7
AUTUMN 1670
The King sat upon a lush green hillside, a landscape he knew but could not name. Scattered across the hill were the ruins of once grand, ancient buildings. A white-haired man in a golden robe reclined in the grasses nearby, writing upon a tablet. A godly halo encircled his head, and an eagle stood, alert, behind him in the grass.
Then Louis realized where he was. He was inside Poussin’s painting, Saint John’s Meditation at Patmos, part of the scene yet not belonging.
I don’t want to be here, he thought. I need to be in Versailles!
Saint John lifted his face and stared directly at Louis, and his face was not that of the holy, wizened apostle but that of the young and fevered soldier who had spit on the King. “And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun,” the soldier said, raising his finger threateningly, “and power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And the fifth angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast, and his kingdom was full of darkness.”
Suddenly clouds began to roll and churn in the sky, bleeding together and blocking out the sun. Lightning flashed and thunder growled. Louis struggled, trying to get up, to run away, but was unable to move.
Saint John’s eyes blinked, changing from blue to fiery red. “The enemy is closer than you think!” he shouted. The eagle leapt into the air and flew at Louis, its beak snapping, its talons flashing like daggers. Louis screamed.
“Sire!”
Louis heard Bontemps’ muffled shout from outside his dream.
“The King’s doctor!” cried the valet. “At once!”
Philippe had brought Henriette back to Versailles from Saint-Cloud in mid-October, missing the extravagance and excitement of court. And missing Chevalier. Life had settled down much as it had been, Henriette in her apartment and Philippe in his.
Philippe and Chevalier, in their nightshirts, were enjoying a late night party in Philippe’s bed. They drank wine and listened as a palm reader told them their fortunes. The palm reader, a fine-featured young man, lay across Philippe’s lap, holding Chevalier’s hand and running his finger along his heart line. Chevalier was already bored.
“There is love in your future,” crooned the palm reader with a wink. “Twice as much as you might think.”
Chevalier wrinkled his nose dismissively and rolled off the bed. “I’m off to water the garden.”
“I think that’s a no,” Philippe called after him. He stroked the palm reader’s hair. “You know, when I was home in Saint-Cloud, Versailles seems like a stone’s throw away. But when I’m here, it feels like a distant land across the sea. Chevalier, are you listening?”
Chevalier grunted an affirmative and padded across the room to the door of the antechamber. He stepped inside, pulled the door closed, and stood over a chamber pot. Raising his nightshirt, he began to piss into the pot.
Suddenly there was a large hand over his mouth and a cold, sharp razor at his groin. The stream of urine stopped instantly, and Chevalier drew a terrified breath. The man behind him spoke softly, menacingly, into his ear.
“You did not respond to my last message.”
“In all honesty,” replied Chevalier, trying to keep calm, “it didn’t seem all that pressing.”
The edge of the razor pushed harder against the flesh of Chevalier’s penis, nicking the flesh. “And now?”
“You have my full attention.”
“Read. Follow.” A letter was stuffed into Chevalier’s hand and his nightshirt was yanked up over his head. When he pulled it back down, he was alone.
“Chevalier?” called Philippe from outside the door.
Chevalier stuffed the letter into his nightshirt and stepped out of the anteroom, hoping on one hand to catch a glimpse of the man who had assaulted him and praying on the other that he would not.
A King’s messenger hurried into the apartment, unannounced, and rushed to Philippe on the bed.
“Were you raised in a cattle shed?” demanded Chevalier.
“You must come at once!” said the messenger. “The King’s Circle!”
Philippe shoved the palm reader away. “Wake my wife! Do it now!” he shouted as he grabbed for his trousers and shirt.
Chevalier stumbled into his own clothes and followed Philippe into the corridor.
“I must talk to you,” he said, walking quickly to keep up.
“You’re still drunk,” Philippe replied with a shake of his head. “It can wait.”
“You don’t understand the gravity of my need!”
“Every need of yours weighs exactly the same.”
“But a great tide is stirring! It pertains to your future in the court. Your place at its center.”
“Go to bed. Please!”
Side by side they turned a corner and encountered guards in front of the War Cabinet room. The guards stepped back to let Philippe enter then drew together again, blocking Chevalier’s way.
A nervous group gathered inside, waiting as Colbert and Bontemps closed the door. The only sound was the clock on the mantle between mounted shields and swords, ticking away the time.
Colbert looked at each person in turn – Philippe, Louvois, Fabien, Marie-Therese, Henriette, and Rohan. “In the King’s book of names you will find a circle of trust, those he believes are the most loyal, faithful, and true. You are the names on that list. This circle of trust will not be broken. We all know what is at stake.”
Henriette’s eyes brimmed. “How is the King?”
“The fever is consuming him,” said Bontemps.
Colbert nodded solemnly. “Protocol now demands we begin work on the issue of succession.”
“I will not hear it,” said Philippe.
“He is stronger than a malady,” said Rohan. “Stronger than a hundred fevers!”
Colbert held up his hand. “As we hope for the best we must plan for the worst, as –”
Rohan interrupted. “Where did this distemper come from? Are we sure it’s not poison?”
Bontemps stared at Fabien, who immediately spoke up. “Whatever the cause, I promise I will root it out.”
“I hope you will be more successful,” said Bontemps.
“More?”
“When a sick man gains close access to the King I do not call it a victory.”
“The Dauphin is the direct successor but would require a Regent,” said Louvois.
“The protocol is clear,” said Colbert. “If the King –”
“Don’t say it!” snarled Rohan.
“If the King dies, or if he is incapable of exercising his duties, a regent shall be appointed.”
“But who?” asked the Queen.
“That,” said Colbert, “is the choice before us.”
The King’s Circle glanced at one another and the clock ticked.
Masson and Claudine entered the King’s bedchamber through the rear, secret door, to find the King in bed, sweat-soaked and raving. Bontemps and Marie-Therese stood by, their faces tight with fear.
Masson examined the King and then took a bottle from his medical box. He lifted Louis’ head from the pillow. “Majesty, drink this. It is an herbal cordial to allay your pain and aid your rest: laudanum, saffron, and bruised cloves.”
Louis turned his face from the bottle and looked at Claudine with pained eyes. She shook her head ever so slightly.
“Sire, I beg you to listen to your trusted medical advisor,” said Masson, pressing the bottle to Louis’ lips.
