‘Thank you.’ I passed the flask back to him.
He made a wry face at the lightness of the container, then swiftly tossed off the remainder. ‘I love the chase but have not much time for the kill,’ he said. ‘And, to be truthful, why kill a bear? It’s not as if it tastes particularly good.’
‘I cannot see the King wearing the bearskin to court,’ I answered, casting an ironic glance at the King in his fine plumed hat and tight satin breeches.
He laughed. ‘Perhaps he wants to spread it on his bed,’ he said suggestively.
‘I can’t imagine any of his mistresses enjoying that. Bearskins must stink.’
He raised an eyebrow in surprise at my frankness. I blushed and silently cursed, once again, my wayward tongue. ‘Thank you for the Armagnac,’ I said and turned my horse’s head away.
To my surprise, the young man followed me. ‘I’ve never seen a girl toss back a shot like that before.’
‘I’m a Gascon. We invented Armagnac. I’m sure we take it in with our wet-nurses’ milk.’
He tilted his head, his gaze quizzical. ‘I see. Perhaps that’s why we haven’t met before. I am Louis de Mailly, the Marquis de Nesle.’
‘I am Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force,’ I answered proudly, rolling my ‘r’s with immense gusto. ‘Though the reason why I’ve been absent from court in recent years is that I serve Madame de Guise, who has an inexplicable liking for the provinces.’
‘Ah, yes. I know Madame de Guise.’
‘She thinks the court is a cesspit of lust and fornication,’ I said sadly.
‘If only it was,’ the Marquis said.
I was startled into a laugh. He grinned back at me. I felt a little jolt of excitement. He brought his horse in close beside mine, so close that the toe of his boot brushed my dress. Companionably, we rode through the trees, following the huntsmen who carried the dead bear swinging on a pole. We talked lightly of the court, and various scandalous affairs, and the new fashion for broad-brimmed hats and other such things.
When I returned my borrowed gelding to the stable, I asked the groom, in an idle sort of way, ‘The man in the green coat, the one on that lovely roan … who is he?’
‘The Marquis de Nesle? He’s cousin to the Grand Condé,’ the groom answered, understanding that I did not need his name but his lineage.
I bit my lip. The Grand Condé, Louis de Bourbon, was one of the richest and most powerful men at court and second cousin to the King. I would want for nothing if I was to marry into that family. And really, the Marquis de Nesle was very handsome, in a slapdash sort of way. And he had made me laugh.
If I must make a man fall in love with me, it might as well be someone I like, I thought.
But first I had to acquire a lock of his hair or some fingernail parings.
I dared not bribe any of his servants, for I could not risk even the faintest suspicion of witchcraft. Witches were burnt to death, and my noble blood would not be enough to save me. Less than two years earlier, the Marquise de Brinvilliers had been tortured, then beheaded, her body burnt at the stake and her ashes flung into the wind. She had been accused of poisoning her father and two brothers, as well as many other unfortunates who had stood in her way.
The Marquise’s death had sent ripples of unease all through the court. Friends and acquaintances of hers had found themselves interrogated, and one of the most important of the King’s financial advisors, a man called de Pennautier, had found himself on trial too. He was eventually cleared in July 1677 and returned to court, but no one much liked having to eat with him.
Then, only a few months ago, a well-known Parisian fortune-teller had been arrested, accused of sorcery and murder. No doubt knowing she too faced torture and execution, she had delayed her trial by warning that the King was in danger and that there was a plot afoot to poison him. The King had appointed a royal taster to sample all his food and drink, which took so long it meant that his soup was always cold. At once, cold soup became all the rage.
All the court could talk of was poison and treason and soothsayers and satanic rites. There were rumours that children were being kidnapped off the streets of Paris to make blood baths for some rich noblewoman. The King’s police force arrested a gang of alchemists, sorcerers, fortune-tellers and suspected poisoners who, it was said, made a brisk business selling ‘inheritance powders’ to assist people in getting hold of legacies sooner than expected. In terror, the King’s taster employed his own taster, who then employed his own taster, until every meal eaten by the King had to pass through such a chain of tasters that the King received only the barest mouthful. Everyone took to carrying little dogs around with them so they could feed them titbits off their plate, and so make sure their food was free of poison too.
