The empress of ice cream

PART TWO

‘Must we abandon the Great Affair? It is to be feared that the grief of the King of England, which is deeper than can be imagined, and the malevolent talk and the rumours of our adversaries, will spoil everything.’

Colbert de Croissy, French ambassador in London, to Lionne, French Secretary of State, July, 1670

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*1

Carlo

>*

A simple lemon cream is the noblest of ices, and may be easily assembled when others are uncertain.

The Book of Ices

This, then, was the land to which I had been exiled: a low bank of grey mud that gradually spht apart and became the two sides of an estuary. On the silvery mudflats, pocked with the crests left by seagulls’ feet, a few ramshackle farms stood out against the horizon. Except for some scrawny pigs, they seemed abandoned. The people must have been indoors, sheltering from the freezing rain: I would have done the same, but the boat had been put to use recently carrying animal dung, and my court-accustomed palate was still too refined to bear the stench below decks. Besides, I was fascinated by this country - fascinated and also appalled: by its drab meanness, its dullness, the way it lifted itself out of the grey water reluctantly, by slow degrees, so different from the dazzling crags and welcoming harbours of Italy or France.

At last, as the estuary narrowed and became a river mouth, there were settlements of some kind, docks. I shielded my eyes with my hand. The buildings were the same dreary brown as the mud, the roofs covered in some kind of dark straw. I have come to a country without colours^ I thought, and it was not only the cold that made me shiver.

I recalled the occasion on which I had received my orders; from the great Lionne himself, in his vast office in the Louvre.

‘We are currently engaged in a diplomatic operation of no little delicacy, which may affect the whole course of our mihtary campaign. I am pleased to tell you that, despite your recent disgrace,

you are in the fortunate position of being able to be of service to His Most Christian Majesty in this matter . .

I was not being given a choice, that much had been clear. Always, beneath the surface, lay the unspoken threat. Madame’s death remained^ a mystery, despite the doctors’ best efforts, and rumours of poison or medical incompetence still swirled around the court.

‘It is reported that the English monarch. King Charles, is prostrate with grief When he heard the news about his sister he locked himself in his closet. For three days no one was allowed to enter, not even his physicians.’

Lionne paused. ‘Our own king, of course, grieves too. But appropriately. Louis would never allow himself to become so unmanned.’

I had nodded my assent, still unsure where this was leading. If only I had listened when those around me discussed the finer points of these political issues.

Lionne came around his desk and began to pace to the window and back. ‘In the case of the English king, it would appear that grief has actually unseated his reason. This formerly pleasure-loving, France-inclining prince has somehow got it in his head that his beloved sister was murdered by her husband, and that we are hiding it from him. He has dismissed his tailor, cast off his mistress, and plunged his whole court into the deepest mourning. Instead of parties and pageants, he now devotes himself solely to government and the interests of his country. Instead of allowing his generals to prepare for the glories of war, he havers, and talks of making economies instead. He walks great distances through the countryside, quite alone, and falls into conversation with his subjects, who tell him frankly that they are not happy with his policies to date: instead of rebuking them for their presumption, he shows every sign of agreeing.’

Lionne shrugged his shoulders eloquently at the folly of foreign

kings. ‘And so the merry monarch has become the sovereign of sorrows. And France, of all countries, suffers for it.’

Going back to his desk, he regarded me over the steeple of his hands. ‘His Most Christian Majesty has decided, therefore, that he will give his English cousin a gift. Something to restore the royal spirits, as a token of the esteem in which he holds their continuing alliance.’

Ah yes, the alliance. If Louis wanted to persuade Charles that their treaty must outlive Madame’s death, then the gift would clearly have to be a very special one indeed.

‘His Most Christian Majesty has decided to give King Charles ... an ice.’ A frosty smile touched Lionne’s eyes. ‘That is where you come in, of course.’

I said hesitantly, ‘Naturally, I would be honoured to assist His Majesty in this project. But the secrets of my profession are closely protected. If I were to allow them to be given to an English cook, would not my fellow confectioners accuse me of betraying their livelihoods?’

‘It seems they may do so already. There is a master confectioner in Florence, I understand, who believes himself slighted by a servant boy.’ Lionne lifted a document from the table in front of him and gave me an enquiring look. I said nothing, but my heart sank. Somehow, I knew, Audiger had a hand in this.

‘In any case, we are not suggesting that you give away your knowledge. Far from it. It is the very fact that these methods remain secret that makes His Majesty’s gift so generous.’

The minister fixed me with his lofty gaze. ‘In order to give King Charles the ice, we must give him the ice maker. Do you see?’

I stared at him. Even in my most despairing moments, I had not imagined anything like this. ‘I am being sent away? Banished?’

‘Let us say, loaned. His Most Christian Majesty is in the formnate position of having two skilled confectioners. It is only reasonable that he offer one of them to his ally across the Channel.’

‘But . . . for how long must I be gone?’

Lionne shrugged. ‘Your task is to make the King of England merry again. Once he is merry, he will become once more the friend of France.’

Because he .will need your gold to pay for his pleasures, I thought, recalling what Olympe had said.

