Bitter Greens (33 page)

The temptation was too much. Despite a hard lump of fear in my throat, I nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll do it.’

For the next week or so, I looked over the unsuspecting crowd of courtiers for a man I thought I could marry.

I was fastidious. One man was too corpulent, another too short, yet another ungracious when he lost at cards. One had an unpleasant odour I could not tolerate, yet another looked like a sack of potatoes in the saddle. I could only marry a man who could outride me.

He had to be clever (no matter what Athénaïs said), and he had to love dancing, and he had to make me laugh, and he had to be kind. My list of desires grew longer and longer, and the list of possible men soon had no names on it at all.
Charlotte-Rose, stop being so finicky
, I told myself.
There must be someone who’s to your taste.

A hunt was organised for the following morning, the King’s huntsmen having spotted a brown bear in the forest. Bear hunting was considered grand sport at this time of year, when the hunting of most game was banned. Anticipating a grand chase through the forest, I dressed in my most dashing scarlet riding dress with a close-fitting hat of beaver fur. I could not afford my own hunters but was able to borrow a horse for the day – thanks to Athénaïs – a tall strong gelding with rather a wild eye.

‘Are you sure you can handle him?’ the groom asked as he lifted me into the saddle.

I hitched my knee over the pommel and straightened the folds of my skirt. ‘I certainly hope he puts up a good fight,’ I answered, touching his flank lightly with my whip. The gelding snorted and pranced. Both the groom and I smiled.

As I trotted out into the courtyard, filled with horses and men and dogs, I felt someone’s eyes on me. Glancing around, I saw a square young man with a wig of rather military cut, its long curls tied back with a green ribbon to match his coat. He sat astride a very beautiful roan mare, with a finely bred head and beautiful lines. What I wouldn’t have given for a horse like that.

Our eyes met and he smiled. I felt my cheeks warm. I was not the only woman to ride to the hunt, but the others were all either mounted on fat old nags or were seated in a horse-drawn buggy, prepared to follow the hunt as best they could on the country roads.

The King rode out, resplendent as usual in a feathered hat, an elaborately curled wig and a greatcoat embroidered all over with gold and crimson.

The horns sounded. The King led the way, his favourites clustered about him. I waited for them to be well on their way before allowing my impatient horse to follow. The man in green had waited too. His roan mare was close behind me as we rode out, both horses fretting at the bridle, wanting to gallop.

I let the gelding have his head as soon as we reached the road. He was fast and powerful, muscles moving under grey skin like satin. I could have sung with joy as we raced along the avenue of trees, the wind sharp enough to burn my cheeks. I heard hooves hammering fast behind me and
half-turned
my head. The man in green was close on my heels. I laughed and leant forward, gathering my reins tighter. At once, the gelding lengthened his stride. Clods of earth flew up from his hooves. The parade of poplars flashed past, bright green leaves gilded with sun. I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms and rode blindly, my body rocking easily with the thundering motion of the horse. Against my closed eyelids, warm light and cool shade flickered.

‘Do you always ride with your eyes shut?’ the man in green asked me,
as the horses gathered in a clearing at the outskirts of the forest. The chief huntsman was examining a trace of bear droppings under a tree, the dogs whining and straining at their leash.

‘Not always,’ I answered. ‘Not if I was racing cross-country.’

‘You race often?’

‘Not as often as I’d like,’ I sighed. The Duchesse’s idea of exercise was a slow promenade around the rose garden. I had not ridden once since entering her service.

‘We should have good sport today,’ he said.

I smiled. ‘I live in hope,’ I answered over my shoulder, turning to join the chase again.

The horns rang out and the dogs were belling. We raced a good course, down a long valley with plenty of fallen trunks to jump, and then a wonderful gallop along the ridge. Ahead, I heard the roar of a cornered bear. I reined in my horse, coming into the clearing carefully.

A shaggy brown bear was held at bay against a stand of beeches by a pack of barking dogs. A row of huntsmen with spears closed in around it. I was surprised that the bear was not bigger. It was only a head taller than me and looked rather cross-eyed. A dog rushed in and closed its jaws upon the bear’s flank, and the poor beast yowled in pain.