Louis addressed Claudine through fever-dried lips. “What…do you say?”
Claudine looked at her father then back at the King. “In… in the beginning a malady is easy to cure but difficult to detect. But in time, if allowed to grow, the ailment will be easy to detect but difficult to cure.”
“When you last had a fever, what measures did you take?”
“To permit my body to cure itself, it was necessary to purge. There is an herb, sagewort. It grows wild on the edges of the forest.”
Louis nodded with effort.
“Fetch your remedy,” Bontemps ordered Claudine. “And quickly, but with a calm air. No one must know of his condition.”
As Claudine hurried out, Louis turned his head away from Masson. “Leave me.”
“But Sire,” said Masson, “a physician must attend you.”
“All of you, leave. And bring me Madame de la Vallière.” The King sank back into his pillows, exhausted, the illness pulling him back into troubled sleep.
The Montespan found Henriette and Marie-Therese in the corridor leading to the Queen’s apartment, and she took hold of Henriette’s arm.
“What is the news?” she asked, her brows knit and her lip quivering. “The King was not at Mass and you know how people gossip.”
The Queen looked away.
“Majesty, please! Rumors are flowing. To know the truth might stop them.”
“His Majesty is unwell,” said the Queen. “That is all.”
“Why such secrecy?”
“So that rumors do not start,” said Henriette.
“Did someone tell Madame de La Vallière?”
The Queen nodded. “They will.”
“Then…it is serious.”
Marie-Therese looked at Henriette, then she nodded.
“What…what would happen if –” the Montespan began.
“There is no if,” answered Henriette sternly. “He will be well.” She and the Queen walked off, leaving the Montespan alone.
“Yes, of course he will be!” she called after them, but wasn’t sure they heard her.
Hunched over his desk in his tiny room, Cassel dipped his ink into the well and prepared to write. At that very moment several large drips of water leaked through the roof and onto his paper. He looked up in frustration, and another drip caught him in the eye. Curses! Can a noble not even have a closet that does not leak?
As he slammed back in his chair in frustration, he saw a note sliding beneath his door. He jumped up, grabbed the note, and opened the door.
But no one was there.
He looked at the note. It bore the same wax seal as before.
At the edge of the forest as a light rain fell, Montcourt was hunting with his spaniel. The dog ran out into the trees for a pheasant but returned with a note tied to her collar. It bore the familiar wax seal.
There was nothing out the window that he wanted to see, but Chevalier stared anyway, his eyes following the clouds, a flock of birds, and a late season fly crawling on the other side of the glass. When he heard Philippe enter the chamber, he didn’t turn around. “If the King’s hair hurts,” he said, “perhaps it was the wine last night? They say, ‘Eat the fur of the beast that bit you,’ but who wants a mouthful of fluff for breakfast?” He felt Philippe’s angry gaze. “Did I speak out of turn? Come now. How is our King?”
Philippe’s fists clenched and unclenched. He looked as if he had something to say but feared the speaking.
“Talk to me,” said Chevalier, looking around at last. “What is all this secrecy?”
Philippe went to the table, picked up a half-filled wine glass but then let it fall to the table. The wine ran across the table’s surface like blood. “You must vow to me.”
“On my father’s life.”
“Your father’s dead.”
“My mother’s, then.”
“Forget it.”
Chevalier walked over and took Philippe’s arm. “Your distress pains me.”
“Make your vow, then. That what I tell you will go no further.”
Chevalier put his hand over his heart. “On my life. I vow my oath.”
Philippe drew his finger through the spilled wine. “My brother is very sick.”
“I always said you’d make a marvelous King.”
Philippe glared. “Stop it.”
“You were serious? Goodness.”
“He’s gravely ill. Should he die it is possible I will be regent.”
“I had no idea.”
Philippe grabbed Chevalier’s collar. “Not a word to anyone. This is a testing time but I know with you by my side, I can overcome anything.”
“Of course. Now, I must have air. Come, join me.”
“I cannot.” Philippe hesitated. “I have…to think.”
Chevalier called for a footman, standing at the door, to bring his coat. “As you wish,” he said to Philippe, caressing his cheek. “He is in my prayers. As are you.”
As Chevalier strode to the door, Philippe called, “What did you mean when you said ‘a great tide is stirring’?”
Chevalier looked back. Their eyes met. “Did I say that? I must have been drunk.”
The stench was ripe and foul, an odor of sickness so heavy that Philippe covered his nose as he walked into the King’s bedchamber. Others stood back, watching helplessly as the King tossed about in restless sleep. Philippe stared, uneasy at the sight of the King so frail, so helpless.
Moments later, Rohan entered and looked to the others for permission to go to the King, but Bontemps shook his head. “Only his physician may approach.”
Rohan nodded.
More painful minutes passed. At last Philippe demanded, “Where is the King’s doctor?”
“He’s fetching a remedy,” said Bontemps.
“Good God, where does the doctor live? In Marseille?” Philippe growled, and walked toward the bed. Rohan grabbed Philippe’s shoulder to stop him but Philippe gave him a withering gaze. “He is not a leper!”
“It’s not safe,” said Rohan.
Philippe stared coldly at the King’s childhood friend. “Do you forget who addresses you?” He went to the bedside, gently took Louis’ hand, and offered a short prayer. Louis shuddered and his eyes slowly opened. He pulled Philippe close and whispered in his ear. “Thrust in thy sickle, and reap; for the harvest of the Earth is ripe.”
A chill ran down Philippe’s back. He was familiar with the Bible and knew the passage that followed spoke of the blood, death, and the Apocalypse. He could only pat Louis’ shoulder in an attempt to comfort himself and his brother.
In the King’s outer chamber, Henriette, Marie-Therese, Louvois, Fabien, and Colbert waited for an audience with the King. Colbert sniffed when he noticed Henriette’s pregnancy. “Madame, you should not have come in your condition.”
Henriette lifted her chin. “I will not be away from my King.”
“We’re beside ourselves with worry,” said the Queen. “Of course she is here.”
“There are reports of typhus in the rank and file,” said Louvois.
“We’ll leave the medicine to the doctors,” replied Colbert. “The Council must meet to move the business of government forward. And Your Majesty.” He turned to the Queen. “Your presence would also be welcomed at our discussion.”
