Mistress of the Sun Read online

  The knocking kept up, insistent.

  “I’ll get it, Mother,” Petite called out, looking for her crutch. It was a special day, the fifth of September, and she thought the knocking might have something to do with that. Today, the King turned thirteen. It was the day of his majority, her father had explained that morning before prayers: on this day the Queen Mother would kneel down before her son and kiss his hand. Even in their faraway village, celebrations were being planned.

  “What a racket.” Françoise came down the spiral stairs and reached the door first. It was the old ploughman, clutching the rim of his torn felt hat. “You need not pound the door,” she said. “And you’re to come to the back.”

  “Madame, I did, but nobody answered, so I came round to the front. It’s Monsieur de la Vallière, he’s in the barn, he’s“—the old man hid his eyes in the crook of his arm—“dead.”

  Françoise stood motionless. “That’s not so,” she said with anger.

  “I found him there just now—dead as a stone.”

  Petite overturned the embroidery frame in her bolt for the barn. She hobbled across the farmyard on her crutch. May it not be true, may it not be true…Please, God, may it not be true.

  The barn door was agape. Petite stopped for a moment to catch her breath. The wind rustled in the trees. Three hens strutted close by, clucking, one eye to the sky. She thought she heard that low growl again and twirled, her heart racing. The shadow of a hawk skimmed the muddy yard.

  She stepped through the barn door.

  Her father was curled on the floor in his barn clothes, her brother kneeling beside him. Jean looked up, his eyes stricken.

  “He won’t talk,” he said, his voice strangled. He sat back against a wall. “I think he’s dead.”

  Petite steeled herself and looked at her father’s face. His eyes were half open, staring at Jean as if in surprise. His mouth was open too, but in a grimace of pain. She saw something dark on his lips. Blood.

  “And that horse of yours is gone,” Jean said.

  The gate to Diablo’s stall hung open. Petite looked back down at her father. Was he dead? She opened her mouth, but all that emerged was a choking sound.

  PETITE HID IN the dovecote, crouching in the dark. The doves’ cooing paused, then started up again, a humming pulse. Her father was dead and Diablo had disappeared, and she knew she was somehow to blame. She wanted to cry, but could not. Her heart had turned to stone.

  “Come on out now, Mademoiselle,” she heard a man say. It was the old ploughman, standing in the sunlight. He brushed away a cobweb and stepped inside.

  “They’ve laid your father out in the house. He looks at peace,” he said. He took a deep, shaky breath. “Your brother’s gone to town for Curé Barouche. I thought you’d want to be there when he comes, to say the prayers and all.”

  Petite opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She felt as if she were retching air, as if she might choke.

  “Are you all right, child?” the ploughman asked, stepping in, looking down at her with puzzlement.

  Petite made fluttering finger motions in front of her lips. What was wrong with her? She opened and closed her mouth like a dying fish.

  “Can’t you talk?” he asked, laying his hand gently on her shoulder.

  Petite covered her face with her hands. Even her cries were silent.

  Chapter Five

  SHORTLY AFTER THE FUNERAL, Françoise sent her son off to school in Paris. As the orphan of a cavalry officer who had been wounded at the Battle of Rocroi, he qualified for a scholarship to the Collège de Navarre. “Your father’s death got you in, but the rest will be up to you,” she instructed her son, closing his worn leather valise. “The highest nobility send their sons to the Collège de Navarre. Do what you can to befriend them.”

  She carried his valise out to the courtyard herself. He was being sent off on old Hongre. She had made a futile search for the White, hoping to trade the cursed beast for a roadworthy pony; now Hongre would have to do. It was a long trip, but the boy was light to carry. He and the tutor, ignobly mounted on the donkey, would take it in easy stages. At the end of the journey, the old horse would be sold for meat; she could not afford his keep.

  Jean grabbed on to the Hungarian’s thick mane and climbed up into the saddle. “Aren’t you even going to say farewell?” He made a monkey face at his sister.

  Petite put her hand on Hongre’s nose and stepped back.

