april free chapter - bitter greens by kate forsyth

8/2/2019 April Free Chapter - Bitter Greens by Kate Forsyth

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Threads of history and fairy tale are richlyintertwined to form this spellbinding story.

UnputdownableJULIET MARILLIER

KATEFORSYTH

BITTERGREENS

Copyright Kate Forsyth 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Kate Forsyth is the internationally bestselling author o more than

twenty books, including The Witches o Eileanan and Rhiannons

Ride series or adults, and The Puzzle Ring, The Gypsy Crown and The

Starthorn Tree or children and young adults. Since her rst novel was

named a Best First Novel o 1998 by Locus magazine, she has won or

been shortlisted or numerous awards, including being the only author

to ever have ve books win an Aurealis Award in a single year, winning

a CBCA Notable Book award and being nominated or a Cybil Award inthe US. Her books have been published in thirteen dierent countries,

including Japan, Poland, Spain and Turkey, and she is currently

undertaking a doctorate in airy-tale retellings at the University o

Technology, Sydney. Kate is a direct descendant o Charlotte Waring

Atkinson, the author o the rst book or children ever published in

Australia,A Mothers Offering to Her Children.



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3/16

KATE

FORSYTH

BITTERGREENS



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A Vintage book

Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

Level 3, 100 Pacic Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Vintage in 2012

Copyright Kate Forsyth 2012

The moral right o the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part o this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any

person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any orm or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory

exceptions provisions o the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any

inormation storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission o Random

House Australia.

Addresses or companies within the Random House Group can be ound at

www.randomhouse.com.au/oces.

Every eort has been made to contact the copyright holders or permission to reproduce

material contained in this book. Any copyright holders who have been inadvertently

omitted rom acknowledgements and credits should contact the publisher, and omissions

will be rectied in subsequent editions.

Permission to quote lines rom the ollowing poems has been kindly granted by the poets

or their estates: Rapunzel, by Arlene Ang; Rampion, by Nicole Cooley; Rapunzel Shorn,by Lisa Russ Spaar; The Prince, by Gwen Strauss.

National Library o Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Forsyth, Kate, 1966

Bitter greens/Kate Forsyth.

ISBN 978 1 74166 845 2 (pbk.)

A823.4

Cover images: Venice scene Angela Lobearo/Flickr via Getty Images;

woman Jupiterimages/Getty Images

Cover design by Sandy Cull, gogoGingko

Internal design by Xou, Australia

Typeset in Goudy by Xou, Australia

Printed and bound by Grin Press, South Australia, an accredited ISO/NZS 14001:2004

Environmental Management System printer

The paper this book is printed on is certied against the

Forest Stewardship Council Standards. Grin Press holds

FSC chain o custody certication SGS-COC-005088. FSC

promotes environmentally responsible, socially benecial

and economically viable management o the worlds orests



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5/16

This book is dedicated to all my dear friends who areboth women and writers we are living the life that

Charlotte-Rose dreamt of.



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6/16

Prelude

All day, all day I brush

My golden strands of hair;

All day I wait and wait . . .

Ah, who is there?

Who calls? Who calls? The gold

Ladder of my long hairI loose and wait . . . and wait . . .

Ah, who is there?

She left at dawn . . . I am blind

In the tangle of my long hair . . .

Is it she? the witch? the witch?

Ah, who is there?

RapunzelAdelaide Crapsey



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7/16

3

A Heart of Gall

Chteau de Cazeneuve, Gascony, France June 1666

Ihad always been a great talker and teller o tales.

You should put a lock on that tongue o yours. Its long enough

and sharp enough to slit your own throat, our guardian warned me,

the night beore I let home to go to the royal court at Versailles. He sat atthe head o the long wooden table in the chateaus arched dining room,

liting his lip in distaste as the servants brought us our usual peasant are

o sausage and white-bean cassoulet. He had not accustomed himsel to

our simple Gascon ways, not even ater our years.

I just laughed. Dont you know a womans tongue is her sword? You

wouldnt want me to let my only weapon rust, would you?

No chance o that. The Marquis de Maulvrier was a humourless

man, with a ace like a goat and yellowish eyes that ollowed my sister

and me as we went about our business. He thought our mother had

spoilt us, and had set himsel to remedy our aults. I loathed him. No,

loathe is ar too sot a word. I detested him.

My sister, Marie, said, Please, my lord, you mustnt mind her. You

know were amous here in Gascony or our troubadours and minstrels.

We Gascons love to sing songs and tell stories. She means no harm by it.

I love to tell a gasconade, I sang. A braggadocio, a anaronade . . .

Marie sent me a look. You know that Charlotte-Rose will need



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8/16

4

honey on her tongue i shes to make her way in this world.

Sangdieu, but its true. Her ace wont make her ortune.

