Mistress of the Sun (13 page)

“Both your parents are dying?”

“It makes a good story, don’t you think? If I don’t disappear, I’ll be trapped into marrying the Duc de Lorraine, I just know it.”

Petite made a face. The disgusting old man had been grabbing
every maid within arm’s reach. “My mother thinks she has found someone to marry
me
,” she confessed.

“That’s a relief.”

“But he’s in trade, and he’s—”

Nicole made a sputtering noise. “A merchant?”

Petite didn’t mind the trade part so much, but the letter her mother had shown her revealed that the man was practically illiterate. “He’s seventy-six years old,” she said, revolted.

“Maybe the Duke would marry you,” Nicole suggested. “The addled frack is desperate, and at least he’s noble.”

“I’d rather die,” Petite said.

N
ICOLE WAS GONE
the very next day, leaving Petite to look after the stricken Princess.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Marguerite whispered to Petite after Mass, pulling her into a window alcove.

“I’m always at your service, Your Highness,” Petite said, taken aback by the Princess’s deferential tone.

“I need to have a talk with Prince Charles this evening.” Marguerite’s lips were shiny with the lip salve they’d made out of egg whites, pig lard and sheep feet. “A private talk.” She arched her eyebrows. “The prince will call at seven. Before that, I’d like you to leave—by the window, so that it will be assumed that you’re with me. You can climb down the tree.”

“I’m to climb out?”
In the dark?

P
ETITE LEANED AGAINST
the wall and looked out over the great woods, and the gardens rich with scent. The moon cast an eerie light. All was silent but for the occasional hooting of an owl. She loved the stillness, in truth, the feeling that she was alone in the world, the chance to be with her thoughts.

Soon the Princess would be married by proxy and go to Florence to meet her husband. He would embrace her and then she would have babies. Petite thought of Nicole, who had lied in order to flee an old man’s lusty interest. She thought of her own dilemma, her awful future. What choices did they have? They were all of them ensnared. She recalled a fox she had seen as a child, caught in a trap: it had tried to chew off its leg to get free.

Petite recited Latin conjugations to distract herself from such thoughts: nolo,
I am unwilling;
nolebam,
I was unwilling;
nolam,
I will be unwilling.

Nolo, nolebam, nolam.

Nolo, nolebam
—

She started at the sound of footsteps on the cobblestones, and saw the shadowy figure of a night watchman. She crouched down, holding her breath, and heard him making water into the bushes. Then she saw something that made her heart stop: the dark figure of a dog, ambling along the path. It raised its head, sniffing the air. Then she heard it growl.

“What is it, Bruno?” she heard the man say.

“It’s just me.” Petite stepped forward. In a second, the dog would be upon her. “Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”

“The chief steward’s girl?” The guard took hold of the mastiff’s collar.

“Her Highness thought she heard something in the bushes outside her window,” Petite said, raising her voice so that the Princess might be warned.

Marguerite stuck her head out the open window, her hair disordered.

“Your Highness, you may rest safely,” Petite called out.

P
ETITE WAS IN THE
Commons eating pigeon and chine of suckling calf with two of the Duchess’s waiting maids when Clorine appeared, her long face flushed.

“The Marquis de Saint-Rémy and your mother wish to speak with you—now, in their chamber.”

Petite stood and excused herself. “Do you know why?” she asked Clorine as they rushed down the gallery.

“I think it’s something to do with a letter they just got,” Clorine said. “It had a royal insignia on it.”

Petite paused at the first stair landing. Had she been found out? There had been blood on the Princess’s underskirt, even though it was not her time of the month.

“Entrez,” she heard her mother say in a tired voice.

Petite stepped into the room, alone.

The Marquis was sitting in his cracked leather armchair by an unlit fire. “You may procure a stool,” he informed Petite, signaling his wife to join him and the maid to depart.

Petite lowered herself onto a footstool beside her mother.

