Dark Angels (15 page)

At a bench, Princesse Henriette sat down abruptly, waving the others onward with their walk.

“I’ll stay with her,” Alice said, and she sat on the bench, watching the spaniels, who were running back and forth, torn between their loyalty to their mistress and the delight of a longer walk. Alice had something she must ask the princess; this thing with Richard and Renée brought it to the forefront, and here was her moment, but the princess did not seem well. Her face was pale, even with the rouge on it, and there was perspiration above her lip. Dark circles were under her eyes.

“Are you well, Madame?”

“I feel strange.”

“Madame, had you time to speak with His Grace the Duke of Balmoral about me?”

“I did not.”

Hugely disappointed, Alice turned her face away, but the princess was no fool. She put her hand on Alice’s chin and made her look into her eyes. “I’ve disappointed you.”

“No.”

“You lie, but you do love me, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“That’s what Queen Catherine said, that you serve firmly and steadfastly, that I was fortunate to have you in my household. I know you don’t tattle on me, even though you’ve been offered a pretty coin to do it. I will write your duke a letter broaching the subject as soon as I’m settled. I promise.”

They could hear laughter from the direction of the landscape canal. Princesse Henriette stood up, smiling. “Whatever is he saying to make them laugh? Monsieur would disapprove.” She smiled more genuinely at the thought of that. “Come, no sulks from you. They are not becoming to a future duchess. We mustn’t miss the fun. I must learn my English, too. It will upset Monsieur. I think I approve of this Lieutenant Saylor. What do you think?”

“There’s something fine in his eyes.” Something strong and solid, thought Alice, that a woman could warm her hands and heart upon in a cold, cold world.

W
HEN THEY ARRIVED
in Paris, Princesse Henriette ordered her ladies to dress in their finest, and she returned to her chambers in the Palais Royal, her palace in that city, to do the same. Everyone was on alert. Only the handsomest, fastest horses would do, only the most decorated of carriages, of harnesses. Everyone was to sparkle with jewels. They would go to Saint Germain in grand style, as befitting a princess of England and of France. Alice was excited that Barbara was finally to see the grandest, most sophisticated court in the world. They journeyed toward Saint Germain en Laye, King Louis’s favorite château, the palace of his ancestors where he himself had been born. It nestled on a high hill overlooking the Seine River. When the palace was in sight, word passed through the entourage that His Majesty himself waited outside the forecourt, all the court with him.

The carriage Alice and Barbara and the maids of honor were in stopped. The Dragon was at the door, breathing fire. They were to assemble behind Madame, and quickly. Princesse Henriette had stepped from her carriage, was going to walk on foot to the king. It was the kind of gesture the French adored. Alice and the others hurried to take their places behind her ladies-in-waiting. It was a perfect day, the sun shining down on grand spectacle. Troops were lined all along the road, to honor the princess. They stretched for a mile or more. Ahead could be seen the king, behind him his court, and behind them, behind an enormous opened gate, the beautiful towers of the huge palace of Saint Germain en Laye.

“My soul,” breathed Barbara, taking in the gowns, the jewels, the feathers and laces, the silver and gold trappings on horses, the ribbons tied in manes and tails, the troops of soldiers, both household and army, standing at attention, the full spectacle of the court gathered in a semicircle behind King Louis. Princesse Henriette, hand in hand with little Lady Anne, walked to King Louis. He was the altar she must approach before she could properly return to court.

“There he is,” Alice said to Barbara, though any fool could have told which man was king. “Isn’t he handsome?”

“Yes.”

The word was a gulp. King Louis was dark eyed from his Italian forebears, with a sensual mouth from his French ones; he was muscled and lean from acrobatics and dancing, from riding and walking, from hunting and fencing. A man of all parts, he was a graceful dancer in court ballets, an accomplished musician, a patron to artists and craftsmen, a firm ruler over his kingdom, and a warrior. He’d spent the last year conquering the Spanish Netherlands to the shock and dismay of the rest of the world. The only man wearing his hat, its thick white feathers nesting about the brim like birds at rest, he raised Princesse Henriette up out of her curtsy and kissed her cheeks before taking off the hat—an enormous compliment—to bow to the Lady Anne.

