The Moon and the Sun - Vonda N McIntyre, ebook
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The Moon & the Sun
Vonda N. McIntyre
Prologue
Midsummer Day’s sun blazed white in the center of the sky. The sky burned blue to the
horizon.
The flagship of the King crossed abruptly from the limpid green of shallow water to
the dark indigo of limitless depths.
The galleon’s captain shouted orders; the sailors hurried to obey. Canvas flapped,
then filled; the immense square sails snapped taut in the wind. The ship creaked and
groaned and leaned into its turn. The flag of Louis XIV fluttered, writing
Nec Pluribus
Impar
, the King’s motto, across the sky. The emblem of Louis XIV, a golden sunburst,
shone from the galleon’s foretopsail.
Free of the treacherous shoals, the galleon plunged ahead. Water rushed against the
ship’s sides. The gilt figurehead stretched its arms into sunlight and spray. Rainbows
shimmered from its claws and from the flukes of its double tail. The carven sea monster
flung colored light before it, for the glory of the King.
Yves de la Croix searched the sea from the ship’s bow to the horizon, seeking his
quarry along the Tropic of Cancer, directly beneath the sun. He squinted into
Midsummer’s Day and clenched his hands around the topdeck’s rail. The galleon
moved with the wind, leaving the air on deck still and hot. The sun soaked into Yves’
black cassock and drenched his dark hair with heat. The tropical sea sparkled and
shifted, dazzling and enrapturing the young Jesuit.
“
Démons
!” the lookout cried.
Yves searched for what the lookout had spied, but the sun was too bright and the
distance too long. The ship cut through the waves, rushing, roaring.
“There!”
Dead ahead, the ocean roiled. Shapes leapt. Sleek figures cavorted like dolphins in
the sea foam.
The flagship sailed toward the turbulent water. A siren song, no dolphin’s call,
floated through the air. The sailors fell into terrified silence.
Yves stood motionless, curbing his excitement. He had known he would find his
quarry at this spot and on this day; he had never doubted his hypothesis. He should
meet his success with composure.
“The net!“ Captain Desheureux’s shout overwhelmed the song. “The net, you
bastards!”
His command sent his crew scrambling. They feared him more than they feared sea
monsters, more than they feared demons. The winch shrieked and groaned, wood
against rope against metal. The net clattered over the side. A sailor muttered a profane
prayer.
The creatures frolicked, oblivious to the approaching galleon. They breached like
dolphins, splashing wildly, churning the sea. They caressed each other, twining their
tails about one another, singing their animal sensuality. Their rutting whipped the ocean
into froth.
Yves’ excitement surged, possessing his mind and his body, overcoming his
resolution. Shocked by the intensity of his reaction, he closed his eyes and bowed his
head, praying for humble tranquility.
The rattle of the net, its heavy cables knocking against the ship’s flank, brought him
back to the world. Desheureux cursed. Yves ignored the words, as he had ignored
casual profanity and blasphemy throughout the voyage.
Once more his own master, Yves waited, impassive. Calmly he noted the details of
his prey: their size; their color; their number, much reduced from the horde reported a
century before.
The galleon swept through the fornicating sea monsters. As Yves had planned, as he
had hoped, as he had expected from his research, the sea monsters trapped themselves
in their rapture. They never noticed the attack until the moment of onslaught.
The siren song disintegrated into animal cries and screams of pain. Hunted animals
always shrieked at the shock of their capture. Yves doubted that beasts could feel fear,
but he suspected they might feel pain.
The galleon crushed through them, drowning them in their own screams. The net
swept through the thrashing waves.
Desheureux shouted abuse and orders. The sailors winched the net’s cables.
Underwater, powerful creatures thrashed against the side of the galleon. Their voices
beat the planks like a drum.
The net hauled the creatures from the sea. Sunlight gleamed from their dark,
leathery flanks.
“Release the pigeons.” Yves kept his voice level.
“It’s too far,” whispered the apprentice to the royal pigeon keeper. “They’ll die.”
Birds cooed and fluttered in their wicker cages.
“Release them!” If none reached France from this flight of birds, the next flight
would succeed, or the one after that.
“Yes, Father.”
