Bewitching (17 page)

“Yes.” Mother nodded, her chin touching her lace collar. “Many years ago. What year, exactly, was that?”

I, of course, knew this subject backwards and forwards, and I began to answer, 1572, but Mother held up her hand.

“I was asking the princess, dear Louis. A future queen of France must have a thorough knowledge of our history.” She turned her attention back to Maria Teresa. “Now, what year?”

I, too, turned my attention to Maria Teresa, whose white skin was growing attractively pink. I had heard of those who could communicate without words, so I thought about the number 1572. I thought hard indeed. The princess stared back at me, and I flattered myself that she hoped to impress Mother, hoped to be my wife. I flattered myself, also, that this was not merely because France was a large and powerful country but because she thought me handsome.

It worked! The princess stared back at me and articulated, “I believe it was fifteen…”

I held my breath.

“Twenty-seven!” she finished.

“No!” I could not stop the moan from coming from my mouth.

“No!” Mother crowed. “It was fifteen-seventy-two!”

Princess Maria Teresa looked from my crushed face to Mother’s triumphant one and said, “Oh, well, that is what I meant. I merely got two numbers mixed.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said. “She merely got two numbers mixed. She was almost right.”

Mother laughed. “A date, dear Louis, cannot be almost right. It is either entirely right or entirely wrong, and in this case…” She cast a withering eye upon Maria Teresa. “… it was wrong.”

Princess Maria Teresa looked from me to Mother, not seeming to understand the import of what had happened. But I understood. There was going to be another angry Spanish princess in France’s future. I would not be marrying Maria Teresa.

I should have stopped her from going, but I didn’t. I was an obedient son, respectful to my mother. Truth be told, I pitied her. She had enough trouble with my cheating father without more trouble from me.

So instead I dreamed of Maria Teresa every night for the long weeks before the arrival of Princess Eleonora of Savoy.

Eleonora was my father’s first cousin, so one would have thought we would be polite to her. One would have thought wrong.

Eleonora was pretty, though not as pretty as Princess Maria Teresa, and nice, though not as nice as Maria Teresa. She did not know the works of Rameau, but her eyes lit up when I mentioned ballet. Still, when I had the princess alone for a moment, I said, “Do you know our history? Can I tell you anything about the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre?”

The princess laughed. “I heard about the test, and my governess has been quizzing me quite a bit on the subject.”

I danced happily. The princess was beautiful and smart and, what was more, prepared to answer questions of French trivia. I did not like her as much as I’d liked Maria Teresa, but I could like her. I was certain of it. We could announce our engagement at a ball in her honor and, finally, my dreadful loneliness would end.

But, over dinner, Mother finished swallowing a bite of squab and said, “If one were shipping our finest French wine to the colony of New York, what would be the best route to take?”

The princess cleared her throat. “Shipping … wine?” She swirled her own wine in her glass.

“Mother,” I said, trying to help. “Princess Eleonora knows a great deal of French history. Perhaps you should ask her about that.”

Mother straightened in her chair. “What sort of test would it be if she knew the subject matter beforehand?”

A fair one!

The princess said, “It is all right, Your Highness.” To my mother, she said, “The best route would be the most direct one. Therefore, I would go across the Atlantic Ocean to Newfoundland, then south.”

Mother paused for a long moment, and I was certain the princess was right. Right!

But Mother fingered her lace cuff and said, “Newfoundland?”

The princess nodded.

“I see,” said Mother. “But what of icebergs?”

“Icebergs?” I could see the princess’s lovely throat clench. “What of them?”

“Only that if the ship were to take the very northern route you envision, it would be in danger of encountering an iceberg. This might damage the ship’s hull, costing its cargo, not to mention many lives.”

“But…” The princess gaped at me. “Could not the captain be careful?”

“Careful?” Mother slapped her palm upon the table, causing the crystal goblets to jump. “That goes to show that you know nothing of French wine or French sailors. A sailor who has tasted French wine is in no condition to be careful. No, the best route would be down past Portugal and almost to the Canary Islands, so the ship could cross in warmer waters.”