“Which one is Monsieur?”

Alice scanned faces, not believing what she saw—or didn’t see. “He isn’t here.” If the insult at Calais had been huge, this one was even larger. There would be fireworks, and not the ones King Louis had likely ordered, over this.

“Which one is Madame de Montespan?” asked Barbara. The new mistress had been the talk of the visit to Dover, with the French bragging on her as if she were a goddess.

“That one, see? In the blue.”

Barbara took in the sight of a lovely, lively, smiling, smooth face with big eyes and a painted red mouth and the thickest head of blond hair possible, hair woven through with sapphires and pearls, which also were in ropes around her neck.

“And La Vallière?”

“There. In ivory.”

A very slender woman stood beside the sparkling Montespan.

“I thought she would be more beautiful.”

“She is.”

“She looks sad.”

“Yes. He has not treated her well.”

“The queen?” asked Barbara, when she could tear her eyes away from the slender woman who did not smile and the lively one who did nothing else.

“There.”

Barbara took in the sight of a woman so short, she was barely taller than the dwarf standing on each side of her. Stout and short armed, the queen had a large nose, and her hair, never mind the many diamonds sparkling there, was frizzy. Barbara was silent with amazement, and Alice was pleased, so pleased, to show her friend this new glamorous world where the handsomest king in Christendom, the young lion of Europe, did as he pleased with a practiced politeness and grace that put other men to shame. He ruled his court with a courteous iron will. A morning frown from him could distract everyone for hours. This was the center of the world, and one ought to see it, at least once.

King Louis led his sister-in-law toward the palace. Official decorum was breaking as courtiers rushed to surround them and watch, never minding now who should be where.

“What’s happening?” asked Barbara.

“Oh, there will be some endless banquet or another. Just stay by me. Renée, there’s the Prince de Condé. Introduce Lieutenant Saylor to him.” Alice shook her head at Renée’s lack of imagination. She’d overheard Richard talking of the French general, and here the great man was, only a few feet away. Princesse Henriette was a favorite of his. For that, he’d be polite to her maid of honor, and Renée’s beauty usually assured politeness anyway. If she was going to be wife to this young man, who had his way to make in the world, she was going to have to do her part.

R
ENÉE AND
B
ARBARA
cowered together, their hands over their ears at the sound of the quarreling, which came from Madame’s bedchamber in this, the part of Saint Germain en Laye that Monsieur used; but Alice had her ear to the door to hear whatever she could. It was night. The quarrel that had been brewing since the return, the quarrel that never ended, was in progress on the other side of this door. Her eyes moved over the other women in this outer room. Let them tattle on her all they wished.

“—dare you treat me so!” said the princess.

“I treat you any way I wish!” answered her husband.

“You’d best beware, Philippe! My business in England was important, as you well know! Your brother is not pleased with your behavior!”

“And I am not pleased with yours!”

“I’ll make you pay for this!”

“You make me pay with every breath you take!”

On those words, Monsieur opened the door. Alice stepped back, but it didn’t matter; he didn’t notice her. He was furious, striding through the withdrawing chamber ready to destroy anyone who might stand in his way. Once he was gone, ladies rushed into the bedchamber, draped and festooned with everything that was beautiful—the finest of fabrics, embroideries in gold and silver, furniture with lovely curving legs, walls of finest walnut polished to a soft patina. But none of it mattered because of the unhappiness that was the other occupant. Madame was standing in the center of the enormous ornate rug, beginning to weep.

