The Moon and the Sun Read online

  Books by Vonda N. McIntyre

  The Moon and the Sun

  The Starfarers Series

  Starfarers

  Transition

  Metaphase

  Nautilus

  Superluminal

  Barbary

  Dreamsnake

  (winner of the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus awards)

  The Exile Waiting

  Fireflood and Other Stories

  The Entropy Effect

  Enterprise: The First Adventure

  Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

  Star Trek III: The Search for Spock

  Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home

  Star Wars: The Crystal Star

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Originally published in hardcover in 1997 by Pocket Books

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 1997 by Yonda N. McIntyre

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-56766-7

  First Pocket Books paperback printing September 1998

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Cover art by Gary Halsey

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  In Memoriam

  Acram Davidson

  1923–1993

  MAJOR CHARACTERS

  (In Order of Appearance)

  FATHER YVES DE LA CROIX, S.J., 27, Jesuit and natural philosopher, older brother of Marie-Josèphe

  MARIE-JOSÈPHE DE LA CROIX, 20, Yves’ sister, lady-in-waiting to Mademoiselle; recently come to Versailles (via Mme de Maintenon’s school at St. Cyr) from the French colony of Martinique

  MADAME*, Duchess d’Orléans, Elisabeth Charlotte of Bavaria, the Princess Palatine, 41, Monsieur’s second wife

  MONSIEUR*, Philippe, Duke d’Orléans, 53, Louis’ younger brother.

  MADEMOISELLE*, ElisabethCharlotte d’Orléans, 17, daughter of Madame and Monsieur, niece of Louis XIV.

  THE CHEVALIER DE LORRAINE*, Monsieur’s lover, 55.

  LUCIEN DE BARENTON, COUNT DE CHRÉTIEN, 28, one of the few French nobles permitted to advise Louis XIV.

  PHILIPPE II D’ORLÉANS, DUKE DE CHARTRES*, 19, son of Monsieur and Madame; married to Françoise Marie, Mlle de Blois, “Madame Lucifer.”

  LOUIS-AUGUSTE, DUKE DU MAINE, 23, Louis XIV’s legitimized natural son by his former mistress, the Marquise de Montespan.

  His Majesty’s legitimate grandsons:

  LOUIS, DUKE DE BOURGOGNE* (11);

  PHILIPPE, DUKE D’ANJOU* (10);

  CHARLES, DUKE DE BERRI (7)

  LOUIS XIV*, 55, Louis le Grand, le roi soleil, Most Christian King of France and of Navarre

  MADAME DE MAINTENON* (née Françoise d’Aubigné; later Mme Scarron), Louis’ morganatic second wife, 58

  MONSEIGNEUR*, Louis, the Grand Dauphin, 32, Louis’ only surviving legitimate son

  THE SEA MONSTER

  MONSIEUR BOURSIN, of His Majesty’s household

  FATHER DE LA CHAISE*, Louis’ confessor

  ODELETTE (known also as HALEEDA), 20, Marie-Josèphe’s Turkish slave (born on the same day as Marie-Josèphe).

  DR. FAGON*, first physician to the King

  DR. FÉLIX*, first surgeon to the King

  INNOCENT XII*, recently anointed Pope

  JAMES II* and MARY OF MODENA, King and Queen of England in exile

  The Foreign Princes: CHARLES OF LORRAINE*, and the dukes of CONTI and CONDÉ.

  MADAME LUCIFER*, Duchess de Chartres, 16, daughter (Mlle de Blois) of Louis XIV

  ALLESANDRO SCARLATTI*, musician, composer, maestro di capella for the viceroy of Naples, the Marquis del Carpio

  DOMENICO SCARLATTI*, 8, Signor Scarlatti’s son, child prodigy, musician and composer

  MLLE D’ARMAGNAC*, “Mlle Future”

  MLLE DE VALENTINOIS*, “Mlle Past”

  JULIETTE D’AUTEVILLE, marquise de la Fère, “Mme Present”

  ANTOINE GALLAND*, first western translator of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights

  CARDINAL OTTOBONI*, attending Innocent XII

  HALEEDA (also knows as Odelette), Marie-Josèphe’s adopted sister.

