The Princess of Cleves #15

The next day he truly did feel ill. The Chevalier returned to court that afternoon, but the Prince refused him. When the King's doctor arrived, the Prince knew it was the Chevalier that sent him, and so the Prince refused entry to that man as well. The doctors who were looking after him were lost as to the cause of his affliction. It was a mystery to them why a young man of twenty would suddenly have the weak and feeble heart of a man of sixty.

The servants asked if they should send for his wife, Rosalind, and he would only turn away from them weeping. The Chevalier snuck into the Prince's chambers to bathe the Prince's hands with his tears. He must have waited for hours to find a moment when the Prince was unattended. The Prince had wept as well, but that was the only response he gave to the Chevalier. Too distraught to speak, the Chevalier left him a letter.

The Prince read it, and found it full of concern for his health, and pledges of undying love. The Chevalier promised to be patient, to wait for whatever rumor it was that had upset the Prince to be resolved. It was the second paragraph that melted the Prince's heart:

I understand you have been betrayed my love. As blameless as Rosalind may be, her inability to love you was the first, and deepest betrayal. I will never grow weary of proving to you my loyalty, that my heart belongs only to you. Whenever you are ready to be my friend again, I will welcome you with open arms, and never shall I reproach you.

With difficulty the Prince was able to communicate to his valet that he was to fetch the Chevalier. It would seem that man was sure of the power of his letter, for he had not gone far. In a matter of moments, he was shut up in the Prince's chambers. He held the sobbing Prince, and the garbled tale came from his lips. Quickly, the Chevalier determined what had happened. A garment he thought misplaced had really been taken, and it caused the Prince to grow sick with a broken and jealous heart.

The Chevalier calmed the Prince as best he could, then sent for the doctors. Against the Prince's wishes, he wrote to Rosalind to come to her husband. After that day the Chevalier took up residence on the couch outside the Prince's bedroom. The Duke de Guise tried several times to employ the Chevalier in the house's schemes, but found the man to be useless.

Despite the Chevalier's tender ministrations, the Prince's health would not improve. The guilt he had felt at sending for his wife was soon replaced with the certainty that he had done the correct thing. She would clear up this mystery as to who she saw in the garden, if anyone. It would be better for the pair to reconcile in person as well, if this truly was the end of the Prince, and the Chevalier was beginning to fear it was. The doctors were already frustrated--should the man run a fever or begin to tremble, they would be outwitted.

* * * *

It was a very messy letter. Rosalind had been in a panic when she had written it.

My Dearest M--

I have just received a letter from the Chevalier, informing me of the Prince's illness. There is something strange happening, I can feel it on my skin. All my little hairs stand on end as my maids prepare my clothes for Chambort. Each time one breezes by, it is as though someone has stepped on my grave.

The Duke came to see me one night, and, as he interrupted me, I admitted him to my chambers. I don't know why I did it, and I regretted it after, as pleasant as it had been seeing him. I know you will think me silly, but I want to apologize for being unfaithful to you. The next night I left for him some posies, bound in the colors that you wore to the tourney.

It was a week later that I heard from the Chevalier. A few days after I saw the Duke the Prince became ill. I can't imagine the Prince would send someone to spy on me, but the Chevalier is his closest confidante. That man most certainly would send someone to watch me, if not go himself. Would the Prince really become ill at this betrayal? It wouldn't be the first.

I don't like the situation. I wish you were at Chambort, you could help to prepare me. The Chevalier, I have a hard time trusting, only because he is so close to the Prince. I could see where he had tried to erase the tear stains from his letter. Hopefully his love will be all the balm the Prince needs. Were my husband to die, I would expire from guilt. The first thought I had at reading the Chevalier's letter was that I would be freed from so many troubles. I am a wretched woman. I have been praying for the Prince's health ever since.

Your Mistress,

R--

The Marechal read the letter twice before throwing it in the fire. There was too much detail in it for him to keep. He frowned when he read about Rosalind and the Duke, although he had not been surprised. It would take her a while to get over her infatuation with the man. For their first year together, he would have to be careful about asking her of her thoughts, lest she awkwardly blush and stammer, reminding him that she pined for her other lovers.

