In the Shadow of the Sun Read online

  It took me a heartbeat to realize a young flower girl was addressing me. A pale bonnet of tattered lace framed her thin face, enhancing the darkness of her vivid gaze. The old basket she clutched with dirty fingers held daisies and roses.

  “What happened?” I whispered, in the hope that my low voice would disguise my educated accent.

  “They found ’nother one,” she replied. “Floating in the river.”

  Blood drained from my face. “A suicide?” I had heard the priests condemn those desperate souls at mass, but I had never come this close to the reality of their fatal despair. However, the girl shook her head.

  “No. A murdered one.” The glint of excitement in her eyes stole the last of the flush in my cheeks. My mind slow to process the information, I opened my mouth to ask another question, but she carried on without my prompting. “Just like the others. Magic sucked out of them and their body bled of life like some dried fruit. No idea who did it. It’s the third one this month. Those Sources are dropping like flies, they are.”

  Alarm rose in my chest, stole my breath, and sparked a coughing fit. I turned away and closed my eyes, having no choice but to wait until my breath settled. When I looked up again, the flower girl was elbowing her way through the crowd, away from me, eager to take a closer look at the body dragged from the waters. A matron in a large apron snapped at her to wait her turn, but the birdlike creature remained unfazed.

  “I wanna see the dead Source! I got the right to see it just as you do!”

  I forced a shaky breath down my searing lungs and gathered my wits. The last thing I wished was to catch a glimpse of that poor soul. Killing Sources to take their magic had been banned during François I’s reign, a hundred and fifty years ago. Yet I had heard some unscrupulous magiciens still resorted to the illegal practice in order to channel enough magic for complicated enchantments. The power surge didn’t last, but it allowed them to perform special spells.

  Above the city, the mist lifted and the sky paled in the morning light. I had to return to the Palais-Royal as soon as possible and leave behind the streets of the capital and their dangers. The life that awaited me at court was by no means devoid of complications, but at least it would keep me safe from murderous magiciens. Now I just had to ensure I made it back to my bedchamber without further delay.

  Because the fortune-teller was right. Today was my wedding day. And nothing would cause an international incident more than the king of England’s own sister vanishing on the morning of her nuptials to the only brother of the Sun King of France.

  CHAPTER II

  Light rain fell outside the tall windows of my bedchamber, droplets of water streaming down the glass like tears. The gray light cast everything in shadows and lent a gloomy feel to my apartments, where the servants had lit again the candles extinguished earlier in the morning. I stood in the middle of the bustling room, the only motionless figure amid the hive of seamstresses, ladies-in-waiting, and maids struggling to get me ready on time for my wedding ceremony.

  The magic clock on the mantelpiece chimed half past nine, and its mechanism, enchanted long ago by the Crown Magicien, released the image of a colorful bird in a puff of gold dust. A chorus of exclamations greeted the illusion and its melodic sound. In my mother’s lap, my favorite spaniel, Mimi, let out a bark. The two of them sat nestled in an armchair by the fireplace, Mother’s black mourning gown a stark contrast with the whiteness of my own dress.

  “Such dismal weather,” she said, her gaze on the condensation forming on the windows.

  “Mariage pluvieux, mariage heureux,” one of the seamstresses replied with a smile. She was busy lacing my long, tight satin bodice while another checked my paned sleeves and petticoat.

  Rainy wedding, happy wedding, I repeated to myself like a mantra. I straightened my back and took in a calming breath, unwilling to display my nervousness in front of such a crowd. I sought my mother’s eyes, but her attention was still on the rain, her thin hand petting my dog in a mechanical motion.

  Barely a year ago, we’d been living in a convent outside Paris, she a disgraced and impoverished former queen, I a girl with nothing to her name but a delicate constitution and unfulfilled dreams. Although we lived in his country thanks to the king’s generosity, our visits to the French court were rare, and never the delight they should have been. Courtiers either ignored or mocked us, and the king joined them more often than he chastised them. Then all had changed. My older brother had regained the English crown taken from my father, and I was a royal princess once more, with a powerful king on my side and wealth beyond what I had ever hoped for. Meanwhile, the French king had married a Spanish princess. A cruel smile had stretched Mother’s lips at the news.

