The King's Marriage

"Urban VIII's illegitimate son?"

Louis turned his head and saw his younger brother Philip peeking in through the doorway. "Don't do that," he reproached gently. "It is not proper." He turned to Bontemps. "Fetch a chair." Then he looked back at Philip. "Has Mother gone to hear Mass again?"

"Yes," Philip said. He came in from outside. Before his Breeching Ceremony, he could only wear splendid little silk-satin dresses, though beneath the overskirt hung the dagger Louis had given him. He walked up to Louis and dropped into a curtsy before moving to the high-backed chair Bontemps had brought over. In this palace, only three people were temporarily permitted to sit face-to-face with the King like this: Mazarin, Anne the Queen Mother, and Philip, the King's brother. In truth, Mazarin did not approve of Louis's indulgence toward Philip. In his view, the King's brother ought to stand properly before the King, as a subject would.

Louis did not believe such empty formalities could do anything to restrain a true schemer. When Louis XIII had still been alive, Gaston, Duke of Orléans, had kissed his royal brother's robes, yet when he rebelled, he had shown no mercy at all. Besides, Louis truly felt guilty toward Philip, and that guilt made him particularly lenient with his brother.

"Where will Your Majesty dine tonight?" Bontemps asked respectfully. The young King was a deeply affectionate person. He usually ate breakfast alone in his bedchamber, while lunch depended on the time and place—sometimes in the study, sometimes in the courtyard, sometimes in the forest when he was out hunting. But he generally ate dinner with the Queen Mother, his brother, and their relatives—namely Queen Mary of England and Princess Henrietta, perhaps the Duchess of Montpensier or Prince of Condé. During dinner, they exchanged interesting bits of gossip and occasionally enjoyed music. The King often personally inquired into the dishes for dinner as well, doing his utmost to accommodate everyone's tastes while ensuring the food was healthy and delicious.

"Philip and I will dine in the small hall today." The small hall was a room in the ground-floor gallery of the Richelieu Residence that faced the garden, at the end of the Ship's-Prow Gallery. Though it was enclosed by walls on three sides, that became an advantage in the depths of winter. And since the room was small enough, very little charcoal was needed to warm it. The royal family no longer cared about the cost of a little charcoal, but whenever Louis thought of the tens of thousands of starving mobs outside, he simply could not bear pointless extravagance.

He rose from his seat, and Philip sprang up at once, offering his arm to the King. Though the Queen Mother always called him "my little girl," and the attendants and servants all treated him as they would a princess, Philip's sense of his own place had not gone too far astray. Like a proud knight, he was prepared to let the King take his arm—to be both His Majesty's support and His Majesty's shield.

"Bring my beaver-fur hat," Louis said. "Put one on Philip as well. We will have to walk through the gallery for a while."

The keeper of the wardrobe behind Bontemps immediately went outside to instruct the day's dressing valet, who passed orders to the servants. The King and his brother waited several minutes before they could finally put on their hats, wrap themselves in heavy cloaks, and walk arm in arm toward the small hall.

Before that, Bontemps had also issued instructions to the steward in charge of charcoal, so that the charcoal fire in the small hall could be lit. But that was not something the King needed to concern himself with. By the time he and his brother arrived, the small hall was already warm and cozy. The King sat in the seat of honor at the dining table, with his brother at his left to pour his water and prepare his seasonings. Louis had him pour a glass of water and selected some pepper sauce before sending him back to his own seat. "Thank you," he said. "Philip, thank you very much for your service. You may sit down. There is pigeon today, which you like. Eat as much as you can."

Philip bowed to thank the King before seating himself with composure. Today's pigeon was gently stewed, stuffed with white mushrooms and chopped celery, seasoned only with salt and pepper. It counted as a soup course. The King ate with great restraint and shared one pigeon with his brother, though there was also a cream beet soup.

Although etiquette demanded four soup courses, Louis had abolished that rule long ago. Gluttony was a way for people nowadays to flaunt their wealth and power, but it was hardly necessary for a King who had not yet formally taken up the affairs of state.

Then came roast duck stuffed with apples. The King chose only some duck breast and the apples baked alongside it. Apples were perhaps the only fruit besides pineapple and bananas that became sweeter and more fragrant after roasting. Soaked in the apples' tart-sweet juices, even the greasy duck skin became crisp and refreshing. His brother Philip, meanwhile, happily ate a pair of duck legs.

