The Courtier of Versailles E-Book

Donna Russo Morin

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

France, 1682. Louis XIV, the Sun King, is at the height of his power. The court at Versailles is a paradise for privileged young women.

Jeanne Yvette Mas Du Bois is unlike most other courtiers: her thirst for knowledge often incurs her father's brutal wrath. But her uncle encourages Jeanne's independence, secretly teaching her fencing in the palace's labyrinthine basement. When two of the king's Musketeers are beset by criminals, mere feet from Jeanne's fencing lesson, she intervenes and saves one of the Musketeers' lives.

Hidden behind her mask, Jeanne is mistaken for a man. As "Jean Luc," she is admitted to an inner circle where she learns of an assassination plot against the Queen. As Jean Luc, she is permitted to bring her intelligence and swordsmanship to bear. And as Jean Luc, she is free to love the man of her choosing... even if she can never have him.

With the Queen in jeopardy and her own double life making her privy to the tangled intrigues at court, Jeanne finds herself in a powerful, yet increasingly perilous position.

Brimming with lush period detail and vivid, unforgettable characters, The Courtier's Secret will take you into an intriguing world of pageantry, adventure, betrayals, and secrets.

“Russo Morin debuts with a novel as opulent and sparkling as Louis XIV’s court and as filled with intrigue, passion and excitement as a novel by Dumas…a feast for the senses.” -RT Book Review

Leseprobe

The Courtier of Versailles

Donna Russo Morin

Copyright (C) 2018 Donna Russo Morin

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Praise for THE COURTIER OF VERSAILLES

(previously titled THE COURTIER’S SECRET)Finalist: National Readers’ Choice Award Winner: Best First Book, RWI

"Russo Morin fills her tale with maidens, mistresses and musketeers mired in intrigue…supplying lots of action as Jeanne goes through quick costume changes, one minute a virgin about to be raped, another a daring do-gooder, rapier in hand."

-Publishers Weekly

“A novel as opulent and sparkling as Louis XIV’s court and as filled with intrigue, passion and excitement as a novel by Dumas…a feast for the senses.”

-RT Book Review

“Absolutely enchanting…refreshing and utterly exciting!”

-Front Street Reviews

“A wonderfully spun gem of a story.”

-Jenny Salyers, Armchair Reviews

"The author has a very good knowledge of the time period, as well as a gift for prose. I like her writing style and her vocabulary. I couldn't put it down. There are several twists I wasn't expecting and that is rare in books I read!”

-Historical-fiction.com

"Filled with vivid imagery, delightful dialogue, and highly spirited characters, this page turner kept me up long into the night. Ms. Russo Morin's writing style is as smooth as fine cognac, while the story's plot rolls along like thunder across the French countryside."

-Steven Manchester, Author, The Unexpected Storm and Pressed Pennies

"Exquisitely done…fabulous historical research…unforgettable characters!

-Kwips and Kritiques

"Magnifique!! Donna Russo Morin's debut novel is a delightful dance through the decadent Louis XIV era. The Courtier's Secret is intoxicating! Russo Morin has done her homework-the story moves quickly as the reader zips through this well researched time period."

-Robin Kall, host Reading With Robin 920 WHJJ

Other works by Donna Russo Morin

Gilded Summers

The Flames of Florence: Da Vinci's Disciples Book Three

The Competition: Da Vinci's Disciples Book Two

Portrait of a Conspiracy: Da Vinci's Disciples Book One

The King's Agent

To Serve a King

The Secret of the Glass

To my mother Barbara, my son Devon, my daughter-in-law Celia,Erin, Megan, Billy, and Spencer…We will always have Versailles

Dramatis Personae

*denotes historical character

JEANNE YVETTE MAS DU BOIS: Born in Paris on May 2, 1665. Daughter of Gaston Louis du Bois, the Comte de Moreuil and Adelaide Lomenie du Mas.

JULES HENRI DU MAS: Born 1643. Brother to Adelaide Lomenie du Mas, second son of the Comte de Clemont. Serves as one of the King's fencing masters. Married to Berthe de Grange. Father to two daughters.

*LOUIS XIV (1638-1715): The Sun King. Inherited the crown at the age of four from his father, Louis XIII, in 1643.

GASTON LOUIS DU BOIS: The Comte de Moreuil, born 1639. Serves as a minor member of the Counseil d'État as a finance minister.

ADELAIDE LOMENIE MAS DU BOIS: The Comtesse de Moreuil, born 1645. A member of the Bas Bleu, a society of intellectual, educated women.

RAOL LEON MAS DU BOIS: Born 1663. Former soldier and Musketeer. Overseer of the Du Bois estates and instructor at a regional academy.

LYNETTE LA MARECHAL: Born 1664. Daughter of the Duc du Vermorel. Best friend to Jeanne du Bois.

OLYMPE DE CINQUE-MARS: Born 1665. Daughter of the Marquis de Solignac. Best friend to Jeanne du Bois.

*FRANÇOIS-ATHÉNAÏS DE ROCHECHOUAART DEMORTEMART, MARQUISE DE MONTESPAN (1641-1707): Daughter of the great house of Mortemart. Educated at the Convent of St. Mary at Saintes. Married to Louis-Henri de Pardaillan de Gondrin, Marquis de Montespan, a minor Gascon noble with whom she bore two children. Became mistress of Louis XIV in 1667.

*FRANÇOIS SCARRON (1635-1719): Born in a jail, granddaughter to a Huguenot hero. Befriended by the Marquise de Montespan, she became the governess to the children of Louis XIV and Athénais.

*MONSIEUR PHILIPPE, DUC D'ORLEANS (1640-1701): Only brother to Louis XIV.

PERCY DE POLIGNAC: Born 1663. Son of the Baron L'Haire.

HENRI BOUCHER D'AUBIGNE: Born 1663. Son of the Baron d'Aubigne, former soldier, current Musketeer.

ANTOINE DE LA FERTE: Born 1662. Best friend to Henri d'Aubigne. Musketeer.

GERARD DE GRAMONT: Born 1661. Friend to Henri d'Aubigne. Musketeer.

