Dragonfly in Amber

  She turned to me. “After all, if you are really set upon this course, my dear friend…” Her lips pressed tightly together, then opened to say, “It may be a sin to assist you in committing immorality. Still, I will do it. I know that your reasons seem good to you, whatever they may be. And perhaps the sin will be outweighed by the grace of your friendship.”

  “Oh, Mother.” I thought I might cry if I said more, so contented myself with merely squeezing the big, work-roughened hand that rested on my shoulder. I had a sudden longing to fling myself into her arms and bury my face against the comforting black serge bosom, but her hand left my shoulder and went to the long jet rosary that clicked among the folds of her skirt as she walked.

  “I will pray for you,” she said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration. “Though I do wonder,” she added meditatively, “exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?”

  * * *

  Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she’d never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn’t sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.

  I reflected that the Convent of the Angels had probably never before seen a robing such as this. While the postulants about to take their final vows were most splendidly arrayed as brides of Christ, red silk and rice powder probably didn’t figure heavily in the ceremonies.

  Very symbolic, I thought, as the rich scarlet folds slithered over my upturned face. White for purity, and red for…whatever this was. Sister Minèrve, a young sister from a wealthy noble family, had been selected to assist me in my toilette; with considerable skill and aplomb, she dressed my hair, tucking in the merest scrap of ostrich feather trimmed with seed pearls. She combed my brows carefully, darkening them with the small lead combs, and painted my lips with a feather dipped in a pot of rouge. The feel of it on my lips tickled unbearably, exaggerating my tendency to break into unhinged giggles. Not hilarity; hysteria.

  Sister Minèrve reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her with a gesture; I didn’t want to look myself in the eye. I took a deep breath, and nodded.

  “I’m ready,” I said. “Send for the coach.”

  * * *

  I had never been in this part of the palace before. In fact, after the multiple twists and turnings through the candle-lit corridors of mirrors, I was no longer sure exactly how many of me there were, let alone where any of them were going.

  The discreet and anonymous Gentleman of the Bedchamber led me to a small paneled door in an alcove. He rapped once, then bowed to me, whirled, and left without waiting for an answer. The door swung inward, and I entered.

  The King still had his breeches on. The realization slowed my heartbeat to something like a tolerable rate, and I ceased feeling as though I might throw up any minute.

  I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting, but the reality was mildly reassuring. He was informally dressed, in shirt and breeches, with a dressing gown of brown silk draped across his shoulders for warmth. His Majesty smiled, and urged me to rise with a hand under my arm. His palm was warm—I had subconsciously expected his touch to be clammy—and I smiled back, as best I could.

  The attempt must not have been altogether successful, for he patted my arm kindly, and said “Don’t be afraid of me, chère Madame. I don’t bite.”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not.”

  He was a lot more poised than I was. Well, of course he is, I thought to myself, he does this all the time. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “You will have a little wine, Madame?” he asked. We were alone; there were no servants, but the wine was already poured, in a pair of goblets that stood on the table, glowing like rubies in the candlelight. The chamber was ornate, but very small, and aside from the table and a pair of oval-backed chairs, held only a luxuriously padded green-velvet chaise longue. I tried to avoid looking at it as I took my goblet, with a murmur of thanks.

  “Sit, please.” Louis sank down upon one of the chairs, gesturing to me to take the other. “Now please,” he said, smiling at me, “tell me what it is that I may do for you.”

  “M-my husband,” I began, stammering a little from nervousness. “He’s in the Bastille.”

  “Of course,” the King murmured. “For dueling. I recall.” He took my free hand in his own, fingers resting lightly on my pulse. “What would you have me do, chère Madame? You know it is a serious offense; your husband has broken my own decree.” One finger stroked the underside of my wrist, sending small tickling sensations up my arm.

  “Y-yes, I understand that. But he was…provoked.” I had an idea. “You know he’s a Scot; men of that country are”—I tried to think of a good synonym for “berserk”—“most fierce where questions of their honor are concerned.”

  Louis nodded, head bent in apparent absorption over the hand he held. I could see the faint greasy shine to his skin, and smell his perfume. Violets. A strong, sweet smell, but not enough to completely mask his own acrid maleness.

  He drained his wine in two long swallows and discarded the goblet, the better to clasp my hand in both his own. One short-nailed finger traced the lines of my wedding ring, with its interlaced links and thistle blossoms.

  “Quite so,” he said, bringing my hand closer, as though to examine the ring. “Quite so, Madame. However…”

  “I’d be…most grateful, Your Majesty,” I interrupted. His head rose and I met his eyes, dark and quizzical. My heart was going like a trip-hammer. “Most…grateful.”

  He had thin lips and bad teeth; I could smell his breath, thick with onion and decay. I tried holding my own breath, but this could hardly be more than a temporary expedient.

  “Well…” he said slowly, as though thinking it over. “I would myself be inclined toward mercy, Madame…”

  I released my breath in a short gasp, and his fingers tightened on mine in warning. “But you see, there are complications.”

