3
SUMMER, 1667
The King’s barber was a precise little man with a pointed nose and steady hands. He snipped and combed Louis’ mustache with the utmost care and brushed stray hairs from the King’s silk shirt. Bontemps stood by, holding the King’s new crewelwork coat. The morning was bright, and light from the windows danced delicate patterns on the walls and across the tapestries and paintings.
“Sire,” said Bontemps, “the dignitaries from Issiny have been waiting a month for an audience. They’ve come a long way. Monsieur Colbert is deeply anxious they will leave. That we may lose any hope of an agreement.”
Louis sniffed. The barber snipped. Then the King asked, “What kind of man do you think I am, Bontemps? Merciful?”
“If you desire it.”
“Vengeful?”
“If conditions merit.”
“All things to all people?”
“Equally and without condition.”
Louis nodded thoughtfully. The barber waited until his head was still again. “As a King, yes. I ask as a man.”
“You are both,” said Bontemps. “We cannot separate one from the other.”
“When I send my brother to war, I do so as a king. Should he die there, I would mourn him as a man. It is as a man I could gain favor in the eyes of another. As a king, I cannot.”
“You are forever in our favor, Sire.”
“You think Montcourt feels the same?”
The barber stepped back, finished, and bowed deeply. Louis rose and Bontemps helped him with his coat. The King considered himself in the bronze-framed mirror on the dresser.
“A king will be resented as much for good deeds as for bad,” said Louis. “This much I know.”
There was a moment of silence then Bontemps said, “The jacket fits well, Sire.”
Louis looked at himself again, staring into his own eyes, seeking what was there. And what looked back at him was determined, regal, powerful, and prepared.
Louvois was glad to get outside for a while. Though an important man of the court, he savored the sounds and scents of the outdoors. He strolled through a wooded area of the royal gardens, breathing deeply, trying to calm his tumbling thoughts when he heard rustling behind a tree. He stopped to look. A deer, perhaps, or a badger. But no, the face that appeared around the trunk was a bedraggled, frightened human.
Fates be damned! Louvois looked to see that no one was nearby then hurried to the tree. “Montcourt! What are you doing here?”
Montcourt’s eyes were red with desperation and lack of sleep. His clothes were filthy and smelled like a barn. “I’ve nowhere else to go,” he pleaded. “My wife’s family will not take me in. She married for the title! Now that I have none, they’ve no need for me.”
“You have my sympathy, but I cannot help you.”
“You are my only friend at court.”
“And a loyal friend will tell you the truth. Your days here are finished. I must go.”
Montcourt’s lip hitched. He snarled, “My commendations to His Majesty’s health.”
Louvois considered responding but went on, instead, and for a moment thought he heard his former friend begin to cry.
Louis squinted across a vast stretch of lawn from his seat in the open day carriage. He ordered the driver to rein the horses in. Well, well! Louis thought as he opened the carriage door and got out.
A young man, rakishly handsome with wavy brown hair, strode toward them across the grass with his arms outstretched. “Majesty!” said the young man.
“Dear Rohan!” said Louis. “You’ve returned!” Seeing his childhood friend brought a surge of joy, an almost tangible remembrance of earlier, easier days.
“You see?” said Rohan cheerfully. “I always do what you say!” He reached out to embrace the King but then remembered himself and pulled his arms back. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you,” said Louis, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
“There are more pretty women here than I recall.”
“Your memory is failing you,” laughed Louis. “You’re getting old.”
“But,” Rohan bowed dramatically, “I’ve learned my lesson, and return to you atoned, anew, and at your service, Sire. I hope I am worthy to be part of court with all this time passed? I so enjoyed my former position as master of the hunt.”
Louis smiled, feeling buoyant and carefree with his companion. He and Rohan fell in together and strolled down to the orange grove. Butterflies drifted on spears of sunlight. Dragonflies buzzed in for a closer look.
“I saw plans for the stable,” said Rohan.
“Your thoughts?”
“Either we are doing a very large amount of hunting, or you are building something quite different here.”
“A palace,” said the King.
“A city!” laughed Rohan. “A most glorious city, Sire!”
I am a warrior. I have always been a warrior at heart, thought Philippe. He turned back and forth before the mirror, admiring his trim jacket, new trousers, stockings, and black polished boots.
“How do I look?”
Chevalier crossed his arms. “I dressed you myself, how do you think I think you look?”
Philippe grinned.
“Speaking of which,” Chevalier continued, “who puts a dwarf in a drainpipe? If the little man was sad he might have done it himself. Or perhaps the Queen tired of him. Perhaps he was trying to mend the King’s fountains and restore himself to favor but accidentally shoved himself in there like a cork?”
Philippe rolled his eyes. “You’ve too much time on your hands. Come with me to the front.”
“You’re inviting me to a war? Are you mad?”
“Not any war.”
“Your brother says one thing and does another. Do not hold your breath. But if you do make it I will remain here, naturally, ensuring your place at court remains assured.”
“Is that so?” asked Philippe with a rueful chuckle. “‘My place.’”
Chevalier followed Philippe into the anteroom where Henriette waited, elegant in a laced-trimmed gown.
“You look handsome,” she said to her husband.
“I already told him,” said Chevalier.
Philippe blew air through his lips. “You did not, in fact.”
“Husband,” said Henriette. “Is there news?”
Philippe stalked from the room, calling over his shoulder, “Not yet,” leaving Chevalier and Henriette to stare at one another.
Then Henriette broke the silence. “Perhaps he will send you instead.”
Chevalier shrugged. “I would be honored to serve, of course.”
“Do you really think he does not see you exactly as you are?”
