“Of course,” Conti said, “Monsieur le Dauphin is the-mildest, shall we say, of men. He understands that he will need the help-”
Someone sneezed and covered Conti’s words. Then Charles heard, “…and last winter, we all-um-feared-the time had come.” There was a low rumble of exclamation and a snigger of laughter, quickly hushed.
“I wish it had!” The voice was Montmorency’s, and his words created a taut silence.
Charles winced, wondering if anyone could really be as innocently stupid as Henri de Montmorency seemed.
“Well-I mean-if he’d died, Lulu wouldn’t have to go to Poland!” Montmorency said lamely.
“Your heart does you credit, does it not, messieurs?” Conti said softly.
The others murmured agreement with the prince. Charles’s hair rose on the back of his neck. Neither Conti nor the others were laughing.
The prince said, “And exactly how will you help her?”
Charles barely stopped himself from charging into the little coterie and dragging Montmorency out of it by main force. Conti was smoothly herding the boy to the edge of treason-treasonous talk, at least. And doing it before a gathering of avid courtiers in the palace garden.
Charles ran soundlessly out of the garden and a small way along the turf back toward the palace. Then he stepped onto the gravel, faced away from the walled garden he’d left and shouted, “Monsieur Montmorency!” That, of course, got no answer, and Charles walked innocently on, peering into the darkness, until he reached the edge of the torchlight from the palace. “Monsieur Montmorency,” he called again, “are you here? Madame, your mother wishes to speak with you.”
He waited until he heard heavy quick steps on the gravel behind him. Then, as though he’d heard nothing, he called again, facing along the building, “Monsieur Montmorency, are you in the garden?”
“I am here,” Montmorency panted, and Charles turned to meet him with a creditable show of surprise. The boy’s face loomed anxiously in the torchlight. “Where is she?”
“We must go inside.” Charles led him into the first door they came to and hurried him along the corridor to the gallery leading to the south wing.
“But where is she?” Montmorency’s eyes were searching the gallery in confusion. “Why is she here?”
“She’s not. Though wherever she is, I’m sure she always wants to talk with her son. We’re going-”
“You lied?” Montmorency stopped short and scowled at Charles. “I don’t have to go-”
“I didn’t lie. Not technically. We are going to Père La Chaise. Unless you did away with him when he tried to send you back to school.”
“He has no right to give me orders.”
“You are still a student and under the college’s protection, and therefore the protection of Jesuits. And I am your professor and do have a right to give you orders. Come.”
“I do not need your protection.”
“Oh, but you do, monsieur,” Charles said grimly.
Montmorency was tall and broad, but he still had to look up a little at Charles, and what he saw in Charles’s face closed his mouth. Charles gripped the boy’s arm, and they made the rest of the long walk to La Chaise’s door without speaking.
They found La Chaise dozing in his chair by the light of a single candle, to the accompaniment of Jouvancy snoring lightly in the next room. The king’s confessor opened his eyes and regarded them owlishly for a moment. Then he swore and leaped to his feet.
“What in the name of all hell’s devils are you doing back here?” He scowled at Charles. “And you-is the lady gone?”
“Yes.” Charles pushed Montmorency farther into the room. “And Monsieur Montmorency has come to tell you what he’s doing here, mon père.”
“I haven’t come to tell you anything.” Montmorency gripped the hilt of the light, slender court sword hanging at his side.
“Unless you are thinking of relieving your feelings by drawing on me,” La Chaise said, “remember the manners our college has taught you and leave your sword alone.”
“Oh.” The boy dropped his hands to his side as though his sword had caught fire. He blinked at La Chaise and bowed slightly. “I wouldn’t. Draw on you, I mean.” And then he added, “You’re not armed.”
Charles and La Chaise exchanged a look, and Charles had to turn his face away to hide his incredulous grin.
“When did you ever see an armed Jesuit, Monsieur Montmorency?” La Chaise raised a hand as Montmorency opened his mouth. “Never mind. Maître du Luc, perhaps you could jog this noble pupil’s memory about what he’s come to tell me.”
“I came on him in the garden, in company with the Prince of Conti and his friends.”
Montmorency’s gasped. “You didn’t-”
“I did. I saw you leave the palace and I heard you talking. Monsieur Montmorency told the prince that he wished the king had died last winter. And said again that he intends to prevent Mademoiselle de Rouen’s going to Poland.”
“You young idiot!” La Chaise was white with anger. And fear, Charles suspected. “Are you too stupid to see that you spoke treason in the hearing of a Prince of the Blood? If the Prince of Conti chooses to use that against you, you will most likely find yourself the object of a royal lettre de cachet and locked up in the Bastille.”
To Charles’s astonishment, Montmorency blazed back at La Chaise. “That kind of letter comes from the king only if you disgrace your family, and I will never disgrace the name of Montmorency. I only said what I feel. The king is breaking Lulu’s heart, and I won’t let her go to Poland! And she is not my only reason for hating the king. He beheaded my kinsman-I don’t forget that, even if everyone else does!”
La Chaise and Charles looked blankly at each other.
“What kinsman?” Charles said. “When?”
“The one I’m named after. Henri de Montmorency.”
La Chaise rolled his eyes. “Who was beheaded more than fifty years ago by Louis the Thirteenth, the present king’s father. For joining the present king’s uncle in rebellion. Do you learn no history at Louis le Grand? Louis the Fourteenth did not behead your kinsman. Louis the Fourteenth was not even born when your hapless ancestor died.”
Stubbornly, Montmorency plowed on. “Anyway, King Louis is banishing Lulu. And I will say what I like to the Prince of Conti. He is my kinsman, too. And that makes the other Henri de Montmorency his kinsman. Don’t priests say that the crimes of the fathers fall on the sons?”
“Not precisely,” Charles murmured absently, trying to work out Montmorency’s relation to Conti. He looked at La Chaise. “How are the Montmorencys kin to the Contis?”
“Henri the Second of Montmorency’s sister married the Prince of Condé,” La Chaise said impatiently. “The prince who was the Great Condé’s father. And Conti is the Great Condé’s nephew.”
Charles gave up trying to untangle the twisted family tree. “Is everyone here related?”
“More or less.”
Montmorency, slightly openmouthed, had been straining to follow the talk. Seeming to find himself on solid ground again, he wrapped a meaty hand around his sword hilt as though taking an oath. “So it is my sacred duty-”
“Hold your tongue,” La Chaise said dangerously. “It is your duty to return to Louis le Grand. And to stay there, monsieur, until your schooling ends in August. No.” He held up a hand. “Say nothing.” La Chaise sat down at the small table that served as his desk, found paper, inked a pen, and wrote. Then he turned to Charles. “Keep him here.” Folding the note, he went swiftly out into the gallery.
Montmorency started after him, but Charles stepped into his path. “If you defy Père La Chaise any more tonight, who knows what might happen? You wouldn’t want to find yourself as beheaded as your kinsman, monsieur. Then you could truly do nothing to help Mademoiselle de Rouen.”