As the beef was brought forward, I caught a sweet whiff of rot behind the odor of spice, and I thought the condiments were perhaps intended to conceal a flank of beef that was far past its prime. I declined my share, but my companions were not so overparticular, and they ate with a will. Whether they became sick after, I know not.
There followed veal stuffed with mince, again flavored with many spices, and I wondered if I had brought any of the spices to Duisland in my Royal Stilwell.
Next came the fowl, for there had been a hunt a few days earlier and several thousand birds sacrificed for our pleasure. Bustards served with sugared mustard, pigeons in butter and rose water, and blackbirds baked in a pie, gravy bubbling out of slits in the crust. The last and greatest of the fowl were the swans, who were served roasted and clad in their feathers. The bird carried to the royal table wore a gold collar studded with emeralds.
I had seen swans served this way at Berlauda’s coronation and wondered how it was done. Now I discovered that each roast bird wore the tanned skin of a swan with the feathers preserved. The skin was laid like a cape over the roast bird, with some internal stiffening so that the head was curved gracefully on its long neck.
The most impressive skins were reserved for the royal table, and the best of what remained for the nobility, with the rest spread out down the lines of tables, again in strict order of precedence. The cape that covered my table’s swan was old, much used, and decrepit, with more than half of its snowy coat gone.
The bird, however, tasted perfectly fine.
Afterward came the sweet finale to the meal, a sugary blood pudding, a quaking pudding served on a plate of sugar, a stepony drizzled with rose water, and almond cakes cooked with musk and ambergris. These did not entirely please me, for so many of the previous removes had been sweetened that the pudding seemed superfluous.
Throughout the meal there was music, beginning with the trumpets, sackbut, and drums of Her Majesty’s demilances. Their martial music was not suited to digestion, and so they were replaced by Mistress Concini’s choir of nuns singing their devotions, then by a boys’ choir that sang morally improving songs of the type approved by Berlauda, and lastly by strolling musicians wandering up and down the lines of tables. One of these, a black-eyed young man with a scant beard, a turned-up nose, and hose stitched in gaudy yellow and black checks, came to my table, bowed, and began.
Quillifer, Quillifer, active as miniver
Waited on water for sound of the gun
Quillifer, Quillifer, aqua-philosopher
Heard the big blast, and the boat it did run
The oars struck the water and turned it to white
In the midst of the mellay sailed the tall knight
The pace of the race was a heartening sight
All of the galleys rowed for the first turn
But one boat alone that custom did spurn
For jewels and rules were his tools of concern
Refrain:
Quillifer, Quillifer, never did malinger
As the boat sped on for the far isle
Quillifer, Quillifer, trader of mace and myrrh
Had conned the rule book and learned to beguile
First came the knight across the line
His galley bold had held the bowline
His ploy of the buoy was all his design
“Hold!” cried the judge. “For you have fouled out!”
But the knight’s reply brought the ruling in doubt
He footnoted and quoted his foes to a rout
Rather than sing the refrain, the minstrel then played it on his guitar, with fancies and flourishes that excited my admiration, and with clever triplets that stood in for the syllables of my name. When he was done, he returned to his song.
Tempers were foul as all bets were suspended
At the start of the race the boats were re-blended
“On!” was the call, and the brawl was contended
The knight took the lead, and the buoys were passed
Sure-eyed was the hero, and his crew was handfast
The pack was outrun, and the gun it did blast
Refrain:
Quillifer, Quillifer, unwilling to defer
The pennant of victory placed into his hands
Quillifer, Quillifer, the racecourse geographer
The best in the test, and the best in the land
I laughed and reached in my purse for a pair of crowns, which I pushed across the table. “I believe I would like to hear that song again.”
Again he sang it, and I and some of my companions sang along with the refrain. I pushed another pair of crowns his way.
“ ‘Best in the land,’ ” I said. “And some call me a flatterer.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “Yet you have given me a generous vail,” he said. “How is that not the best?”
“Very well,” said I. “I must therefore be the best. And you must be congratulated for finding so many rhymes for Quillifer.”
“Some I did not employ,” he said. “ ‘Scrofular,’ for example.”
I laughed. “That was wise—though while we are on the subject, I am not entirely satisfied with ‘miniver.’ I am not certain I enjoy the comparison with a weasel.”
“With an ermine, sir. A royal animal, for none but the Emelins and the peers may wear ermine on their cloaks.”
“True.” I considered him. “What rhymes with your name, goodman?”
“There are too many. Begot, besought, bowknot.”
“Your name, then, is Naught?”
“Knott, sir. With a K. Rufino Knott, sir, at your service.”
“Well, Goodman Knott, I hope you will sing that song before Their Majesties.”
Knott raised an eyebrow. “I think I have not been paid enough to croon such an impertinence before the high table.”
“Then sing it for everyone else.” I pushed another coin across the table, and Knott snatched it up, bowed, and continued up the line of tables.