LAURENT DE VENTADOUR: Born 1663. Friend to Henri d'Aubigne. Musketeer.

BERNADETTE FANTINE MAS DU BOIS: Born 1667. Jeanne's sister.

*FRANÇOIS MICHEL LE TELLIER, MARQUIS DE LOUVOIS (1639-1691): Minister of War under Louis XIV.

*MARIE-THÉRÈSE D’AUTRICHE (1668-1683): Daughter of Philip IV of Spain. Queen Consort of France. Married to Louis XIV in 1660.

~One~

“Are you ready, mon cher?” Uncle Jules asked, voice obscured by his protective headgear.

Jeanne nodded; her own helmet—nothing more than a tin plate with peepholes—wobbling precariously.

Jules raised his sword before his face, aiming it straight up like a finger pointing to the heavens, and bowed slightly but respectfully to his niece, the graceful move revealing a glimpse of the swordsman's prowess.

Jeanne mirrored her uncle's salute and waited, willing her lungs to do their job, to breathe deeply in and out, storing air for what was to come.

“En garde!” Jules barked.

Jeanne dropped into a crouch, half-extending her sword arm, protecting the waist with the elbow and the chest with the wrist. Her left arm hung high in the air behind her head, the forearm gracefully bent and the wrist curled, a counter-weight.

Quadricep muscles twitching with strain as they bore the brunt of her weight, biceps and triceps burning with rage at the repetition of the position for the tenth time that morning.

Her own breathing echoed back to her as it bounced against the crudely constructed helmet; the scent of the peach she'd eaten that morning still clinging to each vapor.

Jules moved. Left foot over right. Jeanne mirrored his pattern.

“Come at me, girl. Come and get me,” Jules bellowed at her, teasing her with the tip of his fine rapier.

Jeanne moved, a sequence of aggressive footwork.

“Bon, bon, good, good,” her uncle encouraged. “Now…advance!”

Lifting the toes of her front foot, she curled it up to slip both feet forward.

“Advance!”

Same move again.

“Advance, advance!”

Again. Twice. First step, a quick one.

“Bon. Now…get ready.”

Sweat dripped down her forehead, burned as it rolled into her eyes. She dare not spare a second to wipe it away. More trickled down her spine, annoying her blood-engorged skin. She dare not take a moment to blot it.

Her forearm burned red hot, muscles controlling her grip on the pommel refusing to give way.

Another parry, another thrust. She moved two steps closer.

The clangs of sword meeting sword echoed as the thin rapiers came together time and time again, reverberating in the hollow, stone chamber. Jeanne panted now.

The old empty chamber in the basement of the grand chateau of Versailles became a void in time and place, their bodies and grunts of exertion all that existed.

Jeanne listened, as vital to swordsmanship as their grip on the pommel. She listened and waited, parrying to keep her uncle moving. There it came. Just the right sshing that spoke a good slash…a grunt from her uncle. She had him on the defense. If he grunted more than she it was a good day; today could be such a day.

A feint, a parry…she pressed him almost to the wall.

Today, she thought. Maybe today shall be the day of my victory…for I am a Musketeer.

The smallest grin tickled the corner of her mouth. Parry, thrust, lun—

The chapel bells gonged; their vibration rose through the soles of their thin, flexible shoes.

The combatants froze.

“Is that—,” Jeanne began.

“The chapel calls!” her uncle cried, pulling off his headgear, his white mantle of hair falling upon his shoulders.

“I am lost!” Jeanne threw off her helmet, chocolate brown hair spilling out as gear hit stone with a thud.

Jeanne tossed her sword to Jules who caught it deftly by its grip.

“Our secret, mon uncle?”

Her uncle tossed his niece a tart glance. “You need ask?”

With a small grin and a slight shake of the head, Jeanne bolted for the door.

“Tomorrow, dear man, oui?”

“Of course, ma petite.” Jules shooed her with a wave and a fond smile at her quickly retreating back.

Down the hall and around two corners, up one flight of stairs and down three hallways, to the closest latrine Jeanne ran. From the basement of the main building—the small one that had been Louis XIII's hunting lodge—to the back side of the south wing—just one of the many expansions made by his son—she flew. She loosened the small ribbons and strings holding her costume together as she ran, impelled by long strides of well-trained legs.

Jeanne Yvette Mas du Bois thanked the good Lord she'd spent much of her childhood in the labyrinth of a castle; she knew every winding inch of it. Yet she cursed it as she ran. It was 1682, for goodness sake. Two decades of improvements and still very few privies and most on one side of the massive palace.

In the abandoned corridor, she reached the water closet, her water closet. She slammed the door behind her and instantly felt trapped; no more than a box in the wall containing a wooden bench with a crudely covered hole from which emanated the foulest of odors, her chest heaved as she gasped for breath depleted by the long and convoluted trek. She breathed only through her mouth.

Dropping to her knees, she pulled up two boards from the crude wood flooring, retrieving the bundle of clothing sequestered beneath. Sloughing off the old knickers, shirt, and bucket-top boots that once belonged to her brother, she bundled and tied them, stashing them where the other clothes had been, the appropriate if rumpled morning gown.

“Millions of louis he spends on Aubusson and Gobelin tapestries,” Jeanne mumbled as she began to dress herself, “but hardly enough privies for half the people living here. A glorious sink hole, indeed.”

Uncounted were the drunken nobles or lost visiting diplomats urinating, defecating, or vomiting in any private corner of the mazelike corridors, staircases, or window embrasures, their struggle to reach a privy or chaise percée in time proving fruitless.

The drunks were the worst, their inebriated state dissipating any inhibitions for public elimination. They behaved quite raucously about the whole endeavor. Their obnoxious laughter disgusted Jeanne as did their hygiene habits.

Yet, somehow, the chateau remained clean; accidents disappeared quickly at the hands of the thousands of servants indentured for just such service. Louis XIV insisted Versailles, now La Maison du Roi as well as the seat of France's government, be kept immaculate. An adult response to the squalor he had lived in as a child in the Louvre.

