The French Mistress by Susan Holloway Scott

private matters, such as this one. Just as on that first day, she wanted me to act as a witness, and prepare myself to recall it later, if needed. I guessed that she feared herself in danger, whether from her husband or from others. Peril was often the partner of those who played their lives on so grand a stage, whether by choice or by fate. Because Madame asked this of me, I did it, though it troubled me mightily.
    The abbé joined us, a small man with heavy-lidded eyes that missed nothing, including my presence.
    “You’ve come from His Majesty?” Madame asked him at once, with no civilities. “You understand what you are to do while in England?”
    He glanced so pointedly in my direction that I blushed, but Madame impatiently waved away his objection.
    “Mademoiselle de Keroualle remains by my wish,” she said. “Now tell me. His Majesty explained your role?”
    “His agents did, Madame,” the monk said. “I have already accepted the invitation of His Grace the Duke of Monmouth, and will be his guest in London. While there, I am to insinuate myself into the good graces of His Majesty the English king, using whatever methods I judge best for the circumstances.”
    “Speak to him of chemistry and mathematical calculations,” she urged. “He keeps a private closet at Whitehall for his laboratory experiments and studies, like some fusty old don.”
    Prignani bowed his thanks. “I will, Madame. I am to speak to His Majesty however I can, to persuade him to smile with favor on the French as allies.”
    “Yes, yes,” she said eagerly, pressing her hands together over her belly. “And the rest, too.”
    “Of course, Madame,” he murmured. “I am to counsel His Majesty in private about the True Faith, and all he would gain for himself and his soul by renouncing the folly of Martin Luther. I am also to explain to him how, as a king, he is responsible for the divine welfare of his people, and the holy magnificence he could achieve by returning all England to the Church.”
    “Exactly so.” She sighed happily, sitting back in her chair. “Exactly.”
    He raised his hand, a curious mixture of regard and beneficent blessing. “I cannot thank you enough for the honor of your trust, Madame.”
    She smiled, and blushed with pleasure. “The honor comes from His Most Christian Majesty for accepting my suggestion,” she demurred, “and not from me.”
    With Madame, everything was complicated like this, twisted back and forth and into itself like a silken knot without end. This little plot of hers involving Prignani was devised to assist both the kingdoms of England and France, yes, but also to preserve the greater Kingdom of Heaven by bringing the Church back to her native country. While she wished to bring both success and comfort to her dearest older brother and prove herself worthy of his love, her old affections for Louis were at play as well, and she longed to show him the strength of her devotion and fealty. Finally, she always looked for any way to vex Monsieur (this by feeding his jealousy regarding her and his brother), and to display her own political wisdom and acuity as a Stuart princess.
    All of which I would present to any man fool enough to believe that diplomacy is too taxing for a woman’s intellect, or that we’ve not the fortitude to manage the complexities of politics. Others gazed at Madame and saw only a slight, fragile lady of surpassing sweetness. I saw beyond to the strength and intelligence, and learned more from her than she, poor lady, would ever know.
    “I understand that there is one more way I might oblige you, Madame,” the abbé continued. “His Majesty’s agent made mention of a special errand.”
    “There is.” She retrieved the little packet of weighted letters from her desk and handed them to the abbé. “These are for His Majesty my brother the King of England. No one else must ever see them, ever. If you are challenged on your crossing, if there is so much of a glimpse