“He sees me, my dear. And he is happy. And that is what divides us.”
“The only thing that unites us is division.”
“At least when your husband is gone, I’ll know where to find you.”
“If you come to my rooms I will not answer.”
“I would not think to seek you there. Just as I would not seek the King at the chambers of Her Majesty.”
Henriette, though shorter than Chevalier, lifted her chin definitely in an attempt to look down at him. “You imply much but say little.”
Chevalier stepped close, his voice like that of a snake. “I know how much you enjoy swimming. I might find you at the pool house, for example. I hear that is popular for young lovers of nature.” He reached out to fondle her curls and she slapped him away.
“You are warned, sir!”
Chevalier smiled a dark smile. “Constantly, my dear.”
The Queen stood at her window in her mourning gown, clutching her handkerchief and weeping. She had wept so long it amazed her there were still tears. But they were there, and they were plentiful. Her ladies sat nearby, silently sewing, embroidering, and reading.
The door swung open and the King entered, followed by Bontemps. Marie-Therese looked over with blood-shot eyes and managed a curtsey.
“How is my Queen?”
“Much better, thank you.” Her throat was sore, her words raspy.
“Change your clothes. The season for mourning is passed. It is time to resume your official duties.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Louis stepped to the window and looked out across the gardens to the road. “We are to receive a guest at court. You are to host them personally. Shower your attentions on them with your customary warmth and grace.”
Marie-Therese blinked. “Who is this person, so I might prepare myself? Are they Spanish, perhaps?” Louis gave her a sharp look. “You have my word,” she muttered.
“I will depend on it.”
Before she could say more or plead for a fragment of his time and tenderness, he was gone.
Montcourt wiped snot and rain from his face, gathered his resolve, and pounded on the door of the great and ominous Chateau Cassel. Rain had made night of day, and everything from grasses to trees appeared as gray as cold ash in a fire pit. He knocked again, desperately, harder, as the rain pounded him. At last the door was opened.
He begged to be let in.
An hour later, Montcourt was seated on a low stool before a crackling fire, dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, the stubble on his face being shaved away by a footman with a sharp razor. In the darkness beyond the reach of the firelight, two brawny thugs named Mike and Tomas stood watching. There was no sound but the fire popping, the scraping razor, and the heavy rains outside.
The noble Cassel, a middle-aged man of cunning and strength, stepped forward into the light. He considered his visitor with hooded, unreadable eyes.
“What do you wish from me, Montcourt?” he asked at last.
Montcourt looked up as the footman made the last stroke with the razor. “In a downpour one seeks shelter under the largest tree. Here, in the north, there is no one stronger, no one more powerful or resolute than the mighty oak, Cassel. I am a refugee from this royal deluge and seek protection, my lord. I am your servant.”
“Servant,” said Cassel. He snapped his fingers and Montcourt stood.
Several nobles appeared from shadows and stood by Cassel. They considered Montcourt with pity, fear, and loathing.
“Here is your King’s new law,” Cassel said to the nobles. “Stripping a true noble of all dignity. Defiling the reputation of a man whose family forms the bedrock of our country. Not long ago, we all knew where we stood but now…now we must prove ourselves. Sing for our suppers!”
The nobles grumbled agreement.
“This causes me great pain. As you know, the King has always had my respect. But now he says, ‘I am France.’ But I say, ‘It is we who are France.’ Our friend Montcourt’s condition is a message. And soon he shall have his reply.”
A footman brought cologne and sprayed Montcourt’s body to mask the ripe smell. A second footman combed his hair.
“This playground in the woods,” said Cassel. “The King obsesses over it. He sees Versailles and nothing else. Were we to remove this new distraction perhaps the King will forget himself. Then Versailles can return to the weeds, the King to Paris, and we to our lands and our lives.”
Mike placed a pistol on the table by the fire.
Montcourt looked at the weapon then at Cassel. “You would persuade the King by force?”
“He’s lost his mind. No other appeal to reason will work. You wish my protection, Montcourt?”
“I serve your lordship with my life.”
Cassel nodded slowly. “Indeed you will.”
A line of commoners stood before a table on a terrace in Versailles’ ever-expanding gardens. Jacques sat at the table, giving serious consideration to those who wanted employment as gardeners. Behind them, the royal hunting lodge was being transformed into the King’s palace, with countless sections of scaffolding clinging to the exterior walls and pallets loaded with massive marble bricks on the ground being hoisted up to the bricklayers.
An elderly man in rags stepped forward, nodding hopefully, his old eyes squinting. Jacques inspected the man’s hands.
“I need men who can dig, not men I should plant!” scoffed Jacques. He held up his remaining hand. “This hand killed ten men at the Battle of Saint Gotthard.” He smacked the skinny man hard across the face and the man scurried off.
The next to step up to the table was tall and young, with toned muscles, light hair, and a confident expression.
“I’ve also done my share of killing,” the young man said. “Rigged a thousand sails in storms higher than mountains. Must be worth something?”
“Not to me,” said Jacques.
The man shrugged and turned to leave.
“Wait. Bricklaying,” Jacques called after him. “Easy work for a navy man. They need bricklayers, with several fallen or crushed last week. I know the foreman. I’ll vouch for you.” He got up and marched off toward the scaffolding.
“I’m Benoit,” said the man as he followed. “Tell me, friend. Have you ever seen him? The King?”
“Many will claim they have,” snorted the gardener. “All I can say is this. I am a friend to no man. This way.”