Almost dressed, the feminine and frilly stockings and undergarments of a wealthy young noblewoman soaked up the sweat still flowing from her pores, stuck to her skin. There was naught to be done; to not appear, as she must every morning, at the King's Chapel Royale, would be to provoke certain misfortune, and there remained but a minute since the first gong of the bell.

Still lacing up the front of her bodice, Jeanne kicked open the door, banging it with a crash against the hallway wall. In the empty corridor, she ran; the hard heels of her bow-festooned shoes clanked against the hardwood floor, the lacy fontange on her head bounced with each step.

Up two flights of turning stairs, she emerged next to the Hall of Battles on the ground floor and burst through the door leading out into the crowded courtyard. She blundered about, instantly blinded by the blazing light of the hot August sun reflecting off the white marble outer walls of the chateau.

It would be unseemly to run; her feet fluttered in the fastest walk possible. Upon her face a practiced smile firmly in place as she returned greetings to the multitude whose faces were but a blur. Colors and shimmers, but not a one did she see.

Back into the building, the north wing now, through the small corridor filled with courtiers and commoners—there for a glimpse of their sovereign—quickly to the door of the chapel.

Mon Dieu! The words a scream in her head.

The King led the precisely contrived procession up the aisle; the ducs, marquises, and comtes already across the threshold, the barons poised to enter.

She had missed her place! She—the daughter of the Comte de Moreuil, Gaston du Bois—must enter before the barons. To break this code of conduct, one imposed by the King himself, could bring the harshest of punishments.

She must do what she must. Wringing her hands, Jeanne bit her bottom lip, lowered large chocolate brown eyes, dipped her head, and pushed past the barons and their wives, tight-lipped women scowling at her.

If she had not already been, Jeanne would now be the juiciest tidbit on the tip of every wagging tongue today; gossip the second most preferred pastime of the courtiers, a short step behind currying favor.

She slipped into the pew where her mother and father sat; grateful the Comtesse de Cordierer and her daughter separated them.

The King, now firmly ensconced in his tribune, took no notice of her late arrival; the same could not be said for her father. She dared not turn or glance in his direction for the ire in his eye would surely burn her to the bone. The heated waves of his wrath found her.

Mademoiselle le Thibault, the comtesse's daughter stared rudely at them, wide eyes bouncing between Jeanne and her father, a spectator at a highly entertaining game.

Jeanne berated herself for giving one such as this fodder for her lurid mill. She did her best to still her twitching hands and shuddering foot. Taking deep breaths of incense-laden air, Jeanne calmed.

Father Herbert, the parish priest of Versailles, took his place at the balustrade font, vestments of mulberry tenting over his vast paunch, tall miter giving the false impression of height. Raising his arms wide as if to embrace the entire congregation, he launched into his sermon with a booming voice.

“The people of the noble land of France must thank God and the King for the greatness in which we reside. It is by their power and by their hand that we grow and prosper with such exuberance.”

He made no reference to the pope or to Rome; no priest serving the crown had any desire to spend the rest of his days in the Bastille. This sermon would serve no more purpose than to praise the King. Louis championed Gallicanism, the purely French movement whose intent meant to diminish papal authority and increase the power of the state, specifically the power of the Sun King.

“Look around you, I pray, for in these very walls is built the power of our great sovereign.”

The chapel was a paradigm of Louis' affluent dominance: the gilded scrollwork, the beautiful caryatids and atlantes sculptures, and, most especially, the altar painting. Almost as long as the wall upon which it hung, Meal at the House of Simon the Pharisee had come as a gift from the Republic of Venice in 1664, a testament to how far reaching Louis' fingers of power stretched.

Louis XIV sat tall in his velvet seat, large dark eyes raised innocently to the heavens, lids fluttering prettily now and then as the priest spoke so eloquently of him, the shy smile upon his face that of a child being praised. He craved such praise like a starving child, like the many starving who lived in his realm, craving food, any food. No matter the truth of them, words of homage thrilled him.

The expounding priest banged his fisted hand on the pulpit before him, voice rising to the heights of a screech.

“We must do whatever our King and our Lord ask, for to serve them is our only purpose in this mortal life!” The flush on Father Herbert's face spread and darkened like the culmination of his oration.

Louis slumped in his high-backed armchair, shoulders slumping, clearly disappointed the sycophantic sermon ended. He lowered his face, the self-deprecating grin slipping off the corners of his mouth.

Jeanne's hands, poised peacefully upon her lap during the sermon, began to wring once more like a washerwoman wrings a drenched cloth. Silently she cursed the brevity of the thirty-minute service. With a sidelong glance down the pew, she dared a glimpse of her father's countenance.

Like the priest's, his face burned crimson as if all the blood in his body congealed beneath is thin, white carapace. From brow to the hairline of his white wig, a dark vein pulsed with each rapid beat of his heart.

A growl rose from Jeanne's stomach, the painful knot of foreboding twisting within her. She knew what lay in store, knew with assurance it would be terrible, for she had suffered her father's wrath many times, too many. She couldn't avoid the coming storm, but she could try to outrun it.

Jeanne gathered her wide, long skirts in her fists, rushing from the pew, and jostling the Duchess standing in the aisle, standing in her way. The prim, powdered woman squeaked in protest. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Jeanne's father pushing passed her mother, the Comtesse, and her daughter, meaningless obstacles between him and his prey.

Jeanne hurried ever faster, attempting a decorous if frantic escape, but her father would not be so deprived. He came upon her with wheeling strides of his short legs and grabbed her roughly by the arm. He spoke not a word as he flew down the aisle, teeth bared in an angry snarl disguised as a smile, his daughter in tow. Jeanne curled her spine, slumping, eliminating the inch she rose above her father, an inch forever infuriating him. He yanked her along like a recalcitrant two-year-old, her humiliation mounting as they careened through hundreds of shocked courtiers.

Since May, and the court's official move to Versailles, the population had grown exponentially; close to ten thousand people now lived within the resplendent walls. The vast but crowded hallways forever crammed with courtiers, commoners, and peasants, some hoping for a chance to petition the King, others merely hoping for a glimpse of him. Past all these speculative, scrutinizing eyes, Gaston pulled Jeanne like a dog on a leach.

