Blood poured from a splintery gouge across her forehead. Marie-Josèphe tried to stop the bleeding. Her hands, her dress, turned scarlet.
“Suicide is a mortal sin,” Innocent said. “She must vow obedience and repent before she dies, or I’ll know her for a demon.”
Marie-Josèphe looked up at the two men, the holy man who thought Sherzad had tried to kill herself, and the King who must believe she had tried to murder him.
Perhaps they were both right.
Sherzad raised herself and sang furiously. Blood streaked her face. She looked like a monster.
“What did she say?”
Marie-Josèphe hesitated.
“Tell me!”
“She said — forgive her, Your Majesty — she said, Toothless sharks amuse me. She said, Will a fleet of treasure ships buy my life?
“Where?”
“She’ll tell me — after you free her.”
“With what assurance?”
“Mine, Your Majesty.”
She thought he would dismiss her, call her a thief, accuse her of lying.
“You do not ask me for leniency? For yourself, for your brother, for your lover?”
Marie-Josèphe hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Your Majesty.”
oOo
Sherzad thrashed in the basin, splashing water through the net that restrained her. She cried and struggled, smelling the sea, desperate to reach it.
“Sherzad, dear friend, don’t injure yourself.” Marie-Josèphe worked her hand through the rough mesh so she could touch and comfort the sea woman.
Marie-Josèphe sat beside Sherzad’s basin, under a canvas canopy on the main deck of His Majesty’s flagship. On the upper deck, the King sat in a velvet armchair, shaded by tapestry. He spoke a word to the captain, who shouted to his men. The sailors burst into activity, preparing the ship to sail.
The flagship’s skiff cast off from the dock and rowed toward them. Marie-Josèphe whispered encouragement to Sherzad. She tugged her hand free of the net. The skiff came alongside. Lucien, elegant in white satin and gold lace, handed his sword-cane up the side and climbed the ladder to the deck. Marie-Josèphe ran to him; she caught his hands, fine and strong in deerskin gloves. No one would ever guess he had come straight from prison.
“Lucien, my love —”
“Pardon me,” he said. He walked unsteadily to the leeward rail and was sick over the side.
“The ship hasn’t even raised anchor!” Marie-Josèphe said. She brought him some water. He did not drink, but splashed it on his face.
The anchor cable groaned around the capstan. The sails fell open; the wind whipped them taut.
“It has now,” Lucien said, and leaned over the side again.
“My poor friend,” she said. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“No, I won’t,” Lucien said. The ship rolled a few degrees. He groaned. “I wish I were on the battlefield... in the rain... unhorsed... without my sword. I wish His Majesty had left me in the Bastille.”
“How can you say that!”
“Do me the kindness,” he said, “of leaving me alone.”
On the rough crossing from Martinique, many of Marie-Josèphe’s fellow passengers had been seasick, but none with the marvelous sensitivity of Lucien. The galleon sailed through calm coastal waters with barely enough breeze to make headway, but Lucien’s illness intensified. Marie-Josèphe worried as much about him as she worried about Sherzad. The King showed no sympathy for either of them. Even when the ship sat pitching and yawing at anchor all day while the skiff searched for Sherzad’s rocks, Louis showed no impatience. Marie-Josèphe became convinced that he found malicious enjoyment in stripping Lucien of his position and his blue coat and subjecting him to misery.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to coax Sherzad to eat a fish; she tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade Lucien to drink some broth.
The captain came to her under her canopy. He bowed.
“My respects, mamselle, and His Majesty demands your presence.”
In the King’s luxurious cabin, Marie-Josèphe curtsied.
“Where is this treasure you promised me?” he said.
She fancied that the King felt sick because of the ship’s slow erratic dance, and she felt glad of it.
“Your Majesty, Sherzad can’t see the ocean from the deck. Please free her. If she can hear the ocean properly, she’ll lead me to the right cove.”
“I will see,” His Majesty said.
Sometimes he meant it, but all too often he meant to refuse but did not care to say it.
It was pointless to try to change his mind. Marie-Josèphe curtsied again. The King turned away, dismissing her.
“Your Majesty,” she said, pausing in the hatchway. “M. de Chrétien’s of no use to you here. Put him ashore, send him back to Versailles —”
“Where he has too many friends!” His Majesty exclaimed. “He’ll stay here, in my sight, until you find the treasure.”
Marie-Josèphe fled. She understood: His Majesty held Lucien hostage to illness on the flagship, he held Yves hostage under guard at the chateau, until Marie-Josèphe succeeded and the King returned safe to his court.
On deck, she bathed Lucien’s face with a wet cloth.