The Marechal had been impatiently waiting for her riding habits to be completed. Now he was glad he had delayed. The guilt at having abandoned her husband before a serious illness would have haunted Rosalind. If he had died while they were on their honeymoon, she would have never forgiven herself. There was nothing for him to do but to travel to Chambort to see Rosalind, and raise some more money gambling. After the court moved, his only option had been to play with the wealthy bourgeois, but they would accuse any man who won of cheating, as the Marechal had learned one night. Of course, there were times when he did cheat, but only when his own luck ran out.

It was a dangerous time to for him to be going to court. The current cabal--the widowed Queen, the new King, and the House of Guise--thought very little of him. He'd stayed in the shadows while the political upheaval went on around him. To be regarded as insignificant was the best thing for him. If he was regarded as being loyal to the late King, he'd be banished like the others. To throw his hand in the with the Queen now, he would not be trusted. It would be assumed that as soon as the wind blew another direction, he would abandon his current master. If he hadn't been planning on running off, he would have waited for the court to return to Paris, and made his debut at the gaming tables before making a formal appearance.

He would have to make a grand entrance at Chambort, no skulking back into the presence of his King and Queen. The clothes he chose were somber, plain. Humility was the only thing that could save him. From his jewelry he choose his most understated pieces, cabochons of onyx set in silver. He'd sent a man ahead of him to secure a room at an inn so he may arrive freshly bathed, not covered in road dust and reeking of horse.

He kept the Prince in his prayers. If that man could find happiness with the Chevalier, stealing his wife would weigh more easily upon the Marechal's conscience. Although, he had kept her from the Duke. One thing had always been clear, albeit unspoken, among the trio of suitors: any of them was preferable to the Duke. There was something delightful in watching him suffer.

Just before he left, he penned a note to Rosalind:

My Dear,

I'm sending this message ahead of me to Chambort. My preparations are nearly finished, although I'm glad I tarried in Paris, seeing to these last few details, otherwise there would have been an inauspicious beginning to our journey.

As always, I am your servant. I shall endeavor to find out what I can as far as court rumors when I arrive. I shall not try and see you, but I will send you letters.

I think that was a lovely gift for the Duke. I've always admired your cleverness my love.

M--

He told the messenger to fly, and gave him a sizable purse so that he may purchase fresh horses. More money was promised if he made the journey in three days. The Marechal left an hour later in his coach. He would have to stop at night, otherwise there would be rumors of a nobleman riding through the countryside like the hounds of Hell were at his heels. When he flew in his carriage, it would be with Rosalind on his knee.

* * * *

When the man approached her and furtively handed her a note, Rosalind made him stay. Surely it was word from the Marechal. Learning that he would be arriving at Chambort soon, she bade the man stay nearby and give her word of his arrival. She wished to be conducted to his rooms to greet him when he came. Reluctantly, the servant agreed to do so.

After that, she was doubly anxious. The Prince would not admit her to his chambers. Instead the Chevalier provided her with an array of excuses. He never met her eye as he spoke, and she knew there was something he wasn't telling her. It made her miserable. Thankfully the Duke was avoiding her with the same fastidiousness that she avoided him. The last thing either of them wanted was an awkward confrontation in a court where people were still settling into the new hierarchy. Any gossip would soon be used to obtain whatever favors it was worth. A story about the great Rosalind fighting with the Duke would fetch a good price.

The Chevalier was finished giving that day's excuses. The Prince had been given an emetic which had not taken affect. He didn't want the Princess to see him retching. The Prince was terribly sorry, he hoped he would be able to see his wife tomorrow. She didn't even try to get the Chevalier to stay a talk with her after he finished giving his report. Standing in the doorway, she watched him hurry back to his lover.

Rosalind remained despondent until she saw the Marechal's man standing in a corner. Glancing up and down the hall, he threw a cloak over her without a word, and brought her to a waiting carriage. "He'll be here soon. He sent word ahead to have a bath drawn for him."

"Did he say anything about me?"

"No, but that's because he does not know you will be waiting for him. We wanted your presence to be a surprise. He's been rather glum about the...delay, and we thought it would cheer him up."