Through one gilded and jeweled salon after another, Gaston marched swiftly along, feet pounding on the marble and dark wood floors below his feet as if, with each step, he crushed them or his daughter. The long curls of his high wig flew out like a banner proclaiming his importance. Jeanne ran to keep up, her heavy skirts and the many layers of taffeta and silk beneath making it difficult to take long strides.

Gaston's grip on his daughter's arm tightened as they strode through the palace. The clutch of his hand squeezed her muscles, flattening them to a thin layer of flesh. The pressure of each finger like a dagger threatening to puncture.

Her father panted, unused to such physical strain. Her own lungs burned. Encased in the tightly tied bodice, she could take only short, shallow gulps of air; she longed for the unrestraint of her dueling clothes.

With but a few more steps they rushed through the Buffet Room and onto the staircase leading to the uppermost floor. At the top, the trapped August heat smacked them. Père yanked her down the long corridor to the entrance of their suite. Wrenching the door open to the dark, low-ceilinged hallway, Gaston launched his wretched daughter from him. Jeanne landed on the small foyer's floor on her knees.

Jeanne turned a fearful glance up to her father, loosened, disheveled hair falling across her face. She rubbed her arm where the pressing of his gouging fingers still panged.

“To your room,” Gaston growled the rumble of a wild animal.

“Oui, mon Père,” Jeanne whispered, scrambling to her feet.

Her legs tangled in the folds of her skirts. She tumbled once more to her knees, the pain of breaking blood vessels stabbed her. Afraid to look at her father, she tried again, this time making it to her feet. With three quick steps, she made it to her bedroom, entered the room, and closed the door. With backward steps, she reached the bed she shared with her sister and fell upon it, gaze glued to the door, expecting her father to crash through it at any moment.

Her hands would not—could not—be stilled; she watched them shake as if they belonged to someone else. Jeanne pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, and curled her body into a ball as if to stave off the assault she knew would come. Slowly rocking on her curved buttocks, she waited and prayed.

* * *

He paced back and forth in the small room that served the Du Bois family as salon, study, and dining room, crossing the carpet of maroon and gold, arms flaiying the air about his head. Adelaide Lomenie Mas du Bois sat as still as possible on the small upholstered chair, silently suffering her husband's outburst. Adelaide kept her mouth shut, lips paling with the tight clasp. To open them would be to beg to suffer much worse than a verbal lashing.

“Is it not enough that she should return here in shame, but that she should flaunt her misbehavior in front of the entire court? It is an outrage!” Gaston's face flowed purple, almost black under the white, powdered wig; spittle flew from his mouth with each venomous word. “I should have begged Mère-révérend Robiquet to keep her at the convent, or begged the King for the money to keep her there.”

Jeanne heard every word, every growl, her father uttered; the almost paper-thin walls did nothing to contain the verbal onslaught. She grimaced, the chagrin and terror of returning to Versailles still fresh, still caused sleepless nights and the urge to run somewhere, anywhere. It was but a few days ago since she had been turned out of the convent where she had spent seven years—seven years of living in hell. The salivating tongues of the courtiers dripped with delight at the scandal of the dreadful behavior that had prompted her removal, humiliating her father even more.

“She is a disgrace to my family, to me, to the King. The whole world knows my daughter has the tongue of the devil speaking to the nuns as if she were their equal, or worse, their better. Now they know she has the soul of the devil as well. They see for themselves that her behavior is no better than the filthy peasants who beg at the gates.”

“She is but young, Gaston,” Adelaide murmured, a timid whisper, golden-eyed gaze holding fast upon the tight knot that was her hands in her lap.

Gaston whirled on his wife, piercing her with his steely, black-eyed gaze.

“Young? No! She is impudent and unruly, completely out of control. Bernadette is two years her junior and yet she is the perfect young woman, gracious and polite, affable and charming. She will be married and gone within the year.” Gaston threw one hand upward toward the door as if pushing his youngest daughter through it.

The mention of her sister sent Jeanne's eyes to rolling. Her own words for the blond, plump beauty differed greatly. She loved Bernadette dearly but her sister's obsequiousness, her blindingly obedient behavior infuriated Jeanne. A fury only fueled by the knowledge of the truth, Bernadette was the beauty, while Jeanne was…passable; or so she had heard far too often from her father.

Gaston stood before his wife, his reddened face inches from hers, hands straddling, one on each arm of the chair. The deep wrinkles of his skin cast grotesque shadows on his face in the dim candlelight of the small room. Adelaide trembled, squirming back against the cushion.

“Your worthless womb. One son was all you managed to spit out of it.”

Jeanne slid off the bed and crawled along the floor; her father's voice had become that of the madman that lived within him. He stood close to the edge now, close to the point where ranting anger no longer sufficed. Jeanne felt the coward, with her back to the door, bracing it to keep her father out while her mother defended her, sacrificing herself for her errant daughter as she had so many times before.

Adelaide looked up to her husband, her shroud of timidity falling from her shoulders; anger sparked instead.

“God chooses whom he shall bless with sons. Do you hold the same contempt for the Almighty?

Flesh smack against flesh, echoing against the walls of the small chamber. Adelaide's head bounced off the wing of the chair and a small stream of blood began to dribble from her nose.

Jeanne jumped to her feet, a hand trembling toward the doorknob, fingers quivering with every quick beat of her heart. A sob escaped her lips; bile of anguish and despair rose up her throat. Salty tears ran down her face and into her mouth; she tasted them on her tongue, the taste of fear and self-loathing.

“No, Gaston. Please, no.”

A mewling whisper—her mother's—found Jeanne. She venerated courage; she loathed tears, especially her own.

She flung open the door. Her father stood before her mother, arm drawn back, poised to strike her mother once more.

“Non, Père. Non! It is me you hate, strike me!” Jeanne hated the crack in her voice, in her determination it revealed.

Gaston spun with a snarl, arm still raised, white-knuckled fist high in the air.

Adelaide flew from her perch, launching herself between father and daughter.

