Read My Brother's Crown Online
Authors: Mindy Starns Clark
Chapter Twenty-Three: Catherine
Chapter Twenty-Four: Catherine
Chapter Twenty-Five: Catherine
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Catherine
A
s authors we always strive to make our stories accurate, but when it comes to three-hundred-year-old history, sometimes even the most reliable sources disagree on the facts. In those cases, we have been forced to choose which version of the facts to use. Thus, though some elements of the history presented in this novel may be questioned, these facts are, to the best of our knowledge, correctâor as correct as information from the seventeenth century can be.
There is no official record that King Louis XIV and Madame Maintenon ever married, but it's generally agreed upon that they did. However, speculation as to when they were married is varied and includes dates in 1683, 1685, and 1686. Our research has placed the date of their wedding in the fall of 1685.
All of the characters in our story are products of our imaginations except for Louis XIV, Madame Maintenon, and Duchesse de Navailles (Suzanne). In our tale, we have stated that Suzanne's mother, Madame de Neuillant, was the godmother of Madame Maintenon, though some sources indicate that Suzanne was the godmother instead.
The persecution of the Huguenots varied from region to region and from time to time. The essence of the persecution we depict in our story is true, although the exact locations and times are fictitious. Statistics vary, but it's believed that as many as 400,000 Huguenots fled the country, and though many were assisted in their escape by others, the network of sympathizers depicted in this story is fictional, as is the Persecution Pamphlet.
This novel deals with a period of history when French Huguenots,
also known as French Calvinists, were being persecuted for their faith. Though this was led by King Louis XIV in the name of the Catholic church, there is evidence that his true motives for this persecution were not so much about spiritual or denominational matters as they were about economics and power. We have striven to adhere to the facts of the period, which, while often brutal, also show that there were indeed acts of kindness and mercy by adherents to the Catholic faith, many of whom were sympathetic to the Huguenots' plight.
France
10 April 1685
T
he boy stuck his head out the side window of the carriage and peered back at his home as it grew ever smaller in the distance. When he could see it no more, he withdrew and plopped back against the seat beside his two older sisters. Though Maman had called this their grand adventure, he knew that was not true. It was an escape, which was quite a different matter.
The trip was miserable, almost from the beginning. They covered a good distance that first day, but the next morning it started to rain, and as they traveled along a steep mountain pass, their horse slipped and injured his leg. They left him with an understanding farmer and were forced to continue on foot, carrying what they could and leaving their carriage and the rest of their belongings behind.
Papa said they should avoid the roads as much as possible, but he had no knowledge of the local footpaths, and as time passed it felt to the boy as if they were wandering with no direction. Finally, they came upon a village where they were deeply relieved to find a small Huguenot temple, one where they might seek refuge.
The pastor was kind. He provided food and a place to sleep, and he and Papa talked late into the night. The next day, the family set off again.
Still doubtful of his father's navigational abilities, the boy was surprised as the morning wore on and Papa seemed to be doing much better than the day before. He had some sort of pamphlet with him, a little booklet that must have come from the pastor. It looked like a simple collections of poems and illustrations, but judging by how Papa kept referring to it, it had to be some sort of guide for their journey. When the boy asked Papa about it, he tucked it away, ignoring the question.
They walked for three more days, staying off the roads and sticking mostly to field tracks when available, where they were less likely to be spotted by dragoons or informers. Thanks to the mysterious pamphlet, Papa seemed to know which strangers along the way would be willing to feed and house them, as well as which roads and paths to take and where to go once they reached their destination.
When they finally got to Lyon, they made their way under cover of darkness through the city and across the river Saône to a warehouse. They knocked softly on the back door, just once, and after a moment were greeted by a tall, lean man who seemed to have been expecting them.
“
Allons
,” he barked gruffly.
He led them through a dark passageway by candlelight to what looked like a storage room. As the family of five waited among the shelves, the man moved to a side wall and pushed some sort of lever near the floor. As he did, a panel at the far end of the room began to slide upward. To the boy's surprise, the opening revealed a tiny chamberâa “vault,” as Papa had saidâwith a table, chairs, a single bed, a small bureau, and various stacks of supplies.
As they stepped forward into the space, the man pointed out that there was enough food and drink to sustain them for two days, extra bedding to make pallets on the floor, a chamber pot in the front corner, and an oil lamp on the table. There was also quills, ink, paper, and a Bible for their use, though he warned them that the lamp held just one hour's worth of fuel, and that they were to light it only when absolutely necessary. The warehouse was a place of business during the day, he told them sternly, and they could not risk anyone spotting a glow
along the floor seam of what was supposed to be the ordinary back wall of a supply room.
For the next two days, the family remained in hiding, spending most of their time in total darkness. All they could do was whisper and doze and try to stay strong for one another. With no windows, the only way for them to judge the hour was by the noises outside the panel door. When things seemed to spring to life, they knew it was morning. When, much later, the place grew quiet again, they felt sure it was evening.
They lit the lamp several times during the days, very briefly, just long enough to dole out food, and then they extinguished it again and ate in total darkness. The boy used those brief times of light to draw on the paper, one of his favorite pastimes. His hand moving from ink pot to the page and back again, he worked on a sketch of all they had left behindâtheir beautiful house, the stables out back, the big yard with his favorite tree, the one with a fat, knotted rope that hung down as a swing.