She fingered the riding crop she kept hidden under her skirts, something she kept close to remind her of her lover. "Yes, I think he will be happy to see me."

She was seated on the Marechal's bed, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Her heart began pounding when she heard his voice, his boots approaching closer. When he opened the door, she squealed and threw her arms around him.

"Rosalind, what are you doing here? Is this why my staff has been grinning at me?" he asked, laughing as he embraced her.

He closed the door behind him, and they both wept. She helped him remove his road stained clothing then attended him during his bath. The Marechal was too sore from his journey for any games so she tucked him into bed. Laying down with him, she rested her head on his chest.

"I haven't seen the Prince yet. The Chevalier keeps giving me excuses as to why I can't."

"And the Duke?"

She sighed. "Thankfully, he's left me alone. The only person I really talk to is the Chevalier, and we don't really talk."

The Marechal held her closer. "It would seem that there is no place for us in this court, which is for the best, as we will soon be leaving." His hands strayed lower to cup her ass. "Oh, how I've missed you my love." Kissing Rosalind, the Marechal pulled up her skirts to touch her. "Heaven will be waking up next to your sweet smile. Now, let me taste you."

Gathering up her petticoats, the Princess knelt over the Marechal's face. Moaning, he took her hips and pulled his sex down to his lips. Leaning against the wall, she hissed as she felt his tongue parting her lips. As he suckled on her hidden bud, she started rocking her hips across his face. His hands were caressing her smooth thighs, gently fingering her anus. The Princess had to bite her wrist to stifle her cries. It felt like she had not been touched in ages. Her night with the Duke, he may as well have been a statue for all the feeling he stirred in her. The Marechal's lingering licks felt like declarations of love. The way his finger moved in and out of her ass, thrusting inside each time her groin clenched, was a promise to stay with her always. In the court she felt invisible, while the Marechal made her feel like the whole world.

He protested when she rose and flipped her body around. He buried his face between her legs, and started moaning into her sex as she searched under the covers for his hard phallus. Placing the smooth tip of his sex in her mouth, she stretched her lips open wide, flicking her tongue down to the base of his phallus. They were clutching one another's hips, their bodies writhing. As the Marechal's sex pulsed in Rosalind's mouth, her own groin tightened. They came together, spluttering and bucking against each other.

She cleaned off her face, then scurried back to Chambort. She snuck back into the castle without meeting any obstacles. That night she slept well, with pleasant dreams. Her and the Marechal sat side by side in a caleche, and they laughed. The next morning, she expected to find herself in the solitude of Colomiers. When the unfamiliar room came into focus, she realized she was still with the court.

Rumors of the Marechal's appearance were already circulating. He had sent a messenger to the King and Queen, requesting permission to join the court. An unnecessary formality, it was a gesture of submission that caused much speculation. No one could determine how this could be in the Marechal's interest. Rosalind did her best to look disinterested until she remembered hardly anyone watched her now. The Chevalier guarded the Prince's bedside, the Duke hid from her, and the Marechal would not watch her when he did come to court for fear of giving away their scheme.

It was late afternoon when the Marechal arrived. He treated his cold reception like a great favor, and smiled warmly at everyone. Later on, he was heard praising the new King, and his lovely chateau Chambort. Before going to bed, the Queen was heard to remark upon her surprise at the noble conduct of the Marechal.

Rosalind was looking forward to another night's peaceful rest, when the Chevalier arrived.

"The Prince is ready to see you. I'm afraid if he doesn't speak with you now--" The man's sentence was choked off by a sob.

She rose to embrace him. She had forgotten about her husband's lingering illness with the excitement of her lover's arrival. Guilt hit her, a nauseating sensation. She was about to face the end of the life her mother wanted for her. While Madame de Chartes' lessons had long been neglected, the thing which she worked the hardest for, her daughter's marriage, had survived, in one form or another. Now it was wasting away with the Prince's withered body.

The Chevalier gave her a few moments to collect herself and touch up her toilet so that she would be prepared to see her husband.

Rosalind was staring at her jewelry, unsure. "Do you think the Prince will think I'm mocking him if I wear the jewelry he gave me?" As she spoke, tears sprang to her eyes.

"No, not if those tears are sincere, and I believe they are."

