She peeked over Lotte’s shoulder. In all other directions, the fanciful headdresses of the women and the high, leonine periwigs of the men blocked her view.
Everyone bowed. Before she dropped into a curtsy, Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of the King. He had replaced his copper perruke with one of bright blond. The shining curls contrasted elegantly with His Majesty’s dark blue eyes. White plumes cascaded from his hat. Gold embroidery and rubies covered the flame-colored velvet of his coat.
He wore old-fashioned red satin petticoat-breeches, and shoes with diamond buckles and high scarlet heels.
“He’s a young man again,” Madame whispered into Lotte’s ear. “Exactly as he was when he was young!” Her voice quavered. “So brilliant — so fair —” Her eyes filled with tears.
Emotion nearly overcame Madame, who made unremitting fun of court ladies because they acted younger than their age, who made unremitting fun of herself for never bothering to fight the changes of growing older. The portly duchess wrapped her hand around Lotte’s arm. At Lotte’s glance, Marie-Josèphe moved up beside Madame.
She slipped her hand beneath Madame’s elbow to support her.
“Let us take you to your room, Mama,” Lotte said.
“No!” Madame whispered. “The King would not like us to leave.” She straightened up, trembling, maintaining the illusion of her usual stolid self.
His Majesty mounted his throne. His sons and grandsons took their proper positions.
“His Holiness Pope Innocent of Rome.”
Innocent entered the room, in shining white, surrounded by his cardinals. Yves followed, bearing an elaborate monstrance of silver and crystal. The monstrance carried within its sculpted starburst its holy burden of the Body of Christ. Yves placed the monstrance before Louis’ throne. The crystal windows magnified the Host.
“We welcome the consummation of our treaty,” Innocent said.
“As do I, cousin,” Louis said.
The usher thumped the floor again. “His Majesty James of England and Her Majesty Queen Mary.”
James entered, Mary of Modena on his arm. They wore white velvet covered all over with pearls, gifts of His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud at the Queen’s fantastical headdress. She detected the hand of Haleed, and she thought, I must find a way to return my sister to her home — or Queen Mary will surely kidnap her off to the cold island of England!
“Cousin,” James said, hardly lisping at all, “I’ve caused a gift to be made for you.”
The Queen’s half-starved little Irish slaves hurried in, struggling under the weight of an enormous picture frame of carven, gilded wood. White silk covered the painting.
Louis leaned forward eagerly, caught himself, and sat back at his ease, making it appear that he had only shifted his position on his throne. He loved the paintings of the great masters; among his most prized possessions were paintings by Titian, gifts from Italy. If James had brought him another, it was purchased with Louis’ own money, but no matter.
James whipped the white silk away and revealed a larger than life image — a flattering image — of James himself in ermine robe and the crown jewels of England.
“So we shall always be near,” James said.
“Allied in the campaign against the heretics,” Mary said.
His Majesty nodded his appreciation to James, to Mary. The young slaves lugged the painting aside and held it upright, where it could watch the proceedings. James placed himself where he could see the painting.
“His Majesty the Shah of Persia.”
What a conundrum this must be for the Introducer of Ambassadors! Marie-Josèphe thought. How can he know what rules to follow, what precedence to set? Perhaps His Majesty made up new rules for this concentration of royalty.
Resplendent in gold robes of Eastern design and a tiered golden crown, the Shah strode into the throne room. He touched his forehead, his heart. Louis nodded courteously. The Shah’s viziers and attendants followed, in silk robes and white turbans, the servants carrying rolled-up carpets. They laid magnificent Persian rugs out before His Majesty, one after another, one on top of another, fifty of them, each more intricate, more magnificent, larger than the rest, till the pile stood waist-high. The topmost carpet covered the others, its corners and sides draping to the floor, as if it were risen from the ground, a magic carpet from the stories of Scheherazade.
The Shah spoke; his vizier translated.
“A token of our esteem and love for our ally, Louis the Great, King of Christendom.”
The usher rapped his staff. “The Prince of Nippon.”