“Fagon,” Lorraine said, “you should bleed her again.”
Marie-Josèphe started, ready to fly to Zachi, ready to run. Lorraine laughed, her first true enemy.
Count Lucien cleared his throat.
“Letting blood is not,” Fagon said nervously, “is not indicated, at this time.”
19
In the midst of a chaos of horses and dogs, carriages and shouting, Zachi stepped delicately across the paving stones of the courtyard. Marie-Josèphe stroked the mare’s sleek red-gold neck.
“Do you know my frailties, dear Zachi?” she whispered. I’m only tired, she thought, though her feverish despair resembled no exhaustion she had ever felt.
Zachi swiveled one fine ear, then pricked both ears forward and arched her neck. Her walk was as smooth as still water.
Shouting, beating their leopard-spotted ponies’ sides with their heels, the young princes clattered across the paving stones. A half-grown hound bayed and scrabbled to chase them. Its leash, fastened to the collar of an experienced old bitch, strangled it back. The bitch growled; the pup cowered. The King’s hunt assembled, fifty horses and riders, a dozen open caleches. The stallions snorted and reared; the courtiers preened as proudly.
Horse sweat, human sweat, dung, smoke, and perfume mingled with the scent of orange blossoms and the cool sharp air of September. The sky glowed blue.
Monsieur and the Chevalier de Lorraine rode out on matched black Spanish chargers. Monsieur’s diamond patches glittered against his powdered skin, his new coat gleamed with gold lace, and white plumes spilled nearly to the cantle of his saddle. He cocked his hat in the most stylish manner. Lorraine, impossibly elegant in his embroidered blue coat, sported a new diamond ring, displayed over his glove on his forefinger.
Marie-Josèphe hoped she could avoid him in the crowd.
“Unusual to see Monsieur riding astride,” the Duke du Maine said. His heavy hunter shouldered up beside Zachi.
“He has a beautiful seat, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said. “See how his horse responds to him.”
“He wishes he could put that bridle on Lorraine, and make him admire his seat.” Maine chuckled.
Marie-Josèphe could make no sense of Maine’s comment, except the insulting tone.
“I have heard he led bravely,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Riding at the head of his company in battle.”
“Not until he’d spent two hours before his mirror. He must have taken four hours, to get himself up today.” Maine’s horse moved closer. Maine’s knee brushed against Marie-Josèphe’s leg. Zachi flattened her ears and nipped at the horse. Marie-Josèphe did not correct her.
“Monsieur has been kindness itself to me, sir,” she said. “And Madame, and Mademoiselle — I wouldn’t like to hear them spoken of with disrespect.”
Maine turned toward her. The motion straightened the unevenness of his shoulders. The shadow of his wide plumed hat accentuated his intense beauty, the beauty of his father the King as a young man.
“Madame should have been born a man, and Monsieur a woman.”
Leaving Marie-Josèphe shocked to speechlessness by the poison in his voice, Maine stabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped away.
“Mlle de la Croix!” Madame, in the shabby riding habit that she wore when her position did not require court dress, trotted toward her on a substantial chestnut horse.
“Good day, Madame.” Marie-Josèphe smiled; Madame’s happiness radiated, overcoming Marie-Josèphe’s distress like the sun overwhelming clouds: she was outside, on horseback, on a perfect September day. Madame’s complexion was high, her cheeks red, her eyes bright.
Madame smiled fondly back at Marie-Josèphe. “Mademoiselle and I were terribly distressed when you were taken ill. You look a little feverish, my dear. Shall I send my physician to you?”
“I’m quite recovered, Madame, please don’t trouble your physician.” Marie-Josèphe tugged her sleeve, making sure it covered the bandage and hid the red streaks.
“Are you fit to ride?”
“I wouldn’t miss the King’s hunt for anything!” She hoped His Majesty did not rescind his invitation the moment he saw her. “Zachi will take care of me.” She stroked the bay Arab’s neck again; she never tired of touching the soft warmth of the Arabian’s skin, and the hard power beneath it.
“M. de Chrétien’s horses are swift and sure-footed,” Madame said. “Too small for me!” She laughed, then gazed quizzically at Marie-Josèphe. “I’ve not known M. de Chrétien to lend his horses, in the past, even to his intimates.”
“It’s for my brother’s convenience, to better serve His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But it is kind of him to let me ride her on the hunt, for my own pleasure.”
“My dear, you deserve a bit of pleasure — I think you do nothing but work.”
“Yet I’ve been remiss in my duties to you and to Mademoiselle. Please forgive me.”
“Your brother needs you while he serves the King, I’m resigned to that. We cannot do without you for long, though, remember,” Madame said. “And Mademoiselle cannot do without your Odelette at all — they’ve invented six new hairstyles this morning alone, and will think of a dozen more while we hunt.”
“My sister Haleed is a wonder, Madame, it’s true.”
“Your — sister?” Madame arched both eyebrows. “Haleed?”
“My adopted sister, who is now free, who uses her true name, and who shares any good fortune I might encounter.”
Madame considered. “A magnanimous decision, and a proper one. It isn’t quite... acceptable... for you to own a slave.”
“I’ve recently come to realize it, Madame. Please remember, I’m an ignorant colonial girl.”
Madame chuckled, then grew serious. “I wonder, my dear, if it’s necessary to raise her to the status of your sister. Your servant, perhaps, would be more suitable.”
“That’s impossible, Madame, as I cannot pay a servant.”
Madame’s skeptical expression doubted the seriousness of Marie-Josèphe’s reply. A clatter of hooves and the shrieks of youthful voices distracted her. The Grandsons of France galloped across the courtyard for a third time, laughing, shouting encouragement to their invisible cavalry troops. As aloof as a desert sheik, Zachi ignored the commotion. Madame’s horse shied; she laughed and calmed it.