I turned my face away and saw the King sitting on his black stallion nearby. He was smiling. Spurs glinted on the heels of his boots, and his stallion’s satiny sides were torn and bleeding. The bear roared in pain as one of the huntsmen skewered it with the heavy spear, its end braced into the ground. Another spear was thrust into its soft belly, and the bear rocked on its feet. It swiped out, sending another dog flying. Then a third spear was thrust through its throat. The bear fell heavily, blood spraying across the grass. A huntsman ran forward and drove a spear down through its shoulder, pinning the beast to the ground.

The King held up his hand. At once, a servant stepped forward with a mounting block. The King stepped down, fastidiously straightened the embroidered cuffs of his greatcoat, then held out his hand. A carving knife was ceremoniously placed in his palm. He sauntered over to the whimpering
bear, dropped to one knee and ritualistically slashed at the bear’s throat till the head rolled free. The King then stood, holding high the severed head, careful to hold it away from his body so the dripping blood would not stain his satin breeches. All the courtiers cheered and congratulated him heartily on his skill, his courage, his valour. The King smiled and inclined his head, dropping the bear’s head in a sack.

‘Would you like a drop of Armagnac?’

I turned to see the man in the green coat holding out a silver flask. I smiled rather mechanically, and took the flask and held it to my lips, tilting back my head so I could drink deeply. The liquor seared a golden path from my lips to my gullet, and then spread a warm haze all through my body.

‘Thank you.’ I passed the flask back to him.

He made a wry face at the lightness of the container, then swiftly tossed off the remainder. ‘I love the chase but have not much time for the kill,’ he said. ‘And, to be truthful, why kill a bear? It’s not as if it tastes particularly good.’

‘I cannot see the King wearing the bearskin to court,’ I answered, casting an ironic glance at the King in his fine plumed hat and tight satin breeches.

He laughed. ‘Perhaps he wants to spread it on his bed,’ he said suggestively.

‘I can’t imagine any of his mistresses enjoying that. Bearskins must stink.’

He raised an eyebrow in surprise at my frankness. I blushed and silently cursed, once again, my wayward tongue. ‘Thank you for the Armagnac,’ I said and turned my horse’s head away.

To my surprise, the young man followed me. ‘I’ve never seen a girl toss back a shot like that before.’

‘I’m a Gascon. We invented Armagnac. I’m sure we take it in with our wet-nurses’ milk.’

He tilted his head, his gaze quizzical. ‘I see. Perhaps that’s why we haven’t met before. I am Louis de Mailly, the Marquis de Nesle.’

‘I am Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force,’ I answered proudly,
rolling my ‘r’s with immense gusto. ‘Though the reason why I’ve been absent from court in recent years is that I serve Madame de Guise, who has an inexplicable liking for the provinces.’

‘Ah, yes. I know Madame de Guise.’

‘She thinks the court is a cesspit of lust and fornication,’ I said sadly.

‘If only it was,’ the Marquis said.

I was startled into a laugh. He grinned back at me. I felt a little jolt of excitement. He brought his horse in close beside mine, so close that the toe of his boot brushed my dress. Companionably, we rode through the trees, following the huntsmen who carried the dead bear swinging on a pole. We talked lightly of the court, and various scandalous affairs, and the new fashion for broad-brimmed hats and other such things.

When I returned my borrowed gelding to the stable, I asked the groom, in an idle sort of way, ‘The man in the green coat, the one on that lovely roan … who is he?’

‘The Marquis de Nesle? He’s cousin to the Grand Condé,’ the groom answered, understanding that I did not need his name but his lineage.

I bit my lip. The Grand Condé, Louis de Bourbon, was one of the richest and most powerful men at court and second cousin to the King. I would want for nothing if I was to marry into that family. And really, the Marquis de Nesle was very handsome, in a slapdash sort of way. And he had made me laugh.

If I must make a man fall in love with me, it might as well be someone I like
, I thought.