The carriage was resplendent, edged in gold and adorned with painted images of angels, flowers, and exotic animals. It pulled up to the entrance of Louis’ palace and footmen scurried out to hold the horses and place steps at the door. A brightly colored macaw flew from a carriage window and settled on the shoulder of a guard by the door. The guard, in proper fashion, did not move even as the bird pecked at his hair.
A stately man of black skin and flashing eyes stepped out and down. This was Prince Annaba of Issiny, the Ivory Coast of Africa. His flowing cape was scarlet and sea-green, the scarf at his neck was blue, and his hat was trimmed with rainbow plumage that might well have come from his pet bird’s twin. Annaba was followed by his younger brother, Kobina, who was dressed as elegantly as Annaba. A second carriage stopped behind the first and several men and women climbed out, all adorned in clothes of brilliant colors.
Bontemps raised his hand in greeting. “Prince of Issiny,” he said. “Welcome to Versailles.”
Annaba glanced around. “Nice house,” he said mildly.
Bontemps ushered Prince Annaba and Kobina into the palace and along the corridors to the receiving room of the King’s apartment. Annaba’s entourage followed silently, their heads high. Courtiers stared at the newcomers to court, and Annaba, his macaw sitting upon his shoulder, returned their smiles with a smirk of his own.
“That’s right,” he said, loudly enough for the courtiers to hear, “I’m a stupid black man. I come from the trees. Hello, how are you? You think it’s going to be easy to fuck me? Wonderful. Keep thinking that.”
“Brother,” said Kobina. “Keep your voice down.”
Annaba waved his hand. “The French need money, so they need us.”
“Then why did they keep us waiting in Paris for a month?”
“How many times do I need to tell you, brother? Power is a game played with mirrors.” They reached a corner, turned into another long hallway. More courtiers and nobles gawked.
“We’re not safe here,” whispered Kobina.
“Come now,” said Annaba. “Wipe that look off your face. We’ve arrived at the center of the world.”
“The center of the world is very white.”
“We are pioneers, making history. They want what we have. So do the Dutch. We let them fight over us. Either way, we are victorious.”
They reached a set of closed, arched doors where guards stood on duty and Fabien and his assistant Laurene waited. Annaba leaned into his brother. “They will speak of this moment long after we’re gone.”
“It’s the gone part that worries me,” said Kobina.
“Honored guests of the King,” Bontemps said with a respectful nod. “Annaba, Prince of Issiny.”
“Son to the King of Eguafo,” added Annaba, “inheritor of the Coast of Ivory and Teeth, Lord of the Sky. And this is my brother, Kobina.”
“Prince Annaba,” said Bontemps, “you will accompany me, please.” But as Annaba beckoned the others to join him, Bontemps stopped him. “Alone. Your brother will accompany Monsieur Fabien.”
“And my friends?” asked Annaba as his macaw flapped its rainbow wings and hopped over to Kobina’s shoulder.
“Shall bask in the full warmth of the King’s hospitality.” At that, Laurene stepped forward. Then the three parties departed in different directions, to differ encounters throughout the palace.
Bontemps ushered Prince Annaba to a small, sparsely furnished chamber. There was but one window, a second, closed door on a far wall, and a heavy green curtain to one side of the room. Annaba peered behind the curtain to find an alcove with a bed. Something was up, and it did not feel right. He glanced out the window and asked as casually as he could, “Bontemps, how far is it to the trees?”
He heard the door shut and turned to find Bontemps gone, leaving only two guards. Annaba moved toward the door but the guards leaned in to block his way.
What is going on? What does –
The door opened again. Surely this was the King, coming to greet him.
But it was the Queen. Marie-Therese stood there in all her noble beauty. The two gazed at each other for a long moment.
Then, “Good day, Prince Annaba.”
Annaba bowed. “Good day to you, Highness. Such a pleasure to see you again.”
A covered cargo wagon rumbled along the road to Versailles, carrying a load of wine barrels. A rosy-cheeked monk sat on a bench inside with the barrels, the rocking wagon and squeaking wheels nearly putting him to sleep. It was a fine day, a sunny summer’s day. God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world.
And then he heard an angry shout outside. “Halt! Your cargo or your life!”
The monk’s mouth went dry. He dropped to the floor and tried to make himself small.
“Wine!” shouted a second voice. “For the King!”
The driver shouted something unintelligible and with a violent jerk the wagon took off. The monk was tossed back against the barrels. Hoof beats followed the wagon, and then boom! The wagon shuddered and fell to its side. The monk rolled over and struck the corner of the bench. Blood poured down through his hair.
A man appeared at the window and looked down at the monk. A man with aquiline features, dark brows, and an impassive face.
Montcourt stared at the helpless monk, raised his musket to the window, and blew the monk’s face away.
Bontemps caught up with the King and Colbert as they stood admiring the fountain of Bacchus, a striking, enormous figure now situated in a pool around which new trees had been planted.
“Majesty?” Bontemps said, wiping his brow. “As requested, it is done.”
Louis smiled. “I’ve received word that my good friends, the Parthenays, are riding to Versailles from their estates in the south.”
Bontemps brightened. “Little Francoise is coming?”
“With her husband and family.”
“How time has flown,” said Bontemps.
The King nodded and began walking. “The Parthenays are well-regarded in the south. A strong influence. As a favor to me they are coming here to submit their noble credentials as an example to the rest. We’ll ensure the Gazette reports on this. Perhaps also strike a medal, Colbert? The political arithmetic must augur great things to come.”
“‘The great nobles of the south submit their credentials to the King,’” said Colbert. “That should do it.”
“Or better this,” said Louis. “‘The King receives the credentials from nobles of the south.’”