  “There are?” I said faintly.

  He nodded, eyes still fixed on my face. His fingers wandered lightly over the back of my hand, tracing the veins.

  “The Englishman who was so unfortunate as to have offended milord Broch Tuarach,” he said. “He was in the employ of…a certain man—an English noble of some importance.”

  Sandringham. My heart lurched at the mention of him, indirect as it was.

  “This noble is engaged in—shall we say, certain negotiations which entitle him to consideration?” The thin lips smiled, emphasizing the imperious prow of the nose above. “And this nobleman has interested himself in the matter of the duel between your husband and the English Captain Randall. I am afraid that he was most exigent in demanding that your husband suffer the full penalty of his indiscretion, Madame.”

  Bloody tub of lard, I thought. Of course—since Jamie had refused the bribe of a pardon, what better way to prevent his “involving himself” in the Stuarts’ affairs than to ensure Jamie’s staying safely jugged in the Bastille for the next few years? Sure, discreet, and inexpensive; a method bound to appeal to the Duke.

  On the other hand, Louis was still breathing heavily on my hand, which I took as a sign that all was not necessarily lost. If he wasn’t going to grant my request, he could scarcely expect me to go to bed with him—or if he did, he was in for a rude surprise.

  I girded my loins for another try.

  “And does Your Majesty take orders from the English?” I asked boldly.

  Louis’s eyes flew open with momentary shock. Then he smiled wryly, seeing what I intended. Still, I had touched a nerve; I saw the small twitch of his shoulders as he resettled his conviction of power like an invisible mantle.

&nbs
p; “No, Madame, I do not,” he said with some dryness. “I do, however, take account of…various factors.” The heavy lids drooped over his eyes for a moment, but he still held my hand.

  “I have heard that your husband interests himself in the affairs of my cousin,” he said.

  “Your Majesty is well informed,” I said politely. “But since that is so, you will know that my husband does not support the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Scotland.” I prayed that this was what he wanted to hear.

  Apparently it was; he smiled, raised my hand to his lips, and kissed it briefly.

  “Ah? I had heard…conflicting stories about your husband.”

  I took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to snatch my hand back.

  “Well, it’s a matter of business,” I said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “My husband’s cousin, Jared Fraser, is an avowed Jacobite; Jamie—my husband—can’t very well go about letting his real views be made public, when he’s in partnership with Jared.” Seeing the doubt begin to fade from his face, I hurried it along. “Ask Monsieur Duverney,” I suggested. “He’s well acquainted with my husband’s true sympathies.”

  “I have.” Louis paused for a long moment, watching his own fingers, dark and stubby, tracing delicate circles over the back of my hand.

  “So very pale,” he murmured. “So fine. I believe I could see the blood flow beneath your skin.”

  He let go of my hand then and sat regarding me. I was extremely good at reading faces, but Louis’s was quite impenetrable at the moment. I realized suddenly that he’d been a king since the age of five; the ability to hide his thoughts was as much a part of him as his Bourbon nose or the sleepy black eyes.

  This thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck me deep in the pit of the stomach. He was the King. The Citizens of Paris would not rise for forty years or more; until that day, his rule within France was absolute. He could free Jamie with a word—or kill him. He could do with me as he liked; there was no recourse. One nod of his head, and the coffers of France could spill the gold that would launch Charles Stuart, loosing him like a deadly bolt of lightning to strike through the heart of Scotland.

  He was the King. He would do as he wished. And I watched his dark eyes, clouded with thought, and waited, trembling, to see what the Royal pleasure might be.

  “Tell me, ma chère Madame,” he said at last, stirring from his introspection. “If I were to grant your request, to free your husband…” he paused, considering.

  “Yes?”

  “He would have to leave France,” Louis said, one thick brow raised in warning. “That would be a condition of his release.”

  “I understand.” My heart was pounding so hard that it nearly drowned out his words. Jamie leaving France was, after all, precisely the point. “But he’s exiled from Scotland…”

  “I think that might be arranged.”

  I hesitated, but there seemed little choice but to agree on Jamie’s behalf. “All right.”

  “Good.” The King nodded, pleased. Then his eyes returned to me, rested on my face, glided down my neck, my breasts, my body. “I would ask a small service of you in return, Madame,” he said softly.

  I met his eyes squarely for one second. Then I bowed my head. “I am at Your Majesty’s complete disposal,” I said.

  “Ah.” He rose and threw off the dressing gown, leaving it flung carelessly over the back of his armchair. He smiled and held out a hand to me. “Très bien, ma chère. Come with me, then.”

  I closed my eyes briefly, willing my knees to work. You’ve been married twice, for heaven’s sake, I thought to myself. Quit making such a bloody fuss about it.

  I rose to my feet and took his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t turn toward the velvet chaise, but instead led me toward the door at the far side of the room.

  I had one moment of ice-cold clarity as he let go my hand to open the door.

  Damn you, Jamie Fraser, I thought. Damn you to hell!

