The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  Henry lo­oked down at him and la­ug­hed, clap­ping the old man bo­is­te­ro­usly on a fra­il sho­ul­der. "Ro­land, you're an old wo­man. It'll ta­ke mo­re than a few drops of ra­in in a sum­mer storm to bring me to my kne­es." He flung his arms wi­de as if he wo­uld em­b­ra­ce the tem­pest.

  An ar­row of lig­h­t­ning, vi­vid whi­te, hur­led it­self at the gro­und be­hind the king. It to­uc­hed with a daz­zling flash of bright light. A pop­lar tree split, ope­ning slowly li­ke a pe­eled fru­it be­fo­re it cras­hed to the gro­und, the so­und lost in the vi­olent bel­low of thun­der im­me­di­ately over­he­ad. The air was fil­led with the stench of scor­c­hed earth and bur­ning wo­od.

  "My li­ege!" Men ran from the tent, se­izing the king by his arms, drag­ging him un­der the ro­ugh pro­tec­ti­on of can­vas.

  "In­de­ed, si­e­ur, it is mad­ness to ex­po­se yo­ur­self in such fas­hi­on," the du­ke of Ro­is­sy chi­ded. King Henry en­co­ura­ged free spe­ech from his clo­se com­pa­ni­ons and it ne­ver oc­cur­red to the du­ke not to spe­ak his mind.

  "One bolt of lig­h­t­ning co­uld bring an end to ever­y­t­hing." He ges­tu­red to­ward the city walls be­yond the tent, spe­aking with an ed­ge of an­ger. "You are king of Fran­ce, my li­ege. No lon­ger me­re Henry of Na­var­re. We are yo­ur su­bj­ects and our for­tu­nes ri­se and fall with yo­urs."

  The king lo­oked ru­eful. "Aye, Ro­is­sy, you do well to ta­ke me to task. That stri­ke ca­me a lit­tle too clo­se for com­fort. But in truth the he­at has tri­ed us all so­rely the­se last days and the­re's so­met­hing ir­re­sis­tib­le abo­ut def­ying such a spec­ta­cu­lar dis­p­lay of the ele­ments… Ah, my thanks, Ro­land."

  He to­ok the to­wel han­ded him by the old man and vi­go­ro­usly rub­bed his he­ad and be­ard dry, be­fo­re strip­ping off his shirt. He res­ted a hand on Ro­is­sy's sho­ul­der and ra­ised one fo­ot and then the ot­her for a ser­vant to pull off his mud­di­ed bo­ots, be­fo­re pe­eling off his sod­den brit­c­hes and dra­wers.

  Na­ked, he stro­de ac­ross the be­aten-down grass flo­or of the tent to whe­re a fla­gon of wi­ne sto­od on a tab­le. He ra­ised the fla­gon to his lips and drank de­eply, be­fo­re wi­ping his mo­uth with the back of his hand and re­gar­ding his as­sem­b­led co­urt with an air both qu­iz­zi­cal and fa­intly moc­king.

  "Gen­t­le­men, gen­t­le­men, you're lo­oking at me as if I we­re a fre­ak in a tra­ve­ling cir­cus. When ha­ve I ever do­ne an­y­t­hing wit­ho­ut go­od re­ason? Gil­les." He snap­ped his fin­gers at his ser­vant, who hur­ri­ed over, his arms fil­led with dry gar­ments. Henry shrug­ged in­to the prof­fe­red shirt, clam­be­red in­to cle­an dra­wers and brit­c­hes, his mo­ve­ments swift, cle­an, eco­no­mi­cal. He sat on a sto­ol, ex­ten­ding his leg to the ser­vant who eased stoc­kings and bo­ots over the ro­yal fe­et.

  "Let us to tab­le, gen­t­le­men. I in­tend to le­ave at dawn." The king ro­se as so­on as his bo­ots we­re la­ced and ges­tu­red to the tab­le whe­re bre­ad, che­ese, and me­at ac­com­pa­ni­ed the fla­gons of wi­ne.

  "You are go­ing to En­g­land, then? Des­pi­te our ad­vi­ce?" Ro­is­sy ma­de no at­tempt to dis­gu­ise his an­ger.

  "Aye, Ro­is­sy, I am." Henry stab­bed at the jo­int of be­ef with the po­int of his dag­ger, hac­king off a sub­s­tan­ti­al chunk. "It's ti­me to go a-wo­o­ing. I wo­uld ha­ve me a Pro­tes­tant wi­fe." He car­ri­ed the me­at to his mo­uth then ges­tu­red with the po­int of his kni­fe to the ot­her sto­ols at the tab­le.

