#Luckyseven--Book Excerpt

I've been tagged by SHADOW OF THE CROWN author Pat Bracewell to play Lucky 7, an online game for writers. The rules are as follows:

-- Go to page 7 or 77 of your current manuscript.
-- Go to line 7.
-- Copy and post the next 7 lines or sentences, as they are.
-- Tag 7 other people to do the same.

Here is an excerpt from my new novel. In this scene François, the King of France, held captive by Charles Quint, the Holy Roman Emperor, contemplates committing perjury in order to win his freedom:

Never would he forgive the outrage of this unchivalrous captivity; never would he forget. It would lie between them forever, a jagged, ugly sword-slash festering beneath a livid scar, polluting the body and belching pus at the slightest poke. He would hide the wound well, cushion it with gauze, tame its fevered delirium with soothing potions and distracting words. 

Until the day Milan was his. 

François could hold out no longer. It was no surprise Charles failed to treat him like a king, when he feared to act like one.

Thanks, Pat, for the chance to share! Now I'm tagging Heather Webb, Janet Butler Taylor, Liza Perrat, Marci Jefferson, Maryanne O'Hara, Erika Mailman and Lisa Janice Cohen.

Fontainebleau: More than a Castle

Say the word "Fontainebleau" and most people immediately think of the château outside Paris favored by both François I and Napoléon. Few realize that Fontainebleau also designates one of the largest and most popular forests in France. The fôret de Fontainebleau covers approximately 110 square miles in the department of Seine-et-Marne, southeast of Paris. Over 13 million visitors a year hike the forest's 200 miles of paths.

In 1528, François I decided to renovate the old medieval castle at Fontainebleau. He not only rebuilt the palace, but increased the grounds attached to the domain through a series of purchases and appropriations. By 1537, the royal forest covered 51 square miles. The forest was rich with game: deer, boar, lynx, wolves, martens, and over two hundred species of birds. Being an avid hunter, François spent countless hours pursuing his prey through stands of oak and beech trees and around the huge boulders that litter the site. To care for his beloved forest, François created the honorary position of Grand Forestier, the official who oversaw the corps of horse guards and that patrolled and managed the domain.

Forêt de Fontainebleau by Karl Bodmer. Etching, 1850

Countless boulders make the forêt de Fontainebleau a favorite spot of rock climbers today. The area was once covered by a sea, which deposited a deep layer of white sand. Over the millennia, this sand compressed into the long chains of rocky plateaux and oddly shaped boulders that characterize the landscape. The forest soil contains up to 98% sand; in places, there are dunes. Because of this high sand content, no streams are visible in the forest, only ponds where water gathers in hollows in the massif. The palace itself is built of this durable local sandstone.

Artists, photographers, writers and poets have long found inspiration in the forest's rocky wilderness. While early painters used the forest as a backdrop for hunting scenes, Camille Corot was one of the first painters to make the forest itself the subject of his paintings. Claude Monet, Renoir, Sisley, Cézanne, Seurat all painted there. Rousseau and Millet formed what is known as the école de Barbizon at Fontainebleau in the mid-nineteenth century. Photographers followed the painters, and numerous writers, among them Hugo, Stendhal, Sand, Balzac and Proust, visited the forest or evoked it in their works.

In the Forest of Fontainebleau by Paul Cézanne. 1880

Several scenes of my current novel take place in the forêt de Fontainebleau. In this one, Anne d'Étampes, King François's mistress, hurries to a rendez-vous deep in the woods:

