Goddess (11 page)

D
’A
RMAGNAC’S ASLEEP
. A
LONE
. T
HAT’S NOVEL
.

She walks in. Just like the old days. Wrenches aside the silk curtains around the bed.

‘You!’ He loves to shout. She’d forgotten.

‘Yes. Me.’

‘How did you get in here?’ D’Armagnac reaches for his bell but she knocks it out of reach.

‘The usual gate. I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘On the contrary, I thought you’d be dead by now.’

‘Wishes don’t always come true.’

‘Burned at the stake.’

‘Let’s talk about that.’ She perches on the edge of the bed, long legs dangling down.

‘A fitting end for you.’

‘Now, now. I did what you wanted. I left her—there, in Aix.’

It’s the first time she’s said the words. It sounds like someone else’s voice. Perhaps it is. Can’t say the name, though—maybe never again. Instead she grabs the bed covers and pulls them back.

D’Armagnac scrabbles for a robe and pulls it around his shoulders. ‘You’re a sorceress.’

She snorts. ‘You’re hilarious.’

‘A seducer of innocents.’

‘You taught me well.’

‘You were never innocent.’ He laughs, but there’s little humour in it.

‘You were always deluded,’ she says. She notices for the first time his mottled skin, his thin hair, the blue veins in his calves. Older than her father. Always was. And more brittle. Since she saw him last, she has grown used to the feel of younger skin, to the thick black hair on Thévenard’s chest, to bodies free of battle scars and sun spots—to Clara’s hand soft in hers. To people with teeth. She looks away.

‘You are still hunted all over France,’ d’Armagnac says, spittle in the corners of his mouth.

‘Not me. Some poor bastard called d’Aubigny.’

‘So I heard.’

‘But thanks to you, I have a married name, and it is finally of some use to me. Mademoiselle d’Aubigny may as well be dead.’

D’Armagnac leans forward. ‘They will chase you, no matter what you call yourself.’

‘I’m Madame de Maupin. And I’m alive.’

‘So far.’

She grins. She’s forgotten what it’s like to talk to a clever man. ‘Make sure of it.’

‘Me?’

‘Speak to the King. Ask him to call off La Reynie and his dogs.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You will do it,’ she says in a soft voice. She won’t beg. Not him.

‘Why?’

‘Lie back, you stupid man, and allow me to remind you.’

He does.

D
’A
RMAGNAC DIDN’T WANT ME
. He simply couldn’t bear the shame of being known as the man whose mistress preferred a woman.

He had a quiet word to the King, who probably laughed himself silly, just as d’Armagnac feared. But no matter—it worked. We heard no more of that nonsense about burning me at the stake, though at the time, in some ways, it might have been a blessed release.

Since Monsieur d’Aubigny never really existed, there was nobody to stand trial—you can’t prosecute a phantom. The whole affair dissolved into vapour.

Except.

There are some scars we carry that nobody ever sees. I believe that. Do you?

We all have them, I’m sure. Sins that can never be forgiven. Hurts that will not heal. Pains that plague us in the dark hours—that mark our souls forever.

And scorch our hearts? Yes, perhaps.

It’s true that mine was a little scalded. But not in the way you think.

I kept my word—no man could claim otherwise. No matter how great the temptation—how utter the agony.

I can’t tell you how many letters I’ve written and thrown away, how many nights I spent planning another escape. With her. Whenever I had a little cash. Whenever I saw a blonde head covered in black lace. Every spring.

Every autumn.

But I had promised d’Armagnac and, in effect, the King.

I knew, too, somewhere deep in me, that she would never … Will she forgive me in the end?

I don’t ask for atonement. How could I?

You misunderstand me, Father. Those things I don’t repent. Those crimes you list in that horrified whisper aren’t sinful to me. Have you understood nothing?

You, with your dirty hem and your hands clutching the Bible to your chest as if I’m about to eat you. Don’t flatter yourself. I’d spit you out, bones and all, skull sucked dry, and not even notice. I’d tread you into the ground, little man, under my boots. I’d crush your spine with one hand and throw you aside. Or I might have—once. Now, God help me, all I can do is raise an eyebrow and enjoy the spectacle of you blushing and spluttering at every second word.

You make it worse for yourself. You know that, don’t you?

Don’t distract me. In fact, don’t speak. Write it down, yes, just as I say it. Don’t alter a word, or God will strike you dead. I swear it. If he doesn’t, I will. Don’t stain these memories—they are sacred, in every sense of the word, to me, and I hope, I pray, to her. Still. I hold her face in my mind like a painting, like a statue, a church window—the weeping Virgin, perhaps. I hear her words, feel her hand in mine.

O, how it aches.

I didn’t know, then, that she would haunt me all these years.

No. I’m lying. I did know—even then—even as I left her there, to her fate, and rode off to find my own. Of course I did. But did the weight of guilt, of knowing, slow me down?

Not for long.

But there was no going back. Until now.