  The in­vi­ta­ti­on was a com­mand and his com­pa­ni­ons to­ok the­ir pla­ces, only Ro­is­sy hol­ding back for a se­cond, be­fo­re sit­ting down and re­ac­hing for the wi­ne fla­gon. "My li­ege, I beg you to re­con­si­der. If you le­ave he­re mo­ra­le will suf­fer. The men will lo­se he­art in the en­ter­p­ri­se and the ci­ti­zens of Pa­ris will ga­in he­art," the du­ke sa­id fi­nal­ly.

  Henry to­re at a qu­ar­tern lo­af of bar­ley bre­ad. "My de­ar Ro­is­sy, as far as the men are con­cer­ned I will be he­re. As far as the Pa­ri­si­ans are con­cer­ned, I will still be at the­ir ga­tes." He ga­ve the du­ke a swe­et smi­le that didn't de­ce­ive any of his audi­en­ce. "You, my fri­end, will sub­s­ti­tu­te for me. We are much of a he­ight, you will we­ar my clo­ak in pub­lic, we will put it abo­ut that my an­tics in the ra­in this eve­ning ha­ve ma­de me a trif­le ho­ar­se and fe­ve­rish, so I will in ge­ne­ral ke­ep to my tent and any stran­ge­ness in my vo­ice will be ex­p­la­ined." He shrug­ged easily and cram­med bre­ad in­to his mo­uth.

  Ro­is­sy to­ok anot­her swig from the fla­gon. That crazy dan­ce in the ra­in was thus ex­p­la­ined.

  "I ha­ve ab­so­lu­te fa­ith in you, Ro­is­sy," Henry con­ti­nu­ed, his vo­ice now gra­ve. "You will know exactly how to con­duct the si­ege just as if you we­re me. We ha­ve it on go­od aut­ho­rity that the city will not yi­eld be­fo­re win­ter and I will be back in plenty of ti­me to re­ce­ive its sur­ren­der."

  Ro­is­sy nod­ded do­urly. The­ir spi­es in the city had gi­ven them am­p­le evi­den­ce of the bur­g­hers' ste­ad­fast re­fu­sal to yi­eld up the keys whi­le the­re re­ma­ined an edib­le rat ali­ve in the city se­wers. The city still had so­me gra­in sup­pli­es, but when tho­se co­uld not be rep­le­nis­hed by the new har­vest, then mat­ters wo­uld grow grim in­de­ed.

  "If you wa­it over­long in En­g­land, my li­ege, you may find the re­turn cros­sing im­pos­sib­le to ma­ke be­fo­re spring," he de­mur­red.

  "I'll not prot­ract my wo­o­ing of this ma­id," Henry sta­ted. "If she be as co­mely as her por­t­ra­it and not dol­tish… and if she be wil­ling…" He­re he chuc­k­led and even Ro­is­sy co­uldn't dis­gu­ise a grim smi­le at the ab­surd idea that any girl wo­uld re­fu­se such a match.

  " Then," Henry con­ti­nu­ed, "I will con­c­lu­de my bu­si­ness with Lord Har­co­urt with all spe­ed and re­turn by the end of Oc­to­ber to put in tra­in my di­vor­ce from Mar­gu­eri­te, which sho­uld, I think, ta­ke pla­ce be­fo­re my co­ro­na­ti­on?" He ra­ised a qu­es­ti­oning eyeb­row in the di­rec­ti­on of his chan­cel­lor.

  "Un­do­ub­tedly, my li­ege," the man ag­re­ed, ta­king out a scrap of la­ce from his poc­ket and dab­bing at his mo­uth with a fas­ti­di­o­us ges­tu­re that se­emed out of ke­eping with the ro­ugh sur­ro­un­dings, the co­ar­se fa­re, the unin­hi­bi­ted man­ners of his fel­low di­ners who, li­ke the­ir king, we­re sol­di­ers be­fo­re they we­re co­ur­ti­ers and spor­ted wi­ne-red mo­uths, gre­ase-spat­te­red jer­kins, dirt-en­c­rus­ted fin­ger­na­ils.

  "Who will ac­com­pany you, si­e­ur?." Ro­is­sy ma­de no fur­t­her at­tempt to dis­su­ade his king; he'd do bet­ter to sa­ve his bre­ath to co­ol his por­rid­ge.