With the court a seething cauldron of suspicion, it was not a good time to draw attention to myself by asking for locks of hair, or fingernail parings, or vials of blood. I would have to be a great deal more subtle.
I prepared myself carefully for my next encounter with the Marquis. I wore my most becoming gown, with a cunningly padded bodice that gave me at least the illusion of a cleavage. I wore low-heeled slippers so I wouldn’t tower over him (he was rather short, I must admit), and had Nanette coil my hair about a hot poker till I had a mass of dancing ringlets. I applied my maquillage extremely carefully, choosing a patch in the shape of a galloping horse in subtle reference to our meeting. Only then did I sally forth to the gaming rooms, a little ferment of excitement in the pit of my stomach.
The salons were crowded, the men wearing heavy elaborately curled wigs and long brocade waistcoats, the women with hair dressed in tight cascading ringlets à la Athénaïs. The room was hot and hazed with smoke from the candles, and footmen carried about trays of silver goblets filled with champagne.
The Marquis de Nesle was sitting at a basset table, his cravat rumpled and his wig askew. As I approached, he seized his wig and dashed it to the floor, crying, ‘Mille diables! The bank has all the luck tonight.’
‘Maybe a new player will break his luck.’ I slid into the seat opposite him.
The Marquis’ face lit up in recognition but I ignored him, smiling sweetly at the Duc d’Orléans, who sat sideways in his chair, the tails of his salmon-pink satin coat hanging to the floor. He raised a quizzical eyebrow and slurred, ‘Ah, the petite mademoiselle from Gascony … the one who likes poking about in dark corners.’
‘Are we here to chit-chat or to play?’ I demanded.
‘Well said,’ the Marquis de Nesle cried, jamming his wig back on again. ‘Deal, monsieur.’
I bent all my concentration to the game. At first, I played conservatively, taking my measure of the other players and keeping an eye on what cards were turned. In all those long tedious afternoons playing with the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting, I had learnt to memorise what cards were declared so I could calculate which ones remained in the pack and place my bids accordingly. I also found the Marquis ridiculously easy to read, for his broad dark face showed every thought that flitted through his brain. The Duc d’Orléans was not so easy but I observed him carefully and began to notice a few little mannerisms that gave his hand away.
When I had some money in hand, I began to play more recklessly. I laid a tall pile of coins on the Queen of Hearts, crying, ‘This is the card for me.’
‘A woman after my own heart,’ the Marquis cried and pushed forward his own tottering pile of coins. ‘Live or die, eh?’
Again I won, and again I left all the money on the table. There was a little stir around the table, and a few people stopped to watch.
‘Bold play, mademoiselle,’ the Marquis said admiringly.
‘Why, thank you, kind sir. It must be the company I’m keeping.’
The game continued. I played nonchalantly, as if I did not much care for the vast sum of money I was gambling. The Duc d’Orléans narrowed his eyes and looked at me unpleasantly. ‘Are you sure, mademoiselle?’
‘Of course, monsieur. I do not
hing unless I am sure.’
‘A woman with force of character,’ the Duc d’Orléans sneered.
I smiled at him sweetly. ‘You know me so well, monsieur.’ Then I turned to the Marquis. ‘It is my own name that he teases me for, you see. I am Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force.’
‘I remember,’ he answered.
I tilted my head to one side, tapping one finger against my cheek, affecting a frown of puzzlement. Then I let my expression clear. ‘Yes, of course. The man with the very fine roan and the flask of Armagnac.’
‘I’m glad you remember my horse,’ he said with an expression of mock hurt.
‘I remember thinking you were a man of excellent taste,’ I responded with a smile.