Ahead was a cart filled with manure at the edge of a newly dug section of the gardens, and Jacques was overseeing the unloading of the smelly mass.
“That’s a lot of shit,” called the King.
“The finest shit from His Majesty’s horses at the Louvre,” said Jacques.
“Sire,” he continued, but then he looked away and went silent.
“Speak,” said the King, moving closer. “What is on your mind?”
“On my way through the woods I found an old man cooking a rat by a stream. I thought he was a tramp.”
“But you recognized him?”
“From your father’s court. He fought for Constantin of Auvergne.”
Louis’ smile faded as he remembered. “During the Fronde,” he said. “Oh, had they been successful…”
“You’d be dead.”
“One day,” said Louis, “I would like very much to know more about my father.” Then, with a wave of his hand, he took a meandering, tree-lined path alone. Down he went to the pool. Down to the pool house where he knew Henriette was waiting.
And she was there, waiting in the changing room with her ladies in the outer hall again. She came to him and placed her head against his chest. He ran a finger through her wet hair and turned her face up to his. So beautiful, he thought. My dearest.
“You are shaking,” he said tenderly. “Is it the chill from your swim?”
“Other reasons,” she replied. Her blue eyes were troubled. “You. Us. Him. Chevalier.”
“Chevalier makes you tremble?”
“Yes. He scares me. The way he looks at me. The way he talks about you. The way he uses my husband’s better nature to demean himself. Please. Make them disappear for a while. They can have each other and so can we.”
“What kind of King sends his brother to war?”
“I would have you send both of them.”
Louis kissed Henriette’s forehead, her neck. “Do you remember when you were sixteen? You stepped on a rose and your foot was bleeding.”
Henriette smiled slightly. “You kissed my toes.”
“I took the pain away?”
“In an instant.”
“I want you to know,” said Louis as he drew his hands down the small of her back and cupped her soft buttocks. “I will always take away your pain. You will never have anything to worry about when it comes to Chevalier. I am your safe harbor.”
Henriette gasped and arced her body, pressing hard against the King as he slid one hand around to her belly, then lowered it to caress between her legs. She gasped and whispered, “You…you will protect me from the waves.”
“Even as they roll over us, my love,” he said. He scooped up his love, carried her to the settee, and guided her hand to his trousers to show he was more than ready. “Even as the tide takes me.”
Prince Annaba and the Queen faced each other, alone but for the guards in the little room. They spoke of many things, pleasantries mostly, passing the time.
Then Annaba said, “On my last visit, I left you a gift.”
The Queen nodded.
“Has it given you pleasure?”
Marie Therese paused then said, “A great deal, thank you.”
“I am pleased to hear it. It was very precious to me.”
At long last there were footsteps outside the door. The guards stepped back to let Bontemps enter. “He is ready for you now,” he said to the prince.
Bontemps opened the chamber’s second door, revealing a bright room filled with nobles and courtiers. The King sat in a large ebony chair upon a dais, dressed regally. Behind him on the wall hung a large gold emblem – a radiating sun with the face of a man in its center. The countenance of the face was the image of Louis XIV. The Sun King.
Marie-Therese took her place beside her husband.
“Prince Annaba of Issiny,” said Louis. “You are welcome at my court.”
Annaba bowed. “Sire. Versailles is more beautiful than I can imagine.”
Louis presented Philippe, Henriette, Colbert, and Louvois. Each nodded, acknowledging one another. Then the King stared steadily at Annaba and said, “And you have already met my wife.”
When the formal meeting had concluded, Louis and Bontemps led Annaba and his people on a tour about the gardens, explaining what had been done and what was yet to be completed, to not only the gardens but the palace as well. The Africans nodded, appearing to be impressed with the scale of it all.
“When I hosted a party here several years ago,” said Louis, “we did not have enough room for my friends. Now we shall have enough – four hundred apartments, all told.”
“Ah,” said Annaba.
“Tell us about the countries of Africa,” said Bontemps.
Annaba stopped and frowned. He looked from Bontemps to the King. “When do we negotiate?” he asked.
“In France we have a different way of doing things,” said Louis.
Annaba tipped his head. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Perhaps I should talk to the Spanish, the Dutch, the English. All are keen to discuss the future.”
The King faced his guest. “Are you not enjoying our hospitality?”
Annaba nodded. “There…there is a great deal of it.”
Louis laughed. “And more to come, as you will see tonight.”
“What happens then?”
“Then,” said Louis, “I shall sit down with you.”
“Our visitor from Issiny has inspired me,” Philippe said as he stood before the mirror, adding colorful bows and scarves to his military garb. “I think I require more color. Oh, how does one dress for a war?”
Henriette sat at her sewing, watching her husband, her heart torn and heavy. “If you go,” she said, “please come back.”
“If I were to die your life would be simple.”
Henriette added several stitches to the skirt in her lap. “You know my problems will never be solved. And I would rather you did not die.”
“You say the sweetest things, poppet.” Philippe looked at her. “Since we were small, my dream has been war. Yours has been my brother. Look how lucky we are. Perhaps one day, very soon, we will both live our dreams.” He turned back to his reflection and did not see his wife cry into the skirt.
“Construction is on hold?” Louis paced the private outer chamber of his apartment as Bontemps, Fabien, and Colbert stood by, tense, waiting to speak. “Appearance is everything! The prince is a guest in my house and so far has shown more grandeur in his clothing than I can show him in my palace!”
“A shipment of marble went missing on the road, Sire,” said Colbert. “Men cannot work without materials.”
“There are thieves on the road, Sire,” added Bontemps. “There have always been thieves on the road.”