Never retreat. That’s what the great masters teach—the finest swordsmen never take a step back.

But where’s the skill in that, eh? Where’s the play? Fencing isn’t jousting; it’s gambling. It’s war. Sometimes a strategic defeat in one battle can win you the empire—entice your opponent into a blunder, into a show of arrogance that leaves him open.

Wide open.

That’s the only secret to my success, in case you were wondering, though, to be honest, you don’t look like much of a sportsman. But there you have it. Otherwise I am merely a fine fencer—one of the best in Europe, of course, and the greatest swordswoman in history, but my secret is simple. The men all think they can defeat me. Often they refuse even the most basic courtesies due to an opponent. In their arrogance lies my strength.

One or two steps backwards at a critical point and they think they’ve got it won.

Then I strike.

Time after time. For years. It worked so well I got tired of winning, tired of their complacency and mine. I promise you, I have never sought anyone’s death but my own.

I tried to make things more interesting. Let their blade a little nearer to my precious face or my vile heart.

D’Albert said I wished for death. Perhaps it was true. He’d know better than me. I’d certainly have preferred a blade through the eye than these festering night sweats.

There were times, indeed, when I might have welcomed it, when it might have been worth the ignominy of losing—just to feel the burn of the blade and then nothing.

But somehow I never quite managed it. Some fragment of pride refused to allow a clumsy brute the honour of taking my life, or some sudden panic would wrench me back into the moment just in time.

What?

Rubbish. The hand of God had nothing to do with it. It was my hand—this true, genius hand that now trembles and plucks stupidly at the bedclothes—that saved me. And perhaps a nascent cowardice. Pride. That’s all. Sin saved me, in other words. Ha!

Eh?

Who are you to tell me what I can or can’t say? Never mind about my blasted soul. Eternal life—what good is that to me? You can’t have it both ways, Father. Your Church ignored and—at worst—vilified me all my life. You can’t expect reconciliation now, not without forgiveness.

I’m not asking God for forgiveness, you fool! Though the time for that is near. I’m talking about my own. Shall I forgive you and your kind for the trespasses against me? For the blasphemies against love? The pettiness, the pomposity? Will I ever forgive you all—forgive myself for believing a word of it? That’s the question here.

It’s not yet clear to me.

But I’ll sleep on it, as they say. Or, in my case, lie awake and stare at the darkness and wonder about it—all of it.

Thank you, Father, I feel quite myself again. This talk has done me good, although you—if you don’t mind me saying so—look a little the worse for wear.

Until tomorrow, then.

T
HE ROOM IS AS FINE
as the drawing room in the Hôtel d’Armagnac but much more tasteful. Windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. A view to a garden. Orange trees on a terrace. Walls the colour of egg yolks. A gilded harp in one corner.

The girl is announced.

‘Madame de Maupin.’

There’s a woman in a chair by the fireplace. She stands, takes a few steps forward.

‘Thank you, Alphonse. Some wine, I think.’

A nod of the head. Almost a bow.

‘Certainly, ma’am.’

The Comtesse is no longer young. But still beautiful—everyone says so, even her enemies. Still brilliant. Still—it’s undeniable—alluring. A little vicious, perhaps, but who isn’t nowadays?

She raises a perfect hand towards her guest. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘You left a message.’

‘Indeed. Please, come in. Take a seat.’

Julie doesn’t move. She’s trying not to be impressed by the room, the woman. Blue silk. A soft blonde wig. A little rouge. The gleam of a pearl against pale skin. She blinks away a sensation too fleeting, too exquisite, to be borne.

‘Did you want something?’

‘I’m enchanted to meet you at last.’

A pause. It’s awkward. The Comtesse isn’t used to that. For some reason all her usual pleasantries elude her.

The girl crosses her arms. ‘How do you even know who I am?’

A smile. ‘Don’t be silly, my dear. Everyone has heard of you.’

‘I hope not.’

‘It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. You are famous—or, at least, you soon will be.’

‘I don’t think—’

The door opens. They say nothing but watch while three footmen pour wine and put some cheese and sweet grapes on a table.

The girl sits. At last. She even allows the Comtesse to sit beside her. Fiddly, uncomfortable furniture. The men in the tight silk breeches and the gold braid leave. Silence.

The Comtesse smiles and tries again. ‘I understand you have been accepted into the Académie?’

‘Yes.’

‘They must work you hard, there. Francine, I’ve heard, is a monster.’

‘He’s all right,’ Julie says, though that’s not entirely true. ‘He wants us to be successful, that’s all.’

‘He is exacting.’

‘So he should be. He is a master.’

The Comtesse tilts her head to one side to gaze more attentively at her guest. It is, she has been told, her most becoming pose. ‘It must be difficult—so many new things to learn.’

‘There are harder things in life than learning to sing.’

‘Of course.’

The girl senses the fragrance of honeysuckle, of face powder, of desire. She takes a breath and hears it shudder in her throat. Holds her glass up to her lips. She thinks she might be blushing.

