Read The Shadow Queen A Novel Online
Authors: Sandra Gulland
The Shadow Queen A Novel
T
HE
S
HADOW
Q
UEEN
S
ANDRA
G
ULLAND
In memory of my father, Robert Zentner
(1917–2013),
whose lovable eccentricities are reflected
in several of the characters in this novel.
Everything that is deep loves the mask.
—Nietzsche,
Beyond Good and Evil
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
Historical Note
Act I Winter Swallows
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Act II The Travesty Player
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Act III War of the Theaters
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Act IV In the Service of the Shadow Queen
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Act V Labyrinth
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Author’s Note
Cast of Characters
About Currency
Genealogy
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Credits
About the Author
Also by Sandra Gulland
Copyright
About the Publisher
In 1651, France was a country torn asunder, buffeted by violence and discord. The country had been at war with mighty Spain for sixteen years. As well, the King (thirteen-year-old Louis XIV) and the Queen Mother (Anne of Austria) were engaged in a civil war with powerful members of the French nobility—including the King’s uncle and cousins.
The violence was such that the royal family fled Paris, taking refuge in the southwestern town of Poitiers. From there they intended to amass an army and fight their way back to Paris.
Those outside the world of the Court—in essence, most everyone in France—did not understand the reasons behind the constant warfare, did not know, in fact, who their enemy really was. All
they
knew was disease, violence, and hunger. Their only fight was to survive.
(1651, near Poitiers, in the southwest of France)
W
inter was coming—I could smell it. Even so, we headed north, following a cow track across a barren field, away from all the lawless soldiers.
Onward.
I shifted little Gaston onto my right hip and set my eyes on the far horizon … Onward toward Poitiers, where we might earn a meal performing for crowds. News had spread that the King and Court were there, mobilizing for yet another battle.
We had seen the aftermath the day before, corpses rotting in the sun, pickers crawling over the leavings like flies on a harvest table. A sparkling brass buckle, a dagger with a carved hilt, a hat plume, three bone buttons—treasures that could be traded for food.
“We are players, not scavengers,” my father said gravely, turning me away. “There are things we do not do, things we
will
not do.”
His reproach stung even now.
I pulled the patched woolens up over Gaston’s head to protect him from the cold. He hummed in sleepy protest, sucking on his thumb. Father was right, I knew—we were players, and proud of our calling. We might be hungry, but we would never beg.
I glanced back to see Bravo pulling our cart of costumes and props, our kettle and precious embers. The donkey never stopped, but he never increased his pace either, even when wild dogs threatened.
My parents lagged far behind, hands linked, singing their favorite song, “Le Beau Robert.”
My belly cramped, but not from hunger. Was my time upon me?
My courses had started some moons before. Father and Mother had been jubilant. I must make a formal vow! they theatrically declared, as knights had done in days of old.
I’m a girl, I objected. The ceremonial swearing to uphold the code of chivalry marked a boy’s transition into manhood.
My parents—loving any excuse to perform—insisted that it was a perfectly suitable rite to mark
their
daughter becoming a woman.
So Father and I had acted out the ritual before our audience (Mother, with Gaston in her arms)—first the silent prayer, and then the sermon. It had all been pretend, but we were players: we took pretend to heart. I wore a red robe of nobility over a white tunic, symbolizing purity. My hose and shoes were black, symbolizing death.
“Swear not to traffic with traitors or give evil counsel!” Father recited the Code in his booming player’s voice. “Swear to observe all fasts.”
“I so swear,” I vowed. We were often without food. I was well accustomed to want. Ours was a life of fasts.
“Swear never to betray a trust.”
“I swear.” Thinking of Gaston, so credulous and sweet.
“Swear to do what is right, whatever the cost.” This last Father said gently.
“I so swear,” I answered, my hand over my heart.
He tapped my shoulders with our stage-prop sword, dubbing me the Good Knight Claudette, binding me to my vows. A burden, and a blessing.
THE CLOUDS CLEARED
as we came to a valley. The sun lit up a meadow dotted with frosted marigold. I lowered Gaston to the ground, my arms aching. He was small for five, but even so, carrying him was heavy work. Giggling, he teetered on his feet. I caught him before he fell.
“Careful, Turnip,” I said, pressing my face into his neck, inhaling his sweet scent, so curiously like fresh bread (making my stomach rumble). Mother and Father fanned out, foraging for dried berries and grasshoppers, which we ate greedily after removing the heads, legs, and wings. I kept Gaston near. It was a relief that he’d finally learned to hold his water and hinder-fallings, but he was still a baby at heart. I worried that he was so clumsy, spotted with bruises, worried that he’d yet to talk the way other children did—children who teased him cruelly, calling him an idiot, a simple, a fool.
Yet Gaston was far from simple. I’d never won a game of Mill against him! On our wanders, he always seemed to know the right direction to go (when the rest of us were lost), and although he couldn’t talk, he knew when we misspoke a line during a performance. He was a puzzle I couldn’t solve. Mother feared a witch had put a spell on him. Father suspected that the worms we suffered now and again had gotten into his head. But I thought otherwise. I worried that it was something I might have done to him myself, looked away when I should have been watching.
WE FORDED A
river at a crude plank bridge, coaxing Bravo over with a bit of parsnip. In the shallows, we drank and splashed our faces. Mother caught minnows and we gobbled them down live. She chewed one for Gaston, making it soft, luring him to eat.
The land was made of chalk and limestone, forgiving and malleable. “There will be caves in these parts,” Father said, kicking his toe into the dirt. It was time to think of shelter for the night. In a cave, we would not be so exposed—to wind, wolves, men.
A narrow path led up to a ridge, which was surmounted by an enormous cross. Its surface gleamed in the fading light.
“Compliments of the Company, no doubt,” my father said, frowning.
The Company of the Blessed Sacrament.
The Company of the Devil, he’d once dared to call it. The secret society did good works by day, but attacked Jews, Romas, and players by night—all demons in their view, enemies of the One True Faith. Even some priests were of their number, preaching the stoning of players on festival days.
We were goodly Christians, so why did the Church scorn us? Why could we not take Communion or be buried in hallowed ground? Why were we excommunicated, forbidden the comfort of Heaven?
I lifted Gaston into my arms and began the climb up the mountain. He hummed, one long high note, fixing his moon eyes on me, unblinking. His voice was plaintive and high, enchanting to hear. I hummed along with him, the notes vibrating through my head and chest, twining with his. My sweetling—my very own treasure.