# Chapter 9: The Runaway Colt and the Stranger in the Park
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 9 of "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook". This chapter is a wonderful swirl of courtly ambition, girlish mischief, royal nerves, and one breathless encounter in the woods that feels like the first page of a secret romance. So settle in, because the King is coming, the princesses are scheming, and Petite is about to meet someone who will make her heart race faster than any horse ever could.
The chapter opens in the rhythm of Petite's daily life. She rises at sunrise and rides out into dewy meadows, training young horses for the hunt. Her mother disapproves, but Abbé Patin insists that no one gentles a horse as well as Petite. She is still buried in schoolwork and still attends the Princess, so she steals her freedom in the early hours, listening to larks, jackdaws, dragonflies, and bees. It is a life of quiet discipline and small joys.
Then the royal summons arrives. A panting footman interrupts Petite while she quizzes Nicole on Latin grammar in the Duke's library. The Duchess wants to see her daughters, and the attendants are to come too. Madame de Raré, the governess, grumbles because the princesses normally see their mother from eleven to eleven-twenty, and taking them now will ruin the entire day's schedule. But Her Highness insists. Princess Marguerite races off with her sisters, and the governess sighs, takes up her silver-tipped cane, and counts out one hundred fifty-seven steps to the Duchess's bedchamber.
Petite follows. It has been almost a year since she was in the King François wing, and her eyes have changed. She no longer sees only luxury and royalty. She notices shoddy economies and extravagant waste: bottles stopped with tow instead of cork, priceless tulip bulbs rotting in standing water. More dangerously, she has begun to suspect that the royal family is not a race apart. They are human, like everyone else. Nobility is supposed to be innate, carried in the blood, but can it become corrupted? Marguerite and her sisters have the blood of Henry the Great in their veins, but also the blood of a Médicis. Petite thinks of her own father, untitled and without privileges, and yet a man with true nobility of heart.
Inside the Duchess's enormous bedchamber, the walls are covered with tapestries of biblical feasts: Jesus eating with sinners, Jesus multiplying loaves and fishes. The Duchess sits up in bed eating a fowl while her three terriers watch. The princesses line up by age: Marguerite, almost fourteen; Elisabeth, twelve; and Madeleine, ten. The Duchess barely remembers why they have been summoned. Her maid of honor explains through the haze of laudanum: the King is coming. He intends to stop at Blois on his way south, something to do with making peace with Spain. And it is said he is ready to take a bride—the King of Spain's daughter.
Marguerite claps, then turns red with hurt and fury. She is the one meant to marry the King. Everyone says so, even the astrologer. The maid explains the plan: the princesses and their attendants will put on a magnificent performance to display Marguerite's charms and convince His Majesty that there is no reason to marry a Spanish princess when a perfect French princess is right here. Petite glances at Nicole in alarm. They are to perform for the King. They have three weeks to prepare.
Enter Monsieur de Gautier, the dance master. He is over sixty but refuses to admit it. He watches his diet, fences every morning, wears a short doublet with his linen undershirt showing, and still wears fusty wigs—even in bed—to protect himself from vermin, drafts, and the sight of his own bald head. He is thrilled about the royal visit, because this is his chance to escape his ruined career as dance master for the Duc d'Orléans and join the splendid young King's court.
But when he faces his pupils—three hunchbacked princesses and two attendants, the buxom Nicole and the graceful but slightly lame Petite—he almost despairs. He begins with the basics: the walk employs the hip, the knee, and the instep. From these three movements, all steps are formed. Then he watches the princesses lurch across the floor and nearly loses hope. He calls Petite forward to demonstrate. Her skirts swish, her leather-soled slippers slide across the wood, and even with a slight limp she moves with remarkable grace. Her head is upright, her waist steady, her arms well managed. There is hope after all.
In the days that follow, Petite and Nicole meet most mornings in a north stairwell before duty. They share confidences about their mistress, about how to increase the size of one's bust, about monthly courses, and about the mysteries of the privy part. Mostly they talk of Marguerite's great challenge. Nicole is brutally practical: Marguerite cannot even curtsy without looking like a mule in a petticoat. Her only weapon is her bosom, and men like that, especially kings. But the Duke insists she wear a tucker. Nicole declares that if she were Marguerite, she would kill herself—then maybe the King would fall in love with her. Petite points out that then she would be dead. It is funny, sad, and true all at once.