Jeanne stumbled as her mother's body forced her backward. Reaching out, she grabbed her mother's shoulders, trying in vain to remove Adelaide as the target.

“Stop!”

The shouted command came from the door. As one, the combatants spun.

“Raol,” Jeanne whispered her brother's name, lowering her head onto her mother's back in relief.

“Père, come.” The dark-haired, amber-eyed young man, features so like Jeanne's, strode across the room in a few long strides. He reached up, gently pulling his father's arm down as he turned the man away from mother and sister. “You must come. The Conseil d'Etat is beginning. People are wondering where you are.”

His son's words worked their magic, Gaston forgot his wife and daughter as if they no longer existed. As he moved toward his son, the ravages of rage slowly slithered off his face, strained jaw muscles relaxed into prominent jowls; the snarl on his lips slid into a smile.

“Ah, Raol, I would be lost with you. You have brought your father the only pleasure he has ever known.” Gaston headed toward the door on the arm of his son.

With shocking abruptness, he turned on his heels, the monstrous mask of fury once more defiling his face. His gaze upon Adelaide and Jeanne darkened with undisguised loathing. Both women jumped back.

“She is your fault, your doing.” To Adelaide, he spoke of Jeanne as if she were not there, could not hear. “If you cannot control her, you will suffer the consequences.”

Gaston turned from wife to daughter, nostrils flaring as if assaulted by a foul stench.

“Come, Père, come,” Raol urged, placing his large hands firmly on his father's shoulders, turning and steering the older man back toward the door. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he offered his mother and sister a shy smile peeking out from under his fluffy, sable-colored mustache, a tender panacea offered to ease their anguish.

* * *

Jeanne knocked softly on the closed door.

In the desolate abyss that was the churning wake left behind by his father and brother, she and her mother had embraced, released with their shared survival, two soldiers rising from a desecrated battlefield.

Jeanne had tried to apologize but her mother's ravaged and bruised face had stolen all words from her tongue. Adelaide had kissed her lips, left the room, and closed her bedchamber door.

Contrite daughter had waited anxiously for her mother but could wait no longer; the words of regret clogged her throat like a half-chewed piece of food and she longed to spew, ridding herself of the choking guilt.

“Maman?” she softly called, knocking once more, this time cracking open the door without waiting for words of encouragement.

Adelaide lay on her back on her bed, motionless save for the slight rise and fall of her chest, eyes tightly shut. Jeanne tiptoed to the bedside, peering down at her mother. Fresh tears sprang to blur the vision of the large bruise spreading like a puce stain on the side of her mother's face. Jeanne took the few small steps to the small room's corner where the pedestal holding a water pitcher and basin stood. Gathering a cloth from the shelf beneath, she poured cool water into the basin, soaking the cloth.

Turning back to the bed, Jeanne gasped, dropping the cloth to the hardwood floor. Her mother stared at her with lifeless intensity.

“Ah, dear Maman, you are awake.” Jeanne rinsed the cloth once more, ridding it of the clinging dirt from the floor. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gently placed it on her mother's marred skin.

“Why must you antagonize him so?” Adelaide sound meager, diminished. She spoke without gesture or expression.

“I do not mean to, Maman, truly I do n—not.” Jeanne's dark eyes avoided her mother's golden ones. She held the cloth to her mother's face until the heat of their bodies stool the coolness from it. Jeanne dunked it again in the chilly water, bringing it back to her mother.

“Can you ever forgive me?” Jeanne's swelling tears of contrition spilled over and ran a course of repentance down her cheeks.

The corners of her mother's mouth rose in the slightest of smiles. Adelaide brought a hand up, cupping her daughter's face.

“Do I not always?” Lowering her hand, Adelaide braced herself, pushing against the silk coverlet, struggling to sit up straight. She leaned against the carved wood of the headboard, gripping her head as if it were about to fly off her shoulders.

Do you want me to call the physician?” Jeanne rose from the bed, alarmed by the whiteness of her mother's golden skin blanching against the pale against the darkening bruise.

“No. No, I am fine. We must not let anyone see me.” Adelaide almost shook her head; pain stopped her at the first twitch. She reached up and captured her head with her hands once more.

“I will always forgive you, ma petite. But I do not know how much longer I can protect you.” Adelaide raised a shaking head; Jeanne took it, sitting once more by her mother's side. “Things are not as they were when you left for the convent. Your father's situation is more precarious than ever.”

Adelaide spoke freely, free of any fear of interruption. As a member of the state council and a fairly well-placed courtier, her husband would be wherever the King was. Gaston rarely returned to their rooms except to sleep, too afraid not 'to be seen'.

“The King has wrenched all power from the noblemen.” For a moment, Adelaide pressed her lips together to the point of bloodlessness. “It is but a masquerade he acts, letting them believe they advise him. The Fronde has left our King paranoid and controlling.”

Mother leaned toward daughter, grasping the young hands. Jeanne flinched at the feel of such cold hands. She gathered he resolve, cupping the hand in both of hers, warming it, wishing she could give back all she had received.

“They are powerless men, these nobles, reduced to petty games and intrigues to give their life meaning. They are humiliated and frustrated by the machinations the King forces them into. It is no wonder they lash out at any around them less powerful than they.”

“But we are his family!” The words flew from Jeanne's mouth like wayward birds and she unable to catch or contain them.

“Who is more powerless than their wives and daughters?” Adelaide scrunched shoulders up toward her ears. “Your father is one of the few noblemen still to serve in Louis' government and it is only because he possesses a financial education. His position is tenuous at best. Why do you antagonize him so by speaking thusly?”

“It is not my intent, Maman.” Jeanne turned from her mother, walking to the open doorway, poised in the egress as if to take flight. “And it is not my fault.”

It was not her fault her father suffered at the hands of the King. Louis XIV ruled by absolute monarchy, rumored to have proclaimed forthrightly, “L'État, c'est Moi,”—I am the State. It was his complex set of unwritten laws and codes of behavior: who may enter the room when, who may sit, who must stand, who may eat and when. Noblemen now held only honorary positions and pensions. Life was nothing more than a struggle for trivial distinction and privileges.