Louis paused in his pacing, his face red. “This is organized sabotage!”
Bontemps worked to keep his voice even. “The more we build, the more we need. The more we need, the greater number of goods we transport to Versailles and the more likely these moments are.”
“These moments can build to movements!” Louis shouted. “Before we know it, our land is on fire! The King’s road is sacrosanct! Whoever did this is declaring war!”
“My men and I will set up patrols on the road,” said Fabien.
“At once,” said Louis. With that, he left for his bedchamber, beckoning Bontemps to follow.
Bontemps leaned into Fabien and spoke quickly. “With war upon us we don’t have enough men. I’ll handle the roads. We have visitors at court. We are striving to live up to His Majesty’s standards and build his dreams. The King is better served by you here. What do we know of the Issiny party? Are you sure they do not spy on us? That they are here on behalf the Dutch?”
Fabien’s eye twitched. He knew Bontemps could be right.
“Much more depends on this visit than you realize. Our foremost duty is to safeguard the King.”
“Bontemps!” shouted Louis through the door.
“Even if it is from himself.”
Fabien nodded. “Make sure your men are of quality. I need them as my eyes and ears.”
Bontemps hurried after his King. Fabien went to the window and saw Annaba’s obnoxious macaw sitting upon a stone railing, looking back with unblinking eyes.
Inside his bedchamber, Louis gripped the back of a chair, his heart pounding with rage, his breath hot and rapid. The room around him began to shimmer, undulate, and fade into the past….
The King’s royal bedchamber was gone. He now stood in the room where he’d slept as a youth. His mother entered the room and he watched himself turn from the window and the raging fires outside. At thirteen he was tall for his age but his face still bore the round innocence of boyhood.
Seeing his mother unnerved him. He loved her, but could not understand her.
“There is someone I want you to meet,” she said.
A second woman entered the room, a lady nearly his mother’s age, with eyes as piercing as those of an eagle and a beautiful, full body. She smiled confidently.
“This is Madame de Beauvais,” said Anne. “She is here to tutor you.”
“But Maman,” Louis began, glancing toward the window. “The men outside –”
His mother raised a finger. “Don’t let them distract you. Pay attention to your studies.”
His mother left the room. Madame de Beauvais began to unbutton her blouse.
“What are you to teach me, Madame?” Louis asked.
The lady opened her blouse, pulled her chemise down, revealing her breasts. “Call me Catherine,” she said.
“Sire? Do you agree?” Bontemps’ voice came from somewhere else, from beyond. “Sire?”
The memory vanished. The King’s room was back. Louis turned to Bontemps who had asked some sort of question.
“I do not know,” Louis said. “Yes. Or no.”
Bontemps looked confused. “Sire?”
Louis straightened his shoulders. “Where is my brother?”
Beatrice and Sophie wandered the lower gardens following a gentle rain, talking jewelry and fabrics, when Fabien rounded a hedge and nearly collided with them. Beatrice locked eyes with Fabien, took a sharp, silent breath, and smiled coyly.
“Madame…de Clermont?” Fabien said. “Did I get that right? We have seen each other but have never spoken.”
“Indeed. Monsieur Marchal.”
“Fabien.”
“Beatrice.”
“And,” said Fabien nodding at Sophie. “Your sister?”
“Daughter. I’m Sophie.”
Fabien’s eyes widened. “Daughter? Is that so.”
Beatrice shot Sophie a withering glance and then spied Chevalier on a distant path. She needed to talk to him. Yet she wanted to spend time with Fabien. Curse the fates!
“A fine day for a walk –” Fabien began.
“Yes,” said Beatrice, glancing at Chevalier then back at Fabien, trying not to let her nervousness show. “And it was nice to have met you.”
Fabien appeared disappointed at the abrupt dismissal. “Yes, ah, well, good day,” he fumbled. He bowed and walked off. Beatrice grabbed Sophie’s arm and hurried her toward Chevalier.
“Mother,” said Sophie as she stumbled along. “I think Fabien likes you.”
“Be quiet now, sister.”
“You’re angry with me.”
Beatrice shook Sophie’s arm. “And one day you’ll know how much!”
They intercepted Chevalier at a marble fountain. He swept his arm dramatically. “Greetings, cousin!”
The trio strolled into a maze-like path bordered by lowtrimmed boxwoods. Birds, startled from the hedges, flew out and away.
“Sophie, my dear,” said Chevalier. “Some help if you please. A moral quandary. If someone I adore fucks someone without my consent, is it not right for parity to be restored that I fuck someone else of my own choosing?
“Enough teasing,” said Beatrice. “We should count our lucky stars. So many families are being thrown out of court.”
Chevalier shrugged. “None had papers in place.”
“I suppose none had anyone to vouch for them.”
“These are the laws we must now comply with.”
Beatrice took Chevalier’s arm. “At least we have you.”
Chevalier gave Beatrice a cautiously curious look. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“My folly,” she smiled. “I know in my heart you will use us up and cast us out like all the others.”
“Naturally. But I will watch out for you in this madness, have no fear of that. Especially you, my pretty.” He pursed his lips at Sophie. “Even though you walk like a milkmaid.”
They continued on in silence for a bit. The maze brought them closer to the palace where men on wooden scaffolding worked at precarious heights laying brick and fashioning new sections of sloped roofing.
Sophie glanced up to see one muscular man with light hair gazing down at her. She stopped. Smiled.
“Sophie!” Beatrice called from up ahead. Reluctantly, her daughter followed.
From his vantage point on the scaffolding, Benoit watched the beautiful young girl walk away then scooted along the plank to Jacques who was dining on cheese and bread. “I heard her name!” he said. “It is Sophie!”