Then comes the flurry of preparation. The château swarms with butlers, pageboys, and maids hired for the grand occasion. The Marquis de Saint-Rémy complains about crises in every region: a damaged candle fixed into a powder-horn, the Duke's ivory staff used to wake embers, a magpie unleashed in the salle de conseil, leavings everywhere. The King, the Queen Mother, the rest of the royal family, and their one hundred twenty-six attendants will stay at Chambord, the royal hunt château not far from Blois. More staff—including four rat-catchers—must ready that château. The Duke and Duchess and their daughters will formally greet the King upon arrival, so coaches are repaired, guards are called up, and the whole party departs.
Petite, at Abbé Patin's request, rides horseback on a young stallion named Arion. Every horse in the stable must be saddled, and for some it is their first journey across the bridge and away from the security of the stable. Arion is uneasy crossing the mighty Loire, but once on the other side he relaxes into a trot. They pass vineyards, peasant cottages, orchards netted against birds, and women in white caps and clunky sabots waving from the fields. At last the enormous round towers of Chambord appear like a small city of turrets, spires, and chimneys. Petite cannot help but think it is monstrous. Her horse shies at the shadow of a gargoyle as they cross the wide, fetid moat.
The Duchess, who has not left her chambers for two years, slips on a cobble and must be carried into the château on a litter. The princesses run up and down the famous double staircase until they are told to be silent or go outside. The weather is sultry, damp, and cloudy. The bored girls sit by the moat, and then the gnats swarm. Marguerite is bitten all over her face and neck. Nicole slathers her with white lead paste, but the paste streaks with blood. The Marquis de Saint-Rémy storms in, demanding to know who is squalling, then realizes the offender is a princess. Abbé Patin looks horrified. Marguerite commands her carriage. Petite suggests it would be wise for the Princess to return to Blois for a cool lavender-scented bath. The Marquis stutters about the King, but Nicole says exactly: the King is anticipated. That is the problem.
The coaches are still harnessed, so they set out quickly: the three princesses and Nicole in a six-horse coach, Abbé Patin and Petite on horseback, with an armed guard ahead and behind. The journey back feels faster. The horses know they are heading home. A wind pushes them along. Petite is relieved to see the Blois docks across the Loire, but then disaster strikes. As they start over the bridge, the mast of a barge crashes into an arch. The bridge holds, but the splintering wood and sudden flag and rigging cause horses to rear. The princesses scream. A guard's horse throws its rider and bolts. It is Helios, a four-year-old colt, subject to frights. He has been cut. Petite sees blood on the cobbles. Helios races back, reins flying.
Abbé Patin tells Nicole that a barge did not get its sail down in time, and now he must catch a runaway. Petite is to come with him. They chase the colt along the river road. Near Saint-Dyé they halt. The colt might have cut through a dirt path across half-mown hay fields, or he might have gone on along the road. Abbé Patin decides they must split up. He will follow the road; Petite will take the path. She is unsure—she is to ride out alone?—but he is gone before she can argue.
Petite trots down the dirt track, ducking under low branches. She finds fresh hoofprints. The park wall is stone, and a gate of peeled logs hangs open. Inside is a forester's cottage with an antlered stag's head over the door. A man emerges in a thick woolen shooting jacket despite the heat. Petite asks about the colt. The man yawns, scratches his belly, and says he did not see it. Did not hear it either, apparently. The gate was open, yes. He picks his teeth. Petite hears jays and knows she must go after the injured, saddled colt before he harms himself. The forester tells her the King is coming today. She knows. There is only one clear trail. She takes it.
She rides through stands of fine old oaks infested with worms, across sandy terrain, into a woodland meadow. Her horse whinnies, and a horse answers. The colt. She lets her horse have his head, pushes through a dense copse and over a rocky stream into another clearing. There, in the distance, she spots Helios. A man is holding his reins. Thanks be to Mary.
She approaches at a trot, then slows. The man is young, not much older than she is, in his twenties. He is humbly dressed but comely. Unhatted, his long hair hangs about his shoulders. He carries a gun and a full game bag. Petite fears she looks a fright, her hair blown free during the hard gallop. She calls out, asking if the colt is hurt. The man gazes up at her and says Helios has a cut on his right haunch. His eyes are hazel, his skin dark and rudded by the sun. There is something Latin in him, something almost Moorish. He has a commanding figure—strong and athletic. Petite's mouth goes dry.