Louis would do anything to keep the nobility from uniting against the Crown, as they had during the Fronde over thirty years ago. The memories of the ten-year-old King, of the deprivation and despair during those years, colored all his decisions; he ruled by them, dedicating his life to punishing them for it.

He filled his high council, the Conseil d'en haut, with promoted commoners, usurping the nobles, finding it easier to dismiss an elevated commoner than to strip a comte, and all his descendants, of the title. It was the reign of the lowborn bourgeoisie, as the Duc de Saint-Simon had so aptly named it. The rest were the King's puppets, dancing to the threat of court banishment or a life in the Bastille. These impotent men could but displace their frustration on those weaker than they, their women.

Jeanne turned back to her mother, hands pressed against her stomach as if, under the yellow embroidered bodice, her intestines fought to gain their freedom. Her long shadow, cast by the guttering candles, shook upon the wall behind her. With small, rapid movements she shook her head back and forth, long brown curls flowing like waves about her head.

“I am not like the other girls. There is…something…wrong with me.” Her deep brown eyes pleaded for understanding.

Adelaide's mouth formed a ghost of a smile, a benevolent acceptance of a mother to her wayward child.

“I know, ma chère, I know. But you can try. Why did you not try harder at the convent?”

“Ah, morbleu!” Jeanne's hands flew dramatically in the air. “I could not stand it, Maman. The girls, they are beyond stupid. They are ludicrous, puerile. They fainted in horror at the least little thing, or worse, giggled incessantly for hours and hours.”

Jeanne ran the few steps back to the bed, falling upon it with such force that her mother bounced upon the feathers.

“I cannot bear a life where the most momentous decisions I have to make are what to wear and what to serve. It is too meaningless and trivial. I want to learn things, study, be a part of the world. I can n—”

Adelaide raised a hand, silencing her daughter.

“Do you think you are the first woman to long to break the shackles imposed upon us by the virtue of possessing a womb?” Her mother's words hissed out from between closed teeth. “If so, you are greatly deceived.”

Jeanne saw her mother's frustrated tears, the vein popping on her forehead, her red splotchy skin and, for the first time, saw true anguish, anguish at her own wasted life.

The young, suddenly frightened girl did not know what to do to relieve the pain of this woman, this angel who had given her life and so much more. She did the only thing that came to mind.

Jeanne stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes as she'd seen the King's jesters do.

Her mother's face went blank—then split wide; she barked a laugh of pure delight. Her eyes popped and one long, slim hand flew to her chest as if to contain the swift skip of her heart.

The pall of despair lifted. Still laughing softly, she gazed upon her daughter with soulful eyes, bright with the turmoil of her emotions. Adelaide reached out for her daughter and pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, ma petite, you are and always will be the breath and death of me.”

Jeanne smiled from the safety of her mother's bosom, memories of such sanctuary taken there over the years flitting through her mind like passing scenery. She inhaled the musky, flowery scent of her mother and squeezed back with all the force of her overwhelming love.

“I will try harder, Maman. I really will.”

Adelaide clucked her tongue.

“Non, ma chère Jeanne, you most probably will not.”

~Two~

She stood before the cloudy mirror wondering if the distorted reflection she saw in it was her own or if it had magically captured the image of another, one of the perfectly mannered, perfectly obsequious courtiers clogging every inch of Versailles. The sage-green silk bodice hugged her tightly, fitting to the exact form of the binding corset beneath it. Satin ribbon trimmed the low-cut bodice, elbow-length sleeves and hem and created bows embellishing the full skirt and slight train. The large felt hat in the same sage green boasted one fluffy white ostrich feather.

Jeanne peered closely at her face; her eyes looked darker, deeper, and her skin glowed with tawny effervescence.

“Humph,” she grunted to the woman staring at her. “This is far too feminine garb for the likes of you. But it will have to do.” Jeanne, neither familiar nor comfortable in such elegance, had promised her mother only a few hours ago that she would try harder, and she would. With a determined flick of her chin and a giggle as the aigrette wiggled high above her head, she left the unfamiliar reflection behind.

Exiting through one of the lower gallery doors, into the back courtyard of Versailles, Jeanne hid her face in the large shadow cast by the brim of her millinery. The sun blazed; her eyes squinted in defense. Through narrowed lids, a colorful mosaic appeared before her—red, blue, green, yellow: every color of the spectrum blurred in her vision. Slowly her pupils adjusted to the light and her full, wide mouth turned up in a bow.

Courtiers. Like petals fluttering around the pistil, these creatures, prodigiously garbed in every color of the rainbow, shimmered brightly in silk, satin, and brocade. Women with piled-high coifs adorned with all manner of hat and lace, and men with their long, flowing curls blowing in the breeze and topped with plumed hats, vied for prominence.

Jeanne's nostrils quivered in delight at the freshness of both air and water. She took her first step toward the entourage as they assembled between the two grand pools of the Water Parterre, the first section of the immense gardens spanning over two hundred and fifty acres. Her heart beat wildly; moisture beaded under her many layers of clothing. This was her first social outing since her return, her first time among the gossiping courtiers, and she anticipated a cold reception.

“Ma chère, ma chère Jeanne!” A high-pitched call reached her ears. Jeanne turned, her heart bursting with joy.

Pushing and shoving, two young women struggled out of the cluster of courtiers, rushing toward her, arms and smiles wide and welcoming. Silk and satin enveloped her, two strong bodies pressed her between them.

“We heard you were back.”

“Why have you not come to us sooner?”

Jeanne laughed, putting one arm around each of the women, relishing the acceptance she felt in their embrace, heard in their words.

“Pardieu. I am sorry,” Jeanne giggled. “But I am here now. Come, let me look at you.”

Jeanne released her friends and stepped back. Powdered and beauty-marked, Olympe de Cinq-Mars, daughter of the Marquis de Solignac, stood afire in brilliant red silk. Her jet-black hair and eyes burned with her intensity. Paling in visual impact, Lynette La Marechal, daughter of the Duc du Vermorel, shimmered sweetly in yellow brocade, long blond curls pulled back softly to reveal her delicate skin and pale blue eyes.