The third course consisted of roasted lamb chunks, slices of ham, boiled eggs, and cheese. Louis again only took some slices of ham onto his plate. When the staple course arrived, he wrapped thinly sliced lettuce, ham, and cheese in bread and ate it that way. Sometimes, when hunting outdoors, he carried lunch in the same fashion. People therefore called it "King's Bread," and it swiftly became popular among nobles and high-ranking ministers. Even Mazarin would order a serving of "King's Bread" when he was busy with official business.

After that came three different jams: lingonberry, peach, and blackberry. The King selected some lingonberry jam and spread it over a piece of bread scarcely large enough for a single bite, thus ending his meal for the day.

Philip, on the other hand, ate a great deal of jam. There was not much fruit in winter, only jam. Louis had always been cautious about this so-called jam, which was nearly the same as adding fruit to sugar, but from the Queen Mother to Philip, not one of them did not treat it as dearly as life itself.

At last, the attendants brought milk. The moment Philip saw it, he frowned. He disliked milk, but his elder brother had decreed that he must drink it. "Because it will help you grow taller," the King had said. Louis watched Philip add several spoonfuls of jam before reluctantly forcing it down, both amused and helpless. He had once ordered the cooks to add almonds to the milk to remove the flavor children disliked, but Anne the Queen Mother had quickly objected, because... most poisons smelled of almonds. Once any food carried an almond scent, it became difficult to say whether it might suddenly turn deadly.

This was no joke. As mentioned before, Philip III's unfortunate eldest son had died because of a sauce containing ground cherry pits.

Not only Philip drank it; Louis did as well. They were now in their first period of growth and had to build a solid foundation. This was no joke—at this time, Kings and Dukes still needed to take the field in person, not to mention that monsters and unknown individuals from another world were still lurking in the shadows, watching them like tigers watching prey. They clearly had no reverence for the King, no more than those Parisians did.

"Tell today's cook that the stewed pigeon was very well made. Reward him with a small écu," Louis said. "Ask him to prepare another serving and send it to my aunt and cousin. The weather is truly too cold; add more pepper to the soup."

Bontemps immediately accepted the order and withdrew.

His brother, lazily holding a pickled olive and taking little bites from it, could not help pouting. Louis gave him a stern look. "Do not do that, Philip. They are our relatives. We ought to take care of them."

"But they all say it is because you have fallen in love with Henrietta," Philip said.

"What nonsense!" Louis said angrily. "I truly ought to give the people around you a thorough warning. Henrietta is only six years old. What kind of person could fall in love with a six-year-old child?"

Philip fell silent for a moment. "That is good, then," he said. "Mother is rather worried about it. They do not intend for Henrietta to become your wife." He fiddled with the silver knife and fork before him. These had been brought into the French court by Mary de' Medici after she married from Italy into France. At the time, people at the French court had preferred to eat with their fingers, and clergy had criticized this Medici daughter for being excessively extravagant. From Louis XIII onward, the court had gradually begun reverting to its old ways, until Louis XIV was able to decide for himself how to eat and knives and forks returned to the table.

"What have you heard?" Louis did not often visit the Queen Mother, so he might not be as well informed as Philip in such matters.

"Because of Your Majesty's earlier insistence," Philip said, "your... mercy toward Charles, Duke of Cornwall, has aroused some people's suspicions. They probably cannot accept an English princess becoming Queen of France, though Queen Mary of England and Princess Henrietta clearly wish very much to make this match."

"They are right," Louis said. "I will not choose Henrietta as my wife."

"Why? Do you not love her?" Philip pressed. "Though I dislike her very much, in terms of status, appearance, and upbringing, Henrietta truly is a good choice."

Louis smiled. Ever since he had learned that he was Louis XIV, he had known that his future marriage could not be judged solely by love and status. "I will not marry Henrietta," he reiterated. England and France were like two blades—they could only oppose one another and could never be reconciled. He had aided the Duke of Cornwall only because, as a King, he had to stand firmly against rebels. His future wife would certainly have to come from a country that could offer mutual benefit with France. Henrietta had been out of the running from the start.

Philip clearly wanted to say more, but a sharp click suddenly sounded outside the door. The King instantly leaped from his chair and rushed out. No one was outside anymore. As he made note of the attendant who had neglected his duty, he bent down and picked up a small pouch. The pouch felt familiar. He raised it to his nose and caught a strong scent of sulfur, immediately confirming the visitor's identity.

"It is all right," he said as he returned to Philip, whose expression was equally tense. "I know who that person is." He paused. "Not an enemy."