  “What’s wrong with her? Why doesn’t she talk?” Jean asked.

  “It’s just an ague,” Françoise said, taking her daughter’s cold hand. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll manage.”

  She waved until she could see her son no more, then turned back to the house with Petite. She was not, in fact, the least bit confident that she could manage. Her daughter’s silence unnerved her. The curé suggested that the girl might be under some curse and had offered to perform a ritual to exorcise the demon, but exorcisms were costly—well beyond Françoise’s means, especially now. She was furious at Laurent: for dying, for one thing, but mostly for leaving her impoverished. She’d brought sixty thousand Tournais livres into her marriage—a small fortune—but now, she’d been informed, there was a debt of thirty-four thousand. The reckoning was not difficult: her husband had robbed her.

  Scores had spoken at his funeral. The little church in the village had been mobbed. He was a saint, everyone said, always helping the poor in need. He’d given the servants money freely. He’d given hundreds to his sister’s convent in Tours, lent money to his hapless brother, Father Gilles. He’d helped found a hospital, a school for the blind, a bakery to serve the starving. He’d even given money to their neighbors!

  Well, they could keep their pious condolences. That was her money he’d been giving away, and she wanted it back. If Laurent weren’t already dead, she would kill him.

  “There will be men coming here today, Louise,” Françoise told her silent daughter, who had settled into a chair by a window with a book, the hound curled at her feet. “A notary and master-broker, coming to make an inventory.” Coming to assign value to every threadbare curtain and chipped plate.

  “I have to consider our future,” she went on, examining her mourning weeds in a cracked looking-glass. She detested the little black cap widows were required to wear. Perhaps a ribbon around the rim—a peach silk? But no, the oh-so-pious neighbors would talk, the neighbors who held themselves to be virtuous, the ones who had borrowed from Laurent and never paid him back. The neighbor who had had two bastard children by Agathe Balin. The neighbor who had new brocade curtains, no doubt purchased with Laurent’s money—her money. Fie on them all!

  How was she to manage? Perhaps she should make a trip to the château at Blois. The Duke d’Orléans, the King’s uncle, was back in residence there now. He might be interested in buying Laurent’s musty books. “Especially your future,” she said, turning to her daughter.

  Petite looked up with a puzzled look.

  In truth, Françoise worried herself sick over the girl. With no dowry, a gimpy leg and now mute; what man would have her? “You must begin school as well,” she said, busying herself with the fire. She would have to get out into the world to find a new husband. She couldn’t afford to be tied down, and it would be better for the girl, in any case. “I’ve arranged for you to board at the Ursuline convent in Tours.” Laurent’s sister Angélique was superintendent of novices there, and his brother Gilles the resident priest. Françoise expected to be able to negotiate a greatly reduced rate (considering all the money Laurent had donated to the place). “You are seven now, the age of discretion. They will teach you comportment.” Turn her horse-crazy tomboy of a daughter into a proper young lady.

  PETITE AND HER MOTHER, and the ploughman as driver, traveled to the Ursuline convent in Tours in the open carriage, following the rutted road south to the river. Petite sat silently beside her mother, staring out at the barren fields. Whenever she saw horses, she looked for the proud White: where
could he have gone? She would never ride again, she knew.

  The bridge over the river was rickety; the cart horse balked and Petite had to lead her across. Once over, Petite climbed back into the carriage and they wended their way through the busy, narrow streets of the city.

  Two years had passed since Petite had been to the convent. She had come with her father and Jean. The flower-filled parlor had been crowded. She remembered her jolly uncle Gilles, priest to the convent, telling jokes as her aunt Angélique, a nun there, served comfits and fruit drinks. They had sung hymns together and laughed at Father Gilles’s stories. Petite had been much fussed-over—she sang like an angel, they had exclaimed. “Just like your father.”

  It seems strange to be here without him, Petite thought as the convent gates opened onto the tranquil gardens. Footpaths led to a number of outbuildings she knew well: the apothecary, the infirmary, the butchery, wine cellar, bake house and laundry. At the eastern end was the sacristy, and to the south an orchard, a kitchen garden, a fishpond, a barn and a poultry yard. A world unto itself, her father had described it, “a bit of Heaven.” She wondered if he was in Heaven now.