Thats unair, my lord. Charlotte-Rose has the sweetest ace . . .

She might be passable i only shed pluck out that sting in her

tail, the Marquis de Maulvrier began. Seeing that I had screwed up

my ace like a gargoyle, waggling my tongue at him, he rapped his

spoon on the pitted tabletop. Youd best sweeten your temperament,

mademoiselle, else youll nd yoursel with a heart o gall.

I should have listened to him.

Palais de Versailles, France January 1697

Full o regret, I clung to the strap as my carriage rolled away rom thePalais de Versailles. It was a bleak and miserable day, the sky bruised

with snow clouds. I was sure my nose must be red; it certainlyfelt red.

I drew my ur-edged cloak closer about me, glad that I would not, at

least, arrive at my prison looking like a pauper.

I still could not believe that the King would order me to a nunnery.

Apparently, it was in punishment or some impious Nols that I had

written, but all the women o the salons made subtle mock o the

church. It seemed a harsh punishment or such a petty crime. Surely

the King did not believe the rumours that I was having an aair with

his son? The Dauphin and I were riends, drawn together by our love

o art and music and novels, and our hatred o the King. Perhaps I

had been too bold in expressing my views. Perhaps my tongue and

my quill had grown a little sharp. I had thought mysel sae under

the Dauphins protection. The Dauphin always said, though, that the

one way or him to ensure his ather punished someone was to beg his

ather to oer that person a avour.



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9/16

5

Perched on the other seat, my maid, Nanette, gazed at me unhappily

but I would not meet her eyes. Its all a great misunderstanding, I said.

The King will soon summon me back. I tried to smile.

Couldnt you have gone to him and begged his pardon, Bon-bon?

Nanette asked.

I did try, I answered. But you know the King. He must be the most

unorgiving man in Christendom.

Bon-bon!

Its no use scolding me, Nanette. Im simply telling the truth.But to be locked up in a convent. To become a nun. Nanettes

voice was aint with horror. Your parents must be rolling in their

graves.

What were my choices? Exile or the convent. At least, this way,

the King will still pay my pension and Ill be on French soil, breathing

French air. Where else could I have gone? What could I have done to

support mysel? Im too old and ugly to walk the streets.Nanettes ace puckered. Youre not old or ugly.

I laughed. Not to you, perhaps, Nanette. But, believe me, most

people at Versailles consider me a hideous old hag. Im orty-seven

years old, and not even my closest riends ever thought I was a beauty.

Youre not a hideous old hag, Nanette protested. Not beautiul,

no, but theres better things than beauty in this world.

Belle laide, Athnas calls me, I replied with a little shrug. The

expression was usually used to describe a woman who was arresting

despite the plainness o her looks. My guardian had spoken truly when

he said my ace would never be my ortune.

Nanette made a little tsk tsk with her tongue. Youre worth twice

the Marquise de Montespan. Dont you listen to a word she says. And

dont you go thinking youre a hideous old hag either. I wouldnt permit

anyone to say that about me, and in my case its true.

I smiled despite mysel. Nanette was not the most attractive o

women. She was tiny and gaunt, dressed always in black, with sparse



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10/16

6

white hair screwed back into a knob at the back o her head. Her ace

and body were so thin that you could see all the bones underneath her

withered skin, and she had lost quite a ew teeth. Her black eyes were

erce, but her hands were always tender and her brain quite as nimble

as it had ever been.

Nanette had been my maid ever since I was weaned rom my wet-

nurse. As a child, I would lie in my vast shadowy bed, a fame foating

in the old glass lantern, and sleepily listen as she sang, You have

searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and whenI rise; you perceive my thoughts rom aar. You discern my going out

and my lying down; you are amiliar with all my ways. Nanette was

like the Lord in that psalm. Beore a word was on my tongue, she

knew it completely. She hemmed me in behind and beore, and her

hand held me ast.

Youd best write to your sister straightaway and let her know whats

happened, Nanette went on. Maries not clever like you, but shes gota good heart. Shell beg that at husband o hers to petition the King.

Ill write to the Princesses too, I said. Theyll be urious with their

ather. He simply cannot go around banishing all the most interesting

people rom court, can he?

Nanette humphed, but the thought o the Kings three pipe-

smoking, bastard-born daughters lited my spirits a little. Born o

two o the Kings mistresses, they had been legitimised and married

o to various dukes and princes, and they enlivened the court with

their scandalous love aairs, their extravagance, their gambling and

their constant bickering over precedence. Although they were much

younger than me, we had become good riends, and I oten attended

their soires and salons.

My smile slowly aded. The Princesses de Conti were no longer

in avour with the King and his reigning mistress, Franoise de

Maintenon, who had been queen in all but name or more than teen

years now. Some even whispered that Louis had married her in secret.