‘He will declare war against the Dutch. Then we will make our own move. The war itself will be swiftly won, and you can return to Versailles.’

I said nothing. Even I could see that it was unlikely to be quite so simple. And even if it was, by the time I returned Audiger would be well established in Paris as the president of the Confectioners’ Guild.

Lionne added casually, ‘And from time to time there may be certain other duties . . . Messages from the Breton girl, which you will pass back to us. Observations of her, and him, and various others whom we shall point out to you in the English court.’

‘The Breton girl?’

‘Did I not mention? It has been suggested to King Charles that it might ease his grief if he were to employ, as an act of charity, one of his sister’s ladies-in-waiting as an attendant to his own queen. That honour has been given to the Breton girl, de Keroualle. Yes? What is it?’ The minister’s shrewd gaze was searching my face. ,

I sighed. ‘Nothing.’

Satisfied, he went on, ‘It should be easy enough. You will move amongst them, hidden in plain sight, the purveyor of pleasures and trifles. What could be more natural?’

'* ♦

The little ship was beating upriver now, riding the last surge of the tide. The deck, despite the driving rain, had become quite crowded. More passengers had boarded at Gravesend, and even those travelling from France had come up from below, eager for a glimpse of familiar landmarks, chattering excitedly to each other in

that guttural language that always put me in mind of the baying of hounds.

Louise was not on board. We had travelled together as far as Dieppe in a borrowed coach and a strained silence. Once I asked her what was^rong, and she turned her tear-streaked face to me incredulously.

‘My mistress is dead, I am being sent to the most barbarous, heretical country in Europe, everything I have worked for these last two years hangs in the balance, and you ask me what is wrongV

After that I stayed silent, and when we reached Dieppe I took myself off to buy the supplies I would need. I had been lucky to find this ship: most of the captains I spoke to spat laconically as soon as England was mentioned.

Now, as the deck filled with people, I found myself standing next to a man who said he was a wool merchant, but who stood in the posture of a soldier, his hand on his hip near where his sword would be. He was friendly enough, though, and had taken to identifying the sights as we passed each one.

‘The Isle of Dogs.’ He pointed to yet another expanse of marsh. ‘And over here, Greenwich Palace.’ I made out a series of ruined buildings amongst the trees. ‘It does not look so very much, now,’ he admitted. ‘Like all the royal palaces it was much abused in - that is, during recent times.’

‘During the Commonwealth, you mean.^’

The man gave me a sideways look. ‘Aye.’

‘And what are those?’ I pointed to some tall white poles, like ships’ masts, festooned with coloured ribbons.

‘Those are maypoles, reintroduced by the king’s command, so that the common folk can join in the revels.’

‘I don’t see anyone revelling.’

He shrugged. ‘Some of his subjects have not yet reconciled themselves to the king’s return from exile. They will come round eventually’

Now a building I guessed must be the Tower of London came into view on our right, a squat white castle surrounded by fortifications and bristling with armed soldiers. But my attention was

«

drawn to what lay beyond it: a vast meadow of desecration, nearly a mile long and half a mile deep, strewn with rubble and cinderheaps and weeds. New buildings were going up, but they stood cheek-by-jowl with the blackened skeletons of older ones, gutted by fire. My companion eyed it all curiously, remarking on some changes here and there, but otherwise made no comment. It was, clearly, nothing new to him.

I remembered the words of another of those who had briefed me, a minor intelligencer to whom Lionne had tossed me once our business was complete. Of course they have been punished for their heresies: punished by God, with civil war, plague and fire. Perhaps they have learnt their lesson now. Perhaps not. The man waved his hand dismissively. Oh, you will find them industrious enough - they believe in hard work, these Protestants: religiously, one might almost say, although what glory there can possibly be, to God or anyone else, in rebuilding that muddy puddle of plague-infested ooze remains to be seen . . .

Plague-infested. I did not fear fire, but London’s infamous pestilence was a different matter. Automatically I crossed myself, then wished I had not. My companion’s eyes had gone to my chest, following the gesture, and although he said nothing he looked suddenly thoughtful. Ah well: it could hardly be a secret that an ItaUan, lately come from France, might be a Catholic. Or perhaps the man had noticed my missing finger. But it seemed to me that from then on he watched me rather more warily.

The Great Bridge was ahead of us now. Made of stone and lined with houses, it was larger than any in Paris or Florence. Constrained by massive mill wheels on either side, the river rushed through the central arch as if through a giant spout, and although a few wherries from upstream nonchalantly shot the rapids, to the accompaniment of shouts and yells from their

passengers, it was clearly going to be impossible for our own boat to go any farther.

As the crew tied up at a nearby jetty, my companion nudged me and pointed upwards. ‘See that.^’

At one en'd of the bridge a necessary-house jutted over the water. Squinting up through the rain, I saw a row of half-a-dozen wooden privy seats into which were plopped, like eggs in an eggstand, one pair of male and two pairs of female buttocks. But it was not that lewd display to which the man was referring. Above one of the arches was a row of iron spikes, topped with what looked like rotting cabbages. Only some strands of hair, and a glint of white teeth from one, showed that they were not cabbages at all.

‘Papists,’ the man said pointedly.