‘This is good wine.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Lovely house.’

‘I’m so glad you like it. I hope you will come to visit me often, come to think of it as your home.’

The girl laughs. Her teeth are perfect. ‘Comtesse, this is nothing like any home I’ve ever had.’

‘But you grew up, I understand, at the palace.’

‘You understand an awful lot, don’t you?’

It’s the Comtesse’s turn to laugh. ‘I admit I have made it my business to find out as much as I can about you.’

‘Everything?’

‘The important matters. Your escapades are many and—’

‘I hope not.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Not to me.’ Now Julie takes a gulp of wine—too much. A drop splashes on her breeches.

The Comtesse pretends she hasn’t seen it. ‘You are a remarkable creature, my dear. I wonder if you have any idea how extraordinary you are?’

The girl shrugs. It seems not.

‘Comte d’Armagnac is very fortunate—more than he realises,’ says the Comtesse. ‘I hope he treasures you.’

Another shrug. She’s been told to say nothing—to anyone—about d’Armagnac. She owes him that, at least.

The Comtesse goes on. She can hear herself trying too hard but it’s impossible to stop. ‘I hear you have already made a conquest or two?’

‘Is that what it is? Conquest? As if we are at war?’

The Comtesse’s laughter tinkles like a rich man’s purse. ‘Of course, my dear. You are a fighter. You should do very well.’

‘And after the battle?’

‘Ah. The peace negotiations.’ She smiles. ‘Often the loveliest phase—and the most lucrative.’

‘I’ve never been good at that part. I’m not a diplomat.’

The Comtesse moves imperceptibly closer. ‘Perhaps that is something I could teach you.’

‘I tend to follow my heart,’ says Julie.

‘How successful has that proved—forgive me if I extend the metaphor just a little—as a strategy?’

‘Sometimes it has gone very well.’ Julie pauses. ‘But as a strategy, it could do with a little tweaking. It has led, sometimes, to an unfortunate state of affairs.’

‘You have suffered?’

‘Others have suffered. One other. Someone dear to me.’

The Comtesse knows when to be silent. Waits. A few breaths. There are so many ways to make a conquest, after all. They do not all require words. She shifts slightly so that her bosom—still so attractive, even at thirty—can be more readily admired.

‘The wonder of it, really, is that we haven’t heard about you earlier. D’Armagnac must have kept you well-hidden.’

Julie tries to keep her gaze on the windows, the paintings, the rug. Anything. ‘I’ve been out of town.’

‘So I hear. But now you are back among us and readying yourself to appear on the greatest stage in Europe. Are you nervous?’

‘A little.’

‘Are you ready?’ The Comtesse turns away for a moment, and Julie’s eyes flicker over her shoulders, her throat, that soft place inside her elbows.

‘Not yet,’ Julie says. ‘But I will be.’

‘I have no doubt of it. You will be a sensation.’

‘That, Comtesse, is the plan.’ She grins.

‘In some circles, you already are,’ says the Comtesse. ‘There are rumours, surely you’ve heard them, that you are descended from the ancients—the most perfect being of all: part man, part woman.’

‘A hermaphrodite?’ Julie splutters into her wine. ‘That’s what they’re saying?’

‘You deny it?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you understand it is the ideal, the wonderful twinning of every good aspect of male and female?’

‘I’ve read my classics, Comtesse. I have seen the statues in the palace. But that is not what I am.’

The Comtesse clasps her hands. ‘How delightful. How utterly—’

‘I grew up with men.’

‘Even in your heart?’ She leans forward, her eyes on Julie’s face, but Julie will not look at her.

‘I know nothing but men,’ she says instead. ‘I’m not very good with women—or so I have learned.’

‘Then it is time you knew more about your own kind. I shall speak to d’Armagnac.’

‘No. Don’t.’

‘But he would want you, I’m sure, to know how to wear a gown, how to do your hair, on occasion.’

‘I don’t need—’ There is something like panic in Julie’s voice.

‘Please understand me,’ says the Comtesse in her most soothing voice. ‘Nobody wishes you to be anything other than your delightful self.’

‘Comtesse, I am grateful, but really—’

‘Nonsense. I am only too pleased. Truly. I feel as if I am but another of Francine’s assistants, helping to prepare you for your debut.’

‘I already have enough to learn.’

‘I can teach you simple pleasures—the world of a woman,’ says the Comtesse. ‘I promise it will not be onerous. I think—I am very certain—you desire to know about certain matters, even if you do not realise it.’

‘But—’

It’s a thing of wonder to Julie—the silencing effect of one warm hand placed gently on her thigh.

‘I promise you, my dear, you will not regret it.’

Their eyes meet for the first time. Something inside Julie softens—hardens—cries out in recognition—collapses in tears—laughs aloud.

‘Very well,’ she says. ‘I am yours.’

‘I knew you would be.’