Dark Angels (17 page)

“Some rouge might help,” Monsieur told her.

Does the war between them begin again? thought Richard, because if ever a salvo between man and wife had been fired, he’d just heard it. Then a footman announced another guest, and there was the bustle of greetings and ordering of refreshments, coffee and flavored waters. Renée brought coffee to him, and he took the opportunity to hold her hand a long moment. He saw Princesse Henriette abruptly put down the drink she’d just finished, clutch at her side, and lean over. “What pain!” she said. There was an odd, long moment in which her eyes locked with Richard’s. “I’m poisoned,” she said. And then she began to fall as Richard, not even knowing what he did, leaped over chairs and past floor cushions to catch her in his arms.

“Take her upstairs! Put her to bed! Fetch a physician!”

Monsieur shouted orders as Richard carried her up the stairs, taking them two at a time, feeling her body convulse in his arms, seeing perspiration stand out in beads on her face, her dogs nipping and yapping at his heels.

“A
LICE
! A
LICE
!”

Startled, Alice put down the book she was reading. Renée was fairly screaming.

“She’s ill. They’ve taken her to her bedchamber. Oh, do come quickly! Richard carried her in his arms,” Renée chattered hysterically as they ran to the princess’s bedchamber. “She was shaking in his arms, groaning with every step!”

It was pandemonium in the bedchamber: servants, maids of honor, her ladies, Monsieur’s gentlemen. Monsieur was at the bedside. At the sound of a groan so agonizing that it made the hair on the back of her neck rise, Alice pushed aside enough people to be near the bed.

Sweet Jesus, she thought. The princess’s face was gray, her lips spread against her teeth in a grimace. She saw Alice.

“Poison.”

She whimpered the word and began to convulse. Women nearby screamed as Alice and a few others grabbed her arms and legs so that she would not hurt herself. Then there was a physician there. He held open the princess’s eyes as her teeth clattered against themselves in a ghastly sound, poked at her abdomen, and the cry she gave made Alice loose the arm she held.

“Colic,” the physician said.

“I’m dying!” Princesse Henriette shrieked.

Her husband fell back in a faint, and now people rushed to care for him, but Alice looked for Richard, who stood with Barbara and Renée near long windows.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“Princesse Mickelberg came to call,” Renée choked out.

“We were in the summer room, she was lying on cushions, sleeping,” said Barbara, her face white with shock at all that was happening around them.

“Madame de Lafayette said she looked ill.” It was Renée.

She has looked ill, thought Alice, since the moment she returned. A terrible suspicion formed in her mind, too monstrous to be borne.

“A servant came with coffee, with flavored waters,” continued Renée, her words punctuated by small, half-hysterical gasps because the princess was screaming again, as Monsieur was carried from the chamber, the physician ordering much of the crowd from the bedchamber with him.

“She drank some of her chicory water,” said Renée.

“Then leaned over,” said Richard.

“She said she was poisoned,” said Barbara.

“She said that?”

Richard, hearing the word
poison
again, ran from the chamber, down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.

“Where’s the Englishman going?” d’Effiat asked as Richard ran by him. “I was in the pantry today.”

“Were you?” Ange was calm. “You were thirsty, I would imagine.”

“Yes,” said d’Effiat.

Richard burst into the dining salon. It took him only a moment to see that all the cups had been cleared away. He found a cluster of footmen in an antechamber, talking in furious, upset whispers.

“Show me what was served for refreshment just now.”

One took him to the end of the chamber to a small pantry. There were silver and pewter cups and rare Venetian glass bottles on the shelves, a brewing pot for coffee, the brazier upon which to heat it, on a table.

“Madame didn’t drink coffee,” Richard said.

“No, she always has chicory water in the afternoon,” said the footman nervously. He pointed to a bottle, which Richard grabbed, taking a clean goblet from those arranged on the shelf.

“What are you doing?” Alice had followed him. “Where are the cups, the glasses?”

“They’re cleared away,” began the footman.

“Who cleared them?” Alice demanded.

He shrugged, looking from Alice to Richard with a sudden, frightened, stubborn expression that said, Whatever may have happened, it is no fault of mine, never was, never will be.

“Leave us.” Alice pointed to the goblet Richard had in his hand. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Actually, I have no idea. I just felt compelled to make certain that it doesn’t disappear. Does it seem odd to you that the cups are already cleared away?”

She nodded, her face as pale as the beautiful lace at her sleeves.

“I’m going to Paris to the residence of the English ambassador to tell him what has occurred.”

Alice clasped her hands together. “Yes. Tell him to come at once.”

“Do you think she’s been poisoned?”

“I don’t know. It’s too awful to contemplate. Where’s her cup?”

“Her cup?” Richard repeated.

“She has a favorite cup, always drinks from it.”

“I have no idea.” Richard handed her the goblet of chicory water. “Hide that.”

“Hurry, Lieutenant Saylor!”

At best, it was going to be several hours before he returned.

W
HEN
R
ICHARD RETURNED,
he came without the ambassador, who had not been home. He’d waited until he could stand it no longer, then left a note. He found all of the servants, grooms, cooks from the kitchen, footmen, maids, weederwomen, gardeners, in the hall that led to the withdrawing chamber that led to the princess’s bedchamber. In the withdrawing chamber, Renée was huddled with Alice and Barbara. Everyone was on his or her knees, praying. She’s no better, Richard thought. He knelt beside Renée, who put her arms around his neck and cried. It was improper to embrace him, but no one cared. Many were weeping, holding on to one another. Richard stroked her back, met the gaze of Alice, who closed her eyes again and continued her own prayers.

“She hates the priest attending her,” said Renée, sobbing into the front of his shirt and waistcoat. “She wants her confessor, the one Monsieur dismissed, but he’s so far away. Oh, I don’t want her to die. What shall I do if she dies? Where shall I go?”