“How I have missed you both,” Jeanne almost sobbed, the emotional reunion with her two dearest friends overwhelmed her.

Heedless of prying eyes, she kissed each one tenderly on the lips. Here in their arms, she found consolation in returning to Versailles.

“How do I find you, mes amies? What is about?” Jeanne asked, taking each woman by the hand.

“I am to marry soon,” Olympe answered first, not surprising Jeanne. “My father is in negotiations with quite a few hopefuls. Papa says many vie for my hand, but he will not concede to just anyone. Maman says every courtier in the country will attend my wedding. Well, the ones who matter, at least.”

“How wonderful for you, ma chère.” Jeanne smiled at Olympe, seeing how little her friend had changed. Even as a young girl, Olympe's wistful wishes had dwelled on court intrigue, fashion, and to one day making the perfect match.

“And you, ma petite.” Jeanne turned to Lynette, swinging the hands of her friends as they headed slowly toward the bevy of courtiers. “Is there a handsome young cavalier waiting for you?”

Lynette hid behind lowered lids and the pink flush spreading across her pale skin.

“Non, chère Jeanne, it is not a conventional marriage which I seek. My papa has petitioned the King to allow me to enter the Convent de La Bas Poitou.”

Jeanne stopped, arms pulling ahead of her body as her friends took another step or two.

“Truly?” Jeanne's wide eyes gaped at Lynette.

Unlike Jeanne, Lynette had completed her education at the abbey near Toulouse. Her letters had always been a window into the depth of her piety.

“It is what I desire above all else,” Lynette assured her, chin jutting up and out.

Jeanne smiled at her friend's conviction.

“When will you know?”

“Soon, I hope.”

Jeanne hugged her, face close to her friend's comely countenance.

“Do you feel well? Have you been ill?” Jeanne's thoughts became words with little heed, one of her least appealing habits, but Lynette's pale skin and the purple smudges under the familiar orbs troubled her.

“No. I am fine and have been.” Lynette patted Jeanne's hand still clasped in her own. “Have no fear, dearest.”

Jeanne smiled, nodding, yet lingering concern niggled her.

“And you, you rascal.” Olympe pulled Jeanne along to continue their stroll, looking sideways through narrowed dark eyes. “Is all we have heard true?”

“Too true, I fear.” Jeanne cast her eyes down with contrition, but the feigned repentance was an unconvincing mask before these two friends.

“You are the chatter of the chateau,” Olympe chided. “Could you not contain yourself for one more year?”

Jeanne shook her head vehemently, one long curl coming loose to fall blithely down her neck.

“It is a miracle I did not get ousted sooner.” Jeanne's mouth turned up in a devilish grin, a decidedly malicious spark lighting in her sable eyes. “In truth, my dears, I did everything I could to get evicted.”

“Non, shh, do not say such things.” Lynette surreptitiously cast her gaze about. “Why? Why would you wish it to be so?”

“Why would I not? The place was abhorrent, the instruction trivial nonsense, the girls brainless twits, and the nuns naught but veiled monsters.”

Jeanne closed her eyes tightly, repulsed by the memories. To revisit her seven years at the convent was to recall a nightmare that lasted all night. Just speaking of it brought the horrors quickly back; even the smells, the harsh lye soap, the burnt porridge, and the sickeningly sweet incense, came back to clog her sinuses. But it was the blind, slave-like obedience demanded from the Sisters that she could not abide.

“How can my love of God be measured by how deeply I curtsey to the nuns?” Jeanne demanded self-righteously.

Olympe giggled loudly; Lynette shushed her again.

“You really must watch your tongue,” Lynette warned softly, teeth clamped tightly together. “You are a part of Louis' court now. There are ears everywhere. You must control your words.”

“Ha!” Olympe barked, holding her chin a smidgen higher and flashing a sensual smile at two young soldiers as they passed. “Advising Jeanne to hold her tongue is like advising the world to stop turning. It cannot be done.”

Jeanne giggled, joyful at being among those who knew her well, yet accepted and loved her regardless.

“What will you do?” Lynette stopped and turned to face Jeanne, searching her friend's face under tightly knit brows.

“She will marry, of course.” Olympe rolled her dark eyes at Lynette.

Jeanne remained silent but shared a telling look with Lynette. She longed to pour her heart out, to tell of all the unrequited dreams fermenting in her heart. Lynette put an arm around her friend, stifling the barrage about to burst, and turned Jeanne toward the large group. They were but a mere few paces away; to speak would be for all to hear.

The three young women arrived at the edge of the clustered courtiers. Jeanne held firmly to her friends, trepidation tightening her grip. A few of the gaudily plumed beau monde turned to glance at her; a few whispered to their friends, snide giggles erupting here and there. A few reared quickly away, nostrils flaring as if they smelled something distasteful. Surprisingly, a few afforded her shallow curtseys and barely perceptible bows.

“There, you see,” Lynette whispered gently, “they welcome you back with open hearts.”

Jeanne almost guffawed aloud. “If these are open hearts, then I am King Louis.”

As if the mention of his name summoned him, the crowd parted and the great sovereign strutted into the center of the circle.

There are men others will instinctively follow, for whom they will act with blind obedience. Louis XIV was such a man. Some called him the most handsome man in France. Jeanne thought it was his persona, his courtesy, reticence, and an almost inhuman tranquility, which made him appear larger than life. In reality, Dieudonné de Bourbon the man was only five-five, just an inch taller than Jeanne herself. His vast selection of wigs, worn in lieu of his own hair for the last ten years, added inches to his stature. His deep-set, heavy-lidded, dark eyes carried the secrets of the universe within their depths. The full-lipped mouth topped with the tightly manicured, curving mustache showed the devilishly playful side of the Sun King.

Louis had changed little in the seven years since Jeanne had last seen him; while slightly rounder at the middle, he still projected the bearing of greatness, perhaps more than ever in the midst of his magnificent palace. The long, dark curls of Louis' periwig flowed over his coat of dove-gray silk, one boasting thick, silver-embroidered buttonholes running all the way down the full skirt of his jacket. Inches and inches of Venetian lace flowed from cuffs and collar. Scarlet, tightly fitting trunk hose matched the deep red heels of his diamond-buckled leather shoes and the deep red of the many plumes of his dove-gray felt hat.