The Marquis adjusted his hippo-tusk teeth. “This has to do by way of the matured widower.”

Françoise sat forward. “The matchmaker has finally contacted us.”

Petite’s initial reaction was relief (her collusion in the Princess’s sin had not been discovered), only to be overtaken by a deeper despair.

“The candidate of whom we discussed previously—” The Marquis took his teeth out and frowned at them.

Petite waited with silent dread.
Nolo, nolebam, nolam.

The Marquis put his teeth back in and sucked to position them. “He has,” he began, swallowing, “regretfully, begged to be excused from further negotiations.”

Petite glanced at her mother. What did that mean? “The widower has…declined?”

Both the Marquis and her mother nodded.

Sing ye!
Petite did her best to appear crestfallen.

The Marquis cleared his throat. “The matchmaker proposes to persevere—she projects that the widower would annul his decision were he to see you in the flesh, but providentially we have had a more advantageous alternative.”

“Oh?” Petite said, confused, as usual, by her stepfather’s odd way of speaking.

“Yes,” her mother said, “it seems that you’ve been awarded a position as—”

“Maid of admiration to the imminent Madame,” the Marquis said.

“Maid of honor,” Françoise corrected. “And she’s not ‘Madame’ yet.”

“Madame who?” Petite asked, incredulous. Maid of honor was a step above a waiting maid.

“The English princess who is to unite with the King’s brother,” the Marquis said.

“Henriette?” Petite asked. Surely she had misunderstood. Henriette, daughter of the Queen of England, the beautiful princess with the flaming red hair?

“Yes,” her mother said.

“Are you sure?” Petite was stupefied. To be maid of honor to this Princess was impossible to imagine; such positions went to the daughters of the highest sword nobility. Her own father had been merely a knight, the lowest status of nobility in France.

“You’ll have to live with the Court, of course,” Françoise said, as if dazed herself. “They summer in Fontaine Beleau.”

So far away! Petite recalled staying at that hunting château the year before, on the long journey to Paris with the princesses. It had been dark when they had arrived, and dark when they left. Their room was vast and unfurnished and had smelled of burnt sealing wax. They’d had to sleep on pallets on the floor.

“The disbursement is a mere one hundred livres per annum,” the Marquis said.

“But if you’re clever,” Françoise said, raising a finger, “and save toward a dowry, you should be able to make a more suitable match.”

“A
RE YOU NOT
over-happy, Mademoiselle?” Princess Marguerite asked the next morning, her smile teasing.

“You know, Your Highness?” Petite took up a silver tray of half-eaten black pudding and artichoke pie. She was, in fact, tingly with excitement. She’d not slept at all, thinking of her good fortune, dreaming of the wonders that lay ahead. She would be living at Court—with the
King.

“Who do you think got you the position?”

Petite put the tray aside and clasped the Princess’s hands. “Your Highness, I owe you my life.” She bowed to the floor and considered kissing the Princess’s feet—as was done, she knew—but decided against it. The Princess was still in her stockings.

“Come, come,” Marguerite said, tapping Petite on her head with her fan. “I command you to rise.” She’d been practicing being regal. “It’s your numeration.”

“Remuneration?”

“For being helpful about my
adorer.
”

Petite felt chagrined.

“I want you to have this, as well.” Marguerite handed Petite a cambric nose cloth embroidered in gold. “Blessed with my own tears.”

“Your Highness, I don’t deserve this.” Petite stared at the crumpled square of fabric. “How can I ever repay you?”

The Princess fluttered her fan. “By going out the window again—tonight.”

M
ARGUERITE WAS MARRIED
by proxy to Cosimo de Médicis on the nineteenth day in April. The solemn, unhappy ceremony took place in the chapel at the Louvre.

Petite made a profound reverence before the future Grand Duchess of Tuscany. That evening, Florentine attendants would prepare the Princess for bed, turn back her sheets. “I must take my leave of you, Your Highness,” Petite said, a catch in her throat. The royal coach would come in the morning to take her away to Fontaine Beleau.