“When do we convene?” asked Marie-Therese.
Before he could answer, the priest Bossuet walked past them and into the King’s bedchamber. The Queen crossed herself. Colbert said, “We convene as soon as possible.”
And the Montespan, standing unseen in an alcove, heard everything.
Claudine was collecting her jars of samples from the cabinet in her kitchen, placing them into a large satchel, when her father stumbled in, growled, and drew his arm along the cabinet shelf, sending the other jars to smash on the floor.
“Jezebel!” he shouted. “Delilah!”
Claudine grabbed for his arm. “Control yourself! Stop this!”
“You may have shaved my seven locks and sold me to the Philistines, but I am not yet on my knees!” With that he spun about and slapped Claudine soundly. She fell back, striking her head on the edge of the door. Masson stared at her, at her motionless body. With a satisfied nod, he reached into her satchel, found a bottle of laudanum, and took a swig. Then another.
His stomach cramped violently and he clutched the table, heaving. Through the fog of pain he looked over at his daughter on the floor. A single clear thought stung his brain. Dear Jesus, I’ve killed her!
He crawled over, put his hand on her arm, and sobbed, “Forgive me.” Then a more violent wave caught his stomach, twisted it inside out, and he collapsed.
At last Claudine roused, her head throbbing mightily, her mind unclear. With great effort she opened her eyes and there, lying unconscious on the floor beside her with blood streaming from his mouth and an empty bottle of laudanum in his hand, she saw her father.
She forced herself to her knees and cupped his face in her hands. “Father!” she cried.
He did not answer.
“Father!” she cried again. “Father!”
The door banged behind her. She looked back to find Bontemps standing there.
“Help me!” she pleaded. “He’s dying!”
There was sympathy in Bontemps’ eyes but urgency in his voice. “You must come. The King.”
Claudine looked back at her father, her heart pounding.
“We both know who his doctor is,” said Bontemps.
“But my father will perish!”
“As will your King.”
Claudine folded her hands and held them up before the valet. “Don’t make me choose. He’s all the family I have.”
“Save your father, or save France,” said Bontemps. “The choice is yours.”
The soldier who had spit upon the King awoke to find himself lashed to a table in the shadowy torture room, with Fabien, the King’s chief of police, staring at him with contempt.
“Are you dead?” asked Fabien.
The soldier licked his cracked lips. “By your hand or by my sickness, it doesn’t matter. I will be soon.”
“Your destination is not in doubt. The issue before us is merely the amount of pain you will endure on the journey.”
Laurene entered, her face flushed with excitement. “I was just in the laundry,” she said. “And I found this in one of the pockets.”
Fabien put out his hand. Laurene removed a letter from her skirt, unfolded it, and held it up. It was a cipher. “The same shapes,” she said. “I may not be able to read but I saw they were like those in your book!”
Fabien took the letter and studied it. Then he turned to the soldier. “Don’t go anywhere.” He and Laurene left the torture room for the office, locking the door behind them.
Using the book codex, Fabien sat at his desk and labored over the cipher. Laurene stood by, thrilled at having accomplished something so important, even as the work took the time of one and a half candles burned down. At last Fabien stood and put on his jacket. “A meeting is planned today. Is my horse ready?”
“Fed and watered this morning.”
Fabien waved the letter at her as he strode out the door. “You have done well!”
Bontemps and Claudine entered the King’s chamber through the secret door to find him gone and the guard staring at the wall.
“Guard!” demanded Bontemps. “Where is the King?”
“His Majesty ordered my eyes to the wall but he has not yet ordered them back.”
Leaving Claudine in the bedchamber, Bontemps hurried out of the King’s apartment and into the corridor. There, he stopped in his tracks and stared at his master with pity and horror.
The King was dancing. In the center of the corridor, in his sweat-stained nightshirt, he was pivoting and circling, his head wobbling back and forth to unheard music. He spotted Bontemps and motioned him closer. “There you are! I cannot decide whether this will be a courante, a pavane, a passacaille, or a gavotte.”
Bontemps spoke as softy as his fear would allow. “Sire, you must return to bed. Your doctors –”
“Bontemps! I’ve created a new dance! And I wish my court to perform it.”
“Very well, Sire, but first –”
Louis stopped for a moment. “Everyone must learn it immediately. Bring me pen and paper. And a gardener.”
Bontemps glanced over at the guards who stood nearby, then back at the King. “Gardener?”
“Jacques! My gardener. Bring him here. I see this dance unfolding in a garden, an orangery full of blossoms.” Then Louis began dancing again. He tipped his head toward his valet. “Bontemps, dance for me. Now. Follow me. First, a pied largi, then sissonne, pirouette, then pas de bourree, contretemps…”
Bontemps, mortified yet always obedient, tried to follow the King’s steps but stumbled awkwardly.
“The dancers will orbit the sun in the order of rank,” said the King as he twirled. “The King, an Emperor, a Pope, a laborer, a child, on down the line of precedence. You can be Pope if you like, Bontemps.”
Bontemps bowed uncertainly. “If these are your steps, Sire, then your dance is a passacaille.” How pale he is! How weak! I must get him back to his bed lest he die!
Louis stopped dancing. His eyes narrowed and his head lowered like that of an animal ready to strike. “I do not trust you. I do not trust you at all. Guards! I do not know that man!”
Bontemps stepped back. “Sire, please!”
“I need my gardener! My enemies are coming!”
Bontemps turned to the guards. “Avert your eyes!”
“Guards! They mean to kill me! Bring me Jacques!” Then Louis’ eyes rolled back and he fainted. Bontemps leapt forward and caught him in his arms. He dragged the King back toward his apartment as Louis muttered, “My gardener will know what to do.”
A late afternoon wind rattled the broken walls of the Huguenot church and caused its deteriorating shingles to flap upon the roof. At the door, Montcourt glanced about then hastened inside and pulled the door shut. He found Cassel in one of the remaining pews and sat down with him.
“We’re risking our lives being here,” said Montcourt. “I had to conceal my horse half a mile away.”
“You’re the one to talk,” scoffed Cassel. “Why the urgency?”
Montcourt sat back. “Wait, now. You were not the author of this letter?”
The door slammed open. Instantly fearful, both men turned to see others arriving, all cloaked, all looking about furtively.
