“Does he, Madame?” Marie-Josèphe asked, neither expecting nor receiving a reply.
Lucien rode easily beside His Majesty’s hunting caleche. The exquisite day banished troubles as the sun and the breeze banished Versailles’ usual miasmatic damp. Zelis pranced, showing off the fine arch of her dappled neck, the banner of her black tail. The exercise of riding eased the pain in Lucien’s back. He had, necessarily, spent too much time of late on sedentary court functions, and too little time making love. Mlle Future — Lucien was well aware of the nicknames his lovers had at court — showed a reluctance to become Mlle Present that was unfamiliar in Lucien’s experience.
And yet you have not pressed your suit, Lucien said to himself.
Lucien found, to his astonishment, that his interest in Mlle d’Armagnac had waned before it ever waxed to fullness. She was beautiful, but her conversation carried no hint of originality. She flirted, which was enjoyable. She had already bragged of being his mistress, which was impertinent, not least to Juliette, as well as being untrue. Lucien was faithful after his own fashion, to one woman at a time.
His Majesty’s caleche passed between the rows of saluting courtiers. Today’s hunt was larger than usual, joined as it was by guests. His Majesty wished to entertain his guests with a unique hunt, and to provide his kitchens with enough game to feed all his court and his company.
The postillions urged the caleche horses into a trot; they stepped out along the wide grassy path toward the forest of Versailles. Drumming rumbled In the distance. A horn blared, commanding the attention of the hounds. A gyrfalcon shrieked; its wings pounded the air with a soft and powerful rhythm. It settled onto the falconer’s glove, its talons scratching the thick leather.
The caleche passed Monsieur’s household. Monsieur bared his head in respect for his brother, and his friend Lorraine bowed with every appearance of goodwill. Ignoring Mme de Maintenon utterly, Madame gazed upon the King with wistful joy. As Lucien tipped his hat to Mlle de la Croix, Chartres pinched Mlle de la Croix’ bottom, and grinned mischievously.
Chartres could shock even Lucien, who cultivated the image of being unshockable. His Majesty did not see what had happened, which was fortunate. Mlle de la Croix, though she flinched with surprise, kept her presence and her place. Instead of bolting into His Majesty’s path, she slapped Chartres soundly. Chartres snatched back his hand.
You are fortunate she has no claws, foolish prince, Lucien thought, or you’d count only to nine on your fingers.
Monsieur’s family fell in behind His Majesty’s caleche, and the rest of Louis’ court followed. All the princes, the grandsons of His Majesty, his nephew, and his illegitimate sons and daughters galloped in a pack, jostling for position, never forgetting their rivalries for a moment.
The caleche entered the forest; the hunting party moved from the pleasant warmth of the sun to the pleasant coolness of the shade. The horses stepped silently on the new-laid sod. Drums echoed through the gold-green light.
The caleche horses cantered along the forest road. Zelis flicked one ear. The mare wished to gallop, to run. Lucien held her in gently, for they must not outrun the King’s conveyance.
If Mlle de la Croix would free herself, Lucien thought, I wager she’d be quite magnificent. He laughed to himself, then sobered, for her piety enslaved her. Her signs of affection troubled him; the match would be disastrous.
Zachi offered to outdistance every other horse and rider. Marie-Josèphe asked for moderation with her hands, her voice; the mare settled, and cantered behind the princes. The rutted road of a few days before was transformed to smooth grass.
Grateful for the horse’s good manners, and reserving a small part of her attention for Chartres and Lorraine, Marie-Josèphe tried to put aside her worry for the sea woman. She enjoyed the wind on her face, the freshness of the day, the sunlight and shadow dappling the world.
The caleche broke through the forest into a wide meadow. The sun’s heat rose around her like a tropical sea, bringing with it the scent of crushed grass. The caleche stopped. The hunting party ranged itself to either side, and the gun-bearers brought the hunting-pieces.
Drums and beating-sticks coalesced into a ring of noise. Zachi arched her neck, snorted, pranced in place. She wished to join her sister-mare Zelis. Marie-Josèphe would gladly have let her. She hoped to speak to Count Lucien, to make up, somehow, for her inexcusable behavior. But Count Lucien rode near His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe had no leave to approach the King, not even to speak to her brother.
A bearer handed a gun to Count Lucien, who inspected it and handed it to His Majesty. Pope Innocent and Mme de Maintenon remained empty-handed, but Yves accepted a fowling-piece.
Yves was a dreadful shot, when we were children, Marie-Josèphe thought. I hope he has improved — or more creatures than rabbits will be in danger today!
The sea woman returned to her thoughts. Marie-Josèphe could not glory in her own taste of freedom, when her friend swam round and round in the filthy brackish water, trapped, she who had been used to swimming in the clean deep sea, any distance, any direction, governed solely by her will. Only His Majesty could restore her to her home and her family.
“Mlle de la Croix —”
Marie-Josèphe started. So intent had she been on the sea woman’s peril that she had forgotten her own.
“— you must give me a token to carry, like a knight of old.” Chartres plucked at a bit of her lace, smiling, his wild eye giving him a rakish look. The breeze ruffled the long white plumes in his hat.
The Duke of Berwick rode beside him, which astonished Marie-Josèphe. Madame would surely disapprove of her son’s associating with a bastard, even James Fitzjames, the King of England’s natural son.
“Let my friend Chartres be your champion, do,” Berwick said. He spoke with a heavy accent, but he did not lisp like his father, and he was very handsome.
“I have no token, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“Come now, you must — an earring, a handkerchief, a lacing from your corset —”
“A ruffle from your petticoat,” Lorraine said from her other side.
The men on their larger horses pinned her between them. Zachi liked this no more than Marie-Josèphe. She flattened her ears and stamped one hind foot.
“If I give you my handkerchief, sir, I will not have one, and my mother would be ashamed to see me.”
The drumming neared, a wall of sound.
The ground thundered as the ancient aurochs, freed from the Menagerie, lumbered from the forest. The hunting party cried out in amazement and appreciation of the exotic creature.