Goddess (2 page)

H
E IS A PUNY THING
, this harbinger, standing in the forecourt next to his equally nondescript horse.

He gazes up at wild stallions, trumpeting angels, swords, gods—majesty—carved in stone above a doorway. The gracefully curving colonnade. Shade. Light. An overwhelming stench of straw and sawdust and manure. A cart circles the courtyard, heavy with hay, metal wheels screeching against the cobblestones. He can hear swordplay and shouting beyond the archway, scrubbing, shovelling, boys’ voices chanting in Latin.

Servants, courtiers, dogs, coaches—people rush everywhere, stand about laughing a little too loudly. Gentlemen in silk strut, ladies stroll, everyone glances at each other. It’s too much, too many—too loud.

The man’s gaze shifts to a child of nine or so, in riding breeches and a shirt that must have once belonged to someone else—someone larger.

‘You! Boy.’

The child stares back at him. Grubby face. Polished boots. Chestnut hair tied back.

‘Can I assist you, sieur?’

The man brushes specks of pale mud from his sleeve. ‘I am Antoine Le Bal, here to see d’Aubigny.’

‘My father.’

‘He’s a secretary of some sort.’

‘That’s right.’ The child nods, blue eyes still staring. ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch him.’

‘Are these the King’s famous stables?’

‘Yes. You are standing before the Grande Écurie. Over that way is the Petite Écurie.’ The child waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the road to Paris. ‘You can’t see it from here.’

‘I must have passed it on my way. It looked just like these buildings?’

‘Yes, sieur.’

‘The great and the small appear the same size to me.’ Le Bal lowers his voice. No one need suspect that he’s new here. And possibly lost.

‘They are.’ The child sniffs and spits in the dirt. ‘But the great stables come under the dominion of the Master of Horse, Comte d’Armagnac—you must address him as Monsieur le Grand.’

‘Of course.’

‘Although Papa calls him the Old Goat. But that’s a secret.’

Le Bal nods, pretends that he’s quite at home at court, although in fact he cannot quite believe that this enormous building is one—just one—of the royal stables. It’s as big as the old Louvre Palace back in the city.

Bigger. And the chateau of Versailles itself, the King’s new home—he can see it from here, glistening on the hilltop, but it’s too immense to comprehend. God only knows how vast—how incredible—the whole palace must be.

He feels, for the first time in his life, that his King must be truly godlike. He swallows, his throat thick with dust.

‘And your father is in charge?’

‘Not exactly.’ The child glances around, checks to see if anyone’s listening. ‘There are a lot of men in charge of a lot of different things. It’s confusing.’

‘I see.’

‘But not for me.’

Le Bal smiles. Indulgent.

The child smiles back. For just a moment it’s as if the sun had torn a hole through the clouds. Le Bal blinks, dazzled. An unsettling child. Odd.

‘Perhaps you should inform your father of my arrival,’ says Le Bal. ‘He’ll be expecting me.’

‘I doubt it.’

The child ties the reins to a bollard and darts inside. Le Bal hears the shout.

‘Papa! Fellow here to see you. Come from the city.’

There’s grumbling and a slamming door. The child reappears, followed by a man who limps towards Le Bal, rubbing his eyes. Motions at the child.

‘Julia, see to the horse.’

‘Julia? But I thought …’ Le Bal blinks again.

‘Water it well. Our friend has had a long ride from town, by the looks.’

The child doesn’t move.

‘A girl?’ Le Bal laughs. ‘Why, I could have sworn …’

D’Aubigny yawns. ‘Your business, sieur? If you don’t mind.’

‘I am here to prepare the way,’ says Le Bal.

‘For what?’

‘For the Opéra, of course.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Le Bal draws a sheaf of papers from his saddlebag. ‘Surely you know to expect me.’

‘Papa, there was a letter.’ The girl tugs at her father’s shirt.

‘Silence, child.’

‘Remember, Papa? From the Académie.’

‘Yes, of course.’ D’Aubigny squints at the stranger as if his head hurts. ‘Don’t mind my daughter, sieur. She’s nosy.’

‘I have a list of our requirements.’

‘I see. So you must be …’

‘I am Le Bal, the
surintendant
’s assistant. I wrote last month. Weeks ago.’

‘There are so many letters, you see,’ says d’Aubigny. ‘Every day.’

‘I understand. You are, after all, a secretary. To one of the great men of the kingdom.’ Le Bal reaches out to offer the papers, but d’Aubigny seems not to notice.

‘People,’ he says. ‘Always writing.’

