madeleined

𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐔𝐈𝐋  –– (  i see him rouse himself to praise my noble act; i hear him mock the luck of caesar ... which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath.  )

‘One such woman who managed to invariably alter the sartorial landscape of court, and therefore its practices of courtly love, was Madeleine de Limeuil, who, then part of Caterina de Medici’s household, represented the goddess ‘Medea’ in the Goddess Pageant of 1559.  Her choice in goddess was as explicit as it could be, a woman famed for her rage, jealousy, and desire for revenge, Madeleine set upon the English court with a fury, in the words of her divine persona taking ‘on the armor anger,’ she ‘prepared for destruction, possessed by fury.’ We are told that, on that clandestine night, Madeleine arrived on the right-hand of the Queen, with her long, dark hair pulled into a loose plait and dappled with jewels.  The lady’s costume was of particular note, and considered so scandalous to the deeply-pious English that one witness, George de Clere, chronicled Madeleine’s appearance in deep – and mostly disapproving – detail.  She wore a thin white gown of loose muslin, the decolletage being so 'low and tightly bound to her breasts' that throughout the night, Madeleine’s dusk-capped nipples repeatedly escaped, causing the English to blush furiously in her presence.  To our modern eyes, Madeleine’s choice in attire was mildly inappropriate – a far cry from the half-dressed celebrities that proudly strut the steps of the Met, she appeared, in any event, a glistening, radiant woman, in white from head to toe, save for the thick gold chain around her waist – recorded by de Clere as ‘no thicker than a greedy gentleman’s wanton handful.’

Tragically, nothing else of Madeleine de Limeuil’s influential yet brief foray into King William’s pious world exists.’

Mindless wanderings had prompted Madeleine on a wild goose chase throughout the labyrinth halls of Hampton Court – the so-called ‘Great Room,’ where all dined and supped to the tune of merry court dirges, which delivered her sinful soul unto the Chapel, a quiet and sunlit sanctuary purged of sullied consciences, stretching into a warren of stone-flanked corridors no different than the countless others Madeleine had strolled through.  Only, where the halls of Château de Blois overlooked the sprawling hills and sage-warmed elms of the Loire, Hampton Court commanded a view of the dank little Thames; more like a garden snake sneaking along London than a landmark, a river destitute of might or vigour, wafting a stench across the city that would cause the Saints weep in their marble tombs.

But with all hopes of returning to the Queen's side in a timely manner thoroughly aborted, Madeleine craned her neck to a patch of light leaching from beneath an arched doorway. Tiptoeing into the ostensibly empty chambers, a quicksilver shaft of lightning wresting across the skies bleached the space moon-white as she stood beneath its vaulted beams, rolling with carvings of chivalric tourneys, knighthood in bloom.  Not daring to wail out in order to discern the room’s occupancy, the lady crept toward the imposing escritoire dominating the space, and tugged open one of its sundry compartments; finding within an even greater number of secreted cavities, crammed with leaflets curling at the edges, piles upon piles of parchment, bearing the hallmark of a thumb's moistened caress, words gushing across the page.  No sooner had she plucked up one such document did the wooden floorboards creak with another’s weight, alerting her to a man's presence.  Clutching the parchment to her chest, and with movements fluid and unperturbed, Madeleine pirouetted to face him.

Bathwater dripped from every inch of the oak-paneled space, sopping the Turkish carpets slung along the walls, seeping into the floorboards, and near certainly dripping onto the nose of some hapless courtier sleeping soundly beneath the ladies’ lodgings, trickling like holy water onto an unwashed English body. The dreary climes of this sodden little isle had driven into Madeleine’s bones, an icy freeze pervading throughout her frame that could not be melted by the scalding bathwater, infused with crushes and herbs and lavender pilfered from Caterina’s gilded medicine coffers, strewn across the glinting surface of the cauldron. Lazily Madeleine engorged her sponge with another dip in the pool, head lolled to the side, eyes glazed with exhaustion as she watched it swell, dribbling across her chest, a succulent roast over the spit.

