I was busy - the first guests were already starting to arrive as I went round dispensing ice chests, one to each pair of footmen. ‘Keep the ices as fresh as you can,’ I instructed. ‘When your platter is empty, refill it from the chest, but keep the lid closed, or you will soon have only cold soup.’ They looked at me, uncomprehending: they had never heard of ices before, and more than once I had to patiently explain why the drinks they were serving were meant to be this cold, and that it was not a good idea to warm them up. The orchestra tuned, and then struck up: the trumpeters announced the first arrivals; the ambassador himself took a tray of ices and positioned himself by the entrance, to greet people and press on each one this novelty of France.
Still I did not stop - I was hurrying around, trying to get the footmen to understand that once a sorbet was melted it was ruined. Some were running out of sorbets faster than others, and the ice chests needed to be redistributed to make sure that all had enough—
And then I saw her. I saw her, and the world stood still.
Louise
The other women have come as shepherdesses, nymphs, figures from Roman and French mythology. Even the dances are French - menuets and glides and pasacalles. Everyone of any consequence in London is here, and every French noble and courtier in England. An attack on France is an attack on all of them, and now everyone waits to see if the king will show his support for France by attending the French ambassador’s reception.
If he does not, it will be a sign that the alliance is broken, for certain.
And then - at last! - a tall, masked figure appears at the top of the stairs, accompanied by a small group of favoured courtiers. The noise of the throng checks, like a beast looking around, then surges, louder than before.
The kinpi. The kin^ is here.
And . ..
He is dressed, no longer in black for his dead sister, but in the three-cornered plumed hat, silver-threaded coat and rolled-top boots of a French musketeer. ,
The kin£f inclines to Trance.
As he comes towards me, the people bow in a great undulating ripple, any pretence that he is incognito in his mask instantly abandoned - the force of his passage spreading obeisance through the crowd like a scythe passing through corn.
They bow to his back, and he ignores them, pressing forward.
He stops before me.
Instead of curtseying, I lift my pistol, aiming at his chest. At his heart. There is a collective gasp before the room goes quiet.
‘A forfeit, if you please,’ I say calmly.
The masked face looks down at me. ‘There are three things I
could give you, pretty highwayman. Can you guess what they are?’
His courtiers laugh, their minds running to the bedroom. I shake my head.
‘I can give you a dance, I can give you a kiss, or I can give you my heart. Which is it to be?’
I put up the gun. ‘A dance, then.’
‘Very well.’ And he escorts me onto the floor, the musicians immediately resetting the measure so that the whole company is forced to begin again.
As we reach the end of the dance he places his hands against my own, palm to palm, interlacing our fingers. His eyes, dark behind the mask, bore into me.
Then he opens his arms a little, our fingers still entwined, so that I am pulled towards him. Once again I sense the room around us go still.
Is this part of our game? Or something more?
The gentlest of kisses, on the very corner of my mouth. The smell of his cologne, musky and French. Brisdes from his moustache. And then his lips press harder, enveloping mine.
I stiffen involuntarily, and he steps back.
A buzz of conversation from those around us.
He puts his lips to my ear. ‘For a kiss such as that, I would fight a thousand wars.’
4
Carlo
To make a pomegranate sorbet: squeeze - enough pomegranates to give two cups of juice. Add half a cup of sugar to make it sweet, then stir all together and freeze. To serve, pour champagne over the sorbet, garnishing with pomegranate seeds and pieces of candied orange.
The Book of Ices
The highwayman’s costume suited her, emphasising the narrowness of her waist, her slight hips, the length of her back, her elegant neck. But it was the way she stood that marked her apart from the English ladies around her. From her posture alone you would have known her a well-bred daughter of France.
The king danced with her. I could not tear my eyes away. Neither could anyone else: but for me it was different.
From the way the others looked at her, she could have been a chicken and they a pack of hounds, ready to tear hfer apart. It was her against them all, and yet she never wavered.
I looked at her, and I knew that I loVed her.
How could I ever have denied it? It had been so ever since I met her under the medlar trees in Versailles.
Perhaps we will meet a^ain.
If we both keep looking for places to be alone, signor, you may be sure of it.. .
The dance ended. Time resumed its inexorable march. But still I watched her, as the king let her go. She walked back to the side of the room. She had no one to go to, no one to be with.
I have heard love compared with a fire. But that is all wrong. If
you touch a flame you draw back. The pain is quick and sudden, and then it is gone.
Love is like ice. It creeps up on you, entering your body by stealth, crumbling your defences, finding the innermost recesses of your flesh. Iris not like heat or pain or burning so much as an inner numbness, as if your heart itself were hardening, turning you to stone. Love grips you, squeezing you with a force that can crack rocks or split the hulls of boats. Love can lift paving slabs, crumble marble, wither foliage from trees.
I loved her, and I would never have her.
Then something made me turn my gaze, and I saw a tall, dark figure watching her too, over the heads of his courtiers. They were laughing and joking, but he was paying them no attention. He was staring at Louise, as motionless as a statue. As motionless as I was myself.
The king.
I saw that he loved her, just as I did.
Carlo and King Charles. Two peas in a pod. Reflections in a mirror. Rivals, and yet not rivals.
For he was a king, and I was not. He could have her, and I could not. The ice would eventually leave his heart, and would always be left in mine.
4
Louise
The masks fool no one. Yet I do not recognise the woman in a chequered vizard who stands beside me later at the supper board.
‘So you are my replacement,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry.>’ I turn to look at her. Tall, well-figured, older than me. But there is something about the way she carries herself confident, strong, commanding - that puts me on my guard.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a good run. Besides, as you’ve doubtless discovered by now, some of his . . . peccadilloes can be rather wearying.’
‘Who are you!*’
‘Don’t you know.^*’ She sounds amused. ‘Well, I suppose there plenty of us to choose from. But I’m the only one so far who’s gained a title from it. Mind you, I had to let him watch me with three of his guardsmen before he made me a duchess.’
My shock must be evident, despite my mask. ‘Oh, has he not sprung that one on you quite yet?’ she murmurs. ‘Give it time, my dear, give it time. But don’t be fooled by his perfect manners. For all his charm, he is a libertine just like the rest of them.’
A footman steps forward with a platter laden with langoustines. Spearing one on a knife, he thrusts it into my face. I look round. The other woman has vanished. ‘Where is the closet?’ I ask the footman. ‘Quickly - I think I am going to be sick.’
PART THREE
‘The affection of the King of England for Mile, de Keroualle increases every day, and the litde attack of nausea which she had yesterday makes me hopeful that her good fortune will continue, at least all the remainder of my embassy . .