Weave a Garland of my Vows: A Writer's Instinct?

Excerpt

The Garden of the Louvre, Paris - 27th September 1622
~
Letter from Louis to Anne
Madame- out of the affection I bear my cousin, the Duc de Chevreuse, I am very glad his wife should come back
Louis
~

The King, they told her, had vowed never to say her name again. She saw the letter Louis sent to his wife from the battlefield. It made her laugh.
On the day she returned to court she was still Marie de Rohan and everybody, including the absentees, knew that. She repaid all comments in kind and if she saw a mocking smile quickly hidden, she smiled too, knowing that she was watched. For various reasons.
Louise-Marguerite, widowed Princesse de Conti and sister to the man she had just married watched too, with eyes and fingers.
The touch on Marie’s cheek was scented and warm, even in the shade of the terrace.
‘How kindly the skin of the young absorbs life’s little challenges,’ the older woman said. ‘You are completely unmarked. I’m still deciding whether I hate you or not.’
‘You only hate me on cold days when age has stiffened your bones and the young men look to a more pliable body for dreams of carnal recreation.’
She carried her brother’s pale eyes and dark blond hair on a large and flamboyant frame. Those eyes almost disappeared under the rise of fleshy cheeks. Lips, even warmer than the fingers, touched Marie’s mouth.
‘You are right. My love rises with the temperature and today it’s hot enough to melt skin off bone. You said you would return and I love you even more for that. You’ve seen Anne?’
Marie nodded. ‘Last night.’
‘And what do you think?’
They both looked outwards across the garden to a cedar tree. Gay canopies wilted over the heads of several colourful figures. Marie’s eyes stayed with the quiet woman at their centre.
‘Six months and little has changed,’ Marie said. ‘Am I thankful or worried, that’s the question. Has she said anything to you?’
The sister in law leaned her grand figure against the mossy balustrade and studied her shaded companion. Pale blue shrewdness shone out.
‘It’s not like you to dance around with vague questions, Marie. Has your recent adventure scared you into vile diplomacy? What you’re really asking, unless old age has stolen all ability to judge, is... are you replaced, yes?’
Marie shook her head but not in denial. ‘I have been absent for six months and you are my closest link to Anne. I thought she may have spoken to you above anyone else.’
Louise-Marguerite stayed quiet. She gave the garden beyond a quick glance and turned back. ‘I’ve kept you informed of every detail, my young heart. Insecurity does not become you. Like a faithful lover, the Queen of France has stayed true to you throughout.’
Again Marie shook her head, in absolute denial now. ‘Forgive me,’ she said quietly. ‘But I know Anne as I know myself. She needs a wall to lean on and she’s surrounded by them. It’s not insecurity but experience. She may have been faithful in deed but not word. There are earwigs here that, once inside a person’s ear, are very hard to dislodge.’
Louise-Marguerite pushed herself away from the stones, face alight.
‘You’ve heard something.’
‘Who sent Louis that anonymous letter?’
Shoulders slumped, Louise-Marguerite frowned. ‘By definition, no one knows.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘Or do they? Take me to hell in a hand-basket. You do, don’t you?’

Wednesday 18 February 2009

A Writer's Instinct?

In June 2008 a portrait by Jean Leblond - Louis XIII's painter ordinary - was sold by Christies.

The sitter was 'presumed to be Marie de Rohan-Montbazon, Duchesse de Luynes then Duchesse de Chevreuse.'

I took one look and thought -'No way'

A second look and the realisation that the art experts at Christies know an awful lot more than I do about art made me think - 'OK. But....'

My writer's instinct said that it just felt all wrong. This picture looks nothing like any known portraits of Marie. And nothing like MY view of this endlessly fascinating woman.

Then I read to the end of the article and found -

PORTRAIT OF A LADY, PROBABLY THE DUCHESSE DE CHEVREUSE, OIL ON PANEL, BY JEAN LEBLOND. We are grateful to Mr. Maxime Préaud for the details he provided on the work of the artist. Mr. Préaud considers that the attribution to Leblond is probable but has doubts regarding the identification of the sitter.

Aah! There you go. I'm still no art expert.....but I am a writer :o)

The line that divides fact from fiction can be fine or too broad to cross.

M. Préaud and I may be as wrong as two wrong things but...where on that fine line is there room for instinct?

That indefinable something that separates a writer's right from a writer's wrong?

How do we writers of Historical Fiction justify our interpretation of a person who actually walked talked and lived?

And -big question here - Do 'we' choose them or do 'they' choose us?

Mmmmn!

BTW - Has anyone else thrown a book across the room because they utterly, totally and irrevocably disagree with that author's POV?

OK - maybe it's just me who throws!?!

Which, in my defense, is not as bad as reading in the bath (fave place to read) and accidently on purpose losing grip on said book.

NO. NEVER. I couldn't drown any book. Ever. Honest onions.

Weave a Garland of my Vows