Richard brought her hands to his heart, held them there. “You’ll go to your father’s and wait for me.” He made his way over to where Alice knelt.

“Is there any further talk of poison?” he whispered.

“That priest won’t let her speak of it.” Alice jerked out the words, her eyes angry, her face streaked with tears. “Whenever she does, he tells her to mind her soul, to make peace with God, to accuse no one. He tells her she is a sinner! I hate him. But she did say to Monsieur that he hadn’t loved her for a long time, but that this was unjust, that she’d never abandoned him. He wept like a child.”

“What was unjust?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant.”

A servant came out carrying a bowl of blood. They’d bled her, a remedy for sickness. A footman brought soup, but word soon passed around the withdrawing chamber that she couldn’t eat it.

“She says she’s cold.” Alice brought news she’d gathered after a discussion with those near the doorway of the bedchamber. “She says her hands and feet are numb. She said a moment ago that if she weren’t a Christian, she would kill herself. They’ve sent for the king.”

She sat on the floor beside Barbara like a doll whose stuffing was gone; Barbara leaned back against the wall, her lovely face swollen from crying.

“It’s my dream,” Barbara whispered. She had bitten her lip so hard that blood was beading. “I always thought it was me, and all the time it must have been her.”

“Hush, Ra, hush, darling.”

They hugged each other, and after a time Barbara dozed, not waking when a stir swept through the chamber as someone tall and magnificently dressed strode by without a glance or word to anyone.

“That’s Condé,” Alice said to Richard, “your great general.”

N
IGHT HAD FALLEN.

The long hours of shock and despair had exhausted everyone, and some were dozing, sleeping on the floor like dogs. Richard stepped past bodies, positioned himself in the doorway. The Prince de Condé sat in a chair, his hands holding Princesse Henriette’s. Richard would not now have recognized her, her hair matted with sweat, her eyes sunken, agony etching her face.

Her friends, people he didn’t know who’d arrived while he was gone, as well as ladies-in-waiting, knelt at small, individual wooden prayer stands, beads of their rosaries working through their fingers. Windows were open to the night. Monsieur wept into his hands. I wasn’t able to protect her, thought Richard. He’d not even suspected she needed protection of her life. There was a dull ache in his chest.

“Move aside,” someone ordered, and Richard stepped to one side to allow another physician to enter the bedchamber, his long gown making whispering sounds against his legs.

“Sent by King Louis himself,” he heard d’Effiat whisper. “His own doctor.”

A sudden impulse rose in him to cross the space between them and choke the life out of d’Effiat. As if he read his thought, d’Effiat met Richard’s eyes. Henri Ange rose, led d’Effiat to a dark corner.

“He knows,” said d’Effiat.

“No,” said Ange. “He doesn’t know he knows.” His eyes glinted. “It’s more amusing that way.”

Richard glanced over to where the young women were. Renée lay with her head in Barbara’s lap. Barbara sat against the wall, her eyes closed. Alice was on her knees, praying again. The sight surprised Richard and, for some reason, moved him.

Servants went by, carrying towels, bowls of water. The princess’s moans, as yet another physician put his hands on her, were unceasing.

W
HY DO THEY NOT
give her an antidote? thought Alice, her prayers straying. Unless there was no antidote…. She moved to sit back against the wall like Barbara. She watched Richard, who was pacing up and down. The waiting was interminable. She had forgotten how many chimes the clock had last rung, or the church bell, had no idea what time it was, except that it was dark. This afternoon she had been in the garden, talking to Barbara about Paris, about the seamstress they would visit, about Notre Dame, the medieval cathedral that Barbara would love, about the Luxembourg, a grand palace belonging to a grand French princess, where they would call with Princesse Henriette to drink chocolate and Barbara would see, yet again, the luxury and sophistication that this royal family took as its due, and with time, enough of that would make someone like John Sidney seem a rustic. It all seemed days away, another time, another life.

She fixed on d’Effiat and Henri Ange, huddled into one corner of the withdrawing chamber. Earlier Beuvron had been sobbing, weeping hysterically, and now he was shaped into a ball on the floor, his face to the wall, his back to everyone. Ange’s face was remote, sad, and Alice had seen him praying when Princesse Henriette’s screams had driven her to hold her own hands over her ears. Could they have helped Monsieur to poison her? Was such an evil thing possible?

Musketeers entered the room, their swords and uniforms intimidating; Alice stood. People began to drop into curtsies or bow. Richard made his way to her. “What is it?”

“The king,” said Alice, and she dropped into a low curtsy as King Louis and a group of women drenched in perfume and jewels swept through the chamber. With Richard at her side, she fought her way to the door; everyone was crowding into it, moving themselves into position along the walls to see this, the king of France come to say good-bye to the foremost princess in his kingdom. King Louis knelt by Princesse Henriette, who had been moved to a cot by the window, spoke softly to her.

“Who are they all?” whispered Richard.

Another time she would tell him the women were the king’s cousin, his queen, his mistresses, current and past. Another time she would cluck her tongue, but now she just felt a sadness so deep, it was impossible to speak.

The entourage gathered around Princesse Henriette, talking in low voices with her, and she, racked with pain, held out her hand and had something to say to each of them. Everyone wept. Though only those near could hear what was being said, no one along the wall moved. Everyone knew they were witnessing history.

King Louis spoke with his brother, with the physicians, asking them what remedies they’d tried. He leaned over and held Princesse Henriette’s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss. Once they’d been lovers; that’s what the scandal sheets said. They spoke. Those nearest whispered the words into the ears of those who couldn’t hear. You are losing a good friend, she told the king. Don’t leave me, he said to her.