  "De­ro­ule, Van­ca­ir, and Mag­ret." Henry po­in­ted at the three men in turn. "I shall ta­ke yo­ur iden­tity, Ro­is­sy. Sin­ce you will be ta­king mi­ne." He frow­ned and all tra­ces of lig­h­t­he­ar­ted­ness had va­nis­hed, he was on­ce mo­re the im­p­la­cab­le com­man­der.

  "We shall chan­ge clot­hes and I shall we­ar yo­ur co­lors and be­ar yo­ur stan­dard. It's im­pe­ra­ti­ve that no one but the girl's fa­mily know the true iden­tity of her su­itor. The du­ke of Ro­is­sy will be vi­si­ting Eli­za­beth's co­urt, whi­le his so­ve­re­ign con­ti­nu­es to lay si­ege to Pa­ris. The qu­e­en her­self must not sus­pect for a se­cond the true iden­tity of the French vi­si­tor. She pro­fes­ses to sup­port my ca­use, but Eli­za­beth is as tricky as a bag of vi­pers."

  He le­aned back, his thumbs ho­oked in­to the wi­de belt at his wa­ist as he sur­ve­yed his com­pa­ni­ons. "I do­ubt even her right hand knows what her left is do­ing, and if she tho­ught that Henry was not be­si­eging Pa­ris, the­re's no tel­ling what she might de­ci­
de to do with the know­led­ge."

  "Exactly so, my li­ege." Ro­is­sy le­aned over the tab­le, his to­ne ur­gent. "Con­si­der the risks, si­e­ur. Just sup­po­sing you we­re dis­co­ve­red."

  "I will not be, Ro­is­sy, if you play yo­ur part." The king re­ac­hed for the fla­gon of wi­ne and ra­ised it to his lips aga­in. "Let us drink to the pur­su­it of lo­ve, gen­t­le­men."

  Chapter Eleven

  Mi­ran­da was awa­ke­ned the next mor­ning by the so­und of her do­or ope­ning. "I gi­ve you go­od mor­ning, Mi­ran­da." Ma­ude ca­me over to the bed, her fa­ce pa­le in the glo­om.

  Mi­ran­da hit­c­hed her­self up in the bed and yaw­ned. "What ti­me is it?"

  "J­ust af­ter se­ven." Ma­ude hug­ged her­self in her shawls. "It's so cold in he­re."

  "It's cer­ta­inly che­er­less," Mi­ran­da ag­re­ed with a shi­ver of her own, glan­cing to­ward the win­dow. It was gray and over­cast out­si­de. The clo­uds must ha­ve rol­led in over the ri­ver so­on af­ter she'd go­ne to sle­ep. "It lo­oks li­ke it's go­ing to ra­in."

  Ma­ude exa­mi­ned her with un­dis­gu­ised in­te­rest. "I'm sorry if I wo­ke you, but I had the stran­gest fe­eling that per­haps I'd dre­amed you, and you wo­uldn't lo­ok in the le­ast li­ke me when I saw you aga­in."

  Mi­ran­da grin­ned sle­epily. "And did you?"

  Ma­ude sho­ok her he­ad with so­met­hing ap­pro­ac­hing a smi­le. "No, you're just the sa­me as last night. And I can't get used to it." She stret­c­hed out a hand and lightly to­uc­hed Mi­ran­da's fa­ce. "Yo­ur skin fe­els just li­ke mi­ne."

  Chip bo­un­ced on­to the co­ver­let with his own mor­ning gre­eting and Ma­ude ob­li­gingly scrat­c­hed his he­ad. "What hap­pens to­day?"

  "No one's told me." Mi­ran­da kic­ked off the co­vers and jum­ped out of bed. She stret­c­hed and yaw­ned.

  "Yo­ur body's not li­ke mi­ne," Ma­ude ob­ser­ved al­most cri­ti­cal­ly. "We're both thin, but you ha­ve mo­re sha­pe."

  "Mus­c­le," Mi­ran­da res­pon­ded. "It co­mes from ac­ro­ba­tics." She bent to pick up the fi­nery she had so ca­re­les­sly dis­car­ded the pre­vi­o­us eve­ning, sa­ying gu­il­tily, "I sup­po­se I'd bet­ter we­ar this aga­in. I sho­uld ha­ve hung it up, it's all cre­ased now."

  "Le­ave it," Ma­ude sa­id ca­su­al­ly. "The ma­ids will pick it up and press it. Wa­it he­re and I'll fetch you a ro­be." She di­sap­pe­ared with a spe­ed that was most unu­su­al, re­ap­pe­aring wit­hin mi­nu­tes with a fur-trim­med vel­vet cham­ber ro­be.