       The path plunged beneath the canopy of new leaves, eager as Anne to escape the shimmering May sun and the scrutiny of the palace’s countless windows. The horses’ hooves drummed a steady beat on the ribbon of packed earth, cleared of debris and hazards in perpetual readiness for the royal hunt. Wasted effort on the groundskeepers’ part, of late; the pain in François’s belly had kept him from the saddle for more days now than she cared to count. She’d left him in his library in thrall to a desiccated scholar who claimed to hear the music of the celestial spheres. Would that François’s ears might detect the note of falsity in the man’s bombastic claims.
       She rode alone, save for the groom who followed a few lengths behind and knew better than to chatter. Late, she prodded her mare to pick up the pace. The grotto lay a fair distance away, and she knew he wouldn’t wait if she were slow to arrive. Why he refused to meet her in some secluded corner of the gardens instead of here in the godforsaken woods, she’d never understand. Riskier there, yes, but at least they’d be surprised by a pair of impatient lovers and not a pack of peckish wolves.
       Maybe she’d still beat him there. Curses on the chaplain for delaying her. She much preferred to be the first to arrive at any appointment; not only did it give her time to collect herself, but it allowed her to play on the inconvenience of being made to wait. Rushing, she almost missed the fork in the trail that lead to the grotto. This spur was but a narrow crevice between the trees, little more than footpath really, strewn with stones and knobby roots that slowed the horse to a careful walk. The groundskeepers hardly bothered to maintain it, for an army of hunters, horses, and dogs could never pick its way down the steep slope without landing in a jumbled heap. She only knew of the spot because François had taken her there once, in the early days, when they'd made a game of sneaking off alone. She was surprised when the painter suggested it. 
       Giant boulders loomed ahead, perched one atop the other in improbable piles that always made her uneasy to stand beside. She dismounted. “Wait here,” she told the groom, who took her reins and led the horses to nibble at a nearby bush while he pared his nails with a knife. No worries that he’d spy—she paid him plenty to ignore what she didn’t want him to see, and knew enough about him to ensure her wouldn’t tattle if he did fail to look away.
       She descended the last few feet of the path, slipping precariously on loose gravel, to stand on a large, flat rock that could have been the stage of a Roman amphitheater. On three sides, the tumble of carmel-colored rocks created a honeycomb of nooks and small caves, openings camouflaged by ropes of of ivy and tangles of exposed roots. Pine trees vied with a massive oak for light, casting deep pockets of shade on brittle drifts of last autumn’s leaves. Anne shivered. If one were a hunted beast, this must surely be the safest place in the domain to hide. She peered at the maw of the nearest cave, half-expecting to find yellow eyes of a forest cat staring back. 
       A pebble landed at her feet. Another tapped her shoulder. Shielding her head with her arm, she had turned to flee when a chuckle stopped her. “Leaving so soon, Aphrodite?”

Click here to watch a stunning video of the fôret de Fontainbleau in winter. It's no surprise that Fontainebleau and its domain were François's favorite palace. He spent more time there than anywhere else save Paris.

Where's the Love? Blog Hop

Love is in the air--and on the pages. Heather Webb of Between the Sheets is hosting a Valentine's Day blog hop. Follow the trail and read love scenes from participants' novels. Here's a contribution from my work-in-progress:

photo: Joseph Kranak

They walked a bit in silence, the unlit windows of the near-empty château withholding both succor and judgment. Their footsteps echoed on the cobbles, rousting pigeons from the eaves and sending mice scurrying to the safety of shadows. Far off, an owl hooted, hungered by the croaking of the pond’s countless frogs. The sweetness of the honeyed wine lingered on Catherine’s tongue, stilling each feeble tremor of caution. When the duke changed direction and led her into the cour de la fontaine, she did not resist.

They stood at the railing and gazed out upon the lake. The moonlight lay like early frost upon the rippled surface. The reedy bank below them exhaled a rich breath of damp earth, while above them the stars winked in complicity.

“A gift from heaven,” Orléans murmured. 

The view, the moment, the day? “Indeed it is, my lord.”

He cocked a brow. “I don’t supposed you’d call me Charles?”

She shook her head. “I dare not presume.” 

Disappointment flashed in his eyes, only to be doused by her murmured disclaimer. “Not aloud, that is.”

He tipped her chin, raising her gaze to meet his. “Then I shall have to imagine the whisperings of your heart.”

"They cannot be difficult to discern.”

He bent then and kissed her, his breath sweeter than the sugared plums, his lips softer than the velvet sleeve beneath her hand. Though they were of one age, she knew nothing of love. Breathless with delight, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the wonder of his exploration.