She tells him the colt bucked his rider at the Blois bridge. The man says the cut is not deep. He found wild burnet and was able to stanch it. Helios should be fine. Petite tries to speak but cannot. She wants to tell him that she knows all about burnet, that she gathered it many times with her father. She remembers its large winged leaves, nicked at the edges, gray on the underside. In June its small purple flowers made it easy to find, but now, late in July, it would have been difficult to see in the long meadow grass. Finally she manages: Good. He must think her an idiot.
He says the horse is mainly just frightened, and he strokes Helios's neck. Petite blurts out that his name is Helios. She feels dangerously light-headed. She hopes he is not a poacher. She admires the gentle way he handles the skittish colt. He recognizes the name: Tireless Helios, the Greek sun god. A fine name for a horse. He glances up at her again and smiles. Petite is surprised and pleased that he knows ancient mythology. Perhaps he is gentry. She wants to tell him she knows the Greek myths well, that she named the colt after poring over ancient texts in the Duke's library. Instead she asks how he caught him. He says, in the usual way: he let him come to him. The colt was curious, like any youngster. He hands her the reins.
Thank you, she says. His fingers—soft, not calloused—lightly brush her wrist, sending a jolt through her. She thinks of a line from the romance Nicole has been reading to the Princess: Adieu, my beloved. I know you not, and yet I know you. It no longer seems like nonsense. He says it is his pleasure, Mademoiselle, and adds that she rides exceptionally well. He gives a salute. She repeats thank you, moves away, pulling the colt after her. Adieu, adieu—will she ever see him again? She warns him that the King is coming. He says he knows. He arrived a while ago. Oh! she exclaims, and spurs her mount. At the edge of the woods, she looks back. He is watching her.
Back at Blois, church bells ring and cheering rises. It must be the King. Petite fastens the Princess's veil with silver gilt pins. The inflammations from the bites are still visible despite healing ointments. The palace is a madhouse. Petite is exhausted. She has been up late attending the stricken Princess, then could not sleep. She put a pillow over her head to muffle the night watchman, and finally dropped into sweet, longing dreams—only to be woken by the return of the Marquis and her mother from Chambord. Everyone is vexed. The Marquis panicked over a delayed fish delivery for the banquet. Her mother had an attack of nerves because her only ball gown no longer fits. At terce, the Duke and the still-hobbling Duchess returned from Chambord, causing more commotion. All the while Monsieur de Gautier runs to and fro, trying to make the stage effects work.
Trumpets sound. It is him, Nicole says. Princess Marguerite pops an anise pastille into her mouth to sweeten her breath and asks how she looks. Lovely, Your Highness, Petite lies. She feels jittery as a colt in a storm. She cannot believe she is actually going to see the King. They head for the grand staircase, where Monsieur de Gautier positions everyone for the best effect. Marguerite is put in front on the first step, her sisters on the step behind, flanked by the Duke and Duchess. Most attendants are placed out of sight. Nicole and Petite are told to stay in the deserted guard room, where at least they have the advantage of a window enclosure. A gilded, domed carriage with scarlet wheels enters the courtyard. The coachman, footmen, and pages are all clothed in matching scarlet livery.
And there the chapter leaves us, breathless, on the edge of revelation. Petite has just met a mysterious stranger in the woods, a man who knew the Greek myths, who handled a frightened horse with impossible gentleness, and whose touch made her wrist burn. Now the King's carriage is arriving. Is the humble huntsman more than he seems? Or is Petite about to be caught between a princess's desperate ambition and a royal heart she cannot yet understand?
Reader's Impressions & Star Rating: I absolutely adored this chapter. It balances the absurdity of court life with the tenderness of Petite's inner world. The gnats, the white lead paste, the dance master's vanity, and Nicole's blunt humor keep the tone lively, while the encounter with the stranger in the park gives the chapter a shimmering romantic charge. Petite's quiet strength, her love for horses, and her growing awareness of nobility of heart make her a heroine worth following. The cliffhanger is perfectly placed. I only wish we had learned the stranger's name.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
Next Chapter Prediction: The next chapter will almost certainly reveal the identity of the mysterious young man—and I suspect he is far more important than a simple huntsman. As the King's scarlet-liveried carriage arrives, Petite will be forced into the royal presence, perhaps coming face-to-face with the very man who returned Helios to her. Princess Marguerite will try to shine, the Duke and Duchess will scheme, and Petite will discover that one chance meeting in the woods may have already tied her fate to the King's. Expect tension, courtly dazzle, and the first true spark of a dangerous love.
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