Well, perhaps that was true, although I had been told in Paris that one of the heads on display in London was that of Cromwell himself, the Great Usurper, severed from his disinterred body afrer his death. The others, I guessed, had not been so fortunate. Perhaps as a consequence of their recent troubles, the penalty for treason or heresy in England was far worse than mere execution. I could imagine it all too easily - not the pain, for that would be literally unthinkable, but the horror: seeing your own guts pulled from your stomach like silks from a mountebank’s purse, then casually burnt before your eyes, the rain spitting and steaming as it met your innards, the last meal you ever had spilling and recooking as your intestines ruptured on the brazier. And that was before they had begun to saw you into pieces . . .

This time I managed to refrain from crossing myself, although my right hand twitched involuntarily. My companion noticed it and laughed. But he was not laughing maliciously, I saw: rather, having caused me this discomfort, he was laughing to show it had been done in jest. I had been warned of their strange sense of humour.

‘Where are you headed, friend?’ the man asked, clapping me on the shoulder as we walked up the narrow gangway.

‘I am to lodge in Vauxhall, and present myself at court.’

‘Court, is it.^l the man said, clearly impressed. ‘I did wonder. There’s a few of your kind up there.’ He nodded. ‘In that case, we can share transport. I’m going towards Vauxhall myself.’

‘Thank you,’ J answered politely. ‘But I will need to wait for my luggage.’ We were on dry land now, my legs a little unsteady after the crossing - not that it was very dry, this land: the clinging, shitcoloured clay mingled with the rain to make a greasy mess underfoot.

‘No matter. I’ll wait with you. The rain may ease.’

It was a good twenty minutes before my chests were brought up from the hold. As the last one was heaved onto the quayside the man touched my arm.

‘You’ll want to make them pay for that. Those fools have soaked your baggage.’

‘It isn’t important,’ I said quickly.

‘Not important! Look at it!’ It was true; water was dripping from one corner of the chest. ‘You should check the contents,’ the man insisted. He called to a porter. ‘You, there: open that chest.’

‘Really, it does not matter. Besides, it’s locked.’

‘Why? What’s in it, that must be kept locked but cannot be damaged by water?’ he demanded. His directness was unnerving, almost offensive. But that, I was quickly learning, wias another of their characteristics. ,

I hesitated. ‘It contains my tools. But they are mosdy pewter, so a little water is not worth worrying about.’ I paid the sailors a penny to carry the chests up to the street. ‘Now I must find a cart.’ Again, I saw the man - the soldier, as I was by now quite certain he was - looking at me curiously. Perhaps he was wondering how a foreigner knew that a cart would be faster than a boat. But my orders were to stay at the bridge as short a time as possible.

We loaded the chests onto a cart and set off. Where the fire had not taken hold the streets were narrow, with barely enough room

for the cart to pass between the buildings. Each storey was larger than the one beneath, so that what small measure of space existed at ground level had disappeared by the second or third floor, making the streets almost like tunnels. I was grateful for the rain now; at least it kept the muck, both horse and human, moving along the gutter that ran down the middle of each street - where it was not blocked, that is. Taking a handkerchief from my sleeve, I dabbed a few drops of rosewater on it and held it to my nose. I saw my companion smile, but he said nothing.

As we made our way slowly through the streets we passed several groups of men dressed in dark clothes, who, as they greeted one another, took each other’s hands and held them briefly between their own. It was hke the exchange of some secret sign; yet this was done openly, in public.

‘It’s called shaking hands,’ my companion said, seeing me turn my head to watch. ‘It’s the custom among the hotter sort of dissenter when they meet. They refuse to bow to any man, since they say all are created equal.’

‘In France that would be considered seditionary talk.’

‘It’s different here. The Commonwealth shook everything up. Things will return to the way they were, but it will take time.’ The man suddenly looked amused. ‘There was one dissenter who refused to take off his hat when he met the king. Know what happened?’ I shook my head, and he continued, ‘His Majesty took off his own hat instead.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘As he said to the dissenter, it was the custom that one of them should be bareheaded, so now custom was satisfied. Good old Rowley.’

‘“Rowley?”’

‘Oh - the king’s stallion, but it’s what people call the king as well.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s affectionate. You know, a nickname.’ He chuckled. ‘I

suppose it’s because he’s like his horse, you see, at least in certain respects.’ «

I was baffled. So men who had died in their beds were dug up and beheaded, but crude and treasonable remarks about the king were a source of amusement. And the king himself, it seemed, was forced to shrug off an impertinence which in France or Italy would cause a man to be sent to the gallows.

A barbaric and backward country, Lionne’s intelligencer had concluded with a shudder. Quite literally: they cannot even keep the same calendar as the rest of Christendom. And althou^fh in their calendar, as you will discover, they are only ten days behind us, in every other respect you will find it more like decades.

I Anally shook my companion off at the inn where I was staying. The Englishman’s eyes followed the final chest as it was heaved indoors, still dripping, but he said nothing except a curt, ‘Farewell, then,’ before nodding and turning back to the street. I had been composing an insincere but elaborate speech of thanks for his help, as courtesy demanded; once again I was uncertain whether this brusqueness was intended as an insult or was simply another strange custom.