**********

Comments and critique welcome. In fact, commenters will be entered into Heather's drawing for FREE CHOCOLATE! Be sure to visit Heather's blog and follow the links to other scenes. Spread the love!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Lucky Seven

I've been tagged by Janet B. Taylor and Candie Leigh for the "Lucky Seven" meme. Here are lines 7-15 from page 77 of my current manuscript:

Not knowing where to look first, Catherine wandered a bit, pausing to examine the sculpted marble faun on its half-pedestal, the majolica platters and enameled cups on the buffet. When she finally reached the canvas fixed to the wall between the two windows, she fingered the velvet drape as though reluctant to cut short the pleasure of anticipation. The gasp that escaped her as the drape fell away told Anne all she needed to know.

“Leda and the Swan. Michel-Ange. It’s true.” Catherine reached up to trace the curve of Leda’s back, pressed against the scarlet cushions by the weight of the swan in her lap. The girl's cheeks flamed at the undisguised portrayal of the pair’s copulation, but she did not look away.


Anyone else want to play? Leave a comment with a link. Let's see some lines from from your fabulous WIPs!

Excerpt: The Nose of a King

From my work-in-progress:

We had almost reached the end of the gallery when the king pulled to a stop so suddenly I almost bumped into him. “And here we are. Mademoiselle, your elephant.”

I followed the sweep of his arm. Above my head in the second to the last bay loomed a most fantastical creature. It towered over the human figures in the painting, filling almost half the frame with its bulk. Its round body perched on four straight legs, thick as marble columns. From its head, which seemed too small for a creature of that size, drooped a long, rope-like nose that brushed the ground—the trunk, my father used to call it in his fantastical stories. Two sharp horns, longer than a man’s arm, pierced the face at the base of this trunk; large ears, limp as linen sheets, hung on either side of the face like a wimple. The one visible eye, a mere slit in the gray-white skin, seemed fixed on some inner vista, as if the creature, accustomed to the astounded gazes of onlookers, tolerated the assault with a detachment born of long experience. A gold-tooled caparison, decorated with fleurs-de-lis and a monogrammed “F”, covered the elephant’s back; strapped to its broad brow, a medal portraying the likeness of a salamander sprouted three plumes that curled about the giant’s head like a crown. Symbols representing the elements lay at the creature’s feet: the world subject to its imposing authority.

“The elephant, figure of wisdom and royalty. I’d like to believe the likeness rests in the sagacity of our gazes, but I suspect it has more to do with the length of our noses.” The king formed his thumb and forefinger into an L and fit it to the center of his face.

“Magnificent,” I breathed, hardly believing such an animal existed.

The king burst out laughing. “My nose or the elephant? Your candor refreshes like a cooling draught, mademoiselle.” The pealing of the chapel bell interrupted him, and he frowned as he counted the hour. “I’d intended to watch you work, but I’ve spent far too much time talking as it is. I have greatly enjoyed your company, and must chide your father for hiding you away.”

I dropped a low curtsey, my tongue tripping over itself as I attempted to thank him for the singular favor of this visit.

“Only the first of many,” he promised, extending a hand to help me rise, “provided you tame the elephant. Leave the sketch on the table on your way out.” With a wink, he turned and headed for the far door. The splendor of the gallery seemed to fade with each of his steps as he passed back through it.

(Copyright 2010)

[Photograph: Rosso Fiorentino, The Elephant (1536-39). Fresco and stucco. Fontainebleau: Galerie François I. A short description of the painting may be read at the château's website.]