  THE DUKE OF BERWICK*, James Fitzjames, natural son of James II

  The PRINCE OF JAPAN, the SHAH OF PERSIA, the QUEEN OF NUBIA, and the WAR CHIEFS OF THE HURONS; and their attendants.

  * Historical Characters

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  PROLOGUE

  MIDSUMMER DAY’S SUN blazed white in the center of the sky. The sky burned blue to the horizon.

  The flagship of the King crossed abruptly from the limpid green of shallow water to the dark indigo of limitless depths.

  The galleon’s captain shouted orders; the sailors hurried to obey. Canvas flapped, then filled; the immense square sails snapped taut in the wind. The ship creaked and groaned and leaned into its turn. The flag of Louis XIV fluttered, writing Nec Pluribus Impar, the King’s motto, across the sky. The emblem of Louis XIV, a golden sunburst, shone from the galleon’s foretopsail.

  Free of the treacherous shoals, the galleon plunged ahead. Water rushed against the ship’s sides. The gilt figurehead stretched its arms into sunlight and spray. Rainbows shimmered from its claws and from the flukes of its double tail. The carven sea monster flung colored light before it, for the glory of the King.

  Yves de la Croix searched the sea from the ship’s bow to the horizon, seeking his quarry along the Tropic of Cancer, directly beneath the sun. He squinted into Midsummer’s Day and clenched his hands around the topdeck’s rail. The galleon moved with the wind, leaving the air on deck still and hot. The sun soaked into Yves’ black cassock and drenched his dark hair with heat. The tropical sea sparkled and shifted, dazzling and enrapturing the young Jesuit.

  “Démons!” the lookout cried.

  Yves searched for what the lookout had spied, but the sun was too bright and the distance too long. The ship cut through the waves, rushing, roaring.

  “There!”

  Dead ahead, the ocean roiled. Shapes leapt. Sleek figures cavorted like dolphins in the sea foam.

  The flagship sailed toward the turbulent water. A siren song, no dolphin’s call, floated through the air. The sailors fell into terrified silence.

  Yves stood motionless, curbing his excitement. He had known he would find his quarry at this spot and on this day; he had never doubted his hypothesis. He should meet his success with composure.
/>   “The net!” Captain Desheureux’s shout overwhelmed the song. “The net, you bastards!”

  His command sent his crew scrambling. They feared him more than they feared sea monsters, more than they feared demons. The winch shrieked and groaned, wood against rope against metal. The net clattered over the side. A sailor muttered a profane prayer.

  The creatures frolicked, oblivious to the approaching galleon. They breached like dolphins, splashing wildly, churning the sea. They caressed each other, twining their tails about one another, singing their animal sensuality. Their rutting whipped the ocean into froth.

  Yves’ excitement surged, possessing his mind and his body, overcoming his resolution. Shocked by the intensity of his reaction, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, praying for humble tranquility.

  The rattle of the net, its heavy cables knocking against the ship’s flank, brought him back to the world. Desheureux cursed. Yves ignored the words, as he had ignored casual profanity and blasphemy throughout the voyage.

  Once more his own master, Yves waited, impassive. Calmly he noted the details of his prey: their size; their color; their number, much reduced from the horde reported a century before.

  The galleon swept through the fornicating sea monsters. As Yves had planned, as he had hoped, as he had expected from his research, the sea monsters trapped themselves in their rapture. They never noticed the attack until the moment of onslaught.

  The siren song disintegrated into animal cries and screams of pain. Hunted animals always shrieked at the shock of their capture. Yves doubted that beasts could feel fear, but he suspected they might feel pain.

  The galleon crushed through them, drowning them in their own screams. The net swept through the thrashing waves.