11/16

7

Yet Franoise had none o the beauty and brilliance o the Kings earlier

mistresses. Not only was she over sixty, but she was also rather plain and

dumpy, and altogether too pious or the Kings bastard daughters.

Remembering the Princesses, it occurred to me that their mothers,

the royal mistresses, had all ended their dazzling careers within the

austere connes o a convent.

Louise de la Vallire, the Kings rst mistress and mother o

Princesse Marie-Anne, had been transormed into Sur Louise de la

Misricorde.Athnas, the Marquise de Montespan, mother o Princesse Louise

Franoise and Princesse Franoise Marie, had been orced to the

nunnery by scandal and rumours o black magic and poison.

The rivolous Anglique de Fontanges, the girl who had supplanted

Athnas in the Kings aection, had died in a convent at the age o

nineteen. Poisoned, it was said.

I was a ool. Why would the King hesitate to banish me to anunnery, when he had no problem sending his discarded mistresses,

the mothers o his children? Women were locked up in convents all the

time. Younger daughters sent as babies, so their parents did not have

to pay so rich a dowry as they would or their wedding day. Rebellious

young women, cloistered away as punishment or their disobedience.

Widows, like my poor mother, banished by the King to a convent,

even though she was a Huguenot and so eared and hated the Roman

Catholic Church with all her heart.

Although I was pretending not to care, my stomach was knotted

with anxiety. I knew little about convents except that once a woman

disappeared inside, she stayed inside. Nanette had oten told me the

story o how Martin Luthers wie, a ormer nun, had only been able to

escape by hiding in an empty sh barrel. Certainly, I had never seen

my own mother again.

The only lie I knew was the court o the Sun King. I had lived at

court since I was sixteen years old. What did I know about spending



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12/16

8

my days on my knees, praying and clicking away at a rosary?

Id never make love again, or dance, or gallop to the hounds, or

smile as I made a whole salon o Parisian courtiers laugh and applaud

one o my stories. Id never rest my olded an against my heart, saying

in the silent language o the court that my heart was breaking with

love. Id never be kissed again.

The tears came at last. Nanette passed me the handkerchie she

had kept ready on her knee. I dabbed at my eyes, but the tears kept

coming, making my chest heave in its tight cage o lacing, and nodoubt making a terrible mess o my maquillage.

The carriage paused and I heard the sound o the palace gates being

opened. Casting down the handkerchie, I swung aside the curtain

that hid the view rom my sight. Footmen in curly wigs and long satin

vests stood to attention as the side wing o the golden gates was swung

open by guards. Crowds o shabby peasants shoved orward, eager to

see which ne lord or lady was leaving Versailles.Holding my lace headdress in place, I leant out the coach window

or one last glimpse o the palace at the end o the avenue, the marble

orecourt, the prancing bronze horse, the green triangles o topiary

in pots marching past like dragoons. The carriage rolled orward,

the sounds o the wheels changing as they let the smooth marble

fagstones and began to rattle over the cobblestones o the Avenue de

Paris. I sank back into my seat. Adieu, Versailles, adieu, I cried.

Come, my little cabbage, you must stop. Nanette took her

handkerchie and mopped my ace as i I was a child. I thought you

hated court. I thought you said it was lled with empty-headed ools.

I jerked my ace away and stared out at the tall crowded houses o

Versailles. It was true that I hated the royal court. Yet I loved it too.

The theatre, the music and dancing, the literary salons . . .

I shouldve whipped you more oten as a child, Nanette said sadly.

More oten? You never whipped me, though you threatened to

oten enough.





13/16

9

I know. Thats what I mean. Such a tempestuous little thing you

were. Either up in the boughs or down in the dumps there was never

any middle ground or you. I shouldve taught you better.

Well, Maulvrier did his best to beat some sense into me.

That cold-hearted snake.

I always thought he looked more like a goat. I took the handker-

chie back rom Nanette and blew my nose.

Yes, a goat, an old devil goat. I bet he had horns under that velvet

hat o his. Normally, I would have said, Yes, and cloven hooves instead o

eet, and a tail sticking out o his arse. Instead, I sighed and leant my

aching head against the cushion. All I could see out the window were

dreary elds under a dismal sky. Snow foated past, melting as soon

as it hit the wet cobblestones. The clop o the horses hooves and the

rattle o the wheels were the only sounds.

Ah, my poor little Bon-bon, Nanette sighed, and I passed her backher handkerchie so she could mop her own eyes.

Soon, we passed the turn-o to Paris, and I caught my breath with

pain. Would I ever see Paris again? I remembered when I had rst come

to the royal court, still resident then in Paris. My sister had warned me

to be careul. Its a dangerous place, Bon-bon. Keep a guard on your

tongue, else youll be in trouble, just like the Marquis says.

