“Aye, I do. Uncle Alex showed me correspondence from His Majesty King James, and I should say the Spanish are his best opportunity, judging from that. The Pope’s compelled to support him, ye ken, as a Catholic monarch; Pope Clement supported James for a good many years, and now Clement’s dead, Benedict continues it, but not at such a high level. But both Philip of Spain and Louis are James’s cousins; it’s the obligation of Bourbon blood he calls on there.” He smiled wryly at me, sidelong. “And from the things I’ve seen, I can tell ye that Royal blood runs damn thin when it comes to money, Sassenach.”
Lifting one foot at a time, he stripped off his stockings one handed and tossed them onto the bedroom stool.
“James got some money from Spain thirty years ago,” he observed. “A small fleet of ships, and some men as well. That was the Rising in 1715. But he had ill luck, and James’s forces were defeated at Sheriffsmuir – before James himself even arrived. So I’d say the Spanish are maybe none too eager to finance a second try at the Stuart restoration – not without a verra good idea that it might succeed.”
“So Charles has come to France to work on Louis and the bankers,” I mused. “And according to what I know of history, he’ll succeed. Which leaves us where?”
Jamie’s arm left my shoulders as he stretched, the shift of his weight tilting the mattress under me.
“It leaves me selling wine to bankers, Sassenach,” he said, yawning. “And you talking to parlormaids. And if we blow enough smoke, perhaps we’ll stun the bees.”
Just before Jared’s departure, he took Jamie to the small house in Montmartre where His Highness, Prince Charles Edward Louis Philip Casimir, etc. Stuart was residing, biding his time while waiting to see what Louis would or would not do for an impecunious cousin with aspirations to a throne.
I had seen them off, both dressed in their best, and spent the time while they were gone picturing the encounter in my mind, wondering how it had gone.
“How did it go?” I asked Jamie, the moment I got him alone upon his return. “What was he like?”
He scratched his head, thinking.
“Well,” he said at last, “he had a toothache.”
“What?”
“He said so. And it looked verra painful; he kept his face screwed up to one side with his jaw puffed a bit. I canna say whether he’s stiff in his manner usually, or if it was only that it hurt him to talk, but he didna say much.”
After the formal introductions, in fact, the older men, Jared, the Earl Marischal, and a rather seedy-looking specimen referred to casually as “Balhaldy,” had gravitated together and begun talking Scottish politics, leaving Jamie and His Highness more or less to themselves.
“We had a cup of brandywine each,” Jamie obediently reported, under my goading. “And I asked him how he found Paris, and he said he was finding it rather tiresomely confining, as he couldna get any hunting. And so then we talked of hunting. He prefers hunting wi’ dogs to hunting with beaters, and I said I did, too. Then he told me how many pheasants he’d shot on one hunting trip in Italy. He talked about Italy until he said the cold air coming in through the window was hurting his tooth – it’s no a verra well-built house; just a small villa. Then he drank some more brandywine for his tooth, and I told him about stag-hunting in the Highlands, and he said he’d like to try that sometime, and was I a good shot with a bow? And I said I was, and he said he hoped he would have the opportunity to invite me to hunt with him in Scotland. And then Jared said he needed to stop at the warehouse on the way back, so His Highness gave me his hand and I kissed it and we left.”
“Hmm,” I said. While reason asserted that naturally the famous – or about-to-be-famous, or possibly-famous, at any rate – were bound to be much like everyone else in their daily behavior, I had to admit that I found this report of the Bonnie Prince a bit of a letdown. Still, Jamie had been invited back. The important thing, as he pointed out, was to become acquainted with His Highness, in order to keep an eye on his plans as any developed. I wondered whether the King of France would be a trifle more impressive in person.
We were not long in finding out. A week later, Jamie rose in the cold, black dark and dressed himself for the long ride to Versailles, to attend the King’s lever. Louis awoke punctually at six o’clock every morning. At this hour, the favored few chosen to attend the King’s toilette should be assembled in the antechamber, ready to join the procession of nobles and attendants who were necessary to assist the monarch in greeting the new day.
Wakened in the small hours by Magnus the butler, Jamie stumbled sleepily out of bed and made ready, yawning and muttering. At this hour, my insides were tranquil, and I luxuriated in that delightful feeling that comes when we observe someone having to do something unpleasant that we are not required to do ourselves.
“Watch carefully,” I said, my voice husky with sleep. “So you can tell me everything.”
With a sleepy grunt of assent, he leaned over to kiss me, then shuffled off, candle in hand, to see to the saddling of his horse. The last I heard before sinking back under the surface of sleep was Jamie’s voice downstairs, suddenly clear and alert in the crisp night air, exchanging farewells with the groom in the street outside.
Given the distance to Versailles, and the chance – of which Jared had warned – of being invited to lunch, I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t return before noon, but I couldn’t help being curious, and waited in increasing impatience until his arrival – finally – near teatime.
“And how was the King’s lever?” I asked, coming to help Jamie remove his coat. Wearing the tight pigskin gloves de rigueur at Court, he couldn’t manage the crested silver buttons on the slippery velvet.
“Oh, that feels better,” he said, flexing his broad shoulders in relief as the buttons sprang free. The coat was much too tight in the shoulders; peeling him out of it was like shelling an egg.
“Interesting, Sassenach,” he said, in answer to my question, “at least for the first hour or so.”
As the procession of nobles came into the Royal Bedchamber, each bearing his ceremonial implement – towel, razor, alecup, royal seal, etc. – the gentlemen of the bedchamber drew back the heavy curtains that kept out the dawn, unveiled the draperies of the great bed of state, and exposed the face of le roi Louis to the interested eye of the rising sun.
Assisted to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, the King had sat yawning and scratching his stubbled chin while his attendants pulled a silk robe, heavy with embroidery of silver and gold, over the royal shoulders, and knelt to strip off the heavy felt stockings in which the King slept, to be replaced with hose of lighter silk, and soft slippers lined with rabbit fur.
One by one, the nobles of the court came to kneel at the feet of their sovereign, to greet him respectfully and ask how His Majesty had passed the night?
“Not verra well, I should say,” Jamie broke off to observe here. “He looked like he’d slept little more than an hour or two, and bad dreams with it.”
Despite bloodshot eyes and drooping jowls, His Majesty had nodded graciously to his courtiers, then risen slowly to his feet and bowed to those favored guests hovering in the back of the chamber. A dispirited wave of the hand summoned a gentleman of the bedchamber, who led His Majesty to the waiting chair, where he sat with closed eyes, enjoying the ministrations of his attendants, while the visitors were led forward one at a time by the Duc d’Orléans, to kneel before the King and offer a few words of greeting. Formal petitions would be offered a little later, when there was a chance of Louis being awake enough to hear them.