CHAPTER 29
“Demoiselle?” A Guerrier came running toward Celestine across the rain-swept courtyard of the Forteresse. “I’m Alain Friard. Captain de Lanvaux has asked me to be your instructor in weapons skills. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Lieutenant Friard flashed her a friendly, apologetic grin. His face was framed by a fringe of damp brown hair that he kept shaking out of his eyes, reminding her irresistibly of a wet dog. “Terrible weather for midsummer,” he called back over his shoulder as he set off. Celestine gathered up her skirts and followed him out into the rain. She hoped that she would not disprove the captain’s faith in her.
He led her through a tall archway into a side courtyard and stopped outside a plain door.
“Forget that I’m a woman, Lieutenant.” She had been rehearsing this speech all the way to the Forteresse. “Don’t treat me any differently than you would treat any other cadet.”
“W—with respect, Demoiselle, that hardly seems appropriate.” Lieutenant Friard’s eyes betrayed how confounded he was. She sensed that if he could have invented any excuse to wriggle out of this task, he would have seized it. What made him stand his ground, stuttering and flustered? Loyalty to Ruaud de Lanvaux?
“I think there must be a reason the captain chose you to instruct me,” she said, less harshly this time.
“I’d do anything for the captain,” he said, and then blushed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that instructing you—” He gulped. “That just didn’t come out the way I intended, Demoiselle…”
“Shall we make a start?” She was sure that once he was on familiar ground, he would forget his nervousness.
“Oh yes, yes, of course.” He opened the door, revealing a long, bare hall. “This is one of our firing ranges, with targets set up for small arms. To handle a pistol successfully, you first need to understand how it works.” Pistols were laid out on a table near the door. “Here we have powder, which must be kept dry at all times, and shot, which comes in different sizes…”
As Celestine had suspected, Lieutenant Friard lost his earlier self-consciousness when demonstrating his expertise in handling weapons. He made her pick up one pistol after another, testing the weight, showing her how to balance and aim with a steady hand. He assessed which model and type best suited her. He showed her how to load and prepare to fire. He warned her that firing even the lightest of pistols would involve some recoil.
“Don’t worry; I’m stronger than I look,” she said, seeing him eyeing her slender wrists uncertainly. “I grew up in a convent, so I have strong muscles from doing laundry, gardening, mopping floors.”
The first targets that he set up for her were tin plates, hooked on the far wall. She obediently copied him, priming the pan, inserting the ball, but when it came to squeezing the trigger, the deafeningly loud crack of the report bruised her ears and her shot went wide.
Disappointed, she lowered the pistol, the acrid fumes of the burned powder making her nostrils twitch. “I missed.”
“You flinched as you fired.”
She felt ashamed. “It was so…loud.” She waited for the inevitable reprimand.
“You’re a singer. You have sensitive hearing.” He passed her two little pads of wool. “Put these in your ears. It will help protect them by deadening the sound.”
She looked at him, surprised. “That’s so thoughtful. Thank you.”
Yet still her shots went wide. Forgetting his earlier inhibitions, he stood close to her, adjusting her arm position, balancing her wrist, getting her to fix her line of fire more accurately, until she managed to graze the edge of one of the target plates.
“At last!” she cried, astonished that such a little achievement should mean so much to her. And then she heard men’s voices outside.
“Here come the new cadets,” said Friard.
“Must I stop now? I was just beginning to make progress.”
“May I suggest you put a warm poultice on your wrist tonight? And you may need to bind it.”
She glared at him, hating the fact that he was probably right; her right arm was throbbing and her hand had developed a tremor from supporting the weight of the pistol. I will not give in to this weakness; I will become stronger! “Same time tomorrow, Lieutenant?”
He nodded. The door burst open and half a dozen cadets came in; on seeing her, they stopped in astonishment, nudging each other to let her pass. She wondered what they would whisper about her when she had gone…and whether they would tease Lieutenant Friard mercilessly about his new pupil.
When Ruaud arrived for his evening tutorial with Enguerrand, the young king’s study was empty. Turning round, bemused, Ruaud wondered if he had mistaken the time—and saw one of the great tapestries twitch. Instinctively, he reached for the hilt of his sword.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself.”
Enguerrand appeared. “Ssh,” he whispered, beckoning.
Ruaud hesitated, and then joined Enguerrand, wondering what he was doing. A concealed door was ajar, like the one he had discovered in his own study, and he could just catch a distant murmur of voices.
Is this palace riddled with secret passages?
“So Prince Eugene is building a second war fleet? Do we know what he intends to do with it?”
“My mother,” mouthed Enguerrand silently, but Ruaud had already recognized Aliénor’s clipped tones.
“Our agents suspect that he plans to finish what his father, Karl, began. And invade Francia.” It was Donatien speaking, without a doubt.
“Then we must act to protect Francia. And if that means uniting with Allegonde, then so be it. I can see no alternative in the circumstances. Adèle must marry Ilsevir.”
