Enchantress of Paris (33 page)

“As you wish,” I called after him.

I sat to write my reply immediately and sent the letter by private messenger.

My only king, without your letters I think I might have died, and daily I think I do die a little for want of your company, but your words, your writing, they are my sustenance, and I imagine they are an extension of you, as I put the letters to my face and almost feel your caress, which is the only thing I long for in this world, and the one thing that gives hope to the heart that swears she will never lose faith, the one that is entirely yours for as long as the stars shine in the heavens,

M

*   *   *

Within days our households prepared to separate. The townspeople of Poitiers gathered outside to witness the spectacle of our glittering carriages, the repacking of wagons that had only been unpacked days before, and armed Cardinal's Guards amassing on the road; my traveling prison. The cardinal's carriages pointed south for Bayonne, where the king's court would join him. My train would head southwest to La Rochelle.

Trojan stood harnessed to the team of horses that would pull my carriage. Before climbing in, I fed him oat cakes from my pockets and stroked his nose. “My poor steed,” I murmured. “One day we might race the king again.” Just then I caught sight of Moréna standing among a clutch of commoners in the street. She spoke to a man wearing a turban, handing him something that flashed in the morning sun. She gestured toward me, and the man turned. He was Arabian. But he left, disappearing in the crowd. Moréna climbed into a wagon, and I forgot it.

Mazarin handed my sisters into our carriage with congenial parting words. But to me he hissed, “Don't write so much to King Louis. Let his heart mend.”

“As you wish.”

“And you will use my couriers?”

I smiled. “As you wish.”

He studied me for traces of deception, but I kept my expression plain.

And in the carriage I drafted in my mind what I would write to the king as soon as we arrived in La Rochelle.

*   *   *

La Rochelle functioned under our uncle's direct governance and his appointed intendant, my friend Colbert de Terron. We arrived to a cannon salute in mid-July. Terron and the city's municipal authorities spoke a formal welcome harangue designed to impress. I felt myself grow tired in the sun as they droned on.

Terron stepped away from the authorities, holding a red velvet canopy aloft to shade me. He glanced over his shoulder before he whispered, “Your uncle appointed me to keep watch over you. But the king charged me to be your particular servant.”

I grinned. God praise the king.

Villagers illuminated the town with torches and bonfires to celebrate our arrival. I wrote a letter by candlelight late into the night.

“What else could you possibly have left to tell the king?” asked Marianne, a little too curious.

“That I have met his secret agent and that I will be queen or die.” Then I clamped my mouth. Though a wisp of a child, Marianne could be wily.

*   *   *

In the morning, Venelle came to my chamber before I could get my missive to Terron. “You've written a letter,” she said.

I eyed Marianne, who rushed to hide behind Venelle's skirts. “Of course I haven't.”

Venelle scowled. “I know you wrote, and I know you intend to send it through a secret agent. I insist you send your letter through the cardinal's courier. Don't wear yourself out with a fuss in your weakened state. Come, give me the letter.”

I wanted to yank Marianne's hair. “If you wish me to write a letter for the cardinal's courier, I shall.” I sat at my table. I wrote a bland letter to the king that I knew Venelle would copy for Mazarin. I gave it to Venelle.

She scurried out with it.

I sat and wrote another, explaining the decoy letter.

Hours later Terron came for his daily supervisory visit, and I slipped both real letters to him. “What news?” I asked.

“King and court have set south from Paris,” he said almost apologetically. “But I'll get these letters to the king wherever he is.”

*   *   *

Days later, I received a letter from the king that contained one of Mazarin's letters. The cardinal called me a liar. Unworthy of love. Ambitious. Greedy. He threatened to send me to a convent in Italy. But the king assured me he hated the cardinal for his ill treatment of me, and promised to tell him so.

Venelle stormed into my chamber that night. “Have you sent the king secret messages?”

I stared blankly.