‘As did I, and now here I am. The others follow in a few days.’

‘The others?’

‘All of them.’ At last Le Bal sees a glimmer of interest—perhaps panic—in d’Aubigny’s grey eyes.

‘Your pardon, Monsieur Le Bal, but if you could just refresh my memory …?’

Le Bal flicks a glove at the thick layer of dust on his breeches. ‘The Opéra is to perform for the King. Next weekend.’

‘At Trianon? Very good. I will escort you there myself.’ D’Aubigny turns away and shouts at a stable-hand to fetch his horse.

‘No, no,’ says Le Bal. ‘The performance will be staged in the palace courtyard. Comte d’Armagnac has promised the King an extravaganza. We will use the stables as our headquarters. Surely he told you?’

‘Yes, yes, he tells me everything. Everything.’

‘We will present
Persée
, one of Lully’s masterpieces, for the first time in a rustic setting. You can see the appeal?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘We ordered orange blossom. It’s one of the King’s favourites.’

‘Orange blossom?’

‘
Persée
.’

‘I see.’

‘Master Lully is worried it might rain,’ says Le Bal. ‘He has seen it in his dreams.’

‘It won’t, not unless the King wishes it.’

‘But just in case …’

‘Do not fear, Monsieur Le Bal. We will ensure the King’s opera is the most stupendous anyone has ever seen.’

‘That’s just as it should be.’ Le Bal flicks through the papers until he finds the sheet he needs. He has to hold it close to his face to read his own handwriting. ‘The machinery arrives by wagon tomorrow. The scenery. We are bringing all of it. They will load it at dawn. The orchestra will come a day early. They are rehearsing in town already. I was sent on ahead to make sure the preparations here are underway.’

‘Of course. All is in order.’

Le Bal cannot help but notice the tremble in d’Aubigny’s hands.

‘But you seem—’

‘Everything will be perfect,’ says d’Aubigny, summoning what he hopes is a reassuring smile. ‘For the King. For Comte d’Armagnac. As always.’

‘There is much to do.’

‘I will see to it.’

The girl stands on one foot, balancing on a paving stone with both arms outstretched. She looks up at Le Bal. ‘Will there be dancers?’

‘Quiet, Julia,’ says her father.

‘I can help if you like.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Can I watch, Papa? Can I see the dancing?’

‘I will not tell you again.’

‘But, Papa—’

‘Enough!’ The girl is silenced by a fist to the side of her head. Le Bal winces—he hits his own children, of course—who doesn’t?—but not that hard. The child, the sprite, staggers backwards under the blow, but doesn’t cry, barely flinches.

D’Aubigny clenches and unclenches his fist. ‘This way, sieur, if you please.’

The King’s will is done. Always. It helps when there’s a small army of pages and servants to arrange everything. Dozens of carpenters arrive to build a stage, a dais for the throne, benches for the court. Trees are delivered in pots from the
orangerie
. Wagons roll in and out again, bringing trunks full of costumes, crates of feathered headpieces, two harpsichords, canvases painted with clouds and wooden thunderbolts and winged chariots.

The apartments above the stables, the kitchens, the galleries, the palace itself, all throng with people from Paris—dressers, musicians, clerks. Le Bal stomps about shouting at everyone. Every moment is an emergency. It will never be ready in time. Heads will roll.

D’Aubigny’s daughter is everywhere—carrying crates or trays of food, showing people their rooms, listening, running errands, keeping her father out of mischief, joking with the musicians, bringing tobacco to the carpenters. Singing quietly to herself.

D’Armagnac’s chef is in a foul mood. He’s normally calm, happy in his work and his steaming world of predictable aromas and regular rosters and recipes passed from father to son. But not now. This is uncomfortable—like working the spits at midsummer. The kitchens are too new, built by madmen, with every device known to humanity but no sense to it. The fireplaces are too large to set decent coals. The benches too far from the sinks. And the cool room a furlong away down the corridor. It’s as if giants had designed the whole palace with no thought to how mortal men might cope. Uncanny.

Not like Paris. There, in the Hôtel d’Armagnac, everything was worn by the decades into familiar patterns. Everyone knew where everything was, the stokers managed the fires so that the roasters knew how long each joint would take, to the minute. The pastries rose as expected. The ices were as frozen when eaten as when they left the cool room. The meals were as hot as if they’d been removed from the ovens a minute before. As indeed they had been. None of this dashing for miles from kitchen to supper rooms. Cold food is the work of the Devil. Reheating it is worse. Instead of giving him these special rooms with tables and pie stoves for warming perfectly good food, they should make sure it doesn’t get cold in the first place.