The Duc snapped out another card and once again I won. Despite myself, sweat prickled down my spine and in my armpits, and I could hear my pulse in my ears. I could not help my hand shaking as I pushed forward another pile of coins. Once again, the crowd stirred and murmured, and more people came to watch.
‘You are very confident, mademoiselle,’ the Duc d’Orléans said through gritted teeth.
‘I feel like tonight is my lucky night,’ I replied and flickered a wink at the Marquis, who grinned and lifted his goblet to me.
‘Mordieu, thirty and the go,’ the Marquis said. ‘Monsieur, she’ll break your bank!’
‘I doubt it very much,’ the Duc drawled in response. He shook out his laces and prepared to draw another card. The crowd all drew a deep breath and leant forward, then burst into spontaneous applause as I won. The Duc d’Orléans pretended cool nonchalance as he pushed a great pile of shining coins towards me. There were so many of them that I had to tie them up in half a dozen napkins and give them to the waiters to carry away and lock in a strongbox for me. The Marquis de Nesle helped me while the Duc d’Orléans shrugged his narrow shoulders, rose and sauntered away.
‘Well, you broke his run of luck. What a game! And you were cool as ice. You didn’t even flutter an eyelid.’
‘I was quaking inside. Here, feel my pulse. It’s racing.’ I proffered him my wrist and the Marquis took it between his finger and thumb.
‘It is indeed. I would never have guessed it.’
I bent my head close to him. ‘My heart was pounding so hard I feared it would leap right out of my breast.’
He gave my décolletage an appreciative glance. ‘Well, I wish I could learn to keep so cool during a game. I’m forever cursing and shouting and getting myself in danger of being called out.’
‘Perhaps if we played together,’ I suggested, ‘we could study each other’s techniques.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘What do you like to play?’
‘Let’s play piquet.’ I cast him a smiling look over my shoulder. ‘But let’s make it interesting, shall we? What shall we wager?’
‘How about a kiss?’ the Marquis asked, catching me up eagerly.
‘Let’s take things a little more slowly,’ I reproved him. ‘How about we play for a lock of hair?’
‘Black dust of tomb, venom of toads, powdered mandrake root and dried testicles of a stag,’ the witch La Voisin said, grinding a nasty-looking paste in a black marble mortar. ‘Did you bring some of your monthlies?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and passed over a small glass phial containing a sticky sample of menstrual blood.
‘Not much here,’ the fortune-teller said, holding it up to the flame of the candle. ‘I’ll add some dove’s blood.’
I watched, queasy, as she scraped my menstrual blood into the paste and added a few drops from a bowl containing a meaty lump swimming in a pool of blood. Athénaïs sat next to me, her face wrapped in a veil, her form concealed under a heavy dark cloak. I too was cloaked and veiled, and found it hard to see in the small pavilion where we sat. The only light came from hundreds of candles set on the floor and table. They flickered over La Voisin’s broad face, giving her a mysterious, almost demonic look. She wore a long robe of purple velvet embroidered with gold thread, which glittered when she moved. Dark leaves moved restlessly all around the summer house, adding to the sense of unease.
La Voisin took the Marquis’ lock of hair and burnt it in a candle, then brushed the ashes into the mortar, grinding it with a few more drops of blood. The acrid smell of burnt hair lingered in the air, making me feel ill.
La Voisin dipped a quill into the mortar and carefully drew a pentagram within a circle on a piece of parchment, using a ruler and a wax seal as her guides. She then inscribed it with mystical symbols. Every now and again, she slugged down a mouthful from a squat bottle, sighing and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, before refreshing her quill and returning to her task.
From a small jar, she took what looked like toad’s feet, then fished out the small meaty lump from the bowl.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, leaning away from the stench.
‘A dove’s heart.’ Deftly, she rolled it all together in a bat’s wing and tied it with twine. ‘Nothing better for love spells.’ She wrapped the noisome bundle up in the parchment and then sealed it shut with black candle wax. ‘Tie this up in a pretty bag and give it to him to keep about his person.’
I held it away from me, wrinkling my nose. ‘But it stinks.’
