But he did not say it; he would never say it. Not to the wife of his King.
“You are engaged in an intricate task,” he said, with a pang of unaccustomed wistfulness. The Queen used to embroider constantly — he treasured a handkerchief she had given him, though it was so covered with silk flowers that it was useless — for, in truth, the sweet sad foolish lady had no occupation, no place at her husband’s court.
“It is a gift,” Mme de Maintenon said softly. She smoothed the white silk. She held it up for him to see.
People in torment writhed across satin. A man screamed from the rack; blood flowed from a woman’s entrails as an Inquisitor drew her bowels from her body. The central figure, a wild-eyed man in Medieval garb, twisted against the stake, flesh burning in the splash of scarlet silken flames.
Lucien inspected it without reacting. “Free-thinkers, libertines, and dangerous heretics all.”
“My girls at Saint-Cyr embroidered it.”
“Strong images, madame, to inflict upon schoolgirls.”
“Exactly — strong, and instructive. While they worked, they considered heresy, and disobedience, and its consequences. I must finish it quickly.” She bent to the embroidery again, placing another scarlet stitch of fire. “I usually do the eyes last. For this image I did them first.” She plunged the needle into the cloth. “This is éon de l’étoile.
Arch-heretic, the Leader of Satan’s Army.”
“He was never burned,” Lucien said.
“Indeed, surely, he must have been. He made war upon the Church, he plundered monasteries, he called himself God’s son —”
“He fed the peasants with the riches of the Church.”
“Riches he obtained by thievery and murder.”
“The Church imprisoned him, and he died,” Lucien said. L’étoile had, of course, been a madman. “His followers never denounced him. They were burned — but he was not.”
“I resign the field in favor of your intimate knowledge of a pagan land.” Mme de Maintenon fixed another flame at l’étoile’s feet. “No matter. He should have been burned.”
“His Majesty the King!”
The guard threw open both doors for Louis. His Majesty hobbled in, favoring his gouty foot.
Lucien bowed to His Majesty; he acknowledged the greeting of Father de la Chaise and the profound salute of the marquis de Barbezieux. Louvois’ vindictive and brutal son succeeded his father as the King’s military adviser. Only once had he taken liberties when speaking to Lucien. In the face of the King’s sudden indifference to his interests, he proved he was not entirely stupid: he begged the Count de Chrétien for forgiveness
— and intercession.
Father de la Chaise always behaved with perfect courtesy to Lucien, hoping, futilely, to convert him and save his soul.
M. de Barbezieux carried his tooled leather campaign desk, while Father de la Chaise carried the Pope’s gift, the reliquary, with great reverence.
Mme de Maintenon gasped. “Sire, the saint’s relic, it should be in the chapel, under guard —”
“Don’t you want to look at it, Bignette?” His Majesty asked. “Once Father de la Chaise takes it away, we will never see it except on the saint’s day.”
She made as if to rise from her chair, then sank back within its protection. Father de la Chaise brought the reliquary to her. She whispered a prayer.
“It is beautiful.” She bit off the last strand of flame-colored silk, and held out the tapestry to Father de la Chaise. “Father de la Chaise, my girls made this — you must take it, so it may lie beneath His Holiness’ precious gift.”
“That will be glorious, madame.”
Louis invited his advisers to sit at the council table. Father de la Chaise placed the domed cylinder before His Majesty. Louis idly caressed its chased gold sides and the pearls on its top.
“A rare gift from His Holiness,” Barbezieux said.
Lucien snorted with disgust. “The saint had no use for the relic... and His Majesty has no need of it. Or its cage.” He wondered what lunatic had first dismembered a body and enclosed it, bit by bit, in magic amulets.
Louis chuckled, then chided Lucien gently. “None of your atheistic wit, Chrétien.
Innocent has made peace with me. I shall assume he means no insult with his cage.”
His Majesty called for Quentin, his personal valet, who tasted the wine, poured for Barbezieux and de la Chaise, then for Lucien, and finally, when His Majesty’s guests had also tasted the wine without being poisoned, for the King.
Barbezieux toyed with his goblet.
“Your health, Your Majesty.” Lucien drank, appalled by the young minister’s rudeness, amused by his discomfiture. He believes the slander, Lucien thought, that Mme de Maintenon poisoned his father. He fears the same.
His Majesty accepted the wishes for his health, then drank from his own goblet and settled into work.