“Would this be unique in your experience, Your Majesty?”
If Louis expected the revelation of Yves’ parentage to surprise Lucien, he would be disappointed; but the King must be aware it was not much of a secret. Except, of course, to Yves and Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.
Louis drew himself up angrily, suddenly burst out laughing, stopped, and regained his dignity.
“I value your candor, Chrétien.”
“I don’t say Yves de la Croix is a liar,” Lucien said. “I do say he has good reason to deceive himself.”
“And Marie-Josèphe de la Croix has none?”
“What reason? The brother wins your favor. The sister risks your ire.”
“I cannot give up the sea monster,” Louis said. “I will not. Don’t ask me for the creature’s life, so you and I may remain friends.”
Lucien bowed. I’ve done my best, he thought. I cannot do more.
He had not expected to succeed, and though he hated to fail, he was surprised not to be disappointed.
He was angry.
Marie-Josèphe gulped wine from her silver goblet. As soon as the servant refilled it, she drained it again.
A week ago, she thought, the gift of a silver goblet from the King would have pleased me beyond all measure. Only a week! She waved away the servant and put the goblet on the floor. Getting a little drunk might benefit her courage, but getting very drunk would impede her.
Trumpets sounded a fanfare; drums announced the beginning of Carrousel. The jugglers and singers ran from the parade ground. Torches flared, hundreds bursting into flame simultaneously, filling the air with smoke and pitch, illuminating the Place d’Armes with harsh light and long shadows. The full moon hung huge and orange in the eastern sky, opposing the sun.
Sherzad had only a few hours to live.
The Carrousel teams galloped onto the practice field.
His Majesty, as Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Ancient Rome, led the procession, riding the tallest spotted Chinese horse. Its red leather harness sparkled with an encrustation of rubies and diamonds; its crest exploded in pompoms of red and white feathers. Every buckle and fastening on saddle and bridle, breastcollar and crupper, glinted gold. Red and white ribbons fluttered from the horse’s mane and tail.
The King wore a tunic paved with diamonds, while rubies nearly covered the lambrequins of the skirt and sleeves of his red leather armor. Silver ribbons, studded with diamonds, fastened his high-heeled red sandals. Gold dust adorned his bright blond perruke. A fantastic headdress of white ostrich plumes fastened with enormous rubies arched over his head; the plumes cascaded to his horse’s rump. He carried a round Roman shield. His device, the sun in beaten gold, dispersed clouds of burnished silver.
The grandsons rode at His Majesty’s right, each in a variation of His Majesty’s costume, each on a spotted Chinese horse: His Majesty on a warhorse, Bourgogne on a cavalry charger, Anjou on a palfrey, Berri on a pony. The rest of the Roman team rode dapple greys.
Lucien rode immediately behind the King. His shield bore the full moon, shining with the light of the sun.
The teams circled the parade ground at a gallop. Riding his black Spanish charger, Monsieur carried a mirrored shield, to reflect the rays of his brother the Sun King. Lorraine rode beside him, on his matched black stallion. Together, in Japanese robes, lacquered armor, and fanciful helmets, they led their team two abreast.
M. du Maine’s following, in turbans and voluminous desert robes, rode red-gold bays. Silk tassels of all colors trimmed their silver bridles. M. du Maine carried a branch of the laurel tree, sacred to the sun.
Chartres led his band of ancient warriors, in their translucent Egyptian linen. He carried a tall sheaf of sunflowers that whipped in the wind, shedding yellow petals. His band of chestnuts challenged Maine’s bays, until the two troops raced head to head, running up on the heels of Monsieur’s team.
Emeralds studded Monseigneur’s leather leggings and gleamed in the fur of his breechclout. The cloak of iridescent feathers fluttered from his shoulders. The Grand Dauphin carried a leather shield edged with egret plumes and painted with a silver eagle, its eyes turned to the golden sun.
Monseigneur’s war-party crossed the parade ground in a wild bright chaos of feathers and jewels, leather fringe and beads, fur and ribbons. Each rider vied with all the others in extravagance and color; no rider had matched his horse to any other: piebald galloped next to skewbald, paint next to claybank. The Huron war chiefs rode with his group, as exotic as all the others in borrowed body-armor, lace, and their plumed Parisian hats.
In the grandstand, the Prince of Japan looked as if he wished he were part of Carrousel, while the Shah of Persia looked as if he were glad he was not. The Queen of Nubia lounged upon cushions, protected from the moonlight by an awning of black silk held by her handmaidens.
Each team rode its pattern. Monsieur, Chartres, and Maine strove for speed and precision, while Monseigneur’s band — to the astonishment and delight of the audience — excelled at feats of daring and bravado, standing upright on their saddles at the gallop, swooping down to snatch golden hoops from the ground.
The moon rose halfway to its zenith. The galleon had sent no further news.
In His Majesty’s Roman cavalry, Lucien rode Zelis into the Place d’Armes.
As in their practice, the Roman troop split into two lines, into four, mirroring, double-mirroring the design.
The riders turned inward from the corners of the parade ground and urged their horses to a dead run. All four lines of horses galloped straight for the center of the field, straight toward each other. The audience cried out in anticipation, and fell silent in apprehension.
Lucien raced after the King, holding Zelis in her place.
A moment’s hesitation, a moment’s change of speed, would explode the maneuver, crashing it into a pandemonium of screaming horses and fallen riders, a disaster as brutal as war. After such a collision — a collision involving the King and three of his four legitimate heirs — no one would think of the sea woman. She might disappear...
Lucien could not bring himself to sabotage the drill.
Zelis raced through the pattern, performing it cleanly. The four lines melded to two, to one; the horses pranced toward the aristocracy’s side of the grandstand. The audience screamed and cheered and threw their flowers to the ground before their King.
The King rode to the foot of the grandstand. His subjects bowed; even the visiting monarchs rose in salute. At his signal, a line of baggage-wagons rolled onto the parade-ground. Ribbons festooned wagons and draft horses.