“Beware the pleasures of Court, my friend,” Marguerite said in a tragic tone, her eyes red-rimmed.

Petite kissed the Princess’s hands. “I have something for you, Your Highness,” she said, presenting her with a small stoppered vial. “It’s for your wedding night,” she whispered.

The Princess held it to the light. “Face paint?” she asked, for the contents were crimson.

Petite, her face growing hot, explained in a low voice that it was blood of a pig for the Princess to spill on her marriage bed. “To save you from your husband’s wrath, Your Highness.” Then she embraced the Princess, blinking back tears.
Little Queen.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Petite paced in her room. Her new boots (with one raised heel) pinched, but she didn’t give it a thought. Her trunk was packed and ready to go. Clorine was in the basement, saying farewell to her friends on staff. She would alert Petite as soon as the coach arrived.

Her mother entered and Petite curtsied.

“We must talk,” Françoise said.

Petite offered her mother the chair.

“No, you sit there.” Françoise sat on the edge of the bed. “The matchmaker agrees that your having a position at Court will improve your chances, but she warned that you must be exceedingly careful of your reputation. Court society is known to be riggish.”

Petite nodded, amused by her mother’s use of the word
riggish
in this context. Sheep were said to be riggish when they broke through fences.

“The appearance of sin is as damaging as the sin itself. You must never allow yourself to be seen alone with a man. This would reduce your value in the marriage market.”

“Yes, Mother,” Petite said, dissembling her impatience. She was eager to go out into the great world (eager to be free of lectures).

“If a man ever tries to press his way with you—to kiss you, for example—you must turn away with all your strength and give him a slap. That is the proper response of a virtuous woman.”

“I
know
, Mother.”

“You will be seventeen this summer, and you must marry as soon as possible. After eighteen—” Françoise threw up her hands. “Do at least try to be pleasing. Don’t let men know that you can read. Eat as much as you can bear: you are far too thin. Refrain from riding, but if you must, ride like a lady on a quiet palfrey. You will not have much money to spare, but whatever coins you can manage to put aside for a dowry will help. The Marquis and I are saving as well, as is your brother.”

“Thank you,” Petite said with a confusion of sentiment. Separation was truly at hand. The thought filled her with both apprehension and joy.

Clorine appeared at the door, her hair uncharacteristically done up in ringlets. “The royal coach is here for you,” she announced. She had applied something red to her lips, and it had stained her tongue. She looked ghoulish when she smiled.

Both Petite and her mother stood up. “I won’t go down,” Françoise said, reaching into her skirts and withdrawing a string of beads. She thrust them into Petite’s hand.

The wooden beads were worn. “Father’s rosary?” Touched by Saint Teresa of Avila.

“May God go with you, little one,” Françoise said with unexpected tenderness.

“And with you, Mother,” Petite replied, her eyes stinging.

“M
ADEMOISELLE DE LA
V
ALLIÈRE
?” A footman in mismatched livery opened the door of an ancient berlin studded with gilt nails. Petite put her gloved hand lightly on his and climbed in. Her new left boot, with the raised sole, was hard to get used to, and she felt strange in her new gown—one of Marguerite’s castoffs of heavy yellow brocade.

An elegant young woman had taken the best seat, the middle one facing forward. “Good morning,” she said. Her blue eyes were startling, reflecting her iridescent cape, an elegant confection lushly trimmed with point-de-Venice lace. “Why—you could be my sister,” she said with a smile. Her accent was southwestern, but cultivated.

Petite bowed her head, perplexed. They were both fair, true, with blonde curls and blue eyes, but there the resemblance ended.
Although only a few years older than she was—nineteen or perhaps even twenty, Petite guessed—this young woman had a worldly air.

“How do you do?” Petite said uncertainly.