I groaned. She was right.

The princess looked down, then swiped at her eye. Finally, she raised her face to Mother. “I see. You are very wise, Your Majesty.”

Mother nodded, but I knew she was not to be flattered.

“But tell me,” the princess continued. “Would not those warmer, southern waters be more likely to be infested by pirates?”

“Pirates?” I gasped. So did Mother.

“Yes, pirates. And would not the drunken crew you have described be even more ill-equipped to fight pirates than to avoid icebergs?”

Good point! Oh, a very good point! I felt my heart swell with, if not love, the promise of love. Princess Eleonora was a clever girl, and she could do something even I could not. She could stand up to my mother.

But Mother recovered herself and said, “No. Pirates are, of course, a contingency in any sea voyage. But they are just as likely to be encountered in the north as in the south. Icebergs, however, are a given and are seen only on the northern route.”

With that, the door shut on any possibility of marrying Princess Eleonora.

That night, I was angry. After the heartbreak with Princess Maria Teresa, Mother had explained that such tests were necessary so that my bride would be not only beautiful and noble, but also intelligent. But Princess Eleonora was intelligent and had presented a well-thought-out argument which merely differed from Mother’s. I began to suspect that Mother simply did not wish me to marry at all.

But did I say any of this to Mother? Indeed, I did not. We put Princess Eleonora in her carriage the next day, and I never saw her again.

“I am sorry, Louis,” she said when she left. “You seemed nice.”

I nodded. “You did too.”

“I have a sister,” she said. “Perhaps you could marry her.”

“Perhaps.” It was seeming unlikely that I’d marry anyone at all.

The next princess failed to remember that
Pantagruel
had been the title of the first book in Rabelais’s Gargantua series. “A princess must know our French literature, Louis,” Mother said. The mere fact that the princess in question was able to recite, from memory, the inscription on the door of the abbey gate in that book did not impress Mother.

Next came Princesses Frederica, Sophie, and Amelia. They failed Mother’s tests on calculus, crop rotation, and astronomy, respectively.

The princess prospects were dwindling, and with them, my hopes. In fact, there was only one eligible princess left, Princess Maria Luisa, sister of the clever Eleonora. She was scheduled to arrive in the coming weeks.

I was bound and determined to have a wife. I sought to do whatever was necessary to secure one.

Perhaps you think I sat down with Mother and had a talk with her about the necessity of my marrying to prevent the cessation of the French line, and that it did not help this cause to have Mother rejecting perfectly good—nay, perfectly perfect princesses for spurious reasons. If you think that, you have not been listening very carefully to my story. Could I have stood up to Mother, this tale would have ended with my marrying Princess Maria Teresa (whom I still liked and thought about every day), and raising red-haired children.

No. More desperate measures were required.

There was a witch who lived in Paris in the shadows of Notre Dame. I know it is customary to say “a woman rumored to be a witch,” for most such women hide their powers. But about this witch there could be no doubt.

For one thing, it was said she had lived there for close to a century. For another, she had green hair. I did not know whether, perhaps, people in other parts of the world had green hair, but I doubted it.

For another, it was well known that any youth who crossed her might well find himself turned into a frog.

I only found out about her existence because some of my advisors wished to run her out of Paris at least, or burn her at the stake at most.

But when I was told of the witch, I said, “I would like to meet this woman.”

“Meet her?” the Duke of Chatillon asked. “Whatever for?”

“I have my reasons, but it is very important that I see her … and that Mother does not know anything about it.”

The duke frowned. “I do not know that I can do that, Your Highness.” He was afraid of Mother too.

I said, “True, Mother is your queen, but I will be your king someday. Indeed, my father almost died this past summer. Though I am dearly glad he did not, it just shows that circumstances can change in an instant. Surely, it is worthwhile to stand in my good graces if there is no real risk of Mother finding out.”

The duke considered. “I suppose if there was no risk.”

“I certainly would not tell Mother that I saw a witch. If you do not tell her, how is she to know?”