“Ay, this Duisland is a different sort of country,” said Dom Nemorino d’Ormyl, one of the Lorettan knights. “For Dom Keely-Fay, if you had flouted the rules of the race in Loretto, you would even now be off to prison on a warrant royal. And that little rogue”—nodding at the minstrel—“would lose his head.”
“I did not flout the rules,” said I. “I followed them strictly. And His Majesty was amused.”
“That would not matter,” said the knight. “King Henrico would never stand for such an affront to his dignity.”
I reached for my wine. “Should I ever stand before King Henrico,” I said, “I will restrain my impudence.”
“You would be wise to do so, Dom Keely-Fay.”
Trumpets and drums sounded as Their Majesties rose from the high table and retired to the palace. We stood as they did, and then I finished my wine—of indifferent quality, slightly better than that given to servants—and excused myself. The gardens were filled with people, the ladies floating over the grass like lilies gracing the surface of the water. A great many ladies, I saw, were from Loretto, and were in search of husbands. I have spoken, I believe, of how our Duisland nobility are more rare than that arrogant rabble that infect Loretto, and the ladies of Loretto had taken note of this and were hunting down our bachelor peers.
Strolling, I saw Lady Westley in a gown of blue watered silk that trailed on the green grass, with a partlet and kirtle of brilliant white samite patterned with gold threads and puffs of blue and black. For a day at court, she had whitened her face and then brightened her lips and cheeks with alkanet. The blue gown, reflected in her eyes, made her eyes seem even more intense, and the gold flecks more brilliant. I came to her and bowed, the sunburst pendant dangling. She remarked it, but made no comment.
“I have heard that songster’s ballad,” she said, “and admired its ingenuity. For I’m blessed if I could have come up with a single rhyme for Quillifer.”
“I never had occasion to find one,” I said, “for I ha
ve never made songs on myself.” I considered the question and added, “Though I see no reason I should not.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you would praise yourself with a fine eloquence.” She turned and looked at the palace, partly concealed by the bulk of the new great hall. “Do you know I have an apartment in the palace?”
“I was not aware,” I said.
“My husband’s position comes with lodging,” she said, “though the rooms are very small, and we use them rarely as we keep a house in town.”
“Yet it must be convenient,” I said, “if, for example, you find yourself fatigued after a great feast.”
She gave me a look from beneath her fine level brows. “I believe I am fatigued in just that way,” she said. “I think I shall retire for a while. But I remember that I promised to show you something, and if you could come to my rooms in, say, half an hour, I would be in a position to receive you.”
“I would be honored to oblige you. Though will your husband not be present?”
She smiled. “He is at Entham Lodge, making arrangements for the stag hunt in two days.”
“Then I will be very pleased to keep the appointment, my lady.”
She strolled away, toward the palace, the blue gown trailing on the grass. I wandered about for a while, enjoying the water gardens and idle conversation, and then I encountered Rufino Knott again, where he sat on a marble bench, contemplating the statue of an oread, and eating a blackbird pie that had managed to escape the guests. He jumped up with an apology, and I told him to sit and eat his dinner. I examined his guitar, which had six courses and a convex back, like a viol.
“You play it well, Master Knott,” said I. “I admired those dextrous figures you played when you were resting your voice.”
Knott swallowed a bite of pie, then spoke. “Thank you, Sir Quillifer.”
“Where did you get a guitar with that rounded back? I’ve never seen one.”
“The work is signed ‘Blanco.’ I understand he was, or perhaps still is, an Aekoi luthier from the Empire, but who lives, or lived, in the south of Loretto, in Pantano Morto, I believe. But he did not make the instrument for me, for I won it in a game of cards.”
“I have a seven-course guitar from Varcellos, which I found there on a voyage. But while I can strum it well enough, I learned from sailors who learned from other sailors, and I lack your proficiency. I wonder if you would consent to give me lessons?”
He lowered the pie that he had lifted again to his lips. He seemed surprised. “I would be honored, sir.”
“Can you come to my house—Rackheath House, that is—the day after tomorrow? In the afternoon, following dinner?”
“Yes, of course.”
I rose, and he rose with me until I waved him back to his seat. I walked toward the palace through the dispersing throng, passed around the incomplete structure of the great hall, and then entered through the grand rear portico past the Yeoman Archers in their black leather doublets and red caps. I found a stair, went up several flights, and made my way to a part of the palace divided into small apartments, either for officials or pensioners. I had never been in this part of the palace before. The smell of the place was unwholesome, and the apartments I saw through open doors were small, and some were wretched. The contrast with the glittering public parts of the building was unmistakable.
I found the door to Lady Westley’s rooms, battered oaken planks painted black, with the name Sir Edelmir Westley picked out in graceful painted script. I knocked lightly, and then I heard Lady Westley’s voice. “Who is it?”
“Heliodor.”
“Please come in.”
The room was small and dark, with only a small window high in the far wall, but it was lit by a dozen candles that filled the air with the mysterious scent of hyacinths. Mirrors and radiant wall hangings served to make the room seem larger and brighter than it was.