  Desheureux shouted abuse and orders. The sailors winched the net’s cables. Underwater, powerful creatures thrashed against the side of the galleon. Their voices beat the planks like a drum.

  The net hauled the creatures from the sea. Sunlight gleamed from their dark, leathery flanks.

  “Release the pigeons.” Yves kept his voice level.

  “It’s too far,” whispered the apprentice to the royal pigeon keeper. “They’ll die.” Birds cooed and fluttered in their wicker cages.

  “Release them!” If none reached France from this flight of birds, the next flight would succeed, or the one after that.

  “Yes, Father.”

  A dozen carrier pigeons lofted into the sky. Their wings beat the air. The soft sound faded to silence. Yves glanced over his shoulder. One of the pigeons wheeled, climbing higher. Its message capsule flashed silver, reflecting the sun, signaling Yves’ triumph.

  1

  THE PROCESSION WOUND its way along the cobbled street, stretching fifty carriages long. The people of Le Havre pressed close on either side, cheering their King and his court, marvelling at the opulence of the carriages and the harnesses, admiring the flamboyant dress, the jewels and lace, the velvet and cloth-of-gold, the wide plumed hats of the young noblemen who accompanied their sovereign on horseback.

  Marie-Josèphe de la Croix had dreamed of riding in such a procession, but her dreams fell short of the reality. She traveled in the carriage of the duke and duchess d’Orléans, a carriage second in magnificence only to the King’s. She sat across from the duke, the King’s brother, known always as Monsieur, and his wife Madame. Their daughter Mademoiselle sat beside her.

  On her other side, Monsieur’s friend the Chevalier de Lorraine lounged lazily, handsome and languorous, bored by the long journey from Versailles to Le Havre. Lotte—Mademoiselle, I must always remember to call her, Marie-Josèphe said to herself, now that I’m at court, now that I’m her lady-in-waiting—leaned out the carriage window, nearly as excited as Marie-Josèphe.

  The Chevalier stretched his long legs diagonally so they crossed in front of Marie-Josèphe’s feet.

  Despite the dust, and the smells of the waterfront, and the noise of horses and riders and carriages clattering along the cobblestones, Madame insisted on opening both windows and curtains. She had a great fondness for fresh air, which Marie-Josèphe shared. Despite her age—she was over forty!—Madame always rode on the hunt with the King. She hinted that Marie-Josèphe might be invited to ride along.

  Monsieur preferred to be protected from the evil humours of the outside air. He carried a silk handkerchief and a pomander. With the silk he brushed the dust from the velvet sleeves and gold lace of his coat; he held the clove-studded orange to his nose, perfuming away the odors of the street. As the coach neared the waterfront, the smell of rotting fish and drying seaweed rose, till Marie-Josèphe wished she too had brought a pomander.

  The carriage shuddered and slowed. The driver shouted to the horses. Their iron shoes rang on the cobblestones. Townspeople poured into the street, thumping against the sides of the carriage, shouting, begging.

  “Look, Mademoiselle de la Croix!” Lotte drew Marie-Josèphe forward so they could both see out the carriage window. Marie-Josèphe wanted to see everything; she wanted to remember forever every detail of the procession. On either side of the street, ragged people waved and cheered, cried “Long live the King!” and shouted “Give us bread!”

  One rider moved undaunted through the crowd. Marie-Josèphe took him for a boy, a page on a pony, then noticed that he wore the justaucorps à brevet, the gold-embroidered blue coat reserved for the King’s most intimate associates. Realizing her mistake, she blushed with embarrassment.

  The desperate townspeople clutched at the courtier, plucked at his gold lace, pulled at his horse’s saddle. Instead of whipping them away, he gave them the King’s alms. He handed coins to the nearer people, and flung coins to the people at the edges of the throng, the old women, the crippled men, the ragged children. The crowd formed a whirlpool around him, as powerful as the ocean, as filthy as the water in the harbor of le Havre.