‘The smell will pass in a day or two. Stuff the bag with herbs and flowers if you like. Jasmine and elderflowers and rose petals are all good for love spells.’
‘But what possible reason can I offer him for giving such a gift?’
‘Tell him it will give him sweet dreams, or protect him from poison,’ Athénaïs suggested.
I dropped the bundle into my big tapestry purse and drew the drawstrings tight. I’ll never get the smell out, I thought. My bag will have to go to the rubbish dump.
When I paid La Voisin, she bit each coin carefully before hiding it away inside an inner pocket. ‘The spell won’t fail you. Just make sure he never takes the bag off.’
La Voisin led us along a winding path through trees and bushes down the side of a tall house. We emerged in a wide street, lit only by a lantern above La Voisin’s gate. Two more carriages were drawn up beside the road, waiting for us to leave. As the coachman handed us up into a carriage, another dark-veiled woman stepped out of the vehicle behind us and hurried up the path after the fortune-teller.
Athénaïs and I sat in silence as our carriage rattled away over the cobblestones. ‘So, does it really work?’ I whispered after a while.
‘It seems to,’ Athénaïs responded drily.
I was longing to ask her more. When did you first cast a spell on the King? How many times have you ensorcelled him? Have you ever asked La Voisin for other spells? What and where and when and why?
But I didn’t dare ask. The bag seemed to be emanating a dark malignant force. I could feel it pulsating beside me.
‘The King is a lustful man,’ Athénaïs said, so quietly I could hardly hear her over the rattle of the wheels. ‘If I am not in my apartment when he comes, he will fuck one of my maid-servants to kill time while he waits for me. They say it is my temper that makes it hard for me to keep a maid, but the truth is most of them fall pregnant and have to be pensioned off. Mademoiselle des Oeillets has had a daughter by him, but he will not acknowledge it. She is half-mad with anger and despair, though she has sent the child to the countryside and is trying to pretend it was never born.’
I did not speak. Pity and revulsion and fear were knotted together in my heart.
‘He used to have Louise in the morning, me after lunch, make a duty visit to his wife and then expect me to be ready for him again, hot and willing, after supper.’ Athénaïs’s voice was harsh in the darkness. ‘We could never be sick, or tired, or, heaven forbid, have a headache. He will not wait for me to recover from giving birth. If I am not ready to bed him, he will simply find another woman. Lord knows, the court is full of them, all panting for him. And if I fail to please him … pouf! My chateau, my apartment at court, my jewels, my servants, everything, all
gone. He’ll simply give it to some other whore, younger and prettier than me.’
‘But why … why do you stand it?’ I whispered.
‘But what else am I to do? It is all the power I have, the power to please the King. Without that, I am nothing.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes, it is. You know it is. Why else are you here, buying love spells?’ She gestured towards the bag beside me with one gloved hand.
‘It’s just not right.’
‘It’s the way things are,’ she answered simply.
I knew she spoke the truth. It made me angry and restless. I wished desperately for a world where women were not used as bargaining counters in wars and marriages, a world where they had greater value than as mere brood mares, a world where they could earn their own income, have their own house, choose their own husband, travel where they wished, read and write what they wished, and speak their mind without fear. Such a fever of misery and rage rose up in me that I wanted to hurl the tapestry bag with its terrifying bundle out the window into the night; instead, I clutched it close to me, breathing in its reek of blood and ashes, knowing it could be my only chance to make my mark on the world.
THE DEVIL’S OWN LUCK
Versailles, France – May 1678
‘You always have the devil’s luck,’ the Marquis grumbled, pushing a pile of coins towards me. ‘I swear I’ll stop playing with you. You’re ruining me.’
‘Lucky at cards, unlucky at love,’ I answered with a shrug.
‘Let me win and I’ll change that for you,’ he said with a wink. ‘I’ve been trying to win a kiss from you for a week now, with no luck at all.’
I thought to myself, What would Athénaïs say? I let my lashes drop, looking away from him. ‘I fear that I’ll end up giving you far more than a kiss.’