My rooms were adequate, however, the walls lined with wooden panels that did not seem to conceal any spyholes. Reassured, I turned my attention to the chests. The one that had been dripping felt cold to the touch - a bad sign. Pulling the Coverings from the bed, I wrapped it up as best I could. I did not dare open it: the room was warm and I would simply make the problem worse. I turned to the next one and opened it, then rocked back on my heels, dismayed.

When I had sealed it, the contents had been in the form of yellowish crystals. Now there was just a powdery, congealed lump. I touched my finger to it. Damp. The other chest, the leaking one, must have been stored above it in the ship’s hold. I had no idea whether saltpetre could be dried and the crystals re-extracted: I suspected not.

Well, it should not be an insurmountable problem. Presumably in London, as in Paris and Florence, they must have piss-pot men who collected the contents of people’s chamberpots every morning in order to extract the precious saltpetre. I had seen an apothecary’s "Shop a little further down the street: they should know where I could get hold of some. I washed with hot water brought up by the servant, then went downstairs and told the landlady I was going out.

As I walked towards the shop my attention was caught by a group of young men. They were swaggering down the road four abreast, a formation which, together with the fact that they were swaying widely from side to side, meant that they took up most of the available room. In contrast to the others I had seen on the streets, these were dressed in a manner which would have seemed ostentatious even in France, with petticoat breeches trimmed with yards of lace that hung low on their hips, muffs hanging from their swordbelts, linen shirts that billowed from under fancy doublets, more linen peeping from undone flies, and waistcoats edged in gold and silver thread. They were clearly drunk: one put his arm around his neighbour’s shoulders, but the action unbalanced both of them, sending them staggering into the wall.

At the same time, a sedan-chair appeared behind them, evidently a person of quality being carried through the muck by two servants. Whoever he was, he was in a hurry, and the chair quickly overtook the group of young swells, the servants simply passing through a gap in the line without a glance to left or right. Then there was a roar from one of the young men - it sounded like ‘Hippopotamus!’ - and an answering shout from his companions. As one they charged at the sedan, upending it, so that the person inside fell sprawling into the road. He was, as I had surmised, a gentleman, of middling years, quite rotund, and his shriek of outrage as he rolled into the muck and filth would, I am sure, have been considerably louder had he not been winded by his fall; while

for their part the bucks were laughing so uproariously they could barely keep their balance.

‘Oafs,’ the man spluttered, still sprawling on his back; instantly one of the young men had drawn his sword and was standing over him threateningly.

‘Yes?’ he sneered. ‘Is that insolence I hear?’

I was surprised at this, both because it was clearly the young men who were at fault here, and because they made no attempt to address the older man, who as I have said was a respectable personage, with the politeness due to someone of his standing. And I was even more surprised by the older man’s reaction. Picking his wig out of the filth where it had fallen, he said meekly, ‘I am sorry. Your Graces. I spoke in the heat of the moment.’

The rake who had drawn his sword now made several passes through the air, as if disappointed that the man had not given him cause to quarrel further. Then he turned, sheathed his weapon, and stumbled after his fellows.

What a curious country, I thought, watching the man climb back into the sedan under the impassive gaze of his servants. It was as if no one knew their own position - or perhaps, in the aftermath of a civil war, they knew it all too keenly. As an outsider, I would clearly have to be careful. i

I entered the shop and pulled the door to behind me. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ the apothecary said, looking up from the scales on which he was weighing a piece of ambergris.

‘I wish to purchase some saltpetre. About two pounds by weight.’

The man blinked. ‘It’s not something we keep in such quantities. I could enquire from the armoury at Woolwich if you wished. But it will be expensive.’

‘I understand. But I have to have it. I’ll be a,t the Red Lion; send word there.’ I went back to the door. The young bucks seemed to have gone, so I stepped outside. At the far end of the

* •S'*

street was a market. I had nothing else to do, so I thought I might as well go and see what fruits, if any, were in season here.

It was more than an hour before I returned to the inn. The market, in fact, had been a pleasant surprise. Despite the lateness of the month, there was an abundance of small sweet apricots, and almonds and pistachios from Turkey, as well as some big, fat nuts I had not seen before which the stallholders called cobs or filberts. Of cheeses there was a good variety, and so many spices and herbs that even I was not familiar with them all. The English, it appeared, made up for in trading prowess what they lacked in natural resources.

It seemed to me that there were a surprising number of people about as I entered the inn, a basket of plums under my arm. Some of them were staring at me in that frank way the English had, but there was something else now too, a kind of shiftiness in their eyes. Eeeling somewhat uncomfortable, I headed for the stairs.

‘That’s him!’

Suddenly a group of men rushed me from above, weapons drawn. Sword tips and musket barrels were jabbing at my face. I started, dropping my plums and almost toppling backwards in my alarm: as I did so I realised that there were more armed men below me, so that it was only by an effort I avoided falling onto their blades. Beyond them I saw the anxious face of the apothecary.

‘Saltpetre,’ he was crying to those who had come to see what the commotion was. ‘Enough to blow up a house, he wanted. And a foreigner. Dressed like Guido Fawkes.’