“That’s a death wish,” said Jacques.
“Better to die for something you believe in, right?”
Jacques took a bite of bread. “What’s your name again?”
“Benoit, sir.”
Jacques handed some bread to the stone layer. “I’m Jacques.”
“What is a gardener doing up here?”
“The view helps me measure the lines of the garden.”
Benoit grinned. “And the girls who walk in it.”
“Be careful with that business. You think about your future.”
“I am,” Benoit said dreamily. “And I see Sophie in it.”
Philippe knelt upon a pillow in the War Cabinet room as the priest stood beside him and uttered an incantation for the protection of a warrior. Philippe’s clothing bore no fancy ribbons or bows. They were tossed away, leaving only the clothing of a soldier of serious and focused intent.
Louis entered and watched him without speaking, yet his brother immediately sensed he was there.
“I thought if I began my departure,” Philippe said, his head bowed, “you might sanction it.”
“I do not understand,” said Louis.
The priest finished the blessing and left the room. Philippe rose and faced the King. “I await your word, brother. And when I can wait no more, I ask deliverance from my God.”
The brothers stared at each other, tension between them hanging like dust in the air, and then they turned to gaze at the models on the center table. There was more detail to it now; the projected positions for battle had been expanded with additional soldiers, horses, and written plans. Louis nodded at the display. “Which one are you?”
“A horse,” said Philippe with a small smile.
Louis sighed. “Philippe.”
“You want me to be serious.”
Louis continued studying the model. Then he said, “Stay close to your bodyguard at all times. Protect your flank.”
“I will bring you glory. I vow it.”
“May God watch over you and bring you home safely. You leave today.”
“Go then,” said Philippe. “Run to Henriette. You have my blessing. God knows you don’t need a priest for that.” He waited for a reply, but none came. He left without another word.
The sun fell silently behind the trees to the west. The day with its suspicions, sadness, jealousies, and hopes turned its back on the world, and on Versailles, once more. Creatures of the forest bedded down in dens and burrows as candles were set ablaze in the palace.
“If your friends the Parthenays prove as meaningful as I believe,” Colbert said as Louis sat before a meal of swan pie, pears, and pork, “once they have visited and shown their loyalty we could persuade much of the south to comply. Leaving the north and east.”
Louis stabbed the pie with his knife. “Who defies me there?”
“The Duc of Cassel, Sire. Half the nobility in the north and east are in his debt.”
“He’s our keystone, then. If we extract him from the wall, the entire structure is demolished. If not, the collapse will be ours.”
“But he does not heed our letters, Sire.”
Louis left the table and walked over to the portrait of himself above the fireplace, an elegant likeness by the painter Hyacinthe Rigaud. Louis looked up into his own dark eyes, into the determined, royal face that ruled France. All of France. “Then I must send him a gift alongside an order to comply with our laws. He will supply proof of his nobility or suffer the consequence.” Louis turned back to Colbert. “To which all of France shall bear witness.”
The great and imposing Chateau du Cassel stood on its tree-covered hill, clothed in the gray dusk of early evening. Cassel, Montcourt, and other nobles lounged in the dank-smelling Great Hall in front of the hearth, downing goblets of red wine. Wine too good for monks. Wine good enough for a king.
“The road to Versailles is the only thing that keeps the King’s new love alive,” said Cassel as he wiped his lips. “Choke it and the project dies on the vine. They will thank us all later, I’m sure.”
Tomas appeared from the shadows. “A messenger has arrived bearing gifts. From the King.”
Cassel’s lip twitched with a sarcastic smile. The messenger appeared, carrying a flat package of significant size, wrapped in paper. He put the package on the table and carefully removed the paper. It was a portrait of the King.
“Ah, how kind,” said Cassel.
The messenger straightened. “Louis the Great commands your presence to court as required by the rule of law and the Grand Inquiry into Nobel Legitimacy. You are required to present proof of your nobility.”
Cassel looked at Montcourt then took another sip. “Really,” he said into his cup.
The party was in full swing by the time Annaba, Kobina, and the Issiny entourage were called from their chambers and led through the palace by Bontemps. At last, Annaba was certain, he and the King would negotiate. It was well past time.
But what lay behind the large double doors was not what he expected and his confidence slipped a little.
The salon was brightly lit and filled with noisy, drunken nobles. A quartet on flute, violin, lute, and chalémie played lively music, causing some nobles to sing, others to attempt to dance. Yet it took only a moment to see that this was a gambling den, for in the center of the room was a large roulette table. People placed bets and cheered as the wheel spun round and round.
But when the nobles noticed the black men at the door they fell silent. The Africans moved into the room, several walking to the roulette table, causing the nobles there to back away.
Kobina whispered, “I think we are not wanted here.”
“I think,” replied Annaba, nodding in the direction of a second, adjoining room, “that the negotiations have indeed begun.”
In the adjoining room the King sat, elegant and regal, at a table set with flowers and food. Beside him was his Queen, Marie-Therese, and around the table were a handful of nobles. There was an empty stool across the table from the King, and Annaba moved forward to join the royal gathering. Two guards stepped in and blocked his way.
Seeing the guards’ action, Marie-Therese put her hand on Louis’ arm and whispered, “Please, husband, don’t toy with Annaba this way.”
Louis looked up and casually waved his hand, and the guards let Annaba proceed. The prince stopped before the table, and after an uncomfortable moment Louis nodded, allowing him to sit.