  “He’ll wish he’d wed you instead, now. They all will. You’ll see.”

  Her vengeful comment made me frown. I bore no love for Louis of France, but I wished him no harm or sorrow either. Yet I knew that the time had come for me to marry as well. In the past year, my body had grown and filled out, and although still too thin, I wasn’t as waiflike as I had been all my life.

  “You’ll wed a king,” Mother said.

  “You’ll be a queen,” my brother said.

  All I knew was that I would have no choice in the matter. So I waited for a decision to be made, and when it was, it surprised everyone, including me.

  “Your jewels, Your Highness.”

  The timid voice brought me out of my reverie. My newest lady-in-waiting stood before me, my pearls in her hands. Louis’s mother had sent her to me the previous day, either as a spy or as a welcome gift, I couldn’t yet tell. Her name was Louise de La Vallière, and we were both seventeen, which was enough to suit me for now.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  My hair was up in a mass of tight curls, which allowed her to put on the necklace and eardrops easily.

  “Look how lovely you are,” Marguerite said. Louis’s cousin and a year older than me, she’d invited herself to the preparations with such cheerful confidence I hadn’t had the heart to refuse her. In a palace where nearly everyone I encountered was an indifferent and judgmental stranger, I welcomed any attempt made at befriending me. Marguerite’s red gown sparkled with magically bright gemstones as she held a mirror before me. “Go on, give us a twirl.”

  I obeyed, and my audience let out appreciative gasps and soft giggles. Despite my refusal to have any magical enhancement to my outfit, the seamstresses had managed to make me look adequate for the occasion. I was still too slim and pale to be called a picture of health, but my nerves had brought some color to my cheeks and a liveliness to my eyes that I hoped would be, along with my smile, enough to hide all my other shortcomings.

  “Are we ready?” Mother asked.

  She stood up, releasing Mimi, who used this as an opportunity to run a lap around my ankles. My dog had been a gift from my brother, and her antics made me laugh as everyone filed out of the bedchamber. I followed my mother, my ladies-in-waiting bringing up the rear.

  “She looks happy,” Louise whispered to Marguerite, oblivious to the fact I could hear her.

  “She always does,” Marguerite replied. Before I could linger on the meaning of her reply, she added, “I’m getting married very soon too, you know. To a Medici.” Based on her tone, I didn’t have to stretch my imagination to guess she’d just rolled her eyes behind me.

  “Congratulations,” Louise said. “Such a good match.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Marguerite snorted. “But I suppose it could be worse.”

  We turned a corner, and the clicking of heels on the parquet floor almost prevented me from hearing her next words.

  “At least I’m not marrying the king’s brother.”

  * * *

  The king waited for me in the corridor leading to the chapel of the Palais-Royal, flanked by two musketeers. His silk coat, bedecked with gold galloon and buttons, glittered magically in the candlelight of the dim corridor—a not-so-subtle reminder of his nickname. Even the gilded
-handled cane he held shone an unnatural light, casting the corners of the corridor into shadow. He offered me his free hand with a bow and an unreadable smile.

  “Henriette. You look a vision.”

  I performed a quick curtsy. “Thank you, Sire.”

  His calculating gaze raked over my silhouette, his magic lending an amber glow to his pupils. It was well-known that Louis XIV was a magicien. However, and as far as everyone knew, his talent was limited and he rarely used his gift, letting the Crown Magicien perform all the spells required by the exercise of royal power. Under his scrutiny, I was never more grateful for the magiciens’ inability to sense a Source. When the king looked at me, all he saw was a girl he’d overlooked long enough to let her slip out of his reach.

  “Well?” he said, bringing me back to the present. “Nervous?” He had one eyebrow raised, more in challenge than in genuine concern.

  I held his gaze and kept my composure. “No.”