“I am the Marquise de Rochechouart,” the young woman said, snapping open a painted fan. Her laced gloves were embroidered at the wrist with gold thread. “But I prefer to be called Athénaïs.”

The carriage jolted forward. Petite glanced back. She thought she saw the figure of her mother in the window.

“After the Goddess of Virginity,” Athénaïs said, toying with a pearl-encrusted cross that hung from a pendant attached to her bodice.

Her companion’s skin was delicate, alabaster pale. Petite felt like a rustic by comparison. “Mademoiselle Louise de la Vallière,” she introduced herself in turn, stuttering over her own name. “But people call me Petite,” she said, foolishly adding, “although I’m not.” Perhaps now she would go by her Christian name. Perhaps now she would be Louise.

“Well, I’m not exactly a goddess either.” Athénaïs laughed, a musical sound. “You have a position at Court?”

“I’m going to be one of Madame’s maids of honor.” Petite found it hard to believe, even now.

“Ah, Henriette,” Athénaïs said, raising her arched brows. “You will find her amusing, at least.”

“Are you with Madame, as well?” It would be comforting to know someone.

“Alas, no, I serve the Queen. I’ve been with her household for almost six months.”

“Then you must often see
him
,” Petite said, flushing like a convent schoolgirl. “The King, that is.” She took a deep breath and sat up straight, clasping her gloved hands in her lap.

“Our enchanter?” Athénaïs’s teeth were small, straight and pearly white.

Enchanter? Yes.

“Certainly—although I dare say you’ll likely see more of him than I do, for he’s more often in Madame Henriette’s chambers than in those of his wife.”

Petite was uncertain what Athénaïs meant, but assumed that it could not be what was implied.

T
HE COACH STOPPED
to pick up two other young women—newcomers to the Court like Petite—before heading south out of the city. Petite was happy to sit by the window, in spite of the grime. She was intrigued by all that she saw: the pilgrims on foot, the pack-mules laden with sacks and sticks, the barefoot man leading a donkey, an old woman in a horse litter. Once she noticed four covered wagons, and she looked to see if it might be the Romany troupe of her childhood (it wasn’t, of course).

The coach darkened as they entered a deep green shade. Labyrinths of broad alleys wound through groves of majestic oak, beech and poplar.

The driver yelled out to the footmen to take up their swords.

“Perhaps we’ll have some excitement,” Athénaïs said lightheartedly, but clasping her cross. The forest and rock cuts surrounding Fontaine Beleau were a known haven for bandits.

One of the girls took out a rosary and began to pray, but at the first decade there was such a stink that she was forced to stop and hold her nose. Hanging from the limbs of an oak were the bodies of three men.

“Finally,” Athénaïs said, coughing. “The King has been after those rogues for months.”

Petite closed her eyes until they were well past.

Gradually, the road leveled. They entered a silent village through a long avenue of trees, pulling finally—and safely—through an ivy-covered arcade into the outer courtyard of the ancient hunting château.

Petite took in the vast quadrangle punctuated by high-roofed pavilions, the long facades with many windows. The want of uniformity, the weeds coming up through the cobblestones, the ornate if crumbling grandeur gave her an impression of melancholy, of wanton neglect. An evil Médicis queen had lived in this palace as well, Petite knew, and here, only four years before, Queen Christina of Sweden had commanded one of her footmen—her amoroso,
according to Nicole—stabbed to death. It was said his ghost was here, as well as that of Diane de Poitiers and Mary, Queen of Scots. The château’s history was long, tragic and very romantic.

From somewhere came the sound of a violin and a woman singing an aria. “Welcome to Paradise, fair maidens,” Athénaïs said as the coach lurched to a stop. “And may maidens you remain,” she added with a wry smile, adjusting her hood.

“Where does the King sleep?” the plump girl sitting next to Petite asked, then giggled.