Stables. Call these stables? Ridiculous. Dozens of people everywhere. God knows what they all do. Run about looking frazzled, mostly. Equerries and footmen and secretaries and schoolmasters and priests and pages—and everyone seems to have an assistant or two. Even the blacksmiths. It wasn’t like that before.

Here, d’Armagnac’s stables are an entire world. The King’s palace, across the forecourt, is as enormous as the sun.

Here, he’s just one of dozens of cooks and sommeliers and quartermasters. He doesn’t even know how many apprentices he has. Their names are jumbled in his head. They all talk to him. Get in his way. Under his feet—like d’Aubigny’s girl, buzzing about like a dragonfly, hoping for a choice end of the roasted lamb or some leftover pudding. Another nasty purple bruise on her face. Standing, staring at him, waiting. Watching. She’s always watching.

He tries to take no notice but then it’s as if she knows when she’s worn out her welcome and he’s ready to shout.

‘What is it? What do you want today, wretched child?’

She smiles.

He falls for it every time.

How does she do that? The smile is so rare, so fleeting. So overwhelming.

She’s practising on him, sharpening her abilities with face and voice just as she works on her grammar and her swordplay every afternoon. It’s all she has. She knows it. He knows it. But for God’s sake, she’s only—what? Nine? Ten? And already scheming, already impossible to resist.

‘Here.’ He gives in. As always. ‘Take this and get out of my way!’

The girl grabs a brioche and races outside. Her father is sober this week, at least until the evenings. She stands in the great forecourt and watches magic evolve. Men hoist the painted clouds up above the stage. Great curtains hang from scaffolding, their corners flicking and slapping in a quickening breeze. Hammers. Shouts. Whistles. The sky is crammed with fat grey clouds.

D’Armagnac and her father stride about, pointing, flourishing sheafs of paper, worrying.

Julie runs along behind them. ‘Looks like rain.’

‘It will not fall here.’ Her father doesn’t bother looking up.

‘But what if it does, Papa?’

‘The King will not allow it to rain,’ says Comte d’Armagnac.

It rains.

Not a summer shower but a blast from Heaven—wild, splattering rain that drenches the carpenters. D’Armagnac rushes from his apartments, waving his arms at God. He’s forgotten his wig. The girl laughs. Just a little.

Her father runs out into the rain after his master. ‘Your Grace, what would you have us do?’

‘Cover the scenery! All of it. Before it’s ruined.’

Men dash from everywhere. Red dye from the curtains runs in rivulets across the paving.

‘You’ll have to tell Lully.’ D’Aubigny picks up the King’s gilded bench with one hand. ‘We must cancel.’

‘You tell him.’ D’Armagnac shouts it over the noise of the storm. ‘Tell the King, too, while you’re at it. I’ll wait here to see your head returned to us on a platter. Bleeding. Do not fear. I’ll pay for your funeral.’

‘But, Your Grace—’

‘I have a better idea,’ d’Armagnac says. ‘Move it all inside. Now.’

‘Where? It’s impossible.’ D’Aubigny wipes the rain out of his eyes. He notices his daughter dancing, face lifted up to the sky. She’ll be sorry. Later.

‘The stables. It’s the only place big enough.’

‘Not very dignified.’

‘Rubbish,’ his master says. ‘Lully wanted it to be rustic. There’s nothing better.’

‘But by tomorrow, Your Grace?’

‘Arrange it.’

‘If you wish.’

‘It’s perfect.’ D’Armagnac gazes across the forecourt at his beautiful stables. ‘I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’

‘We can’t seat as many, Your Grace.’

‘Nobody matters but the King, the Princes of the Blood, and their families. The rest of the court can stand outside for all I care.’

‘Perhaps if we line the benches up along the walls?’

‘An intimate performance?’ D’Armagnac smiles in spite of the rain and the panic and the ruined velvet. ‘Even better. It will be a triumph, d’Aubigny. Man against the elements. Almost operatic.’

They turn away from each other and both yell at once.

‘Take it down! The stage. Everything.’

‘To the Écurie!’

The great stables are swept and mopped clean three times. The stableboys move all the horses, one by one, across the cobblestones, to the Petite Écurie. It feels as if the entire palace staff, perhaps the whole of France, is in motion, trundling chairs and banners and cushions and sprays of white flowers, lugging benches and instruments and scaffolding, laughing now, singing, as if the opera has already begun.