In the Garden of Iden (Company)

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In the Garden of Iden (Company) Page 14

by Kage Baker


  “Spain.” I laughed and took a gulp of my drink. “I’ll tell you what the trouble with Spain is, señor. We read our Scripture. We discovered therein, long before the rest of you, that this God we all serve is cruel and irrational. We are made in His image