I had been on my best behaviour at rst, charming and amusing

at all times. I had thought the court like a gilded cage o butterfies,

all beauty and wonder and movement. I had grown careless. I had

enjoyed my own sharp wit, my boldness. I had played with words like

a jongleur juggled swords, and I had cut mysel.

A fools tongue is long enough to slit his own throat, the Marquis de

Maulvrier had always said. I hated to admit that he could be right.

We crossed the River Seine and headed south through a dark and

dripping orest. Although Nanette had packed a basket o provisions,

I could not eat. The carriage came slowly down a hill, the postilion



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14/16

10

dismounting to lead the horses, and then we swayed and jolted

orward on execrable roads into an early dusk. I shut my eyes, leant

my head back against the wall and determined to endure. My name

meant strength. I would be strong.

When the carriage came to a halt, I jerked awake. My heart

constricted. I peered out the window but all I could see was the

hazy yellow light o a single lantern, illuminating a stone wall. It was

reezing.

Quick, my powder, my patches!Nanette passed me my powder box and I ficked the haresoot over

my ace, squinting into the tiny mirror at the back o the box. My

hands were det and sure; this was not the rst time I had had to repair

my maquillage in the dark.

I snapped my powder box shut and thrust it at her, snatching the

small jewelled container in which I kept my patches, the little beauty

spots made o gummed taeta that were very useul or hiding pimplesor smallpox scars. My ngers were trembling so much I could hardly

pluck out one o the tiny black shapes. For a moment, I hesitated.

Normally, I would press my patch to the corner o my mouth, la

coquette, or beside my eye, la passionne, but it was a convent I

was about to sweep into, not a salon or ballroom. Careully, I xed

the patch in the centre o my orehead, just under my hairline, la

majestueuse.

I was Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force. My grandather had

been the Marshal o France, my cousin was a duke, my mother second

cousin to the King himsel. I I must enter a nunnery quite against

my own wishes it would be in my nest clothes, with my head held

high and no traces o tears on my ace.

The postilion opened the carriage door. I descended as graceully

as I could in my high heels, though my eet were numb and my legs

trembled ater the long hours rattling over potholes. Nanette caught

up my train to stop it dragging in the snow.



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15/16

11

The yard was deserted, a lantern hanging above a barred oaken

door providing the only light. Above the door were carved rows

o stern-aced saints sitting in judgement upon cringing devils and

sinners, who pleaded or mercy below. In the wan and fickering light,

the sinners stone limbs seemed to writhe and their aces grimace.

Some had bat wings and goblin aces. One was a woman on her knees,

hair fowing unbound down her back. Many had their noses smashed

away, or their pleading hands broken. It looked as i the Huguenots

had been here with their hammers and slingshots, seeking to destroyall signs o idolatry.

The postilion rang a bell beside the doorway, then came back to

heave my trunk o the roo o the coach. Then we stood waiting, the

postilion, Nanette and I, shiting rom oot to oot, rubbing our hands

together, our breath hanging rostily in the air beore us. Minutes

dragged by. I elt a surge o anger and lited my chin.

Well, we shall just have to return to Versailles and tell the King noone was home. What a shame.

As i in response to my words, I heard keys being turned and bolts

being drawn. I ell silent, trying not to shiver. The door opened slowly,

revealing a bent woman shrouded all in black. The glow o the lantern

showed only a sunken mouth drawn down at the corners by deep

grooves. The rest o her ace was cast in shadow by her wimple. She

beckoned with a bony hand and reluctantly I moved orward.

I am Mademoiselle de la Force. I come at the bidding o the King.

She nodded and gestured to me to ollow. Gathering up the olds o

my golden satin skirt, I swept orward. Nanette came ater, carrying my

train, while the postilion struggled with my trunk and portmanteau.

The bony hand was fung up, in a clear gesture o reusal. The postilion

halted, then shrugged, letting all the end o the trunk.

Sorry, mademoiselle, I guess no men allowed.

I stopped, conounded. Who, then, will carry my trunk?

The black-clad nun did not speak a word. Ater a moment, Nanette



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16/16

12

released my train and bent to take hold o the end o the trunk. The

postilion saluted and ran back to his horses, standing with heads bowed

in the dusk, snorting plumes o smoke like ancient dragons. Biting my

lip, I draped my portmanteau over my arm and seized the other end.

Thus burdened, we crossed the step into a dimly lit corridor, as cold

as the yard outside. The nun slammed the door shut and bolted it,

secured three heavy iron locks and returned the jangle o keys to her

girdle. I saw a fash o a scornul eye and then the nun jerked her head,

indicating I should ollow her. As we walked, she rang a handbell, as iI was a leper or a plague-cart. Swallowing angry words, I ollowed her.

I now understood what my guardian had meant by a heart o gall.



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april free chapter - bitter greens by kate forsyth

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