Finally, the duke agreed, and that night we snuck out the back door of the castle where black horses waited to carry us into Paris under cover of darkness. We wore black cloaks too. It was quite an adventure, much like when I snuck out to visit Father, but I would be in even greater trouble if this escapade were discovered.

It was darker still when we reached the witch’s garret. There was no light in the doorway, nor even a candle glowing within. Still the duke knocked on her door.

“Are you certain this is the right place?” I asked. “There is no light.” A bird, a crow or perhaps a raven, swooped down from the door-frame, narrowly missing my head.

“The witch is expecting you, Your Highness, and she has been sworn to secrecy.”

Indeed, the door opened, and a gnarled hand beckoned me in.

It was with great trepidation that I advanced into the garret. What was I doing? There could be an assassin waiting. It could all be a conspiracy.

But I reminded myself that visiting the witch had been my own idea. Besides, one must take risks in order to secure rewards.

I stepped inside.

The dirt floor felt cold even through my shoes, and the room was darker than anyplace I had ever been. The door slammed behind me. I jumped as if I had heard an assassin’s pistol.

But no sooner had the door closed than the room blazed with light, more light than I had ever seen indoors, even at Versailles. Yet there was no flame. I could not see the source of it. The room I occupied seemed spacious and comfortable, unlike the cell I had seen from outside, and the woman who greeted me was beautiful, my own age, and with long black hair. I shielded my eyes and said to the young lady, “I am here to see the witch, Kendra.”

“I am she.”

She did not hold out her hand. I would not have taken it had she done so. She did not curtsey either.

“But…” I remembered the descriptions I had heard, a green-haired crone. Indeed, I recalled the withered claw I had seen only a moment before.

“I can change my shape at will. It comes in handy … in spell casting.”

And in escaping the blame, I suspected, if something went wrong. But I chose not to say it. I had more pressing business.

I squinted in the bright light. Her eyes were the color of emeralds.

“I require your help.”

Those eyes met mine for a moment in what I thought was sympathy.

But then she began to laugh.

“You, the great dauphin of France, need my help?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Her laughter halted abruptly. “And you think me—what? A faerie? Or a genii in a bottle, perhaps. Witches do not grant wishes. We do as we please.”

I was prepared for this, though not for her disrespectful manner of speech. “I will pay you handsomely for your work.” I drew a small sack of coins from my cloak.

“What care I for your money?”

“Most people care quite a bit.”

“Then give it to them. You have enough, and many in Paris are going without. I am not most people. I am none but myself.”

I stepped back, amazed at the cheek of her. “And I am your prince. I could order you beheaded if I wished, or hanged.”

“If you could find me.” She waved her arm, and in an instant, she was gone. In her place was only a black crow. It flew at me, and I shielded my face. When I uncovered it, another woman stood before me. She had red hair and was the image of Princess Maria Teresa. I gasped.

But when she spoke, Kendra’s voice came out instead. “The ones hanged as witches were not witches. Real witches cannot be caught, and I am a real witch.”

Staring into her eyes, especially now that she was disguised as the princess I had most wanted to marry but would now never see again, I felt about to boil over with frustration and rage.

“Please!” I begged. “Please, you must help me! You are my only hope, the only one to whom I can turn!” And then I poured out the whole story of six princesses, mine for the asking, six princesses gone. I will spare you the details of my crying and gnashing of teeth, but suffice it to say that teeth were, indeed, gnashed. “My mother is determined to sabotage every possibility. You must stop her.”

Kendra waved her hand and turned into a crone. “You say that by helping you, I would be thwarting your mother’s wishes.” This seemed to interest her. At least, her toothless mouth formed a slow grin.

“Yes. Yes! She does not wish me to marry. This is clear from her conduct.”

Kendra scratched a wart on her long nose, then turned back into a young woman. “I am sorry. ’Tis uncomfortable to be old. I would very much like to upset your mother. She has been no friend to my kind.”

It was true. Although the Parlement of Paris had convicted fewer women of witchcraft in recent decades, this was due not at all to my family’s influence, and witch hunts still occurred in outlying parts of France.