  * * *

  I stood quite still on the threshold, blinking. My meditations on the protocol of Royal disrobing faded into sheer astonishment.

  The room was quite dark, lit only by numerous tiny oil-lamps, set in groups of five in alcoves in the wall of the chamber. The room itself was round, and so was the huge table that stood in its center, the dark wood gleaming with pinpoint reflections. There were people sitting at the table, no more than hunched dark blurs against the blackness of the room.

  There was a murmur at my entrance, quickly stilled at the King’s appearance. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the murk, I realized with a sense of shock that the people seated at the table wore hoods; the nearest man turned toward me, and I caught the faint gleam of eyes through holes in the velvet. It looked like a convention of hangmen.

  Apparently I was the guest of honor. I wondered for a nervous moment just what might be expected of me. From Raymond’s hints, and Marguerite’s, I had nightmare visions of occult ceremonies involving infant sacrifice, ceremonial rape, and general-purpose satanic rites. It is, however, quite rare for the supernatural actually to live up to its billing, and I hoped this occasion would be no exception.

  “We have heard of your great skill, Madame, and your…reputation.” Louis smiled, but there was a tinge of caution in his eyes as he looked at me, as though not quite certain what I might do. “We should be most obliged, my dear Madame, should you be willing to give us the benefits of such skill this evening.”

  I nodded. Most obliged, eh? Well, that was all to the good; I wanted him obliged to me. What was he expecting me to do, though? A servant placed a huge wax candle on the table and lighted it, shedding a pool of mellow light on the polished wood. The candle was decorated with symbols like those I had seen in Master Raymond’s secret chamber.

  “Regardez, Madame.” The King’s hand was under my elbow, directing my attention beyond the table. Now that the candle was lighted, I could see the two figures who stood silently among the flickering shadows. I started at the sight, and the King’s hand tightened on my arm.

  The Comte St. Germain and Master Raymond stood there, side by side, separated by a distance of six feet or so. Raymond gave no sign of acknowledgment, but stood quietly, staring off to one side with the pupil-less black eyes of a frog in a bottomless well.

  The Comte saw me, and his eyes widened in disbelief; then he scowled at me. He was dressed in his finest, all in white, as usual; a white stiffened satin coat over cream-colored silk vest and breeches. A tracery of seed pearls decorated his cuffs and lapels, gleaming in the candlelight. Sartorial splendor aside, the Comte looked rather the worse for wear, I thought—his face was drawn with strain, and the lace of his stock was wilted, his collar darkened with sweat.

  Raymond, conversely, looked calm as a turbot on ice, standing stolidly with both hands folded into the sleeves of his usual scruffy velvet robe, broad, flat face placid and inscrutable.

  “These two men stand accused, Madame,” said Louis, with a gesture at Raymond and the Comte. “Of sorcery, of witchcraft, of the perversion of the legitimate search for knowledge into an exploration of arcane arts.” His voice was cold and grim. “Such practices flourished during the reign of my grandfather; but we shall not suffer such wickedness in our realm.”

  The King flicked his fingers at one of the hooded figures, who sat with pen and ink before a sheaf of papers. “Read the indictments, if you please,” he said.

  The hooded man rose obediently to his feet and began to read from one of the papers: charges of bestiality and foul sacrifice, of the spilling of the blood of innocents, the profanation of the most holy rite of the Mass by desecration of the Host, the performance of amatory rites upon the altar of God—I had a quick flash of just what the healing Raymond had performed on me at L’Hôpital des Anges must have looked like, and felt profoundly grateful that no one had discovered him.

  I heard the name “du Carrefours” mentioned, and swallowed a sudden rising of bile. What ha
d Pastor Laurent said? The sorcerer du Carrefours had been burned in Paris, only twenty years before, on just such charges as those I was hearing: “—the summoning of demons and powers of darkness, the procurement of illness and death for payment”—I put a hand to my stomach, in vivid memory of bitter cascara—“the ill-wishing of members of the Court, the defilement of virgins—” I shot a quick look at the Comte, but his face was stony, lips pressed tight as he listened.

  Raymond stood quite still, silver hair brushing his shoulders, as though listening to something as inconsequential as the song of a thrush in the bushes. I had seen the Cabbalistic symbols on his cabinet, but I could hardly reconcile the man I knew—the compassionate poisoner, the practical apothecary—with the list of vileness being read.

  At last the indictments ceased. The hooded man glanced at the King, and at a signal, sank back into his chair.

  “Extensive inquiry has been made,” the King said, turning to me. “Evidence has been presented, and the testimony of many witnesses taken. It seems clear”—he turned a cold gaze on the two accused magic—“that both men have undertaken investigations into the writings of ancient philosophers, and have employed the art of divinations, using calculation of the movements of heavenly bodies. Still…” He shrugged. “This is not of itself a crime. I am given to understand”—he glanced at a heavyset man in a hood, whom I suspected of being the Bishop of Paris—“that this is not necessarily at variance with the teachings of the Church; even the blessed St. Augustine was known to have made inquiries into the mysteries of astrology.”