A dozen carrier pigeons lofted into the sky. Their wings beat the air. The soft sound
faded to silence. Yves glanced over his shoulder. One of the pigeons wheeled, climbing
higher. Its message capsule flashed silver, reflecting the sun, signaling Yves’ triumph.
1
The procession wound its way along the cobbled street, stretching fifty carriages long.
The people of Le Havre pressed close on either side, cheering their King and his court,
marvelling at the opulence of the carriages and the harnesses, admiring the flamboyant
dress, the jewels and lace, the velvet and cloth-of-gold, the wide plumed hats of the
young noblemen who accompanied their sovereign on horseback.
Marie-Josèphe de la Croix had dreamed of riding in such a procession, but her
dreams fell short of the reality. She traveled in the carriage of the duke and duchess
d’Orléans, a carriage second in magnificence only to the King’s. She sat across from the
duke, the King’s brother, known always as Monsieur, and his wife Madame. Their
daughter Mademoiselle sat beside her.
On her other side, Monsieur’s friend the Chevalier de Lorraine lounged lazily,
handsome and languorous, bored by the long journey from Versailles to Le Havre. Lotte
— Mademoiselle, I must always remember to call her, Marie-Josèphe said to herself,
now that I’m at court, now that I’m her lady-in-waiting — leaned out the carriage
window, nearly as excited as Marie-Josèphe.
The Chevalier stretched his long legs diagonally so they crossed in front of
Marie-Josèphe’s feet.
Despite the dust, and the smells of the waterfront, and the noise of horses and riders
and carriages clattering along the cobblestones, Madame insisted on opening both
windows and curtains. She had a great fondness for fresh air, which Marie-Josèphe
shared. Despite her age — she was over forty! — Madame always rode on the hunt with
the King. She hinted that Marie-Josèphe might be invited to ride along.
Monsieur preferred to be protected from the evil humours of the outside air. He
carried a silk handkerchief and a pomander. With the silk he brushed the dust from the
velvet sleeves and gold lace of his coat; he held the clove-studded orange to his nose,
perfuming away the odors of the street. As the coach neared the waterfront, the smell of
rotting fish and drying seaweed rose, till Marie-Josèphe wished she too had brought a
pomander.
The carriage shuddered and slowed. The driver shouted to the horses. Their iron
shoes rang on the cobblestones. Townspeople poured into the street, thumping against
the sides of the carriage, shouting, begging.
“Look, Mademoiselle de la Croix!” Lotte drew Marie-Josèphe forward so they could
both see out the carriage window. Marie-Josèphe wanted to see everything; she wanted
to remember forever every detail of the procession. On either side of the street, ragged
people waved and cheered, cried “Long live the King!” and shouted “Give us bread!”
One rider moved undaunted through the crowd. Marie-Josèphe took him for a boy,
a page on a pony, then noticed that he wore the
justaucorps à brevet
, the
gold-embroidered blue coat reserved for the King’s most intimate associates. Realizing
her mistake, she blushed with embarrassment.
The desperate townspeople clutched at the courtier, plucked at his gold lace,
pulled at his horse’s saddle. Instead of whipping them away, he gave them the King’s
alms. He handed coins to the nearer people, and flung coins to the people at the edges
of the throng, the old women, the crippled men, the ragged children. The crowd formed
a whirlpool around him, as powerful as the ocean, as filthy as the water in the harbor of
le Havre.
“Who is that?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“Lucien de Barenton,” Lotte said. “M. le comte de Chrétien. Don’t you know him?”
“I didn’t know —” She hesitated. It was not her place to comment on M. de
Chrétien’s stature at court.
“He represented His Majesty in organizing my brother’s expedition, but I had no
occasion to meet him.”
“He’s been away all summer,” Monsieur said. “But I see he’s kept his standing in
my brother the King’s estimation.”
The carriage halted, hemmed in, jostled. Monsieur waved his handkerchief against
the odors of sweating horses, sweating people, and dead fish. The guards shouted,
trying to drive the people back.
“I shall have to have the carriage repainted after this,” Monsieur grumbled wearily.
“And no doubt I’ll miss some of the gilt as well.”