Jeanne stood on the outskirts of the entourage, grateful Louis had not noticed her. The moment when she must face him would come, but she did not wish it to be today. The King knew her well; as a small child, she had spent many hours playing in the royal nursery with the Dauphin, the King's son and heir. But it was the child Louis would remember; Jeanne knew not what he would think of her, the woman, and despite herself, she cared deeply of his opinion.

The bevy of people began to rustle, anxious to be off on one of the King's walks; they jostled and pushed in their eagerness. Off to one side of the King stood a ravishing blond woman, resplendent in violet satin and lace.

“Pray, Lynette, who is that woman?” Jeanne used her gaze to point.

Lynette rose up on tiptoes to see around the piled-high hair and towering hats obstructing her view. A distinctive light sparked in her soft blue eyes.

“Why, my dear, that is Athénaïs herself.”

Jeanne's mouth formed a small but perfect circle, surprised and delighted to finally see the woman. Athénaïs, the Marquise de Montespan, was the King's powerful, titular mistress, famous for her beauty and sophistication. In the full sun of midmorning, Athénaïs glowed. Her radiant and abundant blond hair, the shimmering cerulean eyes, and the perfect pink mouth, like the opening of a rose, sat supremely above the slim but curvaceous figure.

“She looks so young,” Jeanne whispered for her friends' ears only. At forty-one, the marquise was only three years younger than the King.

“Evil never ages.” Olympe smiled, staring at Athénaïs.

“Evil?” Jeanne's brows rose high on her forehead, creasing the soft, pliable skin.

“Not now,” Lynette hissed to her friends, moving to stand between them like a mother separating her wayward children.

Françoise-Athénaïs Rochechouart de Mortemart was not the first mistress to warm the King's bed. The French people had long come to accept the King's behavior; he had married for the political health of their country. He deserved to find satisfaction wherever he could. His subjects could not begrudge him whatever joy he might find, even if it was in the arms of a mistress or two.

The path to be the most favored had been difficult for Athénaïs, she herself a married woman. For the King to cuckold another man was a scandalous affair—though conversely, the more women the King conquered, the greater his power grew. After years of Athénaïs's beauty and glamour infecting the court, the people had come to grips with her married status. Even the church acknowledged the King's right to a titular mistress and recognized Athénaïs, giving her the same power as the Queen, just as the courtiers and commoners did.

“Where is Louise?” Jeanne asked, referring to the previous favorite, Louise de La Vallière.

“Usurped and dismissed,” Olympe eagerly responded. “Years ago.”

“Where?” Jeanne asked, even as Lynette fiercely pinched the soft skin of her wrist.

“The Carmelite convent.” Olympe slapped Lynette's hands away from Jeanne's, getting a tight-lipped scowl in response. “Sister Louise de La Miséricorde.”

“Non?” Jeanne's eyes popped wide.

“Oui.” Olympe beamed.

Jeanne smiled back at her friend, as much at Olympe's obvious delight in gossiping as in the gossip itself.

“And who, pray, is that?” Jeanne tilted her head at the austere, darkly garbed, full-figured woman standing near to Athénaïs.

“Ah,” moaned Olympe with the delight of the obese man as he sits down to a feast. “That is Madame Françoise Scarron, the governess to Louis and Athénaïs's children. Now, she is making things quite interesting. They say—”

“Mesdames, Mademoiselles, Messieurs.” The King's deep vibrato captured everyone's attention. “Let us walk.”

With many a “Yes, Your Highness,” and “Certainement, Your Majesty,” the procession began. They followed obediently behind the King as he strutted off on his red leather-covered cork-heeled shoes. Olympe leaned toward Jeanne, whispering a conspiratorial “later” as she winked one dark eye. Jeanne winked back delightedly, turning her attention to the head of the procession and the King.

“Ah, chère Duchesse, it is such a pleasure to have you with us this fine day. It is such a joy to show my home to someone who has never seen it before.”

Jeanne studied the King's guest. Her brows knit at the gaudiness of the duchess's accoutrements.

“She must be a supremely strong woman,” Jeanne said to Olympe over Lynette's head.

“How so?” Olympe asked.

“To be able to hold oneself upright under the weight of all those jewels must take mammoth strength.” The Duchess had served as the mistress to many. As each affair ended and she was dismissed by an apologetic but completely satiated married man, she had been given another magnificent piece of gemmed adornment.

“She wears them like medals she has earned in a war,” Olympe whispered.

“Has she not?” Jeanne's lips curled in a cynical smile, gaze upon the woman turning hard and cold.

With such a reverent audience, Louis lauded the splendor of Versailles in great detail.

“The bricks were formed by hand, one by one. Do they not match perfectly those of the original building?” His question was rhetorical; his enjoyment was in the sound of his own voice and the greatness of his home.

Versailles, located on the main road between Normandy and Paris, sat upon the vast private property of the Bourbon family.

“So close, we are, so close,” Louis continued, pointing to the north and south wings, those allocated to the Secretaries of State, where the work still progressed.

Scaffolds stood like the building's external skeleton while thousands of workers flitted to and fro like ants on a farm, scurrying to the notions of the King. Twenty years ago, when the renovation work had begun in earnest, there had been close to thirty thousand laborers on the grounds.

“My chateau is almost finished.”

“Chateau? He still calls it a chateau?” Jeanne hissed harshly. “Mon Dieu, it is the size of a small village.”

“Shush!” Lynette remonstrated, eyes narrowed in warning.

Jeanne looked back over her shoulder. From this vantage point, far into the garden, she could see almost all of Versailles in one glance. The group of buildings forming the entire palace stood on a slight rise overlooking the village. The huge additions and front gate pilasters echoed the original exterior of warm russet brick and creamy stone with a roof of blue-gray slate. The front faced east and emphasized a hospitable aspect by enclosing three sides of a black-and-white marble quadrangle courtyard, the breathtaking Cour de Marbre.