The old lady pointed her spindle at Margherita’s rounded belly. ‘Did you not know? There’s a baby in there – two if I’m not mistaken.’

‘A baby? Two babies?’ The thought filled Margherita with sudden fierce joy. Babies of her own. Hers and Lucio’s. No wonder her dress had been
tight. Her desire to find Lucio grew even more urgent. She looked up at the mountains with grim determination.

‘I hope you find him.’ The old woman picked up her distaff and spindle and began to spin again.

Margherita followed the faint path up, up, up, leaving the forest behind. Her legs and lungs burnt. Many small waterfalls surged out of the cliff face, running over the path and making the rock slippery. She kept her hand on the cliff face, picking her way through slowly and carefully despite her longing to find Lucio.

Each twist of the path revealed another panorama of mountains and valleys and swift foamy rivers. Wherever the path widened out, she would rest. There were few trees, but whenever she saw one she gathered together fallen twigs and branches and stuffed them in her sack. If she wanted a hot meal, she would need a fire.

A little after noon, Margherita came out onto a high spur of land and saw for the first time the lake spread out below her. The sight of it, dark jade green etched with silver, made her catch her breath with painful joy. She had begun to be afraid the old woman had sent her in the wrong direction, as she had been travelling away from the lake the whole way.

It was an exhausting and difficult scramble after that, the mule track leading upwards at a sharp angle. Margherita supported her belly as best she could, filled with wonder at the thought she carried new life within her and determined to protect her babies.

It grew colder. Snow lay in the shadow of the cliff and draped the round boulders above her. There were no longer any trees, only stubborn grasses clinging to crevices in the rocks. Margherita gathered the dry leaves for kindling, though they cut the skin of her cold numb hands.

The path soon led her to a pulpit of stone at the very crest of the mountain, offering a sweeping view of the lake below, and snowy peaks of mountains stretching in all directions as far as she could see. The cold wind buffeted her, but she spread her arms wide, tears freezing on her cheeks.
This is what an eagle would see
, she thought,
as it soars above the lake. I am free like the eagle!

On she went, leaning on a broken branch. She passed a rocky crag shaped like a giant’s thumb, just as the old woman had described to her. She was on the right track.

The afternoon was spent climbing again, though the incline was much easier now. The track wound through green valleys and up stony spurs, taking her to the top of another crest and another panoramic view of the lake. It was so cold it hurt to breathe, and her feet were numb. Margherita huddled her hands in her shawl and kept on walking.

Every step hurt. Every breath stabbed. Again and again, she stumbled, only to catch herself and keep on going. The sharp pain in her side was like a spur, goading her on. The sun slowly set behind her, the snow on the crests of the mountains turning violet and rose. They seemed to go on forever, those mountains, soft undulating ranks of them stretching into blue infinity. Margherita began to fear she would never find her way free of them. Surely, she was lost. The old woman had said it was a day’s walk. Perhaps she had gone too slowly. Margherita began to hurry.

By the time the moon rose, golden and misshapen as a clipped coin, Margherita had begun to realise that the sharp stabbing pains in her side were more than just a stitch. They came more rapidly, with greater intensity. Each time the pain came, she had to stop, crouching, panting, the world receding from her. Her legs trembled so much she could scarcely keep her balance.