‘You did well, Isaiah Wentworth,’ another man said. ‘You have prevented a papist plot, for sure.’

‘He has chests in his room,’ the inn’s landlord added. ‘Chests of weapons. I heard them rattling as they were carried up.’

I was so startled I hardly knew how to respond, and fear was robbing me of my English. ‘No weapons,’ I said, raising my hands to show I was unarmed. ‘No plot.’

The man who had congratulated the apothecary stepped forward. ‘We should search his room.’

I was pushed upstairs and made to unlock my chests. As I opened each one, a dozen heads craned forward to examine the contents. My co.urt clothes were pulled out and strewn across the floor - I saw my fine French handkerchiefs vanish intb one man’s pocket when no one else was looking. At the sight of my moulds there was a moment’s puzzled silence before someone suggested that they must be for making explosives.

‘And here’s another,’ a voice cried, discovering the last chest under its heap of bedclothes. ‘Hidden. This will be the papist’s powder.’

‘Have a care, Obadiah. It may be dangerous.’

As the man called Obadiah put his hands to the lid he suddenly pulled back. ‘Od’s nails, it’s cold,’ he exclaimed.

‘Cold.>’

‘As ice.’

Gingerly, he eased up the lid. Some stepped back; others pushed forward to look.

Nesded in the chest, within a stout cedar lining, were six silvery blocks, each the size of a bible. At one, end there was a further compartment fiUed with thick-skinned lemons; at the other, a similar amount of blackcurrants, their dark skins frosted with rime. One of the men dug his hand in, then pulled it out as if he had been stung.

‘What is it?’ the landlord asked, puzzled. ‘Treasure? Sorcery?’

A voice came from the door. ‘Both, of a sort. It is ice.’

They all turned, myself included. In the doorway, perfecdy calm, stood the man I had met on the boat.

He advanced into the room. ‘This is no Guido Fawkes. He has not come to blow you up; he has come to make a pudding for the king. What is more, he is here on the personal authority of Lord Arlington. Unless any of you wish to incur my master’s displeasure, I suggest you close that chest before it melts.’ He nodded to me.

‘I don’t believe we have been formally introduced. Captain Robert Cassell, sir, pleased to make your acquaintance. I will post a guard here, so that your effects are not disturbed again, and then my master would like a word.’

A little later Cassell escorted me into a timber-framed building on the edge of the fire-scarred plain. It was a dispatch office of some sort: men came and went hurriedly, carrying letters and bags of documents. We were shown into a small room where a man dressed in black sat at a desk. To one side sat a second man - a courtier, to judge from the length of his wig. Across the bridge of his nose, somewhat incongruously, was a leather patch, such as soldiers wore to cover wounds that would not heal.

‘Signor Demirco, welcome. My name is Sir Joseph Walsingham, and this is my Lord Arlington,’ the man in black said courteously. My incomprehension must have been obvious, because he raised his eyebrows. ‘I see our names are not famihar to you. Evidently you are even less prepared than we imagined. You make, if I may say so, a somewhat sorry spy.’

‘I am no spy,’ I said fearfully.

‘Of course you are, and a good thing too,’ he said easily. ‘Where would we spymasters be, were it not for our spies? I must confess, though; I am curious as to why Lionne chose you for this particular task. These iced confections of yours must be remarkable indeed.’

‘My services are simply a token of the great esteem—’

‘Yes, yes. We can forget all that: I have to be in Whitehall in forty minutes.’ It was Arlington who had spoken. His voice was high and fluting, and he enunciated each word with elaborate clarity. ‘Understand, Demirco: in the matter of the Breton girl, our interests and the interests of France coincide. Those of us who fought in the last civil war have no wish to see that particular darkness envelop us again.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What do a lady-in-waiting and a confectioner have to do with civil wars?’

The two Englishmen exchanged glances. ‘The Breton girl is no lady-in-waiting,’ Arlington said blundy. 'She is, God willing, the king’s next mistress, and the future chancellor of his bedchamber. It is through her that we will govern a weak-willed monarch, and through him, an even weaker nation.’

My surprise must have shown on my face, because I saw that they were looking at me curiously. ‘I think you are mistaken,’ I heard myself say. ‘I know this girl. She is famous for her virtue. Her family are expecting her to make a good marriage, to a noble family—’

Arlington waved the objection aside. ‘She will do her duty. They all do, in the end. Now, sir: what do you need to make an iced dessert?’

Louise

A

‘The Duke of Buckingham has taken with him Mile, de Keroualle, who was attached to her late Highness; she is a beautiful girl, and it is thought that the plan is to make her mistress to the King of Great Britain; for it is said the ladies have great influence over the mind of the King of England . .

The Marquis de Saint-Maurice, Ambassador of Savoy, to Duke Charles Emmanuel II, 19 September, 1670

It had been a shock, at first, to discover that the king was sending me to England. But when I considered it further I began to see the reasoning behind it. If we wanted to hold King Charles to the terms of the treaty, then to insert someone into the English court whose presence would remind him of his obligations made perfect sense.

It was another remark Lionne made which puzzled me more.