  “Who is that?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

  “Lucien de Barenton,” Lotte said. “M. le comte de Chrétien. Don’t you know him?”

  “I didn’t know—” She hesitated. It was not her place to comment on M. de Chrétien’s stature at court.

  “He represented His Majesty in organizing my brother’s expedition, but I had no occasion to meet him.”

  “He’s been away all summer,” Monsieur said. “But I see he’s kept his standing in my brother the King’s estimation.”

  The carriage halted, hemmed in, jostled. Monsieur waved his handkerchief against the odors of sweating horses, sweating people, and dead fish. The guards shouted, trying to drive the people back.

  “I shall have to have the carriage repainted after this,” Monsieur grumbled wearily. “And no doubt I’ll miss some of the gilt as well.”

  “Louis le Grand puts himself too close to his subjects,” Lorraine said. “To comfort them with his glory.” He laughed. “Never mind, Chrétien will trample them with his war horse.”

  M. de Chrétien could no more dominate a war horse than could I, Marie-Josèphe thought. Lorraine’s cheerful sarcasm amused and then embarrassed her.

  She feared for the count de Chrétien, but no one else showed any worry. The other courtiers’ mounts descended from the chargers of the Crusades, but Count Lucien, as befitted him, rode a small, light dapple-grey.

  “His horse is no bigger than a palfrey!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “The people might pull him down!”

  “Don’t worry.” Lotte patted Marie-Josèphe’s arm, leaned close, and whispered, “Wait. Watch. M. de Chrétien will never let himself be unhorsed.”

  Count Lucien tipped his plumed hat to the crowd. The people returned his courtesy with cheers and bows. His horse never halted, never allowed itself to be hemmed in. It pranced, arching its neck, snorting, waving its tail like a flag, moving between the people like a fish through water. In a moment Count Lucien was free. Followed by cheers, he rode down the street after the King. A line of musketeers parted the crowd again; Monsieur’s carriage and guards followed in Count Lucien�
�s wake.

  A bright flock of young noblemen galloped past. Outside the window, Lotte’s brother Philippe, duke de Chartres, dragged his big bay horse to a stop and spurred it to rear, showing off its gilded harness. Chartres wore plumes and velvet and carried a jeweled sword. Just returned from the summer campaigns, he affected a thin mustache like the one His Majesty had worn as a youth.

  Madame smiled at her son. Lotte waved to her brother. Chartres swept off his hat and bowed to them all from horseback, laughing. A scarf fluttered at his throat, tied loosely, the end tucked in a buttonhole.

  “It’s so good to have Philippe home!” Lotte said. “Home and safe.”

  “Dressed like a rake.” Madame spoke bluntly, and with a German accent, despite having come to France from the Palatinate more than twenty years before. She shook her head, sighing fondly. “No doubt with manners the same. He must accommodate himself to being back at court.”

  “Allow him a few moments to enjoy his triumph on the field of battle, Madame,” Monsieur said. “I doubt my brother the King will permit our son another command.”

  “Then he’ll be safe,” Madame said.

  “At the cost of his glory.”

  “There’s not enough glory to go around, my friend.” Lorraine leaned toward Monsieur and laid his hand across the duke’s jeweled fingers. “Not enough for the King’s nephew. Not enough for the King’s brother. Only enough for the King.”

  “That will be sufficient, sir!” Madame said. “You’re speaking of your sovereign!”

  Lorraine leaned back. His arm, muscular beneath the sensual softness of his velvet coat, pressed against the point of Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder.

  “You’ve said the same thing, Madame,” he said. “I believed it the only subject on which we concur.”

  His Majesty’s natural son, the duke du Maine, glittering in rubies and gold lace, cavorted his black horse outside Monsieur’s carriage until Madame glared at him, snorted, and turned her back. The duke laughed at her and galloped toward the front of the procession.

  “Waste of a good war horse,” Madame muttered, ignoring Lorraine. “What use has a mouse-dropping for a war horse?”