“I should have known.” She looked exasperated. All the care she showed nursing me back to health disappeared. “The cardinal says there are diplomats in Flanders, Germany, Paris, and Madrid wagging their tongues about your affair with the king. They speak of nothing but the stream of messengers he receives and how he does nothing but read and write letters all day long.”

I smiled. “Fault belongs to the cardinal and queen mother for separating us. Tell them that next time you send your reports.”

“You are not to leave this room. You shall receive no messengers.”

“You
cannot
prevent a messenger from the king coming to me.”

*   *   *

The next day a dusty messenger from the king stormed into my room, stomping mud and carrying a packet of letters. Venelle tramped in after him, red as I'd ever seen her. She stood in the corner, wringing her hands, while the road-weary messenger caught his breath. The old spy could do nothing about it. The packet contained more letters Mazarin had written to the king. King Louis bid me to read them and judge what we ought to do next. So, I read.

Mazarin was outraged. Mazarin was ill. Mazarin was delaying his journey to the Pyrenees, where final negotiations were to take place.

“Hortense!” I cried. “Everything is delayed. Their trip, the negotiations, even the marriage.”

Venelle looked helpless. The messenger looked shocked.

“All is not lost,” said Hortense.

Beaming, I sat to write my response.

My darling king once promised to visit the one he loves so that her soul might be nourished, and now would be the time, for that soul languishes like a flower without her Sun King. The more you push to break your marriage article, the more I begin to hope, and the more I fear my uncle, and so I urge you, my love, to send our friend in prison some means to escape and come to my aid, for a time might soon come that we have need of his protection. I beg you never to forget the one who loves you,

M

 

CHAPTER
43

August 1658

The king even went on his knees before the queen mother and the cardinal to obtain their consent to his marrying Marie Mancini.

—MADEMOISELLE DE MONTPENSIER'S MEMOIRS

The court lumbered south slowly, and Venelle received messengers from the queen mother within weeks. They issued orders to deliver me to Saint-Jean-d'Angély for an audience with the king. I put Moréna through a frenzy of preparations.

“None of your gowns fit anymore,” grumbled Moréna as she pinched an inch of loose silk around my ribs.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “He will be there, and he will take me with him to the Pyrenees, where I can stop this marriage.”

She looked skeptical, but I ignored her.

I urged our driver to make haste. We spent a night in Surgères and arrived at Saint-Jean-d'Angély the next midday. The very next morning, one of the king's musketeers arrived to announce His Majesty's arrival was imminent.

I stood in the doorway of the Abbey Saint-Jean-d'Angély with my sisters and Venelle waiting behind. The monks, who had opened their abbey and presented a rich supper, loitered in the courtyard, eyeing me curiously.

Everyone knew. The town talked of nothing else. We'd been given the usual welcome harangue and every show of respect. The townspeople treated us like princesses of the blood.
They know I might yet become their queen.
It bolstered my spirits.

The thunder of his entourage sounded before we saw him. The monks scurried out of the way, and city officials rushed from the guildhall. He galloped through the gates. An armed musketeer on each side, horses lathered into a sweat, they halted in a shower of gravel. I ran out. He leapt from his saddle and swept me into his arms.
At last!
The officials blurted a brief welcome, and the king gave them a polite nod. They knew he didn't want to see them.

We walked into the abbey, where Venelle and my sisters curtsied. “Your Majesty,” they chanted in unison.

I gestured toward the reception room, and the king led me inside. Venelle moved to follow, but King Louis turned. He said not a word, just stared her down. The musketeers marched into the hall, the sound of their metal spurs causing Venelle to jump. King Louis closed the door in her face.

“My love,” he said, cupping my chin. He looked thin; the angles of his face seemed sharp, more lined.

“My king.”

He smelled of dust from the road and the countryside winds, but I didn't care. We moved toward a divan and fell into a heap of heated kisses. There were a thousand questions, but I wanted him more than I needed answers. He made me weightless; everything faded when we touched. “Your mother and the court?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“Two full hours behind me. I wanted you to myself as long as I could manage.”

And he made those two hours the most memorable of my young life.