* * * *

The Chevalier held onto Rosalind's hand as they walked through the halls of Chambort to the Prince's chambers. She was shaken, and the sorrow on her features was genuine. The last week had been a daze of worry, and whenever he had seen her, he had been so exhausted, he hadn't thought about what she must be feeling. Now he realized, he still loved her, and she was quite beautiful right now.

The smell of death stamped out any fires that were rekindling in the Chevalier's heart. Rosalind cried out and fell to her knees beside the bed, weeping. The Prince's eyes were glittering slits, his face white except for the dark sunken pits around his eyes. It was a minute before he reacted to the presence of his wife.

"Rosalind, do not hide yourself from me. Come, sit on my bed, hold my hand."

Sniffling, she obeyed. Her eyes were tender, but the set of her mouth spoke of guilt. She stroked the back of his hand like it was made of glass and tears rolled down her cheeks. The Chevalier had advised the Prince to make peace with his wife, that given his state she would refuse him nothing.

"I am dying. Will you finally answer my questions?"

She frowned, but nodded. Her eyes darted over to the Chevalier, and he reached out to touch her shoulder.

"Are you in love with the Duke?"

"I was, but not any more," she replied.

"Are you in love with someone now?" The Prince spoke barely over a whisper.

She was silent.

"Who is it?"

"The Marechal," she mumbled.

The Prince began to laugh, startling both his wife and lover. "I do believe the Chevalier guessed better than I did."

The Chevalier and Rosalind shared a glance, and then smiled at one another.

"Were you...were you going to run off with him?" the Prince asked, grasping her hand.

"Yes, I thought that we could finally be happy. I, disgraced in the country with the Marechal, and you and the Chevalier, happy bachelor."

"The Chevalier and I had the same plan."

They didn't speak after that, just sat there, holding hands. The Chevalier wanted to know who had been in her garden, who had stolen his cloak. It would seem he'd have to ask Rosalind later. He didn't want to disturb the solemn quiet of the pair. When the Prince drifted off into a shallow sleep, she rose to leave.

The Chevalier followed her. "Pardon me Rosalind, for asking you this during such a sensitive time. I must ask. If you know, please tell me who it was that crept into your garden at Colomiers? Whatever man it was, he stole one of my cloaks. The Prince sent a servant to keep an eye on you, and when that man returned with reports of my infidelity, the Prince became ill. In a way, whoever stole my cloak had a hand in the Prince's death, which is why I want to know his name."

She froze, and her features became hard and angry. "It was the Duke, may he burn in Hell."

"I suspected as much. As far as Hell, the Duke may live for many years yet, so I intend to make his mortal life unpleasant too," the Chevalier said coldly.

She took his hand. "If there is anything I can do, please let me know. My husband did not deserve such a death. I am grateful to you, for your patience and kindness, and love, for the Prince."

The Chevalier's heart throbbed, painful, brimming over with sweet sentiments for her. "I will take you up on your offer. As you are the only one capable of breaking the Duke's heart as the Prince's death will break mine, it would be foolish not to." He smiled, kissing her cheek.

When he returned to the Prince's side, his mind was consumed with crafting the perfect letter to send to the Duke. The Prince stirred and asked him what was on his mind. The Chevalier evaded until his lover became cross.

"In speaking with your wife, I discovered it was the Duke who snuck into your gardens, wearing a cloak he had taken from me. I'm going to use his love for Rosalind to rip out his heart, because if he hadn't stolen that cloak, I am certain you would have never fallen ill."

To the Chevalier's surprise, the Prince smiled. "This is the most cheerful I've seen you all week. For a moment, I feared you had renewed your affair with my wife, but instead you have sworn to revenge me." Taking the Chevalier's hand, the Prince brought it to his cold lips.

"It is all that is left to me. I love you Prince, and I doubt that I shall ever love another as I do you. In your memory, I shall persecute that man, and each of his tears shall appear to me as your sweet smile."

The Prince reached up to embrace the Chevalier with such force, the Chevalier tumbled onto his chest. Their lips met with the same fervor they had when they first shared Rosalind's bed. With shaking fingers, the Prince undid the Chevalier's breeches.