“Ilsevir has been secretly initiated into the Order of the Rosecoeur. He will do whatever the Master of the Order tells him is best. And as the Master and I have been in close communication…”
Ruaud could hardly believe what he was overhearing.
“We must face the truth, and that is that Enguerrand is unsuited to rule. He’s sickly. Weak.” Ruaud heard Enguerrand’s sharp intake of breath at his mother’s blunt words. “Sooner or later, Tielen will take advantage of that weakness. I will do anything in my power to prevent that happening. If it means making Enguerrand abdicate in favor of Ilsevir, then so be it. You have my blessing to go ahead with the negotiations…”
The voices faded away as the speakers left the room.
“I know my mother has never believed in me.” Enguerrand had clenched both fists; Ruaud could see that he was making a heroic effort not to cry. “But to plan to give my throne away—isn’t that treason?”
“What do you think, Celestine?” Princess Adèle came out from behind the lacquered Khitari screen and turned slowly around, her ladies-in-waiting holding up the long train of ivory lace.
“You look…ravishing,” said Celestine, awed. “If Prince Ilsevir doesn’t fall in love with you when he sees you, then…”
“But will I fall in love with him?” Adèle’s expression was pensive as she smoothed down the billowing folds of creamy lace. “We only met a few weeks ago. He’s practically a stranger. Imagine marrying a man you know no better than…”
“Then may you have many happy years together, to get to know each other well,” said one of her ladies, wiping away a tear. “Your dear mother, Aliénor…”
Adèle shot Celestine a little look that said You see what I have to put up with?
The midnight summons was terse:
“Captain de Lanvaux—come to the king’s apartments at once.”
Ruaud, half-asleep, tugged on his uniform and followed the officer of the king’s bodyguard, who had been sent to fetch him, through the hushed and darkened palace toward the royal apartments. As they drew near, Ruaud became aware of a stir of movement: servants silently hurrying along the dimly lit corridors. Something was far from right in Plaisaunces.
As they reached the king’s rooms, the soldiers on guard immediately opened the doors to admit him. To his surprise, he saw the queen in the antechamber, in a velvet robe de chambre, her greying hair loosely twisted in a single plait, as if she had just been woken from sleep. Aliénor was usually so careful about her appearance.
“Enguerrand has been taken ill. Very ill.”
This news caught him completely off guard. “Ill? But his majesty seemed well enough earlier today. A little abstracted, maybe…” Although, as Ruaud thought back to Enguerrand’s tutorial this morning, he remembered that the king had looked pale and dull-eyed, as if he had slept badly, and had stumbled in his translation more than a few times. “What do the physicians say?”
“He has a high fever. He’s delirious.” Aliénor was twisting the cord of her robe between her fingers; even though her tone of voice was flat and controlled, Ruaud saw that she was genuinely anxious about her youngest child.
“Is it that serious?” Adèle came running in, also in her robe de chambre. “Serious enough to postpone the wedding?”
“It’s far too late to do that, I’m afraid. Besides”—and Ruaud saw the queen bite her lip before continuing—“if the worst were to happen, it’s vital that Francia has a strong ally.”
“What are you saying, Maman?” Adèle glanced at Ruaud, as though desperately seeking his support. “I can’t leave Enguerrand if he’s that sick! I won’t go. You can’t make me.” She began to sob.
“Control yourself, Adèle.” Aliénor looked coldly at her daughter. “This is no time for hysterical outbursts. You will go to Bel’Esstar, and that’s an end to it. I won’t hear any more of this nonsense.”
Ruaud wished that there were some way he could alleviate the princess’s worries. It wasn’t surprising that she was so distraught; already facing the prospect of marriage to a virtual stranger with whom she had little in common, her brother’s illness must seem catastrophic.
“But if my brother isn’t there to give me away?”
“Your uncle Josselin is quite capable of performing that role. It’s more important that the wedding goes ahead, under the circumstances.”
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” Gauzia’s eyes flashed with a cold, contemptuous light. “Coming between two lovers. Breaking up a long and happy relationship.” She flung down a broadsheet on Celestine’s bed. The headline read: “Diva Storms out of Balkaris at Opera House.” “You’ve ruined the Maistre’s opera.”
“What are you talking about, Gauzia?” Celestine was taken aback at the vehemence of Gauzia’s outburst. She picked up the Gazette and read: “‘The Divine Aurélie has walked out of Balkaris, accusing her fiancé, Henri de Joyeuse, of carrying on a secret affair with his ward, convent-educated orphan Celestine.’” The paper dropped from Celestine’s hands.
“It’s the talk of the Opera House. By tonight it’ll be the talk of Lutèce. You and the Maistre. Poor Aurélie is utterly distraught.”
“Now wait a moment—” began Celestine indignantly, but Gauzia was in full flow and would not be silenced.
