Crimson Velvet Heart by Carmel Bird
Transit Lounge
Crimson Velvet Heart is the twelfth novel from the accomplished Australian writer Carmel Bird. It revivifies the dynasty and descendants of Louis XIV in 17th century Versailles.
The following extract for PaperbarkWords blog is from the start of novel:
A Child Is Born in Savoy from Crimson Velvet Heart by Carmel Bird
1685
The tale begins in the city of Turin, one hundred miles west of Milan. Snow is falling. It is late afternoon, the sixth of December, dark and chill. In the candlelit bedchamber of Anne Marie, Duchess of Turin, there reigns a breathless hush among the members of the court gathered to witness the birth of the duchess’s first child. Every soul in that room, perhaps every soul in the alpine country of Savoy, nestled as it is between Italy, Switzerland, and France, hopes for a son and heir for the duke. The silence is inhabited only by the low moans and piercing cries of the sixteen-year-old duchess. Oils of camomile and rose and lavender, heated in shallow earthen bowls, fill the air with their sweetness, mingling with the reek of sweat and blood and rancid human waste.
‘The curse of Eve,’ the ladies of the court mutter to each other.
For almost two days, with her husband the Duke Victor Amadeus by her side at all times, Anne Marie has tossed in pain on the vast royal bed beneath a canopy of crimson velvet, lined with bronze and silver silk. High above her hangs the coat of arms of Savoy, a bold white cross on a scarlet ground, surmounted by a royal crown. The child she is birthing will be the heir to the duchy, ultimately Duke of Savoy – Savoy, the magical strategic pathway through the maritime Alps, a vital piece of territory to be negotiated in times of war. He who controls that pathway is known as the Gatekeeper.
The doctors are now despairing, and as the Gatekeeeper kneels sobbing by the bed, his head in his hands, the heavy mahogany doors to the chamber open, and a priest and his acolyte part the crowd. There is a rustle of vestments, flurry of coats and skirts, murmur of silk and velvet. The duchess convulses, and while the doctors prepare again to open the vein in her elbow and let out the blood, the priest leans over her damp, shuddering body and begins to intone the last rites. ‘May Christ who died for you now admit your soul into his garden of paradise.’
As if in response to the solemn words, the oil on the priest’s thumb, and perhaps the sight of the bloodletting instrument, the convulsion stills. The baby crowns. The gathered throng has receded in the presence of the priest. Almost before anyone can realise what is happening, the tiny creature, gushing and sliding, makes its bright bloody appearance in the world and lets forth a faint but promising cry. This is followed by a howl of triumph and joy from the duke. The priest’s voice trails away, and he steps back,breathing the words of the Hail Mary. There is some astonished cheering from the crowd. But – another hush falls on the chamber and the child’s body becomes visible. It is female.
The disappointment in the room is palpable, and the court leans forward in a rush, then pulls away, as the child is quickly cleaned and wrapped and handed to the waiting nursemaid.
Anne Marie is calmed and bled from the foot. So many busy hands flitting and flying between the patient’s legs. The afterbirth is put aside. The priest blesses mother and child, and then he stands back, sprinkling holy water like blessed raindrops as he goes. Victor Amadeus kisses his wife’s clammy forehead, smooths her hair, and then summons his men, turns on his heel and leaves the scene. His face is grim. He must cancel the planned fireworks and cannons. There will be no popular celebrations, for his wife has not given him the male heir he needed. His mother, Madame Royale, Marie Jeanne Baptiste, tall and imposing in burgundy velvet, moves forward to whisper comfort to Anne Marie, and the court crowd dissipates. The duke’s mother is fond of the duchess, once a young princess sent from France with the purpose of manufacturing the heir. A shadow of deep worry now wrinkles the brow of Madame Royale. For what use is a baby girl? Yet Victor Amadeus, in his disappointment, is not unaware of the human needs of Anne Marie and their baby daughter. ‘Set up a camp bed for myself beside the duchess’s bed,’ he says to his men, and he spends some of the following days and nights in attendance on his wife, whose recovery is slow and painful. She has lost a great deal of blood. He also visits on occasion the apartment of his baby daughter, to be named Marie Adélaïde. Anne Marie is young and fertile, and she will surely give him sons.
There must be sons. There will be sons.
Crimson Velvet Heart at Transit Lounge
My review of Love Letter to Lola by Carmel Bird at PaperbarkWords blog
paperbarkwords.blog 