The Rose of Provence

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:

[email protected]

Website: www.susannalehner.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SusannaLehner

Facebook: www.facebook.com/SusannaLehnerAuthor

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 Valois, 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.