A Pre-Conference Snippet

Posts have been scant of late; I've been busying preparing for the Historical Novel Society Conference I will be attending in Chicago this coming weekend. I am excited on many counts: I will be meeting my agent in person, as well as many of the writing friends I've made over the internet during the last two years. The list of authors attending this year's conference is quite impressive: Edward Rutherford, Margaret George, Diana Gabaldon, Sharon Kay Penman, Michelle Moran, C.W. Gortner, Catherine Delors, to name only a few. It will be an amazing opportunity to learn from these writers' experiences and expertise; I'll be wandering around like a star-struck teenager. I will also be having two pitch sessions with editors. Since I've been rereading my first novel, The Measure of Silence, in preparation, I thought I'd share a snippet with you:

*******

Copyright 2009 by Julianne Douglas

She heard his tentative steps on the stairs, the stifled curse when he tripped on the landing. He eased open the chamber door, blinking like a startled mole when the light from her lamp fell upon his face. “Wife. You don’t sleep.” His cheek twitched, a telltale sign of his discomfort.

“Hush. Come in and shut the door.” He shuffled into the room, mouth slack and eyes bleary. “What happened? Did that fool of a farrier lighten your purse again?”

The hand he ran through his hair left a trail of haphazard spikes in its wake. “Had a bit of bad luck, is all. I’ll make it up tomorrow.” He loosened the thong of his smock and pulled the garment over his head, lingering long within its folds. His ribs strained against the pale skin of his chest.

Jollande turned back to the table and wiped her pen. “Remember the poem I’ve been working on? The one about Diana and her bow? I just finished it.” She hated the false brightness in her voice.

The bed creaked as he sat down. “Diana?” The unfamiliar name foundered on a ragged belch.

“The goddess of the moon. The virginal huntress.” She hesitated, then turned and held a sheet out towards him. “You may read it if you’d like.”

“Goddess? Could she help me win tomorrow?” Arnault chuckled, pleased at his own cleverness. He waved the paper away. “Show it to your friends in town. It’s wasted on me.” He yanked off a shoe and tossed it to the floor. The caged finches erupted in a paroxysm of frightened twitters when the wooden heel smacked the boards. Arnault groaned and covered his ears with his hands.

Jollande released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. As she swung around to return the paper to the desk, her elbow bumped the ink pot, overturning it. Channeled into grooves scored by her pen, the dark ink sketched a feathery web of half-formed letters and superimposed words as it spread across the tabletop.

Arnault’s voice rose to a pitiful wheedle. “Come to bed, wife. Perchance my luck will take a turn for the better.” He slumped back on the bolster, cheeks flushed, eyes watery slits. By the time Jollande wiped up the mess, Arnault had fallen asleep.

*******

I'll post about the conference as soon as I return. Say a prayer my work gets a better reception than poor Jollande's poem did!

A Friday Snippet

I've been busy writing, so instead of a history post I'm going to share a snippet of my WIP. This is the opening of the fourth chapter; the characters are King François and his official mistress, the powerful Anne d'Heilly, Madame d'Etampes. Charles V is the Emperor; the Dauphin is the king's older son Henri; Orléans is François's third son, another Charles. Montmorency is the Grand Constable of France, one the king's chief advisors. 

**********

Copyright 2009 by Julianne Douglas. All rights reserved.

François paced the length of her chamber like a caged lynx, their hurried coupling already forgotten. “You will not dissuade me, Annette. Despite our victories in the field, Milan yet proves elusive. Perhaps, as the connétable suggests, peace and friendship will garner what war has failed to win.”

He stopped before her and extended a hand. Anne worked the leather glove, stiff with embroidery, over his fingers and palm. His skin hardly quivered when she kissed the underside of his wrist.

“I have taken the first step. Today I granted Montmorency permission to approach the Spanish ambassador on the subject of a match between the Emperor and young Marguerite.” She felt his eyes on her face, watching for her response to this unforseen bit of news.

She managed to preserve her smile, though inwardly she cursed his impatience. “So soon?” She released his hand and reached for the other. “Queen Isabel died hardly two weeks ago, and by all accounts the Emperor loved her dearly. Might not this proposal signal an unfortunate disregard for his sentiments? You, of all people, should be mindful of that.”

François snatched his hand away, annoyed rather than dissuaded by this mention of his first wife's passing. He flexed the glove into place. “You find fault with the proposal? Charles is a king, and kings are able to separate matters of state from personal sentiment.”

