Goddess (4 page)

I
DON’T KNOW WHY
they call it deflowering. There’s nothing floral about it. It hurts. They should tell you that. Someone should warn you. Perhaps if you have a mother—but I never did. I wasn’t ready. I don’t suppose you ever are.

Still, let’s face it: d’Armagnac was an excellent choice to be a trespasser upon my virginity. Rich as Croesus, foolishly generous to his women, almost as powerful as the King. If only I’d felt content to be a rich man’s mistress.

I’m no peasant. We were luckier than most—we had an apartment overlooking the great courtyard. An attic, certainly, but in the world of Versailles a cupboard was a chateau. It’s true that when I was a child, my clothes had always been worn by someone else before me, but there’s no shame in that. It’s how most of the world lives. Papa couldn’t bear to see me looking tatty. I grew up bearing the best-wrought blade at my belt. I was used to fine linen against my skin, blouses and breeches left behind in the Grande Écurie by young noblemen who escaped my father’s grasp or graduated to the Guards.

My boots were always well-heeled and shiny with pig fat, but it wasn’t until d’Armagnac took me into his entourage that I felt the joy of sliding my feet into boots meant for me, into leather not already moulded over the years into another’s shape—boots that needed no mending, without loose nails and creases made by someone else’s foot. I can remember the feel of it, even now.

The softest leather imaginable—they seemed almost too soft for riding and perhaps even for walking, but they pinched like blazes. Gold breeches, especially tailored to my legs—dear Lord, what a sight I must have been. Can you imagine? Like some creature of the darkness, escaped from a country fair—or a fool from the Comédie-Française. I thought I was gorgeous, in the same way that a peacock imagines that the tail is the bird.

La.

I can laugh now. At the time, the cut of my cuffs, the lace on my blouse, were matters of great importance to me—and to d’Armagnac. In my defence, lest you think me one of those trivial women who worries only about her wardrobe, I grew up in a palace where good tailoring and statecraft were indistinguishable, where courtiers believed that a misjudged earring might lead to exile and ruin. And occasionally they were right.

None of that mattered to my father, of course, who simply believed, as soldiers do, that so long as your boots and belt were polished and your sword sharp, you were fit to serve God Himself.

D’Armagnac was a different matter altogether. He thought nothing of spending hundreds of
louis
on collars or stockings, which I suppose is reasonable if you’re as rich as Cardinal Richelieu.

His horses were the finest in Europe—besides the King’s, of course. His carriages were made by the greatest master coach-builders. His shoes were always crafted by the same old cobbler from his chateau in Lunéville who knew every wrinkle on his noble feet, in leather from his own herd, specially bred for the purpose. He carried Toledo steel and English linen kerchiefs, and a fan made from the tail feathers of some monstrous Egyptian parrot.

So his mistress—yes, even one more accustomed to stable muck than salons—must dress like a
duchesse
. Or a
duc
, in my case.

D’Armagnac moved me into his Paris mansion near the river—my own apartments, no less. I was grateful to get away from Versailles, I admit—just a half a day’s ride, but a world apart. I lived once again in the centre of the city I remembered from my earliest years, and had always loved, often missed. Where Versailles was all silk and strutting, a walled garden stuck out in the middle of nowhere—a dragon eating its own tail—the city was my pathway into the world.

He gave me everything I desired and quite a few things I hadn’t known existed. There were finely stitched breeches cut to my own measurements, for days when I was riding or fencing or being a boy, as well as a satin gown, and one of green linen, and embroidered petticoats, for the evenings we spent together.

I had silks, a hat with peacock feathers, earrings of garnet clusters, fruit from the garden that I didn’t have to steal. Women who’d known me all my life brought me breakfast on a tray.

Just like here. Except in the Hôtel d’Armagnac they were paid to smile.

And he gave me a sword. I have it still—not here, it’s in Paris, with my ball gowns and jewels and the dagger with the pearl grip I bought in Spain; my precious things. All packed into a chest, waiting for me to return. It has a pommel shaped like an acorn, and the guard twined with oak leaves worked in silver. The sword, not the dagger, you understand. I haven’t used it for years—I grew too tall for it, and it didn’t suit my reach, but I couldn’t part with it.