‘After all, we are already aware of the English king’s regard for you, thanks to the matter of the jewel box,’ he said idly.

‘The jewel box, my lord.^’

‘Yes. Did you not know? Apparently at Dover, when Charles asked his sister for a gift by which to remember her, she sent you to get her jewel box. Do you recall the occasion?’ I nodded. It was their custom to exchange gemstones in this way, as keepsakes. ‘Later, when they were alone, Charles told her that the jewel he really admired was the one who had fetched the box.’

At this I found myself a httle disconcerted, partly because

Madame had never mentioned this conversation to me when discussing her adored brother, and pardy because of the frankness of Lionne’s smile. ‘I am sure His Majesty meant no more than to be gallant,’ I said. ‘And once I am in the queen’s train, he will no doubt be a litde. more guarded with his gallantries.’

‘No doubt.’ Lionne consulted a calendar on his desk. ‘Anyway, you leave tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow! ’

‘You travel with the confectioner as far as Dieppe, where the Duke of Buckingham keeps his yacht. The duke will meet you there and escort you across the Channel. There is no time to waste. We must have the English king’s declaration against the Dutch before we make our move, and every week’s delay is costing us money.’

I left Paris next morning, having spent the night packing. I had few gowns of my own, but I had been told to take whatever I needed from Madame’s wardrobe. It felt strange, at first, to be trying on the clothes which I had so recently seen her wearing, but it was not the first time I had worn her cast-offs, and I knew that if I did not take them they would only go to the other ladiesin-waiting. There was no time to visit my dear parents; I wrote to Brest to explain what had happened, reassuring them that if all went well I would be back in France within a year, and that I hoped in the meantime to have earned the king’s gratitude.

But at Dieppe, there was no sign of Buckingham. His yacht was in the harbour, but the crew did not know when their master might be expected. Thankfully, I had just enough money to take a room at an inn.

Two days stretched into three, then four. I passed the time walking beside the sea, feeling the salty air on my face, just as I used to before I came to court.

Then, on the fifth day, a note was sent up. The Duke of Buckin0hum requests the pleasure of your company.

I found the Englishman lounging across an easy chair beside the fire in his rooms. I curtsied. ‘My Lord Duke,’ I said in English, ‘This is a great pleasure.’ I had already decided that recriminations or barbed rebukes were of no use: better to ignore the fact thatiie had left me there without word, than make an enemy.

‘Call me George,’ he said easily. ‘After all, we are about to get better acquainted.’

His servant placed the supper dishes on the table and made himself scarce. We had not even eaten when Buckingham came round behind me and—

Since I am writing this for no one but myself, I shall say it plainly: he slid his hands under my dress.

I jumped to my feet. ‘My lord, what are you doing?’

Unperturbed, he laughed at me. ‘I can hardly vouch for a mare unless I’ve sat on her myself Just as you took it upon yourself to taste Madame’s food, so I have assigned myself the role of tasting the king’s women.’

I tried to keep my voice even, although I am not sure I succeeded. ‘I do not think you would insult one of your own countrywomen this way.’

‘Insult?’ He leaned closer, and I saw that his eyes were glassy with drink. ‘It’s me who’s been insulted, you French jade.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘This so-called treaty I’ve been sent here to negotiate. The Treaty of Paris - or should that be, the Treaty of Dover?’

So he knew. This was bad news indeed. ‘I am ignorant of such matters. I was Madame’s lady-in-waiting, nothing more—’

His lip curled. ‘Don’t play that game with me. You’ve been sent to ensnare him. Women are his weakness, everyone knows that.’

I shook my head, unable to speak.

‘Well, it’s no great matter. Even if you’d got to court, you’d not have lasted. He likes them with a bit more fire between their

legs. You’re a cold bitch, anyone can see that.’

He spoke so calmly that it was hard to believe what I was hearing. ‘When you are done with this outrage—’ I began.

‘Oh, I am done,’ he said brusquely. ‘As you are. Go back to whatever French bordello Lionne found you in. I’ll not be taking you to England. We have whores aplenty of our owm’

For a moment we stared at each other - me horrified, him contemptuous. What could I do? There was nothing that could undo the things he had said, no apology that could excuse his behaviour. With as much dignity as I could summon, I turned and hurried from the room.

^ I

Tou^ve been sent to ensnare him. It was nonsense, of course, but could there be some grain of truth in it? Had Lionne, or even Louis, thought that Charles might take a fancy to me? It seemed incredible. And in any case, what would be the benefit? Even if I had been the sort of woman to encourage such behaviour, the idea that a king would change his policy just because of a woman was absurd. Even a king as absolute as Louis was surrounded by ministers, councils, petitioners. He barely listened to any of them; as for listening to his mistresses, from what I had heard it was more the other way round. And Charles II of England had his Parliament to contend with. j

By the next morning I had convinced myself that Buckingham had simply been drunk and trying to trick me into his bed. I would wait for him to apologise, accept gracefully, and we would say no more about it.

But when I went to the window his yacht was already gone.