Hands outstretched, seeping with jewels. Chin thrown backwards, another raucous rush of laughter escaping her, a magnificent smile dripping from her lips. Madeleine de Limeuil shone, pirouetting across the dance floor with white silks billowing about her like sails of a Grecian vessel, her step light, her demeanour graceful, brighter than the comets that soared above the English isle. It mattered not that this was not France, not Rome, but England –– dowdy, forbidding England, its people as dank as its palaces. Madeleine had a talent for making a room her own and infusing it with her particular brand of magic, of light, that Caterina demanded from her ladies, a charm that proved untaught, as she watched from the velvet-strewn dais, an air of approval wafting about her. Casting her gaze across the crowd, Madeleine's eyes sought to ensnare a familiar face within her trap and, no sooner had one turned up, did a devious smirk settle upon the bourne of Madeleine’s lips, smoothed with Moorish honey, the column of her throat reddened from hours upon hours of dancing, her skin glistening –– like the ripened curve of a cherry, shining moistly in the morning dew and drizzle.

‘You, Mon Seigneur de Vere, I choose you.’ Diana, goddess of the hunt, nearing upon her prey, her French tongue rolling with delight. Laughter poured and the smell of Parisian wine spilled from her; making light the swishing of a hand, swaying in Julian’s direction, coaxing him to her side, a finger crooked toward her breast. She leveled a mirthful grin upon him, the arch of her brow questioningly raised. ‘Shall you honour me with a dance, old friend, in the eyes of all Europe?’

Madeleine openly taunted him, relishing in the gawping of those around the pair, as her eyes scanned his for any hint of disapproval – finding, in its stead, only the vicious vicissitudes of time shaping the Englishman’s – now much older – visage: the lines stamped around his eyes, the creases furrowed between his brows, the silver bristles woven amongst the sable threads of his beard. ‘I would recognize you by voice alone, monsieur. The decade has been kind to you and I, let us dance whilst we still might.’ Finally, she believed, persuading him to dance, Madeleine released Julian from her gambit and glissaded coyly to his side, the picture of contentment – a woman in her element.

It was a marvel that a woman borne of such menacing creatures, weaned on such irresistible poison, proved rather mild.  Sweet, in the way of fresh crème: frothy and light and frivolous.  Hers was a disposition that, in any event, Madeleine de Limeuil mused would prove conducive to marriage –– birthing a union that would, as Caterina de Medici so desperately craved, bind France to the European mainland, and permit her to install her daughter as the consort of a rich and powerful dynasty.  Drawn, like a moth to the flame, to the dewy warmth of Elisabeth’s lair by her mistress’ closest advisor at the French court – Monsieur de Gonnord – Madeleine graced her knuckles against Elisabeth’s oak door, a trained rap sounding before the Princess’ melodious command to enter pealed out, in the way of birdsong over the lavender lowlands of Avignon.

Mistress de Limeuil was grateful for Elisabeth’s swift command.  The beggarly English King had lifted not a finger to provide comfortable lodgings for Queen Catherine’s ladies, sparing only the slightest expense – their quarters were like traitor's cells, with only slit windows chiseled into the forbidding stone walls, which to brush up against was like to caress a spectre traipsing in the night, allowing light to leak into the gloomy spaces.  But now bathed in the aqueous amber-glow of Elisabeth’s hearth, Madeleine dipped into a bow before the Princess, rising after several beats of silence, whittled with the crackling of the fire, had elapsed –– her movements decidedly feline.

‘From your mother, princesse,’  Madeleine entreated, stretching her arms out to place a gold, jewel-encrusted coffret, containing a wealth of royal gemstones, upon the surface of Elisabeth’s vanity; its glinting reflection, even as she glided away, flashed onto her wrists. As the Princess’ eyes watered over the sumptuous array of jewels, reposing on a bed of dimpled velvet cushions, Madeleine murmured,  ‘I hear that the Spanish infante is quite fond of rubies. Imagine, Elisabeth, if through you France and Spain could wield an invincible alliance… the jewels of all the world would be yours to possess.  I think you would be an even greater queen than Mary of Spain, and certainly a good deal more charming.’ Purring, Madeleine flicked her gaze to Elisabeth, wondering if her boastful buttering had done the trick, as she sampled a pair of emerald earrings against the Princess’ golden skin.