But I paid scant attention to that, because of what I found in the center of the room, pale and lovely in the candlelight. Lady Westley was naked, rising like a goddess from the milky pool of the robe that she had just let fall from her shoulders. The yellow diamonds in their new settings of white gold glittered below her ears, and the single white diamond hung on a silver chain between her breasts. Candlelight glittered knowingly in her gold-flecked eyes.
For some seconds I was struck dumb, and I felt little but my own scalding blood as it sluiced like molten bronze through my veins. She raised her head and arched her brow.
“Why are you surprised?” said she. “I promised I would model the stones, did I not?”
I finally managed words. “You did not promise to outshine them so, my Girasol.”
I had just enough presence of mind to bolt the door, and then I took her in my arms. We spent the afternoon in an exchange of delights, each discovering new ways to please the other, and then, as the candles burned down and the sun neared the horizon and sent its rays in a long bright beam through the window, I began my practice as lady’s maid, in aiding her toilette, and making her presentable for a return to the court. Yet I found dressing her too stimulating, removed her clothes again, and disported a while before I could, in a less frenzied frame of mind, resume my task. I tried to banish all distractions from my mind, and so I tied her garters, tightened her corset, inserted her busk, tied on the farthingale and the bumroll, added the kirtle, forepart, and partlet, and then helped draw the blue gown over her head. I laced the points, and then helped her feet into her scarlet latchet shoes.
Her chestnut hair had become disordered, and I did my best to put it in order, but my mistress was much more proficient at such things than I. In the end the mirrors showed a properly dressed court lady, and I helped her pin on her cap and then put my arms around her. I kissed her ears with their dangling jewels, and then her mouth. She melted against me for a moment, then drew back and considered the room.
“The servant may make the bed,” said she.
“I will do it. I will also remove any material evidence.” For I had employed scabbards, so as to prevent a cuckoo appearing in the Westley nest.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You are thorough in performing your maid’s duties,” she said.
I bowed. “I am entirely at your service, Girasol.”
“You should leave first, I think.”
This required another toilette, my own this time, before I could put the sunburst medallion around my neck, kiss my lady good-bye, and slip away into the corridor.
Outside the palace, an autumn wind had come up to chill the twilight. I walked to the quay and found my boat’s crew, who by now had been waiting for hours. At a modest pace we returned to Rackheath House, the winner’s pennon snapping over my head. I sent my crew a bottle of brandy to warm them after their long wait on the quay, and then went into the house and ordered up my supper.
Even after such a banquet as I’d had that morning and over the long afternoon, I still found myself hungry for more.
* * *
Do you know, my sweet, I am so very thankful that I may speak so frankly in your presence. So many others, uncertain perhaps of my love, would find my candid talk of other women vexing, or hateful. But you know I am completely devoted to you, and understand that I view my other amours as but imperfect versions of yourself. If I praise Lady Westley or some other, it is as if I praise a mere shadow, for your light is such as to cast all others into darkness.
It is you, of course, with whom I choose to commit treason, and it is your courage that inspires me to the daunting tasks that lie before me. So kiss me, my dear, and I will return to my modest narration.
CHAPTER TEN
From Lady Westley, in her candlelit chamber in the palace, I learned more of the world of the court. She knew it well, for after being orphaned as a child, she had been raised in Howel by an uncle who served as a judge. She knew most of the figures who graced the palace, and had played hide-and-seek through the corridors with their children.
She lay in my arms, her warm dark hai
r cloaking my shoulder, her bergamot scent tingling in my senses. I felt a pleasant lightness in my loins. At this moment, after this sharing, the rituals and residents of the court seemed far away, and therefore a suitable topic for amused conversation. Even the queen’s spymaster seemed a distant figure, as if I were looking at him through the wrong end of a spyglass. “Lord Edevane’s father was a country baron,” said Lady Westley. “But the son’s poor eyesight made him unsuitable for country sports, like riding and shooting, and he applied himself to his books, and went to the university to learn law.”
He had served as a lawyer in the chancellery before Berlauda called the Estates at her accession, and he had himself elected to the House of Burgesses in his family borough. He had made himself useful to Berlauda in her wrangles with the houses over her war taxes, and had been working his way upward in her service ever since.
“He has but recently inherited his father’s title,” said Lady Westley. “And he will take his seat in the House of Peers when it meets.”
“Has he a family?” I asked. “A wife?”
“He has a wife and children at home, and an Aekoi mistress here in Howel.”
That was not unusual. Aekoi courtesans were prized, not only for their supple, gold-skinned beauty but because no human could get them with child.
“Do people fear Edevane, Girasol?” I asked.
“They do since Scutterfield fell,” she said.
“I did not care for the way he looked at me in the regatta.”
She was amused. “You shouldn’t have made such a spectacle of yourself, then.” Her tongue teasingly touched her teeth as she sang. “Quillifer, Quillifer, lord of the gem-coffer.” She laughed. “People are bound to wonder how to get that gem-coffer for themselves.”
“Fortunately, I have a reputation as a doughty soldier. Fear of my arms will keep those gems safe.”
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