  The ploughman deposited Petite’s trunk outside the door of the main building. “Well, then,” he said, shifting his weight. “I’d best guard the wagon.” He cleared his throat. “You look after yourself, Mademoiselle.” He touched his mitt to the rim of his cap.

  Petite watched as he shuffled away. Sometimes she felt so full of words, she thought she might burst.

  While her mother spoke with the Prioress in the convent office, Petite sat on the trunk watching the comings and goings. Nuns shuffled along in silence with their eyes lowered, or whispered quietly together, their hands tucked into their voluminous sleeves. One nun sat reading to a group of schoolchildren—now and then they all laughed. From somewhere came the sweet scent of fruit being boiled down for jam. She heard a lute being played, and a woman singing a madrigal.

  Her mother emerged from the convent office, slamming the door behind her with an echoing whack. “Your aunt’s waiting for us in the parlor.”

  The convent parlor was like a large sitting room, with wooden chairs and stools set against the walls. Two side tables held vases of flowers and dishes of comfits. Along one wall was an open grille, behind which Sister Angélique was sitting, tatting lace. Petite’s aunt put her needlework aside and stood. She stooped down to unlatch the little door to one side of the grille.

  “Welcome,” she said.

  “There you go, now,” Françoise said, her hand on Petite’s back.

  Petite turned to look up at her mother.

  “Angélique will look after you now.” Françoise blinked. She tucked a wayward curl back under Petite’s cap.

  “You are doing the right thing, Françoise,” Sister Angélique said. Her voice was low, melodic, reminding Petite of her father’s. “How old are you?” she asked Petite, inviting her within. “Six?”

  Petite put up seven fingers. Her aunt smelled of roses.

  “She stopped talking,” Françoise said, fastening the bone button of her cape at her neck. “The doctor said she lacks phlegm, that she should have more wine and water. Ale, as well.”

  Petite reached back to touch her mother’s hand.

  “Be good,” Françoise told her, squeezing Petite’s fingers, her voice suddenly husky. Then she turned abruptly and was gone.

  “Well, now,” Sister Angélique said, closing and bolting the door. “I could show you your chamber, but perhaps you would rather eat first.”

  Petite peered into her aunt’s thin face, encircled by a starched white wimple. Sister Angélique looked a lot like her father: the same pointed chin and high cheekbones, that same gentle regard, the same smile lines at the corners of her blue eyes.

  “Our cook makes wonderful little cakes.”

  Petite shrugged: she wasn’t hungry. She followed her aunt into another chamber, and then another, trying not to limp. The Devil had been lamed by his fall from Heaven. She’d had her fall too.

  “We have two horses in the barn here, one just a baby,” Sister Angélique said as they entered a wide passageway. “Perhaps we could go visit them later. Your father always used to tell stories about you and the horses, how it was as if you were one of them.”

  Petite shook her head emphatically.

  Sister Angélique stopped, regarding Petite thoughtfully. “So it’s true: you have stopped talking.” She put her hand lightly on Petite’s cap. “You have suffered a great loss. Perhaps the good Lord, in His wisdom, has led you to silence, His own holy language.” Bells rang. “And now He calls us to chapel. Perhaps you can sing? ‘Let all mortal flesh keep silence,’” Angélique sang softly. “You know it? I know you do. Singing is not at all like talking.”

  Petite opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “That was a start,” Petite’s aunt said, smiling. She took Petite’s hand and led her into a corridor. “Come, my little angel—we sing day and night here. You will join us, and sing in your heart.”

  IN THE MORNING, as a lay sister lit the fire and took out the chamber pot, Sister Angélique woke Petite. “Lord, thank you for the glorious beauty of another dawn,” she prayed aloud. “Thank you for this precious little angel. Look over her this day. Amen.” Then she laid out a clean shift, two flannel petticoats, a plain wool bodice and skirt, and helped Petite out of her night shift and cap. Petite didn’t mind. Back home, the scullery girl had been the one to dress her and had handled her roughly.