“You can’t see His Majesty’s bedchamber from here,” Athénaïs said. “It faces east, onto the gardens, but his cabinet is over there.” She pointed through the inner courtyard grillwork to a bank of windows.

Awed, they craned their heads to look.

A horse caparisoned in blue and gold came cantering through the gates, stopped smartly beside their carriage and reared. The boy riding the black courser waved a feathered hat.

“Lauzun,” Athénaïs called out, “stop showing off. We’re not impressed.” But her smile told another story.

The rider vaulted off the horse, throwing the reins to a page who came sprinting across the cobblestones.

“He’s a good rider,” Petite said, “for a boy.”

“He’s not a boy, I assure you,” Athénaïs said.

A masked woman with gray hair and a nose cloth in her hand appeared at the top of the staircase. She looked in their direction.

“It’s the Duchesse de Navailles—superintendent of the novices—come to meet you.” Athénaïs gathered up her cashmere shawl as a footman opened the coach door. “Madame Jailer, we call her,” she said in a low voice, for Petite’s benefit. “I will see you tonight?” She planted a breathy kiss on Petite’s cheek before climbing down.

“Oh, yes,” Petite said with warmth, both proud and pleased to have made such an acquaintance.

“W
ELCOME
,”
THE
D
UCHESSE
de Navailles said, removing her black velvet mask. “I am your supervisor.” She looked over the three newcomers standing before her in the courtyard: a short, plump girl with acne, a thin one with wispy golden curls, a stout brunette. How long would they last at Court? How long before a protective parent recalled them in a panic? How long before one of them was required to “disappear” mysteriously for six months?

At thirty-five, the Duchesse de Navailles had already gone gray, in large part due to the magnitude of her responsibility. As superintendent of the maid-attendants, her job was to protect the chastity of thirty-two young women: eleven serving the Queen Mother, twelve serving the Queen, and nine serving Henriette, the King’s brother’s new wife. It was not an easy task. Most of the girls had only recently been released from the protective custody of a home or convent school, and the warm breezes mingled with the
exotic perfumes of the handsome and ever-so-charming courtiers were intoxicating indeed.

It didn’t help that Madame Henriette was only sixteen herself, a madcap young woman with flaming hair and an unpredictable imagination. It was already known throughout Court that her husband was jealous, not so much because his flirtatious wife smiled brightly upon lusty young men, but because the lusty young men preferred his wife to
him.

Nor did it help that the King was of an extraordinary virile beauty and restless, it appeared. Not even a year had passed since he married, and already His Majesty showed signs of being weary of his devout Spanish wife.

Not that he could be faulted, the Duchesse de Navailles thought disloyally. The Queen was, after all, newly with child, and required to abstain from the royal biweekly coupling—but it wasn’t just that. If only the Queen would learn a few words of French. If only she didn’t consume quite so much garlic and spend
all
her time at devotions. If only she weren’t so dumpy, and—yes, the Duchesse de Navailles had to admit—somewhat dim.

Ah well, such was the way with royal marriages. Soon, no doubt, the King would crown some seductive beauty with his favor and all would be well—so long as that beauty wasn’t one of her girls…or, for that matter, his brother’s wife.

“Follow me.” The Duchesse de Navailles led her newest charges through an entrance to the right of the inner gate and up a spiral
staircase to a vaulted gallery with rows of trestle tables and benches set at one end. The flagstone floor was sticky, flies hovered and the air smelled strongly of mutton and onion.

A lackey came running with a chair. The Duchess sat and addressed the girls, fanning herself. “This is the common room, where you will take your meals and, more importantly, where you will receive instruction—which will be
continuous
so long as you remain at Court.” She fixed them with a glare. It took time to teach girls how make their toilette, how the fan should be carried when walking, and how to curtsy and bow. With the precision of a military drill, she would require them to practice the basics—the passing incline, the cold bow, the slight bow, the acknowledging bow, the bobbing curtsy, the full curtsy, as well as the ceremonious kneeling and groveling bows. Devotion and obedience must be evident even in their fingertips!

