Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Mind her heels,” Count Lucien said, for Zelis laid her ears flat back in irritation. Lorraine and Berwick forced their stallions to lag a step or two.

“What an animal!” Berwick exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such speed as this bay possesses. Mlle de la Croix, you must sell the creature to me.”

“I must not, sir, as Zachi isn’t mine.”

“Is it the King’s horse? He’ll give it to me, I’m his cousin.”

The relationship was more intricate, but Marie-Josèphe could not remember exactly what it was; it was, as well, complicated by Berwick’s bastardy.

“Berwick,” Chartres said with condescension, “these petit horses all belong to Chrétien.”

Lorraine guffawed. “Who else would they belong to?”

“It may be too small, but it’s marvellously swift. Monarch will cover her. Their issue will win every race—”

“That’s impossible, M. de Berwick,” Count Lucien said. “You may send a mare to my stud in Finisterre, if you covet a foal with some qualities of the desert Arabian.”

“No, no, that won’t do, your stud on my mare? Absurd.”

“Somehow,” Lorraine said, “he would manage.”

“M. de Lorraine, M. de Berwick,” Chartres said severely, “you are in the presence of a lady.”

Marie-Josèphe almost burst out laughing at Chartres’ hypocrisy, but she feared the men would take her for an hysteric. This time, they would not be so far wrong.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” Berwick said offhand, mixing his languages, never taking his attention from Count Lucien. “Chrétien, you must sell me this bay mare!”

“Must I?”

“I’ll give you ten thousand louis!”

“Do you mistake me, sir, for a horse-trader?”

The French aristocracy did not engage in trade. Count Lucien’s voice contained no anger, but from that moment Marie-Josèphe never doubted he was a dangerous man.

“Not at all, not at all!” Berwick strove to retract the insult. “But an arrangement between noblemen, an exchange—”

“I do not part with these horses. They were a gift. Were Zachi to bear a foal from any sire but her own desert breed, her bloodline would never be pure again.”

“Ridiculous!”

“The sheik believed it. I choose to respect his beliefs. I will not part with the mares: I gave my word.”

“Your word!” Berwick exclaimed. “You gave your word to a Mahometan? No Christian need keep such a promise!”

Even Chartres and Lorraine flinched. Marie-Josèphe stared at Berwick in shock.

“No doubt that’s true,” Count Lucien said coldly. “But I am not a Christian.”

Berwick laughed. No one joined in his hilarity. He retreated into an uncomfortable silence.

“Let us return to the hunt.” Count Lucien impelled Zelis forward with sudden urgency.

Marie-Josèphe spoke to Zachi, freeing her to run. The two Arabians galloped together, outdistancing the three stallions that Zachi had raced to exhaustion.

Marie-Josèphe followed Count Lucien through the straggled hunting party. The huntsmen and gun-bearers bowed him past; the courtiers on horseback gave way for His Majesty’s adviser. He approached His Majesty’s caleche, where Mme de Maintenon spoke intently to His Majesty and His Holiness. Her animation enlivened her, as if she were in her favorite place, Saint-Cyr, instructing her beloved students. Monsieur spoke flirtatiously to Yves, who valiantly attended to Mme de Maintenon’s discourse without snubbing Monsieur.

Madame rode behind the King, chatting and laughing with her ladies, who rode in a caleche and wore grand habit.

“Do you ride with Madame,” Count Lucien said. “Chartres cannot misbehave too badly in her sight, or the formidable lady will turn him over her knee, and Lorraine as well.”

Marie-Josèphe wished it were true; she wished Count Lucien would ride beside her back to the chateau.

“Thank you,” she said. “You must attend His Majesty—”

“I must send for M. de Baatz’ salve,” Count Lucien said. “Return to your apartment, rest—I’ll have the salve brought to you.”

“I cannot. The sea woman is alone—”

“Someone else can feed her.”

“—and lonely. If I don’t tend to her, I’ll arouse comment—they’ll think I’m ill!”

“The Fountain of Apollo, then.” He tipped his hat courteously, rode ahead, paused to send a musketeer galloping off toward the chateau, then allowed Zelis to take him briskly to his place at His Majesty’s side.

Marie-Josèphe hoped Count Lucien’s salve would soothe her arm. The purple streaks stretched across her palm.

I mustn’t let anyone else see, she thought as she joined Madame, or they’ll send for Dr. Fagon…

“Mlle de la Croix!” Madame said smiling. “There you are, my dear. Did you see my fox?”

The hunt might have taken place a year ago, for all she recalled of it. She had forgotten the fox. Free of Chartres and Lorraine, relatively safe in the company of Madame and His Majesty, she felt weary and feverish.

“Yes, Madame, of course, your fox.”

“I’ll present him to His Majesty.” A servant in Madame’s livery ran toward the caleche carrying the limp scrap of red fur. “But His Majesty will return him to me. His pelt will make a lovely tippet. I dispatched him with a single shot, so the fur will hardly be damaged at all.”

The servant handed the fox to a huntsman, who presented it to Yves, who offered it to His Majesty. Pope Innocent drew back from the bloody carcass. His Majesty touched the dead fox; his reply returned by a route as circuitous as the fox’s arrival.

Madame’s servant dodged between horses and stopped at Marie-Josèphe’s side.

“His Majesty asks Madame to attend him.”

“Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, “His Majesty—”

As Marie-Josèphe spoke, Madame advanced like a cavalry officer. Marie-Josèphe followed in her substantial wake. Count Lucien surrendered his place in respect of the Princess Palatine; only Madame separated Marie-Josèphe from the King.

Lorraine, Chartres, and Berwick rode their lathered horses out of the forest. They rejoined the hunting party, riding up next to Monsieur.

Lorraine tipped his hat to Marie-Josèphe. She ignored him. Between Madame and Count Lucien, she did feel safe. Monsieur brushed his fingertips across Lorraine’s hand, a possessive gesture that Marie-Josèphe now understood, as she understood Pope Innocent’s frown. She felt sorry to have caused Monsieur concern and jealousy.

I suppose, she thought, I cannot tell him he has nothing to fear from me. It would be kind, but it would be the height of arrogance.

“Good afternoon, Madame,” His Majesty said. “You shot excellently well.”

“Your Majesty, it’s my greatest joy to ride with you.” Madame’s voice and words grew tender, much different from her usual bluff comments, when she spoke to the King.

“You’ve won the prize.” His Majesty unfastened a collar from the dead fox’ throat, bringing away a handful of light, a wide bracelet of gold and diamonds. He fastened the bracelet around Madame’s wrist.

“Your Majesty,” Madame said, breathless. “I am overwhelmed.” She admired the sparking rainbow facets and showed the bracelet to Marie-Josèphe.

“It’s beautiful, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said sincerely. “The most beautiful bracelet I’ve ever seen.”

Madame glowed in His Majesty’s attention; she even nodded to Mme de Maintenon with a smile very different from her usual exquisitely polite coolness. Taken aback, Mme de Maintenon hesitated, then nodded in return.

“I have a prize for you, as well,” the King said to Mme de Maintenon. “Close your eyes and put out your hands.”

“Oh, Sire—”

“Come, come, come!” He bullied her cheerfully.