Slowly, conversation swelled again, filling the rooms. The music resumed and the roulette wheel spun round as bets were laid. Kobina waited by the wall, glancing back and forth, arms crossed. Annaba turned his attention from the King to the game. He watched several minutes and then shouted above the din, “I believe I have a good measure of this game!” He motioned to one of his entourage, who placed a large bag of gold on the roulette table.
The Montespan, who was seated with the nobles at the King’s table, smiled, tossed her head teasingly, and leaned toward Annaba. “You are a man after my own heart, sir.” She stood, laughed, and threw a few coins next to Annaba’s bet.
As the drunken hubbub grew even louder, a footman slipped to the King’s table and handed him a black envelope. Marie-Therese rose to add her coins to the game, but Louis stopped her. Then he announced to the room, “Alas, fortune at this table does not favor us tonight.” He rose and escorted Marie-Therese from the room.
Annaba watched after them, then got up to join his brother by the wall. The game-playing resumed yet again.
“Brother,” said Kobina, his voice low, “when you came to the French last year, you told me you had an audience with the Queen.”
“What of it?”
“What did you talk about?”
Annaba looked at the door through which the King and Queen had gone. He smiled with a fond memory. “Everything,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Marie-Therese asked as Louis escorted her from the game room and into the hallway, followed by guards.
“I’m winning,” he replied, the expression on his face one of pure satisfaction. The Queen’s heart leapt with hope.
“There is a spring in your step,” she said as they turned into another corridor.
“And a mud-spattered man in my path,” said the King.
Before them stood Fabien, Bontemps, and the messenger who had been sent to visit Cassel in the north. The messenger was disheveled and covered in filth.
“Your Majesty,” said Bontemps. “Urgent business that requires your immediate attention.”
The King looked at Marie-Therese, who inclined her head and was escorted away by guards.
“Now what is it?” asked Louis.
“Cassel replied to your message, Sire,” said Bontemps. He handed Louis a small note to which a single gold coin was affixed by wax.
“’Here is your proof,’” Louis read slowly. “’A contribution to your noble project.’”
“Such insolence!” said Fabien. “May I reply to him in person?”
Bontemps shook his head. “If I may, Sire? To arrest him will end your plan as quickly as it starts. If you put Cassel in prison you might as well put all the nobles in jail, because that would be the end point of it all.”
“At least let me bruise his face, Sire?” said Fabien, his face twisted in anger.
But Louis held up his hand. “Cut off one head and another will take its place. To strike him down is to beg for civil war. And we saw how well that went for the English.”
Before Fabien could plead his case further, Louis turned and followed in the direction his Queen had gone.
In her bedchamber, Marie-Therese’s ladies helped her from her gown, placing it carefully in the tall armoire and then guiding the Queen to the table where she sat before the mirror as her favorite lady unpinned and brushed her hair. A strange evening, Marie-Therese thought, but so much improved. Louis seemed pleased with me, thank our Heavenly Father. Now if only he would…
And then she heard him. He was there, behind her, his eyes watching her face in the looking glass.
“Husband,” she said, turning, her hair falling in long, dark curls. “I am not ready yet.”
“I’m not here in duty,” said the King. He sent the ladies away with a flick of his hand then led his wife to her bed. He eased her back upon her pillows and traced his fingers along the fullness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. She felt passion, long since repressed, rise in her heart, her body.
I care nothing for ugly tapestries if my King cares for me again!
“I’m here in gratitude,” Louis said as he removed his trousers, revealing his readied manhood. He climbed onto the bed with her and straddled her. “For keeping your word to me and showing such hospitality to our guest. You availed yourself very well.” Her nipples hardened against the cool caress of air. “I wish to bestow upon you a gift.”
“I…accept,” she whispered. I am ready!
“The gift is a secret,” said Louis. He reached down to finger her and found her damp and ready. He stroked her, probed her, and she panted. Then he whispered in her ear, “Your daughter is alive.”
Marie-Therese’s eyes opened wide with joy and disbelief. “Oh, my God!” she cried as her King drove himself into her.
Annaba had been startled into wakefulness by the King in the middle of the night. Leaving a frightened Kobina behind in the bedchamber, Annaba was now seated in a coach with His Majesty, rumbling at a mad speed along a road through a dark, imposing forest. Outriders galloped close by on either side. At first Annaba was certain that finally, after so many delays, he was going to spend time with the King to negotiate.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
The King sat silently in the rattling carriage, watching Annaba and then watching the night beyond the window.
“What would you offer me?” asked Annaba, breaking the silence. “The Dutch do not have your hospitality, but they do have money.”
Louis said nothing. What is going on? Annaba wondered. And the coach continued onward.
At long last the coach slowed and came to a stop. The faintest morning light was beginning to stream through the trees, yet Annaba could see no town, no chateau, no structure whatsoever.
“Where are we?”
“A brief stop,” said the King.
Through the window, Annaba watched as Fabien, who had driven the coach, jumped down and walked out into the woods. In the dim light Annaba could determine a small, poorly constructed hut amid the trees. Fabien disappeared inside the hut then dragged out a frail, old, balding man. As they got closer, Annaba noticed that the old man was so terrified, he had shit his trousers. His mouth worked as if he wanted to plead his case but dread had stolen his voice.
“My gardener chanced upon this man on his ride,” Louis told Annaba, his voice cool, even. “His name is Constantine. He fought with my father’s brother against my family in the Fronde. He thought himself safe here in the woods. But I never forget a face.”
As the old man folded his wrinkled hands for mercy, Fabien pulled a rope from his pocket, stood upon a log, and tied the rope around a tree branch. Then Fabien forced the little man onto the log and looped the rope around his neck. It was then the man finally spoke. “God help me!” he screamed. He clawed at the loop, trying to loosen it, but Fabien shoved the log from under the old man’s feet and he swung there, gurgling, his eyes popping.