I spent the day in despair. I had failed already, and through no fault of my own. Of course, I could go back to Paris and explain what had happened, but the fact remained that there would be even less reason now for Louis to keep me at court. It would be quicker, and simpler, to get a fishing boat to take me straight to Brest.

■V,

no

At the thought of returning to my parents, my mission unfulfilled, my spirits sank.

There was one other thing I could try. Taking a pen and paper, I composed a letter to Ralph Montagu, Charles IPs envoy to the French court,''and a frequent visitor to Madame’s apartments at Versailles.

Five days later the innkeeper announced I had a visitor. I was flattered to find that it was Montagu himself.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, bowing low over my hand. ‘I came as soon as I got your note.’

‘I didn’t know who else to write to—’

‘You did the right thing,’ he assured me. ‘King Charles himself has been informed of your impending arrival, and eagerly awaits it. Fie intends to welcome you to Whitehall with all the respect due to a daughter of one of France’s most ancient families.’ There was a just a little inflection on the word ‘respect’, as if to say that he understood all too well what a man like Buckingham might have accused me of.

‘I see,’ I said, relieved. ‘I must admit, I was rather anxious that the Duke of Buckingham had implied otherwise.’

‘Please do not judge all my countrymen by his behaviour.’ Montagu gestured at the harbour. ‘Lord Arlington, one of Charles’s principal ministers, is sending his boat for you. When you reach London, he invites you to stay with him at his home, where his wife will keep you company until accommodation can be found for you at court.’

‘Then I am very grateful to Lord Arlington for the invitation.’

‘Lord Arlington has asked me to make clear to you that he is pleased to have had this opportunity of being of assistance. He wishes only that you will mention it to your own king, should the opportunity arise.’

This was more like it. For the first time - again I will speak frankly - I felt the heady power that came from being associated with the greatest country on earth, a feeling that is now so

customary with me I barely notice it, but which, if it is for some reason, such as a temporary failure of my diplomacy, withdrawn,

I miss as much as I would miss my own arm.

‘I would be pleased to. But I fear that corresponding with Versailles may be rather difficult in London.’

‘Not at all. Arrangements have already been made. The confectioner will be able to pass messages for you.’

‘May I ask how you know all this?’ I said, surprised.

‘Our countries are allies now. It is only proper that we should work together.’ His smile did not slip, but his eyes grew more serious. ‘Besides, there are some of us in England who have much in common with France.’ He touched his chest, just below the breast bone, and I understood what he meant. It was where a crucifix might hang.

‘Lord Arlington is one of us,’ he said quietly. ‘Although it would cost him his position if he were open about it. Buckingham, of course, is a Protestant. That, I am sure, is what really lies behind his change of heart. Someone has pointed out to him that bringing another Catholic into the king’s -’ he hesitated, just for moment - ‘inner circle hardly helps their cause.’

Wheels within wheels. ‘I am grateful to you for telling me so much about the political situation in England.’ Clearly, I must be careful not to get pulled into their petty rivalries: tiiere was only one king whose favour mattered to me, and he was, ensconced in Versailles, not Whitehall.

There was an embarrassing moment just before we parted, when I was obliged to ask Montagu to setde my account at the tavern.

‘His Most Christian Majesty has not given you any money with which to travel?’ he asked, clearly surprised.

I shook my head. ‘He must have assumed the Duke of Buckingham would cover my expenses.’ And I had been too bashful to bring the subject up.

‘I see.’ For a moment he looked thoughtful, then the courtier’s

II2

•ss

smile was back on his face. ‘Well, I am happy to help. And I am sure that Charles will be able to arrange something with the French ambassador in London. Please, do not give the subject another moment’s thought.’

A week after that I was in London. After all this waiting, suddenly there was no time. A new country, a new city, a new court - the roles of those around the king recognisably the same, only the titles and the people different, as if I were in a land reflected in a mirror.

My presentation to the king was as carefully managed as the entrance of any actor onto a stage. There was to be a ball at the Arlington’s house, to which the king had been invited. Lord Arlington gave me over to the care of his wife Elizabeth, a friendly Dutchwoman, who had me fitted for corsets and dancing shoes.

‘This is the first invitation the king has accepted since his sister’s death,’ Lady Arlington explained. ‘Bennet - my husband - has told him of your arrival, and suggested that he might like to welcome you in person. But it is unlikely that he will want to dance, so we have arranged another partner for you. A good dancer, and as tall as you are, but of course you must not pay him too much attention. You will catch the king’s eye—’

‘How am I to do that, if I am dancing.^*’

‘Bennet will point you out. There is no need for you to do anything at all. If the king decides to come over and engage you in conversation, Bennet will make a sign. But it will be best not to speak to His Majesty for too long. Say that you are still feeling tired from your journey.’

‘I don’t understand - what is the point of that.>’

‘If it looks too easy, he will certainly lose interest.’

‘If what is too easy.^’ I said, suddenly on my guard.

Lady Arlington smiled. ‘Your mission here is one that requires delicacy. If you seem too eager, I am afraid that the king will sense that he is being reminded to honour his obligations under

the treaty - and believe me, he can be quite stubborn about such matters when he wants to be. It will be better if he thinks that it is him who is inviting you into his confidence, not the other way round.’