*   *   *

We were asleep on the floor by the time Moréna slipped into the reception room. “The court approaches, my lady. They are at the city gates.”

She snatched up lace, stockings, garters. We'd made a pallet of our clothes and lay stretched in a sunny spot under the window. Moréna didn't flinch at the sight of our naked bodies tangled together, just helped us dress.

I clung to King Louis. “This might be the last—”

He put a finger to my lips. “We must make her welcome you back into the court. She has softened to our plight. You'll see.”

The sounds of the city officials making their welcome harangue to the queen rose outside. Moréna assured me my hair was perfect, and King Louis opened the doors.

Venelle studied our appearance, fanning herself. Hortense and Marianne gaped at us. There was no time for explanations. The monks outside in the court offered the abbey, and the queen mother walked in at the head of her ladies.

She looked me up and down. To my astonishment, she bore not a trace of her old animosity. And though there wasn't an angle in her round face, she, too, seemed more lined with worry. This separation had drained everyone. I myself was too weak, too worn, too worried to shoot her defiant looks. I dipped low before her. So low that my legs lost their strength. I caught myself with a hand on the floor.

“Rise, Mademoiselle Mancini,” she said. “I'm weary and will retire. I've traveled long so we all might have this brief respite.” She moved toward her wing, and her train moved with her.

Except Martinozzi and Olympia. Martinozzi embraced me. “Take courage,” she said, then followed the queen.

Olympia smirked. “Take all the courage you want, sister. It's nothing weighed against the great anger you've sparked in our uncle. He's charged me to tell you just how many burning coals you've heaped upon your own head. You must come to my rooms for supper.”

I opened my mouth to make some excuse, but King Louis cut me off.

“No,” he said. “I forbid Marie from supping with you, Olympia. I will sup with the queen, and so will you.”

She grinned, careless. “Whatever you wish, sire. But what you don't let me make her see, our uncle will make her see in time.”

“Get out of here, Olympia.” He put an arm around my shoulders, walking me toward my wing. We settled at the table in my bedchamber, where my sisters sat on the floor playing marbles, with Venelle watching from the adjoining chamber.

I felt a nagging discomfort. “Does Olympia accompany you in your train?”

He nodded. “Forget Olympia. My mother finally understands the force of my feelings for you. Convince her to let you join us in the Pyrenees. The Spanish will see the affection Pimentel saw between us and will withdraw the marriage article themselves.”

“But the peace?”

He looked away. “Perhaps Spain will want to carry through with it.”

“And if your mother refuses to let me join her?”

He stared. I could see he had not allowed himself to consider it.

“Think of every scenario. Have options for any eventuality. You are a warrior. You know this. You also know traitors attack from within. Beware of Olympia.”

He frowned at Olympia's name. “All Europe knows that if ill befalls you again I will tear the peace treaty into little bits. If you cannot join us, you will wait at La Rochelle, and I … will pressure Mazarin to make more concessions in the peace treaty.”

It isn't enough.
“Threaten to remove him from office! Be king.”

He sat back. “I
am
being king, with as delicate a touch as possible. Threatening to remove him will make him withdraw to Italy and he will take you with him.”

I pulled him gently to me again. “You're right. Forgive me. What news of my brother's release?”

He merely shook his head. “If the cardinal tries to seize you, flee to the seaside citadel at Brouage. Use the money I gave you. Make promises in my name—anything necessary to secure yourself. Keep a hired boat at the ready. It will take the cardinal too long to prepare a sea pursuit. Just don't leave France. If he locks you in a convent in Italy, I won't be able to force your release.”

My head dropped, and I turned his hands over to stare at his palms. I traced the solar line that had inspired much hope in me. “You are destined for greatness.” I rubbed my thumb across the heart line that I'd chosen to ignore. Extending from the mound of Jupiter beneath his index finger to the mound of Mercury under his pinkie, it was as weak and wavy as my own. I put my right palm beside his left and saw that our fate lines didn't match. I didn't want to admit what those lines might mean.