But first I had to acquire a lock of his hair or some fingernail parings.

I dared not bribe any of his servants, for I could not risk even the faintest suspicion of witchcraft. Witches were burnt to death, and my noble blood would not be enough to save me. Less than two years earlier, the Marquise de Brinvilliers had been tortured, then beheaded, her body burnt at the stake and her ashes flung into the wind. She had been accused of poisoning her father and two brothers, as well as many other unfortunates who had stood in her way.

The Marquise’s death had sent ripples of unease all through the court. Friends and acquaintances of hers had found themselves interrogated, and one of the most important of the King’s financial advisors, a man called de Pennautier, had found himself on trial too. He was eventually cleared in July 1677 and returned to court, but no one much liked having to eat with him.

Then, only a few months ago, a well-known Parisian fortune-teller had been arrested, accused of sorcery and murder. No doubt knowing she too faced torture and execution, she had delayed her trial by warning that the King was in danger and that there was a plot afoot to poison him. The King had appointed a royal taster to sample all his food and drink, which took so long it meant that his soup was always cold. At once, cold soup became all the rage.

All the court could talk of was poison and treason and soothsayers and satanic rites. There were rumours that children were being kidnapped off the streets of Paris to make blood baths for some rich noblewoman. The King’s police force arrested a gang of alchemists, sorcerers, fortune-tellers and suspected poisoners who, it was said, made a brisk business selling ‘inheritance powders’ to assist people in getting hold of legacies sooner than expected. In terror, the King’s taster employed his own taster, who then employed his own taster, until every meal eaten by the King had to pass through such a chain of tasters that the King received only the barest mouthful. Everyone took to carrying little dogs around with them so they could feed them titbits off their plate, and so make sure their food was free of poison too.

With the court a seething cauldron of suspicion, it was not a good time to draw attention to myself by asking for locks of hair, or fingernail parings, or vials of blood. I would have to be a great deal more subtle.

I prepared myself carefully for my next encounter with the Marquis. I wore my most becoming gown, with a cunningly padded bodice that gave me at least the illusion of a cleavage. I wore low-heeled slippers so I wouldn’t tower over him (he was rather short, I must admit), and had Nanette coil my hair about a hot poker till I had a mass of dancing ringlets.
I applied my maquillage extremely carefully, choosing a patch in the shape of a galloping horse in subtle reference to our meeting. Only then did I sally forth to the gaming rooms, a little ferment of excitement in the pit of my stomach.

The salons were crowded, the men wearing heavy elaborately curled wigs and long brocade waistcoats, the women with hair dressed in tight cascading ringlets
à la Athénaïs
. The room was hot and hazed with smoke from the candles, and footmen carried about trays of silver goblets filled with champagne.

The Marquis de Nesle was sitting at a basset table, his cravat rumpled and his wig askew. As I approached, he seized his wig and dashed it to the floor, crying,
‘Mille diables!
The bank has all the luck tonight.’

‘Maybe a new player will break his luck.’ I slid into the seat opposite him.

The Marquis’ face lit up in recognition but I ignored him, smiling sweetly at the Duc d’Orléans, who sat sideways in his chair, the tails of his salmon-pink satin coat hanging to the floor. He raised a quizzical eyebrow and slurred, ‘Ah, the
petite mademoiselle
from Gascony … the one who likes poking about in dark corners.’

‘Are we here to chit-chat or to play?’ I demanded.

‘Well said,’ the Marquis de Nesle cried, jamming his wig back on again. ‘Deal,
monsieur
.’

I bent all my concentration to the game. At first, I played conservatively, taking my measure of the other players and keeping an eye on what cards were turned. In all those long tedious afternoons playing with the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting, I had learnt to memorise what cards were declared so I could calculate which ones remained in the pack and place my bids accordingly. I also found the Marquis ridiculously easy to read, for his broad dark face showed every thought that flitted through his brain. The Duc d’Orléans was not so easy but I observed him carefully and began to notice a few little mannerisms that gave his hand away.