"Are they?" she wanted to ask, but instead bent to retrieve the fur-bordered cape puddled on the floor. “It is not your proposal I question so much as the source from which it comes. No one but Montmorency himself would envisage such a scheme.”

François threw back his shoulders. “The connétable judges Charles’s overtures sincere and urges me to respond in kind. What better way to cement the peace than through a joining of our houses?”

Anne shook the cape out with snap. “Charles has already promised his own daughter to Orléans, with Milan as dowry.” The king stooped so she could swing the garment about his shoulders. “Marrying Marguerite would provide him the perfect pretext for releasing the infanta from this pledge. Milan would remain in imperial hands forever.”

François’s eyes narrowed as he considered this fearsome prospect. Encouraged, she cradled his face in her hands and drew his head down until their foreheads met. “Surely you understand what prompts Montmorency’s suggestion.”

“Suggestion?” François repeated, his hands seeking her waist.

She twisted out of his grasp, determined not to distract him. “Montmorency wants nothing more than to cheat Orléans out of the prestige and power of an imperial marriage. He won’t hesitate to quash Orléans’s prospects in order to further the Dauphin’s. And his own.”

François’s face clouded as he contemplated this slight to his favorite son. “Young Charles, ruling Milan with the blessing of the Emperor, does pose a serious threat to Henri’s eastern flank,” he admitted.

“Exactly. Montmorency is no fool. Knowing how your nobles favor Orléans over the Dauphin, he is loath to place young Charles in a position where he could easily be led astray.”

François laughed, a clear and hearty peal. “God’s blood, Annette, without a doubt your fancy runs wilder than Montmorency’s. The connétable but seeks to take advantage of the Emperor’s empty bed, not forestall a rebellion! Easier to snare the Hapsburg fox with a morsel like Marguerite than negotiate endlessly over the price of the infanta.” He reached out and pulled Anne close, nuzzling her neck. “You may be sure I’ll keep you close at hand when the Emperor draws nigh.”

She pushed away from his chest, certain she had misheard. “The Emperor comes to France?”

*********

There's a lot of history and politics in this scene--I'd love to hear your thoughts on how I handled it. Too much information, too clumsily presented? This is only a draft, so I'd really appreciate feedback. 

Page 56 Meme

Cindy Pon tagged me for the "Page 56 Book Meme." I'm supposed to pick up the nearest book, turn to page 56 and post the fifth sentence and a few after that. I have Vanora Bennett's Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Harper trade paperback edition) at hand. Page 56 falls at the end of a chapter; since there is no fifth sentence, here is the concluding paragraph:

It was only late at night, when I was lying in bed (unable to sleep with excitement, my heart bursting at the memory of all that had happened that day and with all the plans I was making for my future with John), that I heard Elizabeth retching behind the closed door of her room, and the scrape of a chamber pot, and William's nasal whispering. I couldn't hear his words, but his tone was the mix of reassuring and nervous you'd expect from any father-to-be. It began to dawn on me what the reason for her sudden discomfort might have been.

Next, I'm supposed to post from page 56 of my manuscript. I don't have The Measure of Silence on this computer, so I'm going to post from my work in progress. And since I don't have 56 pages yet, here's the opening paragraph of Chapter 2:

Anne d’Heilly de Pisseleu, Madame d’Etampes, perched on the bottom step of the sunken pool. Her flushed skin, still hot to the touch from the steambath she had quit moments before, welcomed the cool caress of the tepid water that closed beneath her chin. Her toes curled in delight as the water buoyed her buttocks and legs off the floor; tipping back her head, she released her arms and floated on the surface of the violet-strewn water. Brightened by weekly applications of honey oil, her hair spread like a sun-spun caul, entangling blossoms and bugs alike in its strands. Except for her youngest attendant Cécile, who strummed the lute with deft fingers in the furthest corner of the room, Anne was alone. Gloriously alone.

Thanks for the chance to play, Cindy! Here are the five people I'm tagging:

Lucy Pick

Sheramy Bundrick

Anita Davison

Elena Maria Vidal

Catherine Delors

Enjoy all the snippets. I hope everyone finds some new books to read!