  "Put it on and we'll go back to my cham­ber whe­re the­re's a fi­re and Ber­t­he is he­ating spi­ced ale. I ha­ve to be bled to­day, so I ha­ve the spi­ced ale first to ke­ep up my strength."

  "Why must you be bled? Are you ailing?" Mi­ran­da thrust her arms in­to the ro­be. The silk li­ning ca­res­sed her skin and she ran her hands in a lu­xu­ri­o­us stro­ke over the soft vel­vet folds that flo­ated aro­und her ba­re fe­et. The­re we­re cer­ta­inly com­pen­sa­ti­ons for li­fe in a co­co­on, she tho­ught as she fol­lo­wed Ma­ude from the ro­om, Chip per­c­hed on her sho­ul­der.

  "I ha­ve to be bled to pre­vent fal­ling sick," Ma­ude ex­p­la­ined with a gri­ma­ce. "Every we­ek the le­ech ta­kes at le­ast a cup from my fo­ot so my blo­od do­esn't get over­he­ated and gi­ve me fe­ver."

  Mi­ran­da sta­red at her. "How can you be­ar it? Ble­eding is wor­se even than pur­ging."

  "It's not very ple­asant," Ma­ude ag­re­ed, ope­ning the do­or to her own cham­ber. "But it's ne­ces­sary if I'm not to fall ill."

  "I sho­uld think it's mo­re li­kely to ma­ke you ill," Mi­ran­da ob­ser­ved.

  Ma­ude didn't res­pond to this ig­no­ran­ce. She mo­ved to the set­tle drawn up aga­inst the bla­zing fi­re and sat down, thrus­ting her fe­et in the­ir thin slip­pers as clo­se to the fla­mes as pos­sib­le, sa­ying with a ca­re­less ges­tu­re, "This is Mi­ran­da, Ber­t­he. I told you abo­ut her last night. Lord Har­co­urt is em­p­lo­ying her to ta­ke my pla­ce, but we're not su­re qu­ite why or what go­od it will do me in the end."

  The el­derly wo­man stir­ring the frag­rant con­tents of a cop­per ket­tle on a tri­vet over the fi­re lo­oked up. Her pa­le eyes wi­de­ned and she drop­ped the wo­oden spo­on. "Holy Mot­her! May the sa­ints pre­ser­ve us!" She strug­gled to her fe­et and bob­bed ac­ross to Mi­ran­da. Only then did she see Chip. "Oh, my Lord. It's a wild ani­mal!" She re­co­iled in hor­ror.

  "Chip isn't in the le­ast wild," Ma­ude as­su­red. "He won't hurt you."

  Ber­t­he lo­oked far from con­vin­ced, but her re­ac­ti­on to Mi­ran­da far sur­pas­sed her fe­ar of the mon­key. She re­ac­hed up to clasp Mi­ran­da's fa­ce bet­we­en both hands. "Mary, Mot­her of God! It's hard to be­li­eve one's eyes. It's my ba­be to the li­fe."

  Mi­ran­da was gro­wing ac­cus­to­med to this re­ac­ti­on and ma­de no res­pon­se.

  "It's eit­her the work of the de­vil or the work of God," Ber­t­he mut­te­red, step­ping back to get a bet­ter lo­ok. "It isn't na­tu­ral, that's for su­re."

  "Well, the­re's no ne­ed to fret abo­ut it, Ber­t­he," Ma­ude sa­id with a to­uch of im­pa­ti­en­ce. "Is the ale re­ady? I am in so­re ne­ed of war­ming."

  "Oh, yes, my pet. Yes, you mustn't get chil­led, run­ning aro­und at this ho­ur of the mor­ning." Tut­ting, Ber­t­he re­tur­ned to her ket­tle, but she kept glan­cing up at Mi­ran­da, who had drawn up a sto­ol a lit­tle away from the bla­zing he­at of the fi­re. "Sa­in­ted Mary! May­be it's he­aven-sent," the old wo­man con­ti­nu­ed to mut­ter. "If you've co­me to sa­ve my pet from the evil they wo­uld do her, then it's as­su­redly he­aven-sent."

  Mi­ran­da to­ok the mug of ale han­ded her by Ber­t­he with a word of thanks, and gra­te­ful­ly bu­ri­ed her no­se in the frag­rant ste­am.

  "Ber­t­he, I wo­uld li­ke cod­dled eggs for my bre­ak­fast," Ma­ude an­no­un­ced. "Sin­ce I no lon­ger ha­ve to li­ve on bre­ad and wa­ter, thanks to Mi­ran­da."