“Your rooms are above. You will rise at daybreak,” she intoned as the servants trailed in, hefting the trunks. She raised her voice. “On waking, your maid will say ‘Jesus,’ and you will respond ‘Deo gratias.’ You will get out of bed without lingering, fall to your knees and say a prayer.”

The girls nodded.

“You will be required to wear a fresh shift every day.” She would address the details of personal cleanliness later in the week. Immersion was not healthy, but that didn’t mean that certain parts
of the body could not be washed—with the exception of the face, of course, which developed wrinkles, it had been proved.

The Duchess patted her neck with her prized cambric nose cloth and examined it for signs of grime. She feared that they were in for a hot summer. How would she ever be able to enforce the rule that the girls keep their shutters locked? “An open window at night will be counted as a full transgression. Three transgressions and you will be required to leave Court.”

The girls murmured.

Good: they were paying attention. “Your rooms must be kept tidy and free of fleas. Alder leaves will be provided to scatter on the floor. A candle set into a trencher of bread covered with bird lime will work overnight if the leaves prove insufficient.”

She would spare them the rat lecture. That would come later. “Warm chocolate and rolls are available here each morning at six. The day’s schedule will be posted on the door.” She held out a sample so that they could see. “One thing is invariable: you must attend Mass every morning at ten of the clock along with the King.”

“Cock-a-hoop!” The brunette slapped her hands over her mouth, mortified by her outburst.

The Duchess sighed. The girl would not last one month; she should begin looking for a replacement immediately. “Your trunks have been taken to your rooms, where you may freshen. You will find necessaries at each end of the passages and in the courtyards.
Meet me back here at six of the clock to be shown to your respective courts. There is an outdoor entertainment tonight, so be sure to bring a wrap.”

A
PAGE SHOWED
Petite to an east-facing attic room, where Clorine was already busy checking the lock and key to make sure that they worked.

“Do you know who that was you were sitting across from in the coach?” Clorine asked, yanking on a leather strap and pulling the trunk lid open. The ceiling was so low she had to stoop.

“Mademoiselle la Marquise de something-or-other,” Petite said, staring at the ceiling. There was a spiderweb in one corner. The room was conveniently close to a necessary, but consequently somewhat smelly. “She calls herself Athénaïs.” Petite smiled. Athénaïs had called her
sister.
“After the goddess,” she explained.

“The Marquise de Rochechouart, by chance?”

“That’s it,” Petite said, feeling the blankets, bolster and pillow to see if they were dry. She checked under the bed for creatures.

“Did she happen to mention that she’s a Mortemart—from Poitou?”

“Really?” Petite stood up, astonished. Her father had talked of the Mortemarts. The family was of old nobility and had held important positions at Court for generations. Whenever a Mortemart had come through Amboise, her father had had to put on a royal welcome.

“That’s as highborn as you get,” Clorine said, shaking out a dark blue brocade skirt, one of the ones Princess Marguerite had passed on. “Higher even than the King, some say.”

“No wonder she’s so pretty,” Petite said. Her little window over-looked a moat edged with dirty suds. Beyond, she could glimpse parterres, overgrown gardens and a mossy grotto. A group of stable boys was sitting in the shade of a grove of trees, one holding the reins of a mouse-colored pacer with a bushy mane. Petite wondered where the stables were—not far, to judge by the smell. She wondered if Athénaïs liked to ride.

A
T SIX OF THE CLOCK
Petite and the two other new maids waited in the common room as instructed. The Duchesse de Navailles entered, attended by a footman and two pageboys—one carrying her train, and the other fanning her with ostrich plumes.

“Ready, girls?” she said after a quick demonstration on how to melt into a reverence with dutiful subservience. She instructed the footman to show the plump girl to the Queen’s apartment and the brunette to the Queen Mother’s suite.