Fabien returned to the coach, climbed into the driver’s seat, and urged the horses forward. Annaba watched as long as he could until the old man, still thrashing and twisting, was swallowed up in the trees and shadows.
“Onward,” said the King.
A hard ride and nearly an hour later, Louis, Annaba, Fabien, and the King’s guard were inside an ancient, isolated convent, being ushered quietly up a narrow set of stairs by an ancient, pock-faced nun. Candles flickered on the wall along the stairs, and small statues of Virgin Mary and Jesus stared sightlessly from tiny alcoves in the bricks. At the top of the stairs was a hallway with several doors, the nun led the men to the last one. She rapped gently on the door and eased it open.
Inside the small cell sat a nun holding a baby. A black child who gurgled and babbled, kicking her arms and waving her arms.
Annaba stared, his mouth suddenly dry. He hesitated then walked toward the child, watching her intently. Louis moved closer, keeping his eyes on the prince.
“The Dutch do have money but no power,” said the King, his voice steady, certain. “We have both.”
“Why did you bring me here?” asked Annaba.
“To finish our negotiations.”
“We’ve not even started.”
“Annaba, we have been negotiating since the moment you stepped off our coach.”
Annaba looked at the King. “You offer me little choice.”
“I offer you security and a fair stake in revenue. I also offer a gunboat to secure your port. You’ve been away from home a long time and your enemies are moving on your capital.”
“My father will deal with them.”
Louis tipped his head toward the baby. “Do you see this loud little life before you? A friend once told me God had brought this life to me for a reason. Only now do I understand. Her existence begs the question, because in any other country she would be long dead. And her mother, too. Yet here she is. And here you are. You can be sure of one thing. You can make a deal with the Dutch, or English, or Spanish. Rest assured they will smile and agree then bring their armies, burn your lands, kill your families, and take everything you hold dear.”
Annaba swallowed hard. Cold traveled his arms but he looked Louis in the eye. “You would do the same.”
“Not I. And I suggest you decide quickly. A country without a king will eat itself in war.”
“King?”
Louis removed a black envelope from his coat. “We received word that your father is dead. My condolences, Your Majesty.”
Annaba stared at the baby, the nun, and then the King. “Power is a game played with mirrors,” he said to himself.
Louis nodded. “The world is not what is. It is only what appears to be. You are a king now. You must understand that.”
“I am beginning to, Sire.”
The Parthenay family was tucked comfortably in their coach, heading north toward Versailles in the early morning, happily anticipating their visit with the King. Sebastian, the patriarch, was an aging yet handsome warrior; his wife Francoise a demure beauty with flaxen hair. Their sixteen-year-old son and twelve-year-old daughter were bright and inquisitive, full of energy that both exhausted and charmed their parents.
Charlotte, the daughter, caught her mother’s hand and smiled. “Are we nearly there, Maman?”
Francoise looked out the window and peered at the winding road ahead. “I cannot tell, dear, but –”
BANG!
The carriage shuddered, rattled, and drew up short.
Exasperated, Sebastian put his hand on the door handle. “A wheel has come off, I fear,” he said. Climbing from the coach, he joined the driver and the guard. They examined the coach but none of the wheels were gone or damaged.
“I don’t know what that was,” said Sebastian as his guard took a step toward the trees to have a look.
Then two deafening cracks exploded from the trees, one immediately after the other, slamming into the guard and the driver, blowing holes in their chests. The men fell like axed trees.
“Get down!” Sebastian cried to his family in the carriage. They crouched low, terrified. And in the next second a third shot tore into him and he dropped to the road.
The men who had fired the shots rode up on horseback. One ordered, “Take their money and their clothes.”
Inside the coach, Francoise gasped. “I know that voice!” Montcourt! The moment she spoke, she knew she had sealed her family’s fate. Montcourt peered through carriage window, beckoned Mike to join him, and they shot the terrified mother and son at close range.
But then he looked closer into the carriage.
Where is Charlotte?
Montcourt glanced about anxiously for the Parthenays’ young daughter. She was not in the carriage, not under nor behind it. Damn it to hell! Then he heard faint panting, rustling, and turned to see the girl racing into an open field past the woods. Montcourt raised his pistol, leveled it, and aimed. But then he hesitated, watching her run, seeing her youth, innocence…
Boom!
Charlotte fell in the tall grass. Mike lowered his smoking musket and looked at Montcourt with a satisfied sneer. Done.
“With speed, then,” said Montcourt. “Begin.”
Mike and Tomas began snatching up clothing and valuables from the coach as Montcourt tucked his pistol into his coat and strolled out to the field. Needing to see the child, to rob her corpse, yet feeling a twinge of regret. So young. He reached the place where she’d fallen.
And she was gone.
Alive? Oh, God. Is she alive still?
Mike whistled and waved anxiously. “Hurry!” And Montcourt raced back to his horse.
At the palace of Versailles, Annaba hugged his brother warmly. “We’re going now,” said the new King.
In the private chapel in her apartment, Queen Marie-Therese knelt before the priest and whispered, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
In his bedchamber, Louis admired the new, gold-framed, full-length mirror being installed in a corner. “The Venetians have been working hard on the new glass, Sire,” said Bontemps. “They hope this one will be to your liking.” Louis nodded, and heard the voice of his mother reply, “Better.”
And at Cassel Chateau, Cassel gazed at the portrait of the King that had been gifted him, took a sip of wine, and then tossed the painting into the roaring flames of the fireplace.