  It wasn’t an outright lie. Even if my fate was about to be forever tied to a man with whom I barely had anything in common, I wasn’t afraid. Since the French and English crowns had agreed on our betrothal four months before, the king’s brother had shown me nothing but respect and consideration the few times we’d met. And once we were married, I would be his wife first and everything else second. Even if the fact I was a Source somehow became public knowledge, no magicien would be able to claim me without my husband’s consent, which I planned on never letting him give.

  “Shall we, then?” the king said, with a nod toward the double doors of the chapel, which his musketeers opened.

  I linked my arm with his. “By all means.”

  The chapel’s modest size meant a limited number of guests in attendance—the king had wished it so, arguing this wasn’t a royal wedding after all. Since his ascension to power following Cardinal Mazarin’s death, he’d been relentless in his quest to avoid being outdone by anyone, under any circumstances, including my nuptials with his brother. I’d had no objection, for the result was fewer people witnessing my walk down the aisle and having the opportunity to gossip about it later. My head held high and my steps steady, I feigned a coolness I didn’t feel as I made my way to the altar. No music echoed under the painted ceilings, the rustling of colorful gowns and the whispers of the assembly the only sounds greeting my slow procession between the pews.

  I caught sight of Louise with Mimi in her arms next to Marguerite and her two sisters, their eyes wide with excitement and their dresses shimmering with magic. Their smiles gave me strength to meet less sympathetic gazes: My mother and the Queen Mother both appraised me with cold expressions, while Louis’s queen Marie-Thérèse’s mouth puckered into an unimpressed pout. Swathed in a red-and-gold gown, the Spanish infanta’s round figure drowned in glittering fabric, her plain face planted atop it like a pale ballon.

  Next to her, Nicolas Fouquet, the Crown Magicien, narrowed his eyes at me. A middle-aged man with a round, open face and a benevolent smile, his whole demeanor strived to convey congeniality and goodwill. Yet as I walked by him, a shadow crossed his features and his bejeweled fingers tightened around his silver cane. His golden gaze—the same color as the king’s, and the mark of all magicians—followed my progress without any hint of warmth. Since he was among the advisers who’d arranged my marriage, I couldn’t begin to guess the reason for the sudden darkening of his mood, but before I could dwell on it, my attention landed on my groom.

  Philippe stood at the end of the aisle, in an outfit more flamboyant than all the guests’ combined. Where his brother favored golden tones, my fiancé seemed to have made a point of wearing every single color of the rainbow, and as many gemstones, rings, and bracelets that could fit on him. Seeing the two brothers together was like looking at two sides of a coin: the same handsome profile, the same self-assured stance, the same clean-shaven face and long hair. Only two years apart, they could almost have been mistaken for twins. The only striking difference was that Louis’s hair was blond, while Philippe’s was raven black.

  I reached the altar, my white dress settling at my feet.

  “Look,” Olympe de Soissons stage-whispered behind me. “The dove and the parakeet.”

  A titter of laughter greeted her comment, which I pretended not to hear. The superintendent of the Queen Mother’s household, Olympe had all the confidence of a stunning young woman with an enviable position at court, a high-ranked husband, and the ear of the royal family. Her witticism had been for her neighbor, a dark-haired beauty I had never seen. They exchanged a stealthy glance and hid their mocking smiles behind their jewel-studded fans. Like Fouquet’s, Olympe’s eyes were a pale gold, and the air her fan produced was cold as a winter draught, welcome in the heat of the chapel’s confined space.

  The king let go of my arm with a nod for the priest, drawing my attention back to the matter at hand. While he took his seat in a gilded armchair before the front row, Philippe’s firm grip closed around my fingers. For the first time since entering the chapel, I allowed myself to meet his gaze.

  He tipped his head slightly, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

  “All right?” he whispered.