That’s not true. I did sell it once, when things were dire, but I bought it back from the same fellow as soon as I had a few
louis
. Took a loss on it, even though I gave the ruffian a good shaking, but … Ah, such things happen. It’s the lot of the poor to be ever in greater debt.

How can that be? Seventeen hundred years now since Christ came to sort out our problems, and where are we? People still as poor as ever. I know. I’ve been among them, many a time. And made good again, just as soon as I could.

In those months with d’Armagnac, I’d think: it’s not so hard, becoming rich; why don’t all those beggars and whores just try a little, work a little, smile a little at the right man? It doesn’t take much. If I can do it, so can they. Never mind being meek—don’t wait to inherit the kingdom—rob it, grab it, do what you must.

But it’s not so easy. I see that now. You have the fine sword and the rubies and then they slide through your fingers like flour, and the next thing you know, you’re pinning radishes in someone’s hair.

So.

That’s what happened.

D’Armagnac brought it upon himself. Kept me hidden in the city, far away from the court gossips. I could ride out to the country, to Montmartre, for a breath of air. But I wasn’t allowed to go to the fencing
salles.
I had to drill each day by myself, in his portrait gallery—which was amusing enough at first, but without an opponent your moves start to get clumsy, your wrist a little lazy. So he bought me a fencing master, Séranne.

You see? If he hadn’t locked me up in that house, it would never have happened. Any of it. I might still be there, eating sweetmeats and bleeding onto satin sheets and having someone else do the laundry.

But instead there was Séranne, every day, with his southern manners and dark eyes and sweaty chest, while d’Armagnac was in the country with his wife and children or at court with the King. So you can’t blame me. Can you?

S
HE LETS
S
ÉRANNE IMAGINE
he’s seducing her. It makes him happy. He’s gorgeous. Strong. Fine ankles. Still has all his teeth. He dreams of riches, of velvet breeches and a fine sword, of the King one day noticing his talent—his face—and begging him to become a chevalier, a gentleman of the chamber, an adopted son. One day.

He wants her to move to Versailles with him, where he will sit at the right hand of the Sun King. Heaven.

To her, Versailles is a hellhole, a place of dust and horse shit and old men. She insists she will never return. Even Paris starts to feel like a prison. The whole city is there, waiting for her. She knows it. But she’s not permitted to wander the streets, to go to the Opéra, to ride alone.

She has to get away. From d’Armagnac. Everything. She whispers about it in the dark.

‘Run away with me.’

Séranne settles back on the bed, his hands behind his head, grinning. ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Who cares? We’ll be together.’

‘Are you serious?’ His smile vanishes. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Julia. I only just arrived. My destiny lies here.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘I was born for it—for this.’

She considers that unlikely. He wouldn’t last a month at Versailles. She won’t last another month here in Paris.

‘But if you love me …’

‘Can you doubt it, my darling?’

‘Then?’

He sits up. ‘No.’

‘We could go south, to Marseille. Your home.’

‘Especially not there.’

She slides a hand slowly across his chest. The skin is tight against his rib cage. Something stirs inside her. She blinks it away. Concentrates.

‘Your family could hide us. In the castle.’

‘I’m never going back,’ he says. ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘No. I want to see it for myself.’

‘You don’t understand how lucky you are, growing up at Versailles, living in Paris.’ There’s a whine in his voice. She’s never heard that before.

‘You think so?’

‘Where else would you want to be?’

‘Almost anywhere. Away.’ She tries to slide off the bed but he holds tight to her wrist. ‘I’m sick of being locked in this house. It’s like living with my father. Worse.’

‘But you have everything you want here.’

‘Do I?’

‘Silly girl. Let me kiss you.’

She does.

For now.

T
HE MISTRESS TOOK A LOVER
. What of it? Why is that judged more harshly than the Comte taking a mistress? Or two? Yet it is.

D’Armagnac didn’t look too fondly upon it, as you might imagine. I didn’t hide it from him—how could I? Everyone in the house was paid to serve his needs, just as I was, and that included telling him my every word and action. There were arguments—threats. Voices were raised. But I was used to fighting with my father, when only a fist to the face would end the debate, whereas d’Armagnac, bless him, was only used to arguing with his fellow courtiers, who can play a nastier hand than me, but do it in whispers. I was expected to grovel, of course, to weep and beg forgiveness. But it’s not in my nature. Instead I stood my ground.