  Home. It seemed far away to Petite now. She thought of her mother there, with only the servants and the hound for company. She thought of the past. She couldn’t bear to remember her father’s body stretched out on the big table in the sitting room. She had stood by his side as prayers were read, holding her breath. The Devil hovered at such times in the hope of stealing a soul. His demons dwelt in the air; they swarmed like flies. Prayers were spoken and incense burned to keep the Devil and his demons away.

  “Now we put away your nightclothes,” her aunt Angélique instructed, opening Petite’s wooden trunk.

  Petite folded her shift as told, wondering if she had been the cause of her father’s death. She had made a pact with the Devil, and now she was his. At night, in the dark of her attic room at home, the Devil had crouched under her bed or behind her trunk. He had no eyebrows and his eyes glowed. He had a smoky smell.

  Has the Devil followed me here? Petite wondered as Sister Angélique cleaned her face with a white cloth dipped in wine, and then combed out her hair, winding her long curls into a bun. There had been strange noises in the night, and that faint scent of smoke. Her room faced north: the Devil’s dark domain. It alarmed her to think the Evil One might be in the convent with her. For protection, she’d slept clutching a statue of the Blessed Mother that her aunt had given her. It was made of betony wood, which had power over evil spirits, she knew. A wounded stag would search for betony, eat it and be cured.

  “There, now.” Petite’s aunt looked into her face. “Such a sweet and serious soul,” she said with a smile.

  Laced and coiffed, her bonnet strings tied, a kerchief around her neck, Petite followed her aunt to Mass in the convent chapel, performed with great ceremonial drama by her bumbling uncle Gilles, his breath misting in the winter air.

  Like spirits rising, Petite thought. Like demons.

  EACH MORNING AFTER MASS, after bread and beer in the rectory, Petite went to her studies—long, absorbing lessons in history, geography and modern languages. She was an eager student, reading whatever texts she was assigned and writing out answers in response to Sister Angélique’s questions. As for numbers, they were easy to master. She astonished her aunt by correctly calculating how much eight yards of lace cost at 35/4d a yard.

  When the weather was good, Sister Angélique allowed her to take walks in the frozen gardens while she attended to the day students from town. Petite loved these moments of solitude. The squares of bare ground were pristine in the bright winter
light. From a pavilion in the center, through tree branches glittering with hoarfrost, she could glimpse fields. Squinting into the sun, she searched for a White.

  Had her father’s soul ridden Diablo to Heaven? she wondered as she paced, scuffing up snow with each step. Or had the Devil taken him, ridden him backward into Hell?

  There was a great deal to learn and that helped. There was the Angelus, the litanies of Our Lady, the Pater and Ave to memorize. There were prayers for getting up and for every hour of the day, prayers for keeping away evil spirits, for undressing at night and for going to sleep, prayers for her mother and brother, and—especially—ardent prayers for the soul of her father. It tormented her to think that he died suddenly, without Confession.

  Did I kill him? A choking feeling rose in her.

  Back at her study table, the wood fire blazing, she wrote out questions on slate with chalk-stone: Is Heaven really up in the sky? What does the Holy Ghost look like? What is it like in Hell?

  Sister Angélique closed her eyes before answering: “Heaven is far above the clouds, the Holy Ghost speaks through dreams and Hell is a place without love.” She opened her eyes and watched as Petite wrote out her next question, the letters round and even: What does the Devil look like?

  “That is not an easy question,” Sister Angélique said, stroking the cover of her gold-tooled missal. “It seems that he takes on many shapes and forms, whatever suits his purposes. He might be a woman, a man, a child even. Saint Paul warned that he might even appear as an angel of light. Indeed, it is possible for him not to have a form at all, but to manifest himself as a dream, or simply a thought.”

  Petite frowned. It had never occurred to her that the Devil might not be flesh. She’d had a disturbing dream the night before about trying to speak—trying to scream, in fact. Had that been the Devil’s doing? Had he taken her voice?