A NaNo Snippet

I can't resist. I'm so excited about the new novel I thought I'd share a snippet with you. Remember, it's an early draft, so don't judge too harshly. I hope you enjoy it.

I scrape away the globs of white with the palette knife and swirl a touch of blue onto my brush. Jamet will never equal Father in skill, of that I am certain. Whereas if Father would only give me a chance…

I should be thankful to be at court painting feathers and bows instead of scraping carrots in my mother’s kitchen, yet each day spent at Fontainebleau tries me past endurance. An army of artists slaves to transform this hunting lodge into the showcase of Europe, and all I can do is watch. Rasping saws and clanging chisels taunt me as I sit at Father’s desk, tallying accounts; whiffs of wet varnish, undercutting the reek of courtiers’ perfumes, entice as I arrange the fall of sitters’ skirts. Marble gods beckon for caresses as I cross the palace gardens toting Father’s paintbox; tumbling putti wave as I pass beneath cloud-swathed vaults with pails of water to launder chalk dust from Jamet’s sleeves. Knowing I’ll never plaster the garlanded frescoes or tint the stuccoed fauns eats at me like acid on an engraver’s plate. I shan’t even gild the “F’s” that monogram the paneled walls of the king’s grande galerie.

“Is it ready?” Jamet fills the doorway, blocking the light that streams in from the courtyard.

Finishing the last of the pearls, I don’t look up. “Father says she doesn’t expect it until next week.”

“Not the portrait. My bag.” I hear him grunt as he spies his leather satchel on the bench beneath the window. “I do hope you packed new chalk. That last batch of black splintered under the slightest pressure.” He clucks his tongue as though I fired the faulty charcoal myself, just to vex him.

Sibling rivalry takes on an entirely different dynamic when women's roles are severely circumscribed ...

Sign of the Fountain Excerpt

Since I posted about printing presses the other day, I thought I'd share an excerpt that features them. This is the scene in which Jollande, the main character, meets Nicolas, compositor/poet/spy, for the first time. I hope you enjoy it!


Copyright 2007 by Julianne Douglas.

[Jollande] refused to pursue the direction of these thoughts as she bent to pick up Blaise’s apron. Smoothing its ample folds, she wandered back to the showroom. It was still empty of both staff and customers. She hung the apron from a hook and, as if drawn by an invisible lead, descended the three steps that led to the workroom proper. Her breath quickened as the familiar thrill began to tickle her. She was too tired to fight it any longer.

Two wooden presses, rising like massive portals, languished in the midday somnolence, huge screws raised, heavy boards arrested high above the frames of type set deep in the bed. Behind them, suspended from cords running the width of the room, curtains of newly printed pages swayed on currents of air, damp ink glistening. She plunged in among the leaves. Towards the back of the room she found what she was looking for. Her heart thumped as she read Ovid’s opening verse: “In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora. . .” She traced the embellished capital with an ink-stained fingertip. Would it ever be her words aligned letter by letter on the typesetter’s stick, her pages hanging to dry slowly into timelessness, her volumes offering themselves with immodest abandon on the shelves around the room? Once she would have replied yes without hesitation; now her resolve danced like the skittish sheet beneath her finger. . .

A polite cough fractured the silence. “Pardon me, madame, but customers are not permitted to enter the workshop.”

Jollande froze. She turned slowly, uncertain of whom she would find. The man’s black robe stained the wall of white pages like a puddle of spilled ink. Dark curls pooled beneath his flat cap; his neatly trimmed beard framed generous lips and softened his square jaw. His gray gaze was direct, his bland expression betrayed by the slight furrow of his brow. With the resigned tolerance of a parent herding an unruly child, he bowed slightly and gestured towards the front room. How long had he been there, watching? Whatever was he doing at the Fountain, acting as if he owned the place?

Jollande ignored the direction of his gesture and took a different path through the paper maze. “Customers,” she retorted from behind page eight, “are not usually left to their own devices.”