He dismissed Séranne immediately. I was locked in my bedchamber for two days until the great man was summoned elsewhere to deal with affairs of state, rather than a raging girl with a sword in her hand. The house fell silent again. I thought I had won. Ha!

The next week a Monsieur Maupin presented himself at my door. D’Armagnac had sent him. La, you’ve never seen such a man. Clammy and stitched tight into a coat far too small for him, stockings much the worse for wear. One of those strange little men that grow up in the city and work until dusk and live with their mothers and never see daylight. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what he was doing there, sweating in front of my door. Eventually it came out—I frightened the truth from him; he was not much more than a mouse, really.

D’Armagnac had told him to marry me.

To be more precise, d’Armagnac had paid him to marry me.

Yes, Father, for once your horrid little scowl is justified—imagine it. What could I do? A prisoner, cast upon the cesspit like an old—

Yes, perhaps I am exaggerating just a little, but nevertheless it did seem to me at first like an infamous plan. Marry me off, but keep me there, like an apple in a cool store, for the Comte’s pleasure whenever he felt the need.

But after a while, I admit, it didn’t seem so ridiculous. Monsieur Maupin was infinitely malleable, not at all interested in me or what remained of my virtue, cared only that he’d been offered a job and a purse full of gold coins and could tell his friends—if he had any—that he was on intimate terms with the King’s Master of Horse.

So I married him.

What of it?

He’s lived off my glory all these years, demanded money when I was rich, pretended he’d never heard of me when it suited him. Fair enough. I was no kind of wife to him, and he was purchased for me by d’Armagnac like a dray horse at market. It suited us all. Maupin was packed off to some dull job in some dull province—something to do with taxes, I think, God help him. D’Armagnac had the better of the bargain—a respectable married mistress. Even my father got some kind of pay-off.

And I got—well, to be honest, I’m not sure what I got out of it besides a new name, but it all seemed terribly clever and grown-up at the time.

But perhaps, now I think of it, it was me who was bought and sold. I was fourteen years of age. I had a husband and two lovers and a fine sword. I believed at the time I was buying my own freedom—that’s what they all told me—but a few weeks of married life and I was ready to fly.

T
HE KNOCK ON THE DOOR
is so soft Séranne thinks at first it’s a rat in the ceiling. He doesn’t answer. So she shouts.

‘Let me in, you idiot.’

‘Julia?’

‘Of course. Who else?’

The door crashes open. The chambermaid who shares his bed screams and grabs at the sheets.

A girl—is it?—in breeches strides into the room. ‘Get out. Now.’

The maid scrambles down the stairs, all pale buttocks and whimpering.

‘Julia, what are you doing here?’ Séranne looks as if he hasn’t slept for days. ‘It’s not safe for you.’

‘I don’t care.’

She kisses him. Urgently. Pushes him back against the mattress.

‘I’ve missed you.’ She tears at her cloak, her blouse, fumbling with laces.

Séranne pushes her away and sits up straight. ‘I came to the house. They sent me away, told me not to come back.’

She hesitates for a moment then whispers, ‘D’Armagnac knows about us.’

‘What?’

‘He has guessed.’

‘But how?’

‘Never mind,’ Julie says. ‘That’s why you were dismissed. Now he seeks retribution.’

‘How can he possibly know?’ Séranne scrambles out of bed, reaching for his breeches, his sword. ‘We’ve been so careful. Sneaking about like hunters.’

She shrugs. ‘It’s Paris. There are no secrets here.’

He runs to the window and draws the shutters closed. His sword clatters to the floor. ‘He will not find me.’

She watches him peer through a crack in the shutters out into the street below.

‘You’re afraid?’

‘Of course not,’ he says.

He’s not looking at her, doesn’t see the slight smile.

‘We could disappear.’

‘No.’

She wonders whether all young men have such soft, dark hair on their shoulders, such strong thighs—wonders what Monsieur Maupin looks like without his grubby linens—decides not to mention the fact that she is married just yet.

‘Can you think of a better idea?’ she asks.

‘We’ll lay a false scent,’ says Séranne. ‘I’ll take another mistress.’

‘An excellent solution—for you, at least. The mistress’s lover takes a mistress. You would be willing to suffer that—for me?’ She smiles. ‘Ah, but it looks like you already have.’ She waves in the direction of the stairs, the maid.