‘What if he does not?’

‘A charming girl like yourself? And with such a delicious French accent?’ She shook her head. ‘If anything can lift the king’s spirits, it will surely be the sight of you.’

The night of the ball arrived. It was a glittering occasion, but being well used to glittering occasions — I noticed how many of the fine paintings and French tapestries that proclaimed the Arlingtons’ exquisite taste were brought in the day before, on loan from dealers and tradesmen.

For my part I rejected the dress Lady Arlington laid out for me in favour of one of those I had brought from France, a gown of grey velvet trimmed with black ermine and dotted discreetly with tiny pearls. The one she had provided was just a little too gaudy for my tastes.

The plan called for me to make an unobtrusive entrance, but as soon as I stepped into the room I saw heads turning in my direction. Why were they looking at me like that? I caught an admiring murmur: Clever. Did they mean me? It was a reUef when the young man chosen to dance with me stepped forward and I was able to focus on the physical movement "of the £falliard.

Tou need not do cinythin£i at all., Lady Arlington had said. Well, if this was to be my only dance of the evening, I might as well enjoy it; although I was a little shocked to discover that the English danced country-style, each man paired to a woman, his arm slipped around her waist, with two bars of kissing on alternate cheeks worked into the measure. It was a far cry from the quiet formality of dances at Versailles.

Then I saw those around us faltering. My partner stepped back. ‘Why—’ I began, before I saw that his gaze was directed over my

II4

shoulder, and that he was bowing along with the rest of the court. I turned.

I had met Charles before, of course, at the celebrations of Dover, and his portrait had long hung in Madame’s closet. The man who wallced towards me now looked very different. Grief had etched deep lines into his face, so that his moustache was framed by an arch running from his nose to either side of his chin. His eyes, too, looked haunted, and his tall frame, dressed in deepest black, was gaunt.

Behind him Lord Arlington was bustling forward. ‘Sir, may I—’

‘I know that gown,’ Charles said hoarsely. ‘Oh God. I know that gown.’

I saw tears in his eyes, and realised to my horror that it was me who had caused them.

‘She wore it at Dover. Not three months since, for my birthday. When I saw you dancing, I thought . . .’ His voice trailed off.

Arlington too had stopped in mid sentence, unsure what to do. The musicians had come to the end of their piece, but no one was applauding. The silence lengthened.

‘Sir,’ I said desperately, ‘I am Louise de Keroualle, your sister’s lady-in-waiting. His Most Christian Majesty the King of France gave me this gown of hers before I left Versailles. It was thoughtless of me to wear it. Please accept my apologies.’

Charles only stared at me, his eyes blank.

‘If your Majesty permits, I will go and change,’ I added.

‘Please do not,’ he said. ‘I remember you well now, mademoiselle. And it gives me great joy to see you here.’ There was little joy in his expression. ‘You must think me a poor fool, to greet you so ungallantly.’

Etiquette demanded that I respond to this pleasantry with a pleasantry of my own, some meaningless small talk that would cover my blunder and his display of emotion. But something made me say quietly, ‘On the contrary, sir, I would not wish you so heartless. I loved your sister more than anyone in France, and not a day goes by when I do not weep for her myself.’

His eyes searched my face, and he said, so low that only I could hear, ‘Then we will grieve together, some time more fitting, and share our memories of that wonderful woman.’ Looking around, he said in a louder voice, ‘Tonight I have business to attend to, but you must make merry, and tomorrow I shall hear of your adventures.’

He went to the door, nodding curdy at the musicians so that they started up again. Instandy, a knot of courtiers surged behind him, all eager to be at his heels. But I saw how he outpaced them, rolling his shoulders impatiendy, as if he would physically shake himself free of the lot of them.

‘So,’ Lady Arlington said, coming to my side. To my surprise she did not seem as horrified as I was myself by my fciux pas. ‘I suppose you knew that dress was his sister’s. You have your own strategy, it seems.’

‘I knew, but did not think,’ I said dully. How could I have been so stupid? I of all people, who prided myself on my quickwittedness and sense of propriety. ‘And there is certainly no strategy.’

But even as I spoke I recalled that it was Louis himself who had pressed those dresses of Madame’s on me. Had he, or one of his advisors, hoped that this might happen? Was Lionne, or some other occult mind, even now plotting how events rnight unfold, manipulating me in ways I could not begin to understand, directing events from a suite of offices in the Louvre?

Across the room, a man was staring at me. He was very short, almost a hunchback, and he was leaning awkwardly on two sticks. I immediately saw why: his legs were twisted, one inwards and one outwards. Despite his short stature, the cripple’s blond wig reached almost to his waist - an affectation, or possibly a sign of vanity, that together with his crooked figure made him look faintly ridiculous.

Seeing me watching, he bowed his head courteously. I inclined

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my own head in return. ‘Who is that.^’ I asked.

Lady Arlington looked over. ‘Lord Shaftsbury, the Parliamentarian. I expect he came to get a look at you. Most people have.’

‘He certainfy did not come to dance.’

‘You would have thought not,’ Lady Arlington agreed. ‘Although in some ways, despite those sticks, he is the nimblest of us all.’