“It appears we’re not the only ones bound by our intent,” said Montcourt as the new arrivals found pews in which to sit then pushed back their hoods. Nobles, all of them.
“Intent?” asked Cassel. “Which is what, exactly?”
“The intent is revolution,” came a voice. A familiar voice. A female voice. The men turned to stare at the front of the church. Beside the altar stood Madame de Clermont. Beatrice. Dressed in a new gown that had been sent to her anonymously the day before. Her face was stony with purpose.
Cassel shouted, “This is a monumental risk! What if these communications were intercepted? Or worse, deciphered?”
“They have been deciphered,” said Beatrice.
Montcourt gasped. “Then our location is known?”
“Once a codex is broken,” Beatrice answered, “it offers opportunity. I wrote a new message and made sure it was found. It proposes a rendezvous today, on the other side of Paris. We are quite safe where we are.”
Chevalier stood in the back of the church and pounded his fist on the pew.
“Cousin!” he shouted. “What on God’s Earth are you doing here?”
Beatrice gave Chevalier a cold, challenging look as Chevalier waited for an answer. But then Beatrice turned her attention back to the crowd. “We’re from different denominations,” she said, “but we pray at the same altar – the church of the living France. Our prayer is for deliverance from the tyrant Louis, and for a new France to rise from the ashes.” She paused and looked at each man in turn. “A great moment is upon us. The King has a fever. His sickness grows. We must plan in this moment for our future. But I bring joyous news. We are not alone. We have powerful and wealthy friends, some already at court, and others abroad are watching closely. All stand ready to help.” Beatrice reached into the sleeve of her dress and removed a paper that had been sewn into the fabric fold. “A message of support from the Dutch Republic. William of Orange will soon be stadholder, commander of the armies and admiral of the sea. He vows here to support those who would move against King Louis. Not just with words but with money, materials, influence, and arms.”
“I’ve heard enough,” said Chevalier. “Thank you for the puppet show.”
Beatrice pointed at her cousin. “Chevalier de Lorraine! Don’t confuse the woman you have known with the woman you now see. You haven’t the faintest idea who you are dealing with. You stand to gain a great deal from our cause. A gathering in Paris awaits you. Canvass your supporters there. I know there are many.”
Chevalier glanced at the others then back at Beatrice. “I’m beginning to wonder whether we are related.”
Beatrice lifted her face to the rafters. “France will be born again, and Versailles will be a forgotten folly. The dream of a sick King. Divided we will fail, united there is nothing we cannot achieve. Long live the noble republic. Long live the true inheritors of France!”
Fabien galloped his horse along a winding road south of Paris, followed closely by two musketeers, and then reined the animal up in a weed-choked field. In the center of the field stood an abandoned abbey, its stone walls covered in vines. Fabien slid from his horse and motioned the musketeers to be silent but at the ready. Slowly, quietly, Fabien crept to the entrance and peered inside, ready to confront the traitors whose cipher he’d translated.
The abbey was empty.
Fabien spun about and stormed outside to his horse. “Someone has played tricks on us!”
Jacques was ushered into the King’s bedchamber by a footman. His eyes were narrowed and his steps uncertain. He looked from Bontemps to Claudine to Louis, sweating, waiting to be told what to do.
“Do not address the King unless he addresses you,” advised Bontemps.
Jacques nodded. Then Louis stirred in his bed and opened his eyes.
“Closer,” said the King.
“Sire,” said Bontemps, “your doctors forbid it.”
Louis looked at Jacques. “Are you afraid to approach your King? Are you afraid of death?”
“No, Sire,” replied Jacques. “It holds no mystery to me.”
“Come, then.”
Jacques went to the King’s bedside.
Louis’ cheeks hitched and he swallowed with effort. “Tell me a story about my father,” he said. “Your mother suckled him before you. Which makes you milk brothers, yes?”
Jacques nodded.
“A story, then.”
Jacques nodded again. “An emissary from Japan once came to our shores,” he began. “He brought your father a text from China, one he said had been read by every samurai in the Imperial Army. The author was a man called Master Sun. The text, The Art of War. Your father, to my knowledge, never read the book but one of his ministers did. From it came a most vital maxim. ‘Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.’”
“My father never told me about this volume.”
“Perhaps he planned to but did not have the chance.”
“You killed for my father. And one day, I may ask you to do the same for me.”
The two exchanged smiles.
“Now you must rest, Sire,” said Jacques.
Louis tried to smile but the pain was too much. “You would order your King to bed?”
“If it would protect him.”
Louis shifted his face on the pillow. “I trust only four men in this world. Bontemps, my valet. Fabien, my commissaire. Rohan, my oldest friend. “And you.” He coughed then said, “My enemies are close.”
“They are, Sire.”
“They see me. They see my family, my friends, my ministers and associates.” He motioned for Jacques to lean in. “But they do not see you.” Then Louis began to cough, deeply, loudly.
Bontemps ordered the gardener out and frantically motioned the priest forward. The priest made the sign of the cross on Louis’ forehead, and murmured the prayer of Extreme Unction. Louis tried to pull away from the priest, for the man’s touch was as hot as the flames of Hell, his words burning coals in his ears. He tried to order the priest gone, but the heat was so great he could not speak.
Go! Be gone! I am on fire!
And then a rainbow formed above him, arcing over the bed, painting the air in colors that were brilliant and alive. Louis sat up, reaching for it through the pain, seeking relief in the shimmering hues. Beside his bed a nymph appeared on a pale green horse. She wore a suit of mirrored armor that reflected the King’s face, and she held a large sword in her hand. She smiled at Louis and her teeth were those of a wolf – sharp and covered in blood.
Louis moved to the edge of the bed. The nymph raised her sword and Louis bowed his head in surrender. Let it be done! Let it be done! He heard the whoosh of the blade as it cut the air on its way down.
The King fell back onto his bed, spitting blood. “Death is here and Hell will follow!” he screamed as Marie-Therese rushed to him and gathered him in her arms. The nymph and rainbow were gone, vanished into the realm of nightmares.
The room was chilly, the fire warm. Henriette sat close to the hearth, staring at the crackling, golden flames. Sophie was seated beside her, silently adding lace to a handkerchief. Henriette heard the Montespan enter the room. She glanced around then looked back at the fire.
“I hear more people talking,” the Montespan said.
“Rumors,” said Henriette.