  My heart hammered against my rib cage. I swallowed, my throat dry, and gave the briefest nod. He squeezed my hand in response, either to reassure or scold me, I couldn’t tell. The priest started talking, and soon the ceremony unfolded, faster than I could comprehend. My pulse and my mind racing, I sang hymns I knew by heart and listened to readings without paying them attention, as if I were witnessing the whole ritual from someone else’s point of view.

  Then I became aware silence had settled over the assembly. I blinked. The priest stared at me, expectant, while the guests behind me seemed to hold a collective breath.

  Realization hit me like a splash of cold water. While my thoughts drifted off, I had been asked for my consent to marry. And as the seconds ticked by, the silence thickened in the warm chapel, turning awkward and oppressive. Behind me, people shuffled their feet and flapped their fans. And they all waited. Waited for me to speak. Waited for me to utter the expected word. Waited for me to play my part.

  An involuntary smile teased my lips. For a suspended moment in time, I had power. In all my seventeen years, it had never happened. I had no control over my fate, or my health, or my condition. I never would, except for this moment. An alliance between two mighty nations rested on me. The difference between war and peace, between honor and scandal. No one—not my brother, not my mother, not the French king, not their advisers, not the Crown Magicien—had even contemplated I could refuse.

  So for a short time, I reminded them I wasn’t the puppet they wished me to be.

  In the end, the king cleared his throat. I didn’t have to glance behind me to feel all eyes boring into me. Still, I paused.

  As Mother had often reminded me in the past year, I was a royal princess now. Before my brother’s ascension to the English throne, my choices had been limited—the convent or a marriage—but at least an option had existed. My sudden change in status had made even that small freedom vanish: I had to marry. I had accepted this as my responsibility, and in many ways I was glad to play a part in helping to ensure the future of my family. Yet, a smaller, hidden part of me also longed to escape the confines of the French court while I still could and to refuse to tether myself to a life in a gilded cage populated by birds of prey.

  Philippe clutched my hand tighter, snapping my attention back to him. His brows pulled together in a concerned frown, he inclined his head and mouthed, Please?

  His request, worried and oddly shy, prompted me into action faster than any hint from his brother ever could. He wanted me to consent. He was asking me to agree. Up until then, I had been willing to marry him out of fear of what would happen to me if I didn’t, out of duty for my two countries, out of respect for the French king, out of devotion for my family. I hadn’t occurred to me I could marry him for him.

  “Oui,” I said, my voice loud and clear
. I do.

  Everyone released a breath. A smile crinkled Philippe’s eyes, and he gave his own answer to the priest, who pronounced us man and wife. A relieved murmur rippled along the small crowd as my new husband kissed both my hands and guided me out of the chapel. I let him lead me through the double doors into our new life, calmer than I had felt in months.

  * * *

  My sense of triumph was short-lived.

  At dinner my nerves returned, along with a complete loss of appetite. The smells of roasted meat in sauce turned my stomach, and the mere sight of the fish and seafood made me want to gag. From her seat a distance away, Mother shot me warning looks, but all I managed to eat was a few vegetables. I fared better once the desserts arrived, by which time everyone had already exchanged knowing looks and nods, and commented on my health under their breath.

  “L’Anglaise ne mange rien.”

  The English girl isn’t eating. The comment was fair. The nickname I had been saddled with since my first visit at court, however, puzzled me to this day.

  “They’re snakes. It’s just an excuse to exclude you,” Mother had said. Yet of all the things the French courtiers could have picked on me for, they’d chosen my nationality, which still struck me as utterly silly. I had never known my English father, and my mother was French. Smuggled into France at the age of two, I had grown up away from my home country, the English ambassadors visiting my mother the only English acquaintances in my life. It was fourteen years later that I had set foot in England again, for a brief visit to my brother, the newly reinstated king. Ironically, everyone at the English court had then commented on how French I now was. It appeared that I was doomed to never fit into either country, forever too English to be French and too French to be English.

  Thankfully Philippe seemed oblivious to both my lack of appetite and the whispers around us. He heartily made his way through each course and several carafes of wine. Much like him, his brother ate a lot, but he kept a shrewd eye on me the whole time.