Free Enchantress of Paris by Marci Jefferson

Palais Mazarin to welcome my guests while one hundred blazing torches lit the courtyard. My friends from the salons alighted from carriages. Molière kissed my cheeks, and Lully brought his violin. My brother Philippe, who had finally had the decency to shave, showed them inside.
    Then Monsieur finally appeared, the prettiest of all with extra pink ribbons on his doublet and matching pink hose. “Cousin,” he said to me with a kiss. He and the king had always affectionately called the Mazarinettes cousins, and we’d thought nothing of it. I remembered the love letters I’d found in Mazarin’s casket. Did Monsieur and the king realize the cardinal was their father, that we were truly related?
    I stuffed down the thought. “Welcome.”
    Monsieur gestured to his carriage. “I brought my other cousins.”
    Out stepped the exiled King Charles of England wearing a broad grin. “Hope you don’t mind.”
    His brother James, Duke of York, a copy of Charles with lighter skin and hair, and their youngest brother, the Duke of Gloucester, alighted next.
    I could hardly believe it. I curtsied. They bowed in return. Royalty at my fête! “Gentlemen, don’t think I’m dazzled.”
    â€œOur titles aren’t illustrious enough for you?” Monsieur offered his arm.
    I crooked my arm into his. “Each of you is merely another dance partner.”
    King Charles took my other arm. “Well, it’s a good thing we wore our dancing shoes tonight, eh, brothers?”
    The five of us entered the palais together. Footmen threw open every set of doors on our way to the dining hall. Eyes widened at the sight of my escorts, and servants scrambled to ready additional seating. Violinists serenaded us through dinner while the Stuart brothers and Monsieur compared the English Civil War with the French Fronde.
    â€œIs there hope of regaining your kingdom?” I asked King Charles at a moment when everyone else was engaged.
    He grinned. There was something handsome in the ease of his smile. “Every fresh hope has led to renewed disappointment. Your uncle isn’t making it easier.”
    â€œYou mean the cardinal makes life difficult for those other than myself?”
    He shrugged. “He’s forming an alliance with Oliver Cromwell, the man who executed my father, led his army against me, and rules England in my place.”
    â€œBlame the Prince de Condé, my uncle’s greatest rival during the Fronde. When Condé lost, he sided with Spain in the endless war for territory. It is bad enough that France is at war with Spain. Condé was starting to gain support in London. Mazarin couldn’t allow that.”
    â€œMazarin has a chance of finishing the Franco-Spanish wars for good with Cromwell’s troops on his side. It will force me to leave France.”
    â€œIf only you could raise your own army for my uncle.”
    He glanced around. “This new alliance makes the King of Spain nervous. He may give my brothers and me our own regiments.”
    I gasped. “You would side against your own cousin King Louis?”
    â€œAgainst your uncle. ” He spoke softly. “Louis may be king, but he will never rule France until he is free of Mazarin.”
    So it was obvious to all of Europe, too. Poor King Louis.
    Our party moved to the great hall, wineglasses in hand, where King Charles quietly studied works of art by the old masters. I realized with a pang of guilt they were part of his slain father’s collection, which Mazarin had purchased from Cromwell. Clarinet players joined the violinists by the virginal and struck up chords for the opening branle. King Charles whispered to me, “Some have said Louis will never cast Mazarin off because he is his real father. Do they call you cousin as an endearment, or are you cousins by blood?”
    I turned to him. This king without a throne, so affable I’d made no pretenses, was too sly.