‘Very droll, Julia. You think of an alternative.’

He’s angry now. This isn’t how she planned it. She climbs onto the bed, draws the quilt around her.

‘I can’t think,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid. D’Armagnac’s anger is terrifying.’

‘We’ll deny everything.’

‘You don’t understand. You’ve never seen him in a temper.’

‘I’ll protect you, pet.’ He comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed.

‘You?’

‘Have faith in me, darling.’

‘D’Armagnac is the most powerful man in France. And you are …’ She pushes herself up and away from the bed, laces up her blouse.

‘My blood is as noble as his.’

‘Of course.’

Séranne breathes in slowly, glancing down at his scarred belly, his wiry arms. He is strong. His blade is sharp. He will not be shoved around—not by her, not by d’Armagnac. ‘I’ll need money.’

‘How much this time?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll send you a message. You should go.’

She is already at the door. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll devise a plan of some kind.’

‘I know you will.’

But he doesn’t. Why should he? He fears no man, can beat anyone in a duel—well, possibly not his mistress, but any man, certainly.

Which he does. Inevitably. Stupidly. One dark night behind the convent of the Carmelites. Some fool who insulted him at the dice table, called him a southern catamite or some such thing, and he doesn’t know exactly what that means but it doesn’t sound noble and he challenges and they fight and it’s over fast but not without a great deal of screaming as his opponent dies at his feet and the seconds come running, shouting at him, and it’s never like this in the fencing
salles
, where people get back up after a bout even if a little scratched, but they never scream and certainly never die.

The seconds don’t honour the dead or the sacred duelling ritual, not for a moment. They clutch at the body and weep and threaten Séranne with assassination, with vile poxes and plagues, with the law.

Next morning, the news swirls around the city. The police are alerted, the Lieutenant-General himself—La Reynie, the mysterious, dread lord of Paris—takes an interest. He sends his dogs out. Issues orders.

Julie plays her card.

‘There’s nothing for it. They’re calling you a murderer, a criminal. We’ll have to leave the city.’

‘Never!’

‘But my darling …’ She knows she is pleading—for his safety, for her life. ‘The dungeons.’

‘They can’t hurt me.’

‘Oh, they can. Believe me.’

‘It was a fair fight,’ he says.

‘The King has issued endless decrees against duelling,’ says Julie. ‘You know that. The police turn a blind eye only if nobody gets hurt. And you—’

‘He insulted me.’

‘He’s a nobleman. They do that.’

‘But I, too, have noble blood.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘Do you doubt it?’ One hand is on his sword. ‘Do you dare?’

‘Darling, be reasonable.’ She slides her hand up his arm.

‘I mean it. I’m not going anywhere.’ Séranne pushes her away and crosses his arms. Pouts a little.

They leave the next night.

Julie chooses horses from d’Armagnac’s stable that nobody will miss much, packs a few clothes in one bag, buckles on her fine sword, and rides out through the city gates at dusk without looking back. They head south. She wears men’s clothes and a great cloak, a chevalier’s hat that used to be her father’s, feather and all—a disguise, she says. Nobody will be able to trace them. D’Armagnac will send men out, of course, and La Reynie will, too, but they’ll be searching for a man and a woman. Lovers eloping. Not two men, perhaps brothers, perhaps not. Safer on the back roads, anyway. There are bandits. Rapists.

She laughs as she rides—sometimes softly, sometimes a full-throated roar with her head thrown back.

Séranne’s not laughing. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Everything.’ Her hat nearly flies off onto the road behind her. ‘All of it. Not funny, exactly. Just—’

‘What?’

‘We’re free.’

But he was already free. He mutters it to himself, softly so she won’t hear. Before. Thriving in Paris and now look. Fuck Marseille. Never even been there. What would a village boy from Languedoc find in Marseille? Fuck the entire fucking Midi and its fucking hills. Nothing but olives and dust. Paris was the place. And now? Fuck. Back on the roads, penniless and hungry, and what the fuck are we supposed to live on? All right for her. She has no fucking idea what it’s like. Used to eating from the kitchens all hours of the day and laundry women and soft beds and good wine aplenty. Never known hardship. Never had to be tough. Three weeks of this and she’ll be begging to go home.

He’s wrong. He’s always fucking wrong.