  "Thanks to mi­lord Har­co­urt, I wo­uld ha­ve sa­id," Mi­ran­da amen­ded. "He was the one who wo­uldn't ha­ve you co­er­ced."

  "I'll fetch them di­rectly, my pet." Ber­t­he ha­uled her­self up­right with alac­rity. Then she frow­ned. "But the le­ech is co­ming to ble­ed you and the eggs may over­he­at you. It's best to eat light be­fo­re ble­eding."

  Ma­ude's mo­uth tur­ned down at the cor­ners. "I'm fe­eling qu­ite strong to­day, Ber­t­he. I'm cer­ta­in the le­ech will only ne­ed to ta­ke a very lit­tle blo­od."

  "May­be he sho­uldn't co­me at all," Mi­ran­da sug­ges­ted, lo­oking up from her ale.

  Ber­t­he ig­no­red this in­te­rj­ec­ti­on. She bent over Ma­ude, la­ying a hand on her fo­re­he­ad, pe­ering in­to her eyes. "Well, I don't know, my pet. You know how sud­denly you be­gin to fa­il."

  "I don't fe­el in the le­ast li­ke fa­iling, and I want cod­dled eggs," Ma­ude dec­la­red crossly. "And if I don't get them I shall qu­ite li­kely fall in­to a fit."

  Mi­ran­da sta­red in sur­p­ri­se and mo­re than a deg­ree of di­sap­pro­val at this dis­p­lay of pe­tu­lan­ce. Ho­we­ver, it se­emed to ha­ve the de­si­red ef­fect, be­ca­use Ber­t­he with a cluck of dis­t­ress has­te­ned to the do­or.

  Ma­ude smi­led as the do­or clo­sed be­hind her nur­se­ma­id. " That's go­od. So­me­ti­mes she can be very ob­s­ti­na­te and I ha­ve to bully her a lit­tle."

  Mi­ran­da ma­de no com­ment, me­rely re­tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to the spi­ced ale, which was re­al­ly very go­od.

  "Why are you frow­ning?" Ma­ude as­ked.

  Mi­ran­da shrug­ged. "I don't know. I sup­po­se be­ca­use it was sud­denly very un­com­for­tab­le to watch so­me­one who lo­oks just li­ke me be­ha­ve in such an un­p­le­asant fas­hi�
�on."

  "What can you know of my li­fe?" Ma­ude de­man­ded. "Of how con­fi­ned and con­s­t­ric­ted it is? Of how no one ex­cept for Ber­t­he ca­res a gro­at what hap­pens to me? Only now, when Lady Imo­gen can see a use for me, they start to ta­ke no­ti­ce of me. But it's not me they're in­te­res­ted in. It's what I can do for them." Ma­ude's eyes bur­ned, her che­eks we­re flus­hed, her who­le body up­right and pul­sing with all the energy of an­ger.

  Mi­ran­da was star­t­led, not by Ma­ude's words but by the he­ar­t­felt pas­si­on that she re­cog­ni­zed as if she her­self had be­en spe­aking. Sud­denly she saw Ma­ude's li­fe as cle­arly as if she her­self had li­ved it. Im­mu­red in this vast man­si­on, sickly, be­ca­use what el­se was the­re to be, wit­ho­ut fri­ends or com­pa­ni­ons of her own age, wit­ho­ut any re­al sen­se of the vib­rant world be­yond the walls. Her li­fe held in abe­yan­ce all be­ca­use so­me­one so­me­day ex­pec­ted to ha­ve a use for her.

  Wo­uldn't she too le­arn to rely on pe­tu­lan­ce, de­fi­an­ce, op­po­si­ti­on? Mi­ran­da tho­ught. Ma­ude knew that she was me­rely to­le­ra­ted by the pe­op­le who had res­pon­si­bi­lity for her and her re­ac­ti­on had be­en to defy and op­po­se. It must ha­ve gi­ven her so­me sen­se of sa­tis­fac­ti­on, so­me sen­se of pur­po­se. At le­ast li­fe in a con­vent was so­met­hing she co­uld fight for as a vi­ab­le al­ter­na­ti­ve to the li­fe her fa­mily had de­sig­na­ted for her.

  Be­fo­re she co­uld res­pond, ho­we­ver, Ber­t­he re­tur­ned with a fo­ot­man, be­aring a la­den tray, who­se con­tents he set upon the tab­le, cas­ting a cu­ri­o­us glan­ce at Mi­ran­da, who didn't lo­ok up from her un­se­e­ing sta­re in­to the fi­re.