“What if they’re true? They’re saying we might go back to Paris.”
Sophie stopped stitching and frowned. “Why would we do that?”
“We are not going to do that,” said Henriette.
The Montespan went to the fire and held out her hands to warm them. “With the King so ill, what if he cannot oppose them? What if all he’s built is taken away?”
“His men are loyal. They would never betray him.”
“Wake up. Please.”
Henriette stood abruptly. “I am fully awake, Madame! And I more than you know what the future might hold if our worst fears are realized.”
The Montespan flinched but kept her eyes fixed on Henriette. “If they are your influences would grow. I would hope you might still look kindly upon your friends.”
“We support our men,” said Henriette, looking back at the fire, “but men think only of themselves. Who is there to support a woman, but a woman?”
Alone in her apartment, Beatrice put the finishing, elaborate touches on several sheets of paper. She fanned them to dry them then scuffed and creased them to age them. She collected them and left her apartment.
She found Colbert in the War Cabinet room, reading at his desk. Announced, she waited at the door until he beckoned to her. “Ah. Madame de Clermont.”
“As promised,” she said, approaching him. “Our proof of noble heritage.”
Colbert took the papers. “I will review in due course.”
Beatrice nodded, curtseyed slightly, and left the room, praying that her skill at forgery would save her and her daughter.
Philippe entered the King’s bedchamber to find Marie-Therese, Bontemps, and Fabien watching on while Claudine held the King’s hair back as he spit vomit into a bucket.
“What is she doing here?” Philippe demanded.
“The King’s new doctor,” said Marie-Therese.
“His Majesty requested it,” said Bontemps.
“Right now he could request you bring him the moon in an egg cup but I doubt you’d attempt it!” yelled Philippe. “We cannot leave the King’s health in the hands of a child! My brother should be in Paris. I’ve readied my own carriage. I will take him there to recuperate.”
“He cannot travel,” said Claudine, keeping her eye on the King.
“An hour by horse, at the most.”
The Queen shook her head. “It could kill him.”
Philippe stared at her. “It’s this palace that is killing him.”
The palace slept uneasily, and in the morning the King’s Circle gathered once more in the War Cabinet room. Colbert, Louvois, Bontemps, and Rohan stood by the table as Henriette and Marie-Therese sat in chairs by the windows.
“The nobles who seek to discredit the King will slake their thirst on this, I’ve no doubt,” said Rohan.
Marie-Therese frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
“They’re nothing if not predictable,” said Louvois.
“A rumor can be more harmful than a hard truth,” said the Queen.
Fabien opened his satchel and removed a piece of paper. “I’ve compiled a list. On one side, those I believe are for the King. On the other side, those who move against him.”
The door banged open and Philippe entered, late to the gathering, looking both annoyed and anxious.
Rohan snatched the paper from Fabien. “Let me see that.”
Fabien took it back. “Careful,” he said coolly. “My father was a printer. I’m very fond of paper.”
Rohan paced around the table, shaking his head. “The whole of France must offer prayers of health and recovery for the King. Let all those who love him move together. And let those who disagree show themselves and their true colors.”
Fabien nodded. “A fine idea.”
“I’ll speak to Bishop Bossuet myself,” offered the Queen.
“But the issue of regent remains,” said Rohan.
Philippe stepped forward. “Will no one vouch for me?”
“It’s not you who lacks the merit, Your Highness,” said Colbert. “Our concerns fall instead on those who would place themselves around you.”
“Why don’t you say Chevalier’s name?”
Marie-Therese stood and walked into the midst of the men. Her voice carried calm and regal authority as she addressed Philippe. “We need someone whose behavior is more becoming of a monarch. Someone who is his own man. I hope I make myself clear.”
Philippe blinked, shocked at the criticism. Then he regained his composure as best he could. “Perfectly,” he answered.
“Her Majesty and Monsieur Colbert would, to my mind, ensure a resilient transition,” offered Bontemps.
“Then it’s settled,” said Colbert, and the Circle was dismissed.
Philippe went straight to his apartment, his blood cold with the Queen’s reproach. He walked in to find a valet packing a bag as Chevalier barked instructions.
“All those shoes,” Chevalier said with a wave of his hand, “and those shirts there on the bed, and for God’s sake be careful nothing tears.”
“What are you doing?” asked Philippe, slamming the door shut.
Chevalier scratched his head and sighed. “All this rumor throughout the palace makes a man giddy. I’m going to Paris for a few days to un-giddy myself.”
Philippe stepped between Chevalier and the valet. “You told me you thought I would make a great king.”
“And you would.”
“This is not idle chat. What are you up to? You make a vow to me.”
“And I kept it,” said Chevalier.
“Then be truthful in return.”
“That is all for the moment,” Chevalier said to the valet, who bowed and left the room.
Chevalier went to the sideboard, began to pour a glass of wine then put the bottle down. “Have you been hiding under a rock these past months, Philippe? We’re on the verge of great change. People want that change, one that would not deny the monarchy but rather share in its burden. You can see it in your brother, even now. One man cannot rule the land. He’s drowning in it. And you are the man to save him.”
“You tread a dangerous path, Chevalier.”
“The only danger is smelling smoke and not acknowledging that a fire is burning.”
“You side with the nobles.”
“I side with you. Just as the soldiers side with you.” Chevalier held out a hand. “Would you side with me?”
“You cannot know what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking.”
“Unless death forces my hand, I cannot answer.”
“Very well.” Chevalier crossed his arms and raised a brow. “But know this. Our future is changed no matter what happens now.”
Rumors were fast and furious throughout the palace. Nobles had witnessed Bishop Bossuet sweeping through the corridors to the King’s apartment, and speculation was rampant. A crowd gathered to whisper in the hallway as portraits and statues looked on, impassive, motionless, silent.
“They’ve closed his outer doors,” said one noblewoman. She crossed herself and cried in the arms of a friend.
Another lady turned to Cassel. “Did you hear?” she asked. “The King?”
Cassel nodded. “I did. Terrible news. Simply…” He paused, turned, and offered a small, dark smile to the Montespan who stood not far away, “…awful.”
Chevalier, followed by his valet, worked his way through the gossiping humans and nearly ran into Henriette, who was quietly taking in the chatter.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said with a chuckle, “I didn’t see you there!” He glanced at her protruding belly. “Which, from the looks of you, is quite an achievement.”