“Get out!” she screamed as they rushed toward her. “You don’t serve me! You serve him! I won’t give you the satisfaction of my tears! Get out of my sight!” Her voice, steadily rising, ended in a shriek. Her dogs, already distressed, barked, growled, began biting at skirts, and the princess rushed to the bed like a madwoman, picked up a pillow, and threw it straight at a lady-in-waiting. Anything she could put her hands on, she began to throw, blankets, books, a hairbrush, a crystal jar of rouge. Women retreated as rapidly as they’d rushed in.

“Verney, Keroualle, Bragge, stay!”

Alice shut the door. Barbara was already near the princess and, with her instinctive kindness, held out her arms, and Princesse Henriette moved to her. The pair sank to the floor, Barbara holding the princess close. Renée sat beside them. She stroked the princess’s arm, not quite daring to hold her the way Barbara did, and dogs pawed and whined among the bunched skirts of gowns, squirming to get to their princess, to lick her face and make soft sounds of sorrow for her.

After a time, crying eased, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the princess moved to lie with her head in Barbara’s lap, and Barbara stroked her forehead. Renée sat snuggled into Barbara, several of the dogs in her lap. The three of them might have been sisters or best friends.

Alice knelt down. “Can I get you anything? Wine? Your chicory water? A cordial for your head?”

“My head. Yes, something for that. I didn’t have my headaches when I was in England. Did you notice, Verney?”

Alice walked into the withdrawing chamber. Women waited, their eyes on her, their faces proud, curious, disdainful, but Alice didn’t care. “Madame desires a headache cordial. Immediately.”

One of them stepped forward with a sealed letter. “This came from His Majesty.”

“From His Majesty, and you didn’t bring it at once. Pretty behavior.”

“I had no wish to disturb.”

“On the contrary, that is all you care to do. Sweet Jesus, you should all be ashamed of yourselves.” She was reminded too closely of Queen Catherine’s periods of disfavor, when courtiers—including her father—had deserted as if a plague sign had been painted on the doors. Alice despised moral cowardice. The only fixed point she’d known in her life was service to the queen. When she gave her loyalty, she meant it.

She brought the letter to Princesse Henriette, who tore it open at once when she saw King Louis’s seal. A smile came to her face. “I am commanded to see him tomorrow afternoon. Ha. Monsieur will be furious. How I shall laugh. I shall smile so sweetly when I walk past him. I’m so sorry, I’ll say. You’re not included in this discussion, my dear—I’ve said too much. You three did not hear me say I am to meet the king alone tomorrow, is that clear?”

They nodded their heads obediently. Princesse Henriette sat up straighter, as if the king’s message were a tonic that cured her. “Mademoiselle Bragge, I regret that you should see me thus reduced.” She patted at her face with a handkerchief, began to touch and smooth her curls. “I don’t forget myself often, but he…well, I won’t say more on it. You’re very kind. I felt it when you held me in your arms. Verney told me you were so. We must have her, she told me, and already I see she’s right. You three are my musketeers. King Louis has his, and I have mine. Help me to the bed, dear ones, so I can sleep away this headache. Verney, stay until I sleep, then guard the door. I don’t wish to see anyone.”

“Yes.”

At a knock on the door, Alice opened it to Henri Ange, who handed her the small dark bottle that held the headache mixture. Again, they considered each other. “How is the beautiful and kind princess?” he said, his English as plain, as distinctive, as broad, as any merchant’s on a London street. The exactness of it shocked Alice.

“What concern is it of yours?”

“The concern of a well-wisher.”

“You wish her well?”

“You doubt me?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. He had small, even teeth. “The princess has a fierce watchdog. G-r-r-r-r. Don’t bite. I’d be an ally if you wished it.”

She didn’t answer.

“Or not.”

The way he said that, the way the light in his eyes vanished like a candle snuffed out, disconcerted her. Everything about him disconcerted her. She shut the door in his face and sat in the darkened chamber as the princess went to sleep, thinking. Why would King Louis summon the princess to meet with him alone? Why was it important no one know? Was there, as her father suspected, a treaty?