The Moon and the Sun Read online

  The Moon and the Sun

  Vonda N. Mcintyre

  While King Louis XIV of France believes that the sea monster he has obtained holds the key to immortality, Marie-Josèphe de la Croix finds herself challenging her most fundamental loyalties, in a story of alternate history.

  Won the Nebula Award for Best Novel in 1997.

  The Moon the Sun

  by 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 t
hat 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 silver petticoat.

  “And you, Mlle de la Croix,” Monsieur said. “You are nearly as dark as the Hurons. People will start calling you the little Indian girl, and Madame de Maintenon will demand the return of her nickname.”

  Lorraine chuckled. Madame frowned.

  “The old hag never would claim it,” Madame said. “She wants everyone to think she was born at Maintenon and has some right to the title of marquise!”

  “Madame—” Marie-Josèphe thought to defend Mme de Maintenon. When Marie-Josèphe first came to France, straight from the convent school on Martinique, the marquise had been kind to her. Though Marie-Josèphe was too old, at twenty, to be a student at Mme de Maintenon’s school at Saint-Cyr, the marquise had given her a place teaching arithmetic to the younger girls. Like Marie-Josèphe, Mme de Maintenon had come to France from Martinique with nothing.

  Mme de Maintenon often spoke of Martinique to the students, her protégées. She recounted the hardships she had endured in the New World. She reassured the impoverished high-born girls that if they were devout, and obedient, as she was, His Majesty would provide their dowries and they too could escape their circumstances.

  Monsieur interrupted Marie-Josèphe. “Do you use the skin cream I gave you?” He peered at her over his pomander. His complexion was very fair. He whitened it further with powder, and accentuated his fairness with black beauty patches at his cheekbone and beside his mouth. “It’s the finest in the world—but it won’t work if you insist on staying out in the sun!”

  “Papa, don’t be mean,” Lotte said. “Marie-Josèphe’s complexion is ever so much paler than when she arrived.”

  “Thanks to my skin cream,” Monsieur said.

  “Let her be,” Madame said. “There’s no shame in being a little leaf-rustler, as I was. As His Majesty says, no one at court enjoys the gardens anymore. Except me, and now Mlle de la Croix. What were you saying a moment ago?”

  “It was nothing, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, grateful that Monsieur had interrupted her before she ex
pressed her opinion of Mme de Maintenon. Expressing one’s opinion at court was a gamble, and speaking kindly of Mme de Maintenon in Madame’s presence was foolhardy.

  “Whoa!” the coachman cried. The coach lurched to a halt. Marie-Josèphe slid forward, nearly falling from the seat. Her ankles touched the elegant long legs of the chevalier de Lorraine. Lorraine took her arm, most chivalrously, and continued to hold her when the coach steadied. His leg brushed against hers. He smiled down at her. Marie-Josèphe smiled back, then lowered her gaze, embarrassed by her thoughts. The chevalier was devastatingly handsome, despite being an old man. He was fifty-five, the same age as the King. He wore a long black wig, just like His Majesty’s. His eyes were blazing blue. Marie-Josèphe drew back to give him more room. He shifted, seeking a comfortable position. His legs pressed her feet, trapping them against the base of the carriage seat.

  “Sit up straight, sir!” Madame said. “No one gave you leave to lie supine in my presence.”

  Monsieur patted the chevalier de Lorraine’s knee.

  “I give Lorraine leave to stretch, my dear,” he said. “My friend is too tall for my coach.”

  “And I’m too fat for it,” Madame said. “But I don’t demand the entire seat.”

  Lorraine drew himself up. The top of his wig brushed the roof.

  “I do beg Madame’s pardon.” He picked up his plumed hat and opened the door. As he stepped to the street, he drew the egret feathers across Marie-Josèphe’s wrist.

  Monsieur hurried after him.

  Marie-Josèphe regained her breath and returned her attention to Madame and Lotte, where it belonged. “I’ll ride back to Versailles with Yves,” she said quickly. “Everyone will have more room on the way home.”

  “Dear child,” Madame said, “that had nothing to do with the size of the coach.” She rose and climbed out. Monsieur handed her down, and Lorraine assisted Lotte. Marie-Josèphe followed quickly, anxious to see her brother again. Lorraine waited for her, treating her as if she were nearly on a level with the family of the brother of the King. He gave her his hand. His attentions both thrilled and embarrassed her. He left her off-balance. Nothing in Martinique had ever embarrassed her, when she had lived a quiet life keeping her brother’s house and helping in his experiments and reading books on all manner of subjects.