Henriette sighed. “I’ve no desire to engage with you, sir. This is no time for pettiness.”
“I agree, my dear. You were once someone to talk to, of course. When you had the affection of the King. But now that it’s gone, I don’t suppose I know why anyone would speak to you at all.” And without waiting for a reply, Chevalier vanished within the sea of troubled nobles.
There was a soft scratching sound, a rustling that woke Claudine on her pallet in the corner of the King’s bedchamber. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes to find Louis at his desk, his head resting in the palm of one hand and scribbling on paper with the other. Stunned, she scrambled up and shook Bontemps, who was asleep on his cot. He woke immediately.
“Sire!” said Bontemps, pulling himself to his feet. “We rejoice at your recovery!”
Claudine felt Louis’ forehead and she gasped. “The fever has broken.”
Louis put down the pen and looked up at her. “Where is your father?”
Claudine took a shuddering breath.
“She gave up her father for you, Sire,” said Bontemps. “He was killed by a poison we believe was meant for you.”
Louis’ eyes narrowed. “Was this poison responsible for my fever?”
“I do not think so,” said Claudine.
“The court must know nothing of my condition.”
“But surely,” said Bontemps. “Your brother must be informed.”
“Send for Rohan. I wish to see him. And my tailors. I want some new clothes.” Louis wrote a few more words then handed the paper to Bontemps. “As for the rest of the court, this is the only message I wish you to convey.”
Quickly and obediently, Bontemps left the King’s apartment and summoned the King’s Cabinet and Circle to the War Cabinet room to share the message. Fabien and Rohan were the only ones not in attendance.
“I am saddened to report that His Majesty’s health has not improved,” Bontemps reported. “He has passed on instructions for government to continue under his word.”
“How can he make decisions in such a condition?” asked Colbert.
“The King wishes that France be informed immediately of his condition so that they might offer their prayers.”
The Queen and Henriette covered their faces and wept. The men struggled against their own tears.
Bontemps watched them all then added, “His Majesty would also have the court learn a new dance.”
Philippe gaped. “A dance?”
“It is one he has composed himself in his moments of peace. To raise our spirits in anticipation of his recovery.” Bontemps held up the paper on which Louis had written the dance and the others gathered close to have a look. “Monsieur Lully is to create a melody.”
Claudine stood in her father’s clinic, sobbing over his body as it lay on the examination table. Once so vital and busy in life, Masson was now as many of his patients had been. Cold. Dead. Decaying flesh on a slab.
Fabien waited and watched as patiently as he could, considering this young woman who had abilities that should have been reserved for men. After he’d had enough of her crying, he spoke. “If I’d not seen your work first-hand I might have thought you were a witch.”
Claudine wiped her eyes. “And have me burned.”
Fabien considered this. “I don’t know many unburned witches.”
“We’re all condemned in one way or another. I must examine him. Under the knife. He died by a poison I believe was destined for the King. If I can trace the cause I may find its remedy.”
“And,” added Fabien, “the poisoner.”
Louis stood beneath the portrait of Philippe and himself as children as Rohan entered the bedchamber. The drapes were drawn and the room was dark. Rohan moved cautiously and slowly to the bed, his head forward, straining to see the King.
“You look like death, old friend.”
Rohan spun toward the voice to find Louis against the wall, smiling.
“Praise God!” said Rohan. “It cannot be!”
Louis stepped out and clasped Rohan’s hand. “When a man is ill he retreats to his past, to the perfect summers of youth. You were always there by my side. You are my oldest friend and I am grateful for it. Because of this, I’m giving you this gift – the gift of truth. But in return you will give me the gift of silence on this matter.”
“I await your command.”
“I’ve told my council to inform the entire country of my imminent demise. In this way, I hope to root out all those opposed to me, since they would be the first to make plans for my absence.”
Rohan laughed. “What a mind you have, my friend.”
“You approve?”
“I applaud it. We did the same with our foxhounds in Fontainebleau. Send the bad news down the holes and see what scampers up.”
Louis nodded, satisfied, trusting. “You are my eyes and ears. Ensure the word goes out.”
“I will not fail you.”
Louis pulled back the drapes and the two men sat in a pool of sunlight and talked. Recalling. Reliving.
And while the friends visited, there came a pounding on the King’s outer chamber door. Bontemps ordered the guard to open the door and found Philippe with a crowd of brawny men bearing swords. Their expressions were hard and determined.
“I’m here to fetch my brother,” Philippe said. “It is plain to see his life depends on it.”
Bontemps put his hand on the door. “The answer was no and it remains so, Your Highness.” He turned to one of the guards and snapped his fingers. “Fetch Fabien Marchal at once.”
Philippe snarled. “Your little dog won’t help you now, Bontemps. You forget who you are addressing.”
“Good day,” said Bontemps, and he shut the door.
“Do not shut me out!” shouted Philippe. He gestured toward his men to force their way in but at that moment Fabien and eight of the King’s largest, best-armed Swiss guards arrived. Their hands were on their weapons and they were more than ready.
“I would choose your next decision carefully, Your Highness,” said Fabien.
Philippe bared his teeth and turned on his heel.
Having spied Beatrice quietly conversing with Cassel in chapel during morning prayers, and anxious to find something more to offer Fabien and please him, Laurene dressed herself as a chambermaid and made her way into Beatrice’s apartment. She hid in the shadows until she was certain she was alone, and then searched the shelves, armoire, and desk, checking each paper and feeling each drawer in case there might be a false bottom.
And there was.
The base of the lowest desk drawer slid open to reveal more papers, papers that were covered in ornate writing and appeared quite old. One in particular caught her attention. It was the same as the others yet half-finished. She suspected it was quite important, and folded it to put into her skirt.
“Hello,” came a voice from behind. “I’m looking for my mother.”
Laurene stood and spun around to find Sophie standing there.
“I…I found this,” Laurene managed, holding out the paper. “It was on the floor. Where does it go?”
Sophie shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t live here anymore. I sleep close to my lady. I can take it if you like.”
“I’ll put it away,” said Laurene. Sophie nodded and went to the armoire to draw out a scarf. Laurene pocketed the paper, made a ruse of dusting, and then hurried from the room.
Resting on his pillows, his strength not fully returned, Louis beckoned Claudine over to his bed. He saw the sadness in her eyes from the loss of her father yet also saw the wisdom and courage.
“Your sacrifice will not be forgotten,” he said. “My deepest sympathy for your loss. I know now my replacement for your father.”
Claudine nodded. “What is his name?”
“I only know he stands before me now. You will find many who oppose you, who would rather I chose someone from my circle of physicians. But you must be deaf to their judgments. Will you accept the position? If the answer is yes, there is no going back. Your life will be changed forever.”
Claudine nodded slowly. “I accept.”
“Then it is yours. Medicine is a fine career.”
Claudine curtseyed, stunned at this news.
Louis called to Bontemps, who came to stand beside Claudine. “Send for Madame de la Vallière,” the King ordered.
Louise came quickly and uncertainly, entering the King’s bedchamber with her rosary fumbling in her hands. She approached the King and curtseyed.
“The child’s name is Louis?”
“Our son? Yes, Sire.”
“His governess is in Paris. The same as his brother?”
“Yes.”
Louis was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I hoped you might stay here. That you might think of this as home.”
“I cannot.”
“Not even for your children.”
“For their sakes and my own, I must show contrition for my life.”
“I know. You may go.”
Louise let go of her rosary. She stared at the King. He had not meant leave the room, but leave Versailles.” “Majesty, thank you with all my heart.”
“Arrangements will be made.”
“I pray God for a healing angel to be with you.” She smiled at Louis, then at Bontemps, and left the chamber with a new lightness to her step, one that seemed much like a dance.
“I must sadly report the demise of the King’s doctor, Masson,” Fabien said as Colbert sat hunched over his desk in the War Cabinet room, processing a stack of nobles’ paperwork. “Died of a condition of the stomach, I’m told.”
“We must appoint another royal physician at once.”
“The King has a preferred candidate already in place.”
“Oh?” Colbert looked up. “Is the King recovered?”
“He is not.”
Colbert considered Fabien, waiting for more information, but not receiving it he looked back at the stack on the desk.
“Are your noble papers complete?” asked Fabien.
“Mine?” Colbert scratched his ear. “Oh, well, I’ve yet to submit, in fact.”
Fabien tapped the stack. “And these people here. Are they in order?”
“Yes. Beauvilliers. Poitou. De Clermont. That makes twenty this evening.”
“Madame de Clermont? May I see?”
Colbert handed him the paper. “Yes. I forgot you’re known to each other. Her lineage extends several generations. This document proves it. I must say I’m quite relieved.”
Fabien held the paper, studied it, and put it down. “Thank you.” He turned to leave but then his heart tightened and he looked back. “Might I see that paper again?”
Colbert nodded and Fabien picked it up. “You’re likewise relieved, no doubt,” said Colbert.
“It’s a fine piece of paper. The grain is very smooth.” And as he studied it closely his eyes narrowed and his heart tightened.
Fabien hurried back to his office, clutching Beatrice’s paper. He shut the door and went to the table on which a large scroll lay. On one side was a long list of names. On the other, a map of France marked with red spots, many of which were located in Paris.
Hearing him enter, Laurene came out from a side room and approached him, breathless. “I saw Cassel in conversation with several new nobles,” she said. “Including Madame de Clermont.”
Fabien glanced at her. “Who else?”
“Poitiers. Anjou.”
“Since the court became aware of the King’s condition, the number of conversations between these individuals has increased markedly. Anjou, you say, and Poitier, both to Cassel –”
“And Madame de Clermont.”
Fabien nodded vaguely, trying to dismiss her comment, wanting to dismiss his suspicion and focus on the traitors of which he was quite sure. He drew long lines connecting the red spots on the map.
“I checked with the stables,” said Laurene. “Both Anjou and Poitier are riding to Paris.”
“They aren’t the only ones.” Fabien spread Beatrice’s paper out and studied it again. “Laurene, I dispatched a messenger to Pau a week ago. If he returns in my absence, secure his findings in a lock box.”
“Your absence? Where are you going?”
Fabien grabbed his cloak. “To Paris.”
The chapel was quiet and somber; even the shadows on the floor seem softer out of respect for the nobles who had come to pray for the health of the King. Henriette and Sophie entered, crossed themselves, and moved up the aisle. Henriette selected a pew near the altar while Sophie found her mother and slid in beside her.
“Mother,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you.”
Beatrice looked up from her folded hands. “Your duty to me is to do well for your lady.”
“Yes. Yet my first thought is always to talk to you. Like when I found the chambermaid in your drawer today.”
Beatrice’s hands abruptly unfolded. “Chambermaid?”
“She found papers of yours on the floor. I think she was putting them back.”
Beatrice slowly put her hands back together. “Of course. How kind of her. You must point her out to me so I can thank her.”
“I will.” Sophie looked around, then said, “So few here this morning. Where is everyone?”
Beatrice stared straight ahead.
“Mother?”
“Don’t you remember?” replied Beatrice. “They are practicing. The King has us learning a new dance. Shh, now!”
Sophie folded her hands then looked down at her feet to see if she could remember the dance steps. She tapped them back and forth as quietly as she could.
Chevalier was hurled to the floor of Fabien’s office where he skidded and slammed against the base of the desk. He struggled to right himself, getting up onto his knees, his cheeks and forehead bruised and bleeding, his face contorted into a mask of rage and utter disbelief.
“I captured you, Chevalier, in Paris!” said Fabien as two guards stood beside him, hands on their swords. “Paris, where the traitors have been gathering! And I’ve brought you back to Versailles.”
“The Duc of Orléans will have your head for this!” sputtered Chevalier. “And when your head is on the block, do you know what he will say to you? He will tell you –”
Fabien kicked Chevalier in the chest, knocking him down again. “I’ll tell you this. You are to be executed in the morning, along with the others.”
Chevalier pulled himself to his feet where he stood, heaving, glaring. “The King would never permit it!”
“That seems to be the problem being a traitor,” said Fabien. “It never seems to end well. In any case, I hope you’re fond of horses.”
In the early evening Beatrice found Laurene alone in the palace laundry room, a place filled with vats of lye and bubbling cauldrons and crisscrossed with clotheslines upon which socks, trousers, shawls, and gowns were hung to dry. Laurene was placing wet garments into baskets as Beatrice came up behind her.
“Might I trouble you a moment?”
Laurene flinched and looked around. “Ah, yes, certainly, Madame.”
“Laurene, correct?”
Laurene nodded.
“Do you know Fabien Marchal?”
“I do.”
“I’ve a problem to discuss with him.” Beatrice ran her hand along a clothesline, tugging on it slightly, watching it bounce. “I’m embarrassed to even mention it. I believe a gown of mine has gone missing and I’m worried sick that it is lost.”
Laurene wiped her face with her sleeve. “That cannot be true.”
“I fear it might be,” said Beatrice. “Last time I looked, it was over there.” She pointed across the room, and as Laurene turned to look, Beatrice yanked a clothesline down and looped it around Laurene’s neck. Laurene spun around as Beatrice twisted the line. Laurene lashed out with her hands then clawed at her neck. Tighter. Tighter. Laurene’s face grew purple and her throat began to bleed. Her eyes bulged as she kicked and fought the noose. After what seemed like an eternity, she fell in a heap, tipping over a basket and spilling gowns on the floor.
“Burn in Hell, Catholic cunt,” said Beatrice.
As the quarter moon resumed its place in the night sky, a hooded man hauled a heavy sack down the path from the palace to the stable and around that to the pigsty. He put the sack down, made sure no one was nearby in the darkness, then removed Laurene’s dismembered hand from the sack and threw it in to the pigs. The pigs snorted and scrambled over each other to get at the tasty morsel. One by one the man tossed the freshly butchered chunks of Fabien’s former assistant to the pigs, upending the sack to shake loose the last bit, her foot, and the pigs chewed their evening snack with selfish snorts.
Back in the laundry room, Beatrice felt her hair and ran her hands along her face to make sure all was in order then pulled on her best palace smile. She walked out, taking the servants’ stairs to the main corridor where she encountered a clutch of noble ladies, with the Montespan in the middle, posing their feet in various positions.
“Beatrice! My dear!” called the Montespan. “We’re all practicing the King’s new dance. Will you join us?”
“Isn’t it wrong to apply ourselves to joy while he suffers so?” replied Beatrice.
“Ah, but it is the King’s wish.”
“Of course.”
Beatrice excused herself and hurried on to her apartment, where she removed a box from a drawer and took from it a piece of charcoal and a small bottle of tincture. She swallowed the charcoal and forced it down with a glass of wine. It scraped painfully all the way to her stomach, but the discomfort was a small price for the protection it offered. When it was time, the charcoal would prevent the solution from taking effect. She slipped the bottle into her bodice and headed for Fabien’s office.
He was not there. Slipping out of her clothes, Beatrice lit two candles and stretched out on Fabien’s bed. It was not long before the door rattled and he entered. He looked around in the dim light as if seeking Laurene, and then his gaze fell on Beatrice.
“I’ve something to aid us,” she said, licking her lips and running her hand seductively along her breasts.
Fabien came close. “Aid us with what?”
“Endurance.” She opened the bottle, took out the dropper, and squeezed a drip into her mouth. “A love potion.”
“When I look at you,” said Fabien, “I need nothing else.”
“I’m the same,” said Beatrice, licking her lips. “But I think this might be fun.”
Fabien’s expression was a mixture of lust and doubt, and lust won out. He knelt by the bed, opened his mouth, and Beatrice put several drops on his tongue. Then he climbed into the bed, onto Beatrice, and he was on fire.
Philippe looked up from his evening prayers to see all other nobles had left the chapel. Standing in the doorway was Louis and several guards. He leapt to his feet and raced down the aisle, his arms open to embrace his brother.
“My God!”
Louis stepped back and away from the embrace.
“I…I was told you were dying,” said Philippe.
“I was,” said Louis. “Then I recovered.”
“And did not think to tell me?”
“I told no one.”
“Why?”
“So I could see who it is upon whom I can truly depend.”
“You did not trust your own brother?”
“I do not trust the company he keeps. You’re blind to Chevalier’s failings and dumb to his faults.”
“Do not say such things!”
“A conspiracy in Paris was uncovered. The nobles plotting against me even as I lay in my fever bed. I arrested them all. Chevalier was a ringleader.”
“Impossible!”
“He is a traitor. He is now in jail awaiting execution.”
Philippe’s knees went weak. Blood ran cold in his arms. “Brother, please!”
“He shall be hanged, drawn, and quartered in the morning.”
“NO!” Philippe dropped to his knees, his hands tearing at his hair.
“And your presence is expected at the dance this evening. I hope you’ve learned the steps.”
The largest palace salon was decorated for the party. Candles blazed from the chandeliers and golden and ivory stands, music played in every corner by trios and quartets, servants carried platters of the most aromatic and sumptuous foods. In the center of the room, nobles danced the King’s new dance wearing gowns and coats of such an array of hues that it was as if a rainbow had descended from the heavens. Around, back, bowing and dipping, spinning and circling, all smiling at the King’s dying command.
Suddenly the music stopped. The dancers came to a standstill and looked at each other curiously. The doors opened and a most peculiar warrior entered. He was dressed entirely in armor made of mirrors from helmet to plackart to greave. The armor flashed in the light of the candles and reflected the faces of the nobles, who moved back, a bit frightened. The warrior stopped, turned slowly, and then lifted the visor. It was Louis.
“Your Highness!”
Nobles gasped and fell into bows and curtseys. The King was recovered. The King was among them once more.
In the midst of the celebratory commotion, Philippe threw back his chair and fled the room, and Fabien, his stomach cramping, stumbled out not long after.
Oh, God!
Chevalier stood in the palace prison yard with his arms lashed behind his back, watching as one of the nobles accused of treason was laid out upon the ground between four nervous horses. The man’s arms and legs were each bound with rope, and the ropes’ ends were secured to the harnesses that extended from the horses’ hindquarters. Each horse faced a different direction and was held in place by a guard with a whip. The executioner stood beside Chevalier, watching with eyes bright with purpose.
God, no!
The executioner shouted, “Now!”
The guards whipped the horses. They reared, whinnied then bolted, jerking the man’s limbs and tearing them from his body with a loud snapping of bone and ripping of flesh. Blood sprayed and the man, now a wretched, red-soaked torso, screamed, gurgled, and died.
Chevalier whimpered and vomited on his shoes, a man broken in spirit, broken of hope.