“It’s always the quiet ones. I’d never have thought of you as a troublemaker.” She advanced on Celestine, thrusting her face close to hers. “You sly, devious little minx. Stealing him away from Aurélie. Carrying on with him behind her back.”
“What?” Someone must have been spreading malicious rumors, and Celestine had a good idea who it might be.
“Just how long have you and the Maistre been at it?”
Celestine gasped. The unfairness of the allegation took her breath away. Before she knew what she was doing, she had lifted her hand and slapped Gauzia, hard. “How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you slander the Maistre? When you know nothing. Nothing at all!”
Gauzia, one hand clasped to her reddening cheek, stared at Celestine. Suddenly tears began to spill from her eyes. “You hit me. You hit me!”
Celestine stared back, horrified at what she had done. “Oh, Gauzia, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to—”
“Don’t come near me.” Gauzia backed away, still weeping. “Don’t ever come near me again. I’m going back to the Opera. At least I know now who my true friends are.” She turned and fled; Celestine heard her sobbing as she ran down the stairs.
Celestine was shaking as she picked up the Gazette and scanned the column again. How long would it be before Aurélie spread the slanderous gossip around the whole city?
“I can put an end to your career before it’s even begun.”
Celestine paused in her packing for the journey to Allegonde and picked up the precious book to place it in the little trunk. “At least I’m starting out on my journey to trace Kaspar Linnaius,” she told the Faie, and found herself wiping away a tear that had strayed unbidden down her cheek. “But leaving the Maistre is hard, so hard, I don’t think I can bear it…”
Someone tapped at the door; imagining it to be Dame Elmire, she said, “Come in,” without looking up. When she raised her head from the open trunk, she saw Henri de Joyeuse standing there.
“Maistre,” she said, wishing that the mere sight of him did not make her heart ache so.
“How can I apologize for what has happened?”
“The Gazette?” She gave a little shrug, feigning indifference. “What’s done is done.”
“I knew Aurélie wouldn’t let me go without creating some scandal. But she had no business dragging your name into this, and I can never forgive her for that.”
“I’ll be on my way to Bel’Esstar tomorrow,” Celestine said, trying to sound more philosophical about the matter than she felt. “By the time I return to Lutèce, the whole affair will probably have been forgotten.”
“Not by me.”
“Maistre?” There had been something in his voice that made her heart miss a beat. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Opera House?”
“I can’t bear to think that we’ll be apart again,” he said. His hair was untied and there were shadows beneath his grey eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Suddenly he moved, catching hold of her by the hand. “Promise me one thing. Promise that you’ll not be tempted by the Allegondans to stay in Bel’Esstar.”
“I’m not sure that I can.” She was trembling; she was not sure that she was strong-willed enough to extract her hand from his. And when he pulled her close to him, all she wanted was to rest her head against his shoulder and stay folded close in his arms.
“Once they hear you sing, they’re going to try to make you stay. The great Talfieri, Illustre Lissier, they have much influence with the prince.”
“You have to let me go, Maistre. You know that the princess has done so much to advance my career. She’s been so kind to me.” Couldn’t he see how torn she felt? Why was he making it so hard for both of them? “I can’t let her down.”
She heard him swallow hard, as though gulping back tears.
“Of course. I have no right to tell you what to do. You must follow the dictates of your heart.” He took both her hands in his and pressed them to his lips. “Farewell, my dearest girl.”
“Captain…” A hoarse voice issued from the king’s bed.
Ruaud had nodded off. He jolted awake.
“Sire?” he said, hardly daring to hope.
“I’m thirsty…”
Ruaud hastily poured water and, supporting the boy’s head, held the glass to his fever-cracked lips, gently wiping away the drops that spilled down the side of his chin.
“What day is it, Captain…?” The dark eyes looking at Ruaud from the pillows were lucid, no longer hazed and wandering.
“You know me. Thank God.” Ruaud had stayed at the king’s side for five days and nights while fever racked the young man’s body, ready to administer the last rites of the Sergian Church. Now his prayers had been answered. Enguerrand’s hand fumbled for his.
“You stayed with me.”
“It was nothing, sire.” Ruaud looked at the king’s slender fingers curled so trustingly around his own. Tears of relief trickled down his cheeks.
Is this how I would feel if I had had a son of my own?
“Don’t…be sad.” The pressure around his hand tightened. “I’m going to recover. I had a dream, Captain…I dreamed that the Angel Lord Galizur came to my bedside. He told me I must get well again. He told me there was much for me to do. He warned me that the Agents of Darkness were abroad, and that I must do all in my power to fight them.” Enguerrand gazed into Ruaud’s face pleadingly. “And he said that my sister is in danger.”
“Your sister is protected by two of my best agents,” said Ruaud, as soothingly as he could. “They will do all in their power to keep her safe.” But he silently offered up a prayer to Saint Sergius to watch over Celestine and Jagu.