Papa lit the lamp and kept it on a bit longer in the evenings so he could read to them from the Bible. The boy found comfort in the words and in the soothing tones of his father's deep voice. He also appreciated that Maman did not stop him from drawing even during their worship time. He continued to embellish his picture, adding in a squirrel here, a bird there, until it was time again to extinguish the light and he was forced to put it away.
As the hours dragged by, all the boy could think of was getting out. He was so weary of this place, of its utter darkness. Of the constant need for silence. Of the stench from the chamber pot. Mostly, he was weary of wondering whether they were going to make it to freedom or end up imprisoned.
Or maybe dead.
He was also scared of the next phase of their escape. According to Papa, once they were released from this hiding place, they would be moved to another, even smaller one, stashed in narrow, hidden chambers under the floorboards of a special wagon, one designed for just this purpose. From the outside, it would look like a regular wagon, its
driver bound for Switzerland. Only once they were across the border, however, would they be safe to climb back out again.
Of course, that was if all went as planned. If the driver did as he promised. If the people here could actually be trusted, which seemed to be the biggest risk of all. The boy had heard his parents whispering about it deep in the night, when they thought the children were sleeping. They talked about how the bounties for fleeing Huguenots had grown quite high, and how sometimes these supposed helpers were actually traitors in the end, turning over the Huguenots in their care to dragoons for a handsome fee.
That possibility was all the boy could think about when, at the end of the second day, he heard a rustling and a
thunk
, and then suddenly a quiet
whoosh
as the wall panel began to rise. There on the other side, in the supply room, stood the same man who had put them here two days ago. Again he held a candleâwhich seemed so very bright this timeâand all around him came a rush of fresh air, sweet and life giving and so tangible the boy could almost taste it.
Papa stood, and the rest of them followed suit.
The man began to speak, his brows furrowed. Had they had enough food? Were they ready to get out of the vault and get on with their trip? They all nodded eagerly.
The man said they had ten minutes to stretch their legs and gather their things and then he would return to retrieve them and it would be time to go. “But the pamphlet stays here,” he added sharply, pointing toward the small bureau. The boy watched as Papa pulled from his pocket the little booklet that seemed to have been their guide and set it there as directed.
Papa relit the lamp once the man left, and then the family went about straightening the vault and packing their belongings. Moving to the bureau, the boy slid open the top drawer and pulled out his sketch. Glancing down at the image of the house, the yard, the rope swing, it struck him that whether this next part of their journey brought them to prison or to freedom, one thing was certain: They would never be home again. That knowledge filled him with tremendous grief.
He folded the page and tucked it into his pocket. As he pushed
the drawer shut, the pamphlet atop the bureau caught his eye, and he could not resist taking a closer look. Titled
A Collection of Verse for the Encouragement of Young Men and Women,
it had been written by someone named Father Ãcoute. The boy flipped through the pages, looking for the maps and instructions and such it seemed to contain. Instead, it was just a simple collection of poems and drawingsâand the drawings were not even that good. He was studying a poorly rendered image of a rooster, wondering why it looked so odd, when he heard the noise of someone coming. He quickly put it down again.
“Time to go,” the man said from the doorway.
Papa extinguished the lamp as he quietly addressed the children. “This last stretch will be the hardest,” he told them with fear in his eyes even as he tried to reassure them with his words, “but it will be worth it in the end.”
“
Allez!
” the man said impatiently. He led them back down the narrow passageway toward the door. As they went, the boy was intoxicated by the air. He wanted to run, to play, to yell. They were finally free! And they could see. The passageway was dark, yes, but not the kind of darkness they had endured for the past two days. This was a dark tempered by the moonlight streaming in through a high window, where he could actually see his hand in front of his face.
Spotting the exit up ahead, his joy began to fade. They were free now from the vault, yes, but for how long? What if this was, as his Maman had whispered to Papa late last night, only a trap?
When they reached the door to the outside, the man paused, one hand on the knob. Then he slowly pulled it open and waved them through, toward their future.
If, indeed, they had a future at all.
M
y transformation took place in a gas station bathroom off I-64 about five miles east of Richmond. Despite the cracked mirror and dim lighting, the acts of putting on makeup and styling my hair were the easy parts. The hard part was trying not to let my bare feet touch the floor as I changed from jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers to a white wrap-style blouse, gray pencil skirt, and black pumps. The obedient granddaughter in me wanted to show up at the bank looking the best I could, but the scientist in me knew the floor was always the dirtiest part of a public bathroom and could be a veritable stew of E. coli, coliform, staph, strep, rotavirus, and even MRSA.
Stifling a shudder, I managed to wriggle out of one set of clothes and into another, one side at a time while balancing on the opposite still-shoed foot. It wasn't pretty, and I was practically out of breath by the time I was dressed, but somehow I managed. If I were ever in this situation again, I decided as I took one last look in the mirror and smoothed back an errant lock of dark brown hair, I would take the time to find somewhere a bit more upscale first.