“Louis le Grand puts himself too close to his subjects,” Lorraine said. “To comfort
them with his glory.” He laughed. “Never mind, Chrétien will trample them with his
war horse.”
M. de Chrétien could no more dominate a war horse than could I, Marie-Josèphe
thought. Lorraine’s cheerful sarcasm amused and then embarrassed her.
She feared for the count de Chrétien, but no one else showed any worry. The other
courtiers’ mounts descended from the chargers of the Crusades, but Count Lucien, as
befitted him, rode a small, light dapple-grey.
“His horse is no bigger than a palfrey!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “The people
might pull him down!”
“Don’t worry.” Lotte patted Marie-Josèphe’s arm, leaned close, and whispered,
“Wait. Watch. M. de Chrétien will never let himself be unhorsed.”
Count Lucien tipped his plumed hat to the crowd. The people returned his courtesy
with cheers and bows. His horse never halted, never allowed itself to be hemmed in. It
pranced, arching its neck, snorting, waving its tail like a flag, moving between the
people like a fish through water. In a moment Count Lucien was free. Followed by
cheers, he rode down the street after the King. A line of musketeers parted the crowd
again; Monsieur’s carriage and guards followed in Count Lucien’s wake.
A bright flock of young noblemen galloped past. Outside the window, Lotte’s
brother Philippe, duke de Chartres, dragged his big bay horse to a stop and spurred it to
rear, showing off its gilded harness. Chartres wore plumes and velvet and carried a
jeweled sword. Just returned from the summer campaigns, he affected a thin mustache
like the one His Majesty had worn as a youth.
Madame smiled at her son. Lotte waved to her brother. Chartres swept off his hat
and bowed to them all from horseback, laughing. A scarf fluttered at his throat, tied
loosely, the end tucked in a buttonhole.
“It’s so good to have Philippe home!” Lotte said. “Home and safe.”
“Dressed like a rake.” Madame spoke bluntly, and with a German accent, despite
having come to France from the Palatinate more than twenty years before. She shook her
head, sighing fondly. “No doubt with manners the same. He must accommodate himself
to being back at court.”
“Allow him a few moments to enjoy his triumph on the field of battle, Madame,”
Monsieur said. “I doubt my brother the King will permit our son another command.”
“Then he’ll be safe,” Madame said.
“At the cost of his glory.”
“There’s not enough glory to go around, my friend.” Lorraine leaned toward
Monsieur and laid his hand across the duke’s jeweled fingers. “Not enough for the
King’s nephew. Not enough for the King’s brother. Only enough for the King.”
“That will be sufficient, sir!” Madame said. “You’re speaking of your sovereign!”
Lorraine leaned back. His arm, muscular beneath the sensual softness of his velvet
coat, pressed against the point of Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder.
“You’ve said the same thing, Madame,” he said. “I believed it the only subject on
which we concur.”
His Majesty’s natural son, the duke du Maine, glittering in rubies and gold lace,
cavorted his black horse outside Monsieur’s carriage until Madame glared at him,
snorted, and turned her back. The duke laughed at her and galloped toward the front of
the procession.
“Waste of a good war horse,” Madame muttered, ignoring Lorraine. “What use has
a mouse-dropping for a war horse?”
Monsieur and Lorraine caught each other’s gaze. Both men laughed.
Chartres’ horse leaped after Maine. The young princes were glorious. On horseback,
they overcame their afflictions. Chartres’ wild eye gave him a rakish air; Maine’s
lameness disappeared. Maine was so handsome that one hardly noticed his crooked
spine. The King had declared him legitimate; only Madame still made note of his
bastardy.
His Majesty’s legitimate grandsons raced past; the three little boys pounded their
heels against the sides of their spotted ponies and tried to keep up with their
illegitimate half-uncle Maine and their legitimate cousin Chartres.
“Stay in the shade, daughter,” Monsieur said to Lotte. “The sun will spoil your
complexion.”
“But, sir —”
“And your expensive new dress,” Madame said.
“Yes, Monsieur. Yes, Madame.”
Marie-Josèphe, too, drew back from the sunlight. It would be a shame to ruin her
new gown, the finest, by far, that she had ever worn. What did it matter if it was a
cast-off of Lotte’s? She smoothed the yellow silk and arranged it to show more of the
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