The Shadow Queen A Novel (15 page)

Alexandre groaned as Chalais and Flamarens lifted him into the saddle.

“We’re just going to leave Henri?” Athénaïs looked dangerously pale.

“Breathe!” I commanded, shaking her to keep her from fainting.

“Be gone!” Alexandre gasped. “Athénaïs will get word to your families.”

The convent bells rang for morning Mass as the two men cantered off.

I glanced back at the boots. How long would it be before the buzzards started circling? How long before the body of the mighty Bishop de Sens’s nephew was discovered hidden in the bushes of a frozen marsh? Holding the reins of Alexandre’s horse, I set out across the field, Athénaïs trailing behind. My thoughts were sluggish, spent. I felt numb with it all, exhausted.

What were we going to do with Alexandre?

Don’t die, I thought furiously. Just don’t
die.

CHAPTER 26

G
aston was at the little platform table by the shuttered window eating from a pot of gruel. He looked up, surprised to see me. He made a gesture of worry, his forehead wrinkled up. I could tell from his tremulous singsong that he’d been fretful.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing Gaston’s line of objects out of the way of the door with one foot. The wounded aristocrat was in the coach below. I’d rashly offered to hide him until Athénaïs could find a suitable place.
You’re my guardian angel,
she’d told me, weeping—but I was still angry. They’d brought it on themselves. “Where’s Mother?” The fire was blazing; I was thankful for the heat, thankful that there was still wood stacked—we were going to need it.

“Play,” he said with a stutter.

Of course. Monsieur Pierre was introducing his new play to the troupe.

“I. Go.” He wrinkled up his forehead again. “She—”

“Stay. I need your help,” I said with some urgency, relieved that Mother would not be present.

Gaston was young, but he had strength. Between us, we managed to carry the moaning nobleman up the narrow stairs (fortunately unobserved). We laid him out on Gaston’s straw mattress, his booted feet hanging off the end. I tossed Gaston the rag doll he slept with, which he pressed to his heart.

The Marquis looked like death. I’d been foolish to offer to hide him, foolish to expose my family to the King’s ire. Cursing at what I’d gotten myself into, I pulled a threadbare blanket from the bottom of a storage trunk. It was rough and patched—a rag to most—but it was all we had. Tant pis. Soon it would be bloodied.

I started to unlace the high boot on Alexandre’s injured leg. “Don’t watch,” I told Gaston. As I feared, the boot was full of blood. I closed my eyes, suddenly light-headed. What would we do if he died? What would we do with his
body
? I broke into a sweat just thinking of it. I wished I could send for a surgeon—but the nature of the wound would be obvious, and who wouldn’t profit by going to the King? I dared not take the risk.

“Go boil some water and fetch me some clean rags,” I told Gaston, who seemed frozen, sucking on his thumb and staring.

I peeled off the Marquis’s knit sock. It was a terrible gash, long and deep. “Vinegar too,” I said, pressing my fingers into the wound to stanch the bleeding. Finally, Gaston moved. “And my sewing basket,” I called out. Like it or not, I was going to have to stitch him.

Gaston returned with the rags and steaming water in the cast-iron pot.

“Not a hint of this to anyone, do you hear?” I told him sternly, using a steaming rag to wipe my hands clean. Not that Gaston could even talk! I dipped the sharpest needle into the hot water and then laced it with the linen thread. “Leave, Turnip,” I said.

ATHÉNAïS’S ROOM WAS
in a state of disarray, gowns and shawls flung everywhere. A mess of jeweled necklaces had been unceremoniously dumped on the marble-topped table. The parrot was perched atop a candlestick holder, watching me with one eye. The monkey grinned at me ghoulishly from its stand and rattled its chain.

Athénaïs emerged from behind a screen wearing only a chemise. She, too, looked disordered, her hair undressed, her face unpowdered.

“He’s doing well,” I told her. I wasn’t sure I could mention him by name. Who might be listening behind closed doors? I gently set down my basket. The wound had closed and the inflammation was down. Noble blood healed fast.

“Yet his life is over,” Athénaïs said tremulously, through tears. “The King—”

I held silent. The news was everywhere. His Majesty was enraged! He took dueling seriously. (
That
I knew too well.)

“He might as well be dead,” she said.

I handed her my nose cloth. She looked at it askance. “It’s clean,” I assured her.

She patted her cheeks with it. “His Majesty has ordered guards posted all over Paris,” she whispered, handing the kerchief back, her voice strangled. “He’s intent on arresting them:
all
of them.” She scratched at her breast with her long nails, drawing blood lines on her flesh. “How can the King be so … so
base
! Dueling is a noble tradition—an
honorable
tradition.”

As if honor were a luxury reserved exclusively for the blessed. I thought of the line from
The Cid
I’d scratched on my father’s pile of stones:
Men may reduce me to live without happiness, but they cannot compel me to live without honor.

I heard footsteps, the creak of floorboards. “You have need of a costume, Mademoiselle?” I said in a carrying voice.

“Oui, I’m to perform at a ball, His Majesty insists,” Athénaïs said, daring to refer to the King in a mocking tone. “Any gown will do, so long as it is gold. The King is to be the sun, and
we’re
to reflect his light,” she added with spite. She fell back onto her bed, kicking pillows and gowns fitfully onto the floor. “Everyone is in a state of terror over the duel,” she hissed. “It’s going to be impossible to find somewhere suitable to hide him. I dare not even ask.”

I stepped closer. “He’s safe at our place, Mademoiselle,” I whispered. “No one would ever suspect.” Or so I prayed, knowing the risk to my family.

I TOOK A
long, circuitous route back to our humble room, lest I was being followed. I paused outside our door, listening to the voices within. I could hear Gaston humming.

“Hush, Gaston—we’re working,” I heard Mother say, and he quieted. “Give me that cue line again, Monsieur.”

Who is here? I thought with alarm. It had been agreed that there would be no callers—not so long as we were harboring Alexandre.

“Madame, your love for him surprises me,” a man said.

I recognized the line from Monsieur Pierre’s newest play,
Sertorius.

“It is unusual for a man of his age to attract a young woman,” the man continued.

Alexandre?

“What I love is his greatness in war,” Mother said with fervor.
Sertorius
wouldn’t be peformed for some time, but already she’d begun to commit it to memory.

“Before that, there’s a line about passion …”

I stepped in, surprising them all. “I hate passion, the impetuous tumult,” I recited.

Alexandre was seated on the wood chair next to the plank table, the play-script of Mother’s lines on his lap. Gaston was on the stool, the stones for a game of Mill set out between them. “I’m pleased to see you up and about, Monsieur le Marquis,” I said, dropping a pert curtsy. The heat from the coals made my frozen cheeks tingle and the smell of bean soup and baked bread sharpened my appetite. I hung my damp cloak on a peg. When I’d left that morning, Alexandre had been in bed. During the hours I’d been away, he’d clearly been transformed. “I see that my mother lost no time putting you to work.”

“The Marquis loves theater,” Mother said, stirring the beans. She’d pulled her long hair back into a bun, but wisps had escaped, making her look charmingly disheveled.

“Oh?” I was amazed (and not a little jealous) at her tone of familiarity.

“He knows Monsieur Corneille’s plays well,” she said, “even
La Suivante.
He is delighted to learn of this new work.”

“It’s extraordinary, Madame des Oeillets,” Alexandre said, making a move on the Mill board (and then groaning as Gaston deftly took one of his pieces). “Especially your role, Queen Viriate—”

Viriate: it
was
a thrillingly evil part Mother was to play. Lusting, ambitious—and yet profoundly heroic—she is wooed by Sertorius, the man who murdered her lover—the man she marries just to avenge her lover’s death. It was hard for me to believe that Monsieur Pierre had cast my gentle, feckless mother in such an evil role.

“The Marquis has been explaining to me how a queen must act,” Mother said. “He knows both the Queen Mother and the Queen, and I’m far too kind, he says.”

Alexandre glanced at me and shrugged. “She is.” He groaned again as Gaston took another of his pieces.

“You look fatigued, my dear,” Mother said. “Have some soup.”

“I have a letter for you, Monsieur le Marquis,” I said, sitting down. I felt uncomfortable sitting at a table with a nobleman—it wasn’t proper—but I felt even more uncomfortable standing in my own home. I reached into my skirts and withdrew the scented packet, the ink splotched “with tears.” (White wine, in fact—my idea.) Within was a tiny locket containing a golden hair from Athénaïs’s pubis. (Her idea.)

Alexandre smiled fondly at the inscription—
For my Beloved
—and struggled to stand. “Adieu et merci, mes amis. I must now retire,” he said, leaning on the table. Gaston jumped to his feet to help him limp back into the closet.

“I should spend the morning out more often,” I told Mother, holding the warm bowl of bean soup in both hands.

“What you should do,” she said, taking Alexandre’s chair, “is find a way to get that good young man out of the country. The town criers—”

“I know, Maman.” I
know.
The King had condemned the duelists to decapitation should they be apprehended. All the others had scattered far and wide—some fleeing to England, others to Spain or Portugal. Alexandre was the only one still in the city, still in hiding. “I have an idea,” I said.

CHAPTER 27

I
’ve found a way out for you,” I told Alexandre. Mother and Gaston were at the theater. I could speak openly.

He was leaning on the crutch I had made for him. In the month he’d been with us, he’d rapidly improved. “Out of France?” he asked and I nodded. He leaned the crutch against the windowsill and eased himself onto the stool by the trestle table. We’d taken to having talks there, over bowls of warm gruel. “It’s the only way, I guess.” He looked sad but also relieved.

“You’ll be part of a traveling group of players—they’re on their way to Portugal.” The sooner he was gone, the better. There were still guards everywhere. I’d heard of searches, the prestigious families of the duelists grilled and even threatened. At any time, Athénaïs could be questioned. “I have a costume you can use, and you already know how to juggle.” I’d been teaching him.

He combed his long hair with his fingers, pushing it up off his forehead. “Portugal might not be so bad …”

He looked a little lost, in truth. His life had been perfectly plotted, up until now. The eldest son of a wealthy nobleman, engaged to marry an aristocratic woman—a woman he sincerely loved: all was in place for a happy and fulfilling future. Now he was cast to the winds.

“How shall I ever thank you?” he said.

I stood, looking about our shabby room: the cracks in the plaster, the smoky fire pit. “I regret that we couldn’t have looked after you more comfortably.”

“You saved my life.”

“I’ll help you with your things. I told them you’d meet them on the Pont Neuf at midday.” I wanted him gone before Mother and Gaston returned.

He took out his sundial and held it to the window. “That’s fairly soon.”

“I’ve already arranged for a litter.” I didn’t like prolonged farewells. “I’d not show that sundial once you’re out.” It was gold, intricately tooled. “Just a word of caution.”

He held it out to me.

I hesitated. A knight expected no reward.

“Give it to Athénaïs,” he said. “To remember me by.”

Of course,
Athénaïs.

It didn’t take Alexandre long to change and pack up his things. He even helped me pull up the bed linens (which surprised me). “Thank your brother for the use of his closet,” he said.

I nodded but said nothing.

“Tell him I intend to return and beat him at Mill.” He looked comically charming in his rags, his bundle of clothes tied up on a stick, like any homeless itinerant. I blinked back stinging tears.

“You’ll tell your mother farewell for me? I wish I could be here to see her perform Queen Viriate. She’s going to be magnificent, I know.”

I nodded, my hand on the door: the litter carriers would be waiting. I handed him his crutch. “You will need it.”

“This is for Athénaïs as well,” he said, handing me a tightly scrolled paper.

A letter? Where had he found the paper, the ink, a quill?

He kissed my cheek. His beard was prickly but soft. “Au revoir, Claudette,” he said, using the tender name Mother called me. “Et merci.”

I LAY ON
the neatly made-up bed, listening to the sounds of Alexandre’s uneven steps on the winding stairs. What if the litter carriers weren’t there? What if the players failed to meet him? What if he was recognized?

I started to get up—to follow after him—but stopped, looking at the paper I had clutched in my fist. It was not sealed, merely tied with a length of ribbon.

Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, my beloved Athénaïs, my love, my life, forgive me. I pray for a miracle, pray that His Majesty will allow me to return to your arms, but we both know that is not likely. His Majesty will remain firm: I know him well.

With great sadness and regret, I release you from our vows, our tender promises, given in love. (Such love!)

I depart burdened with the knowledge that I have ruined several lives—my own, certainly—as well as ended the life of my dearest friend, Henri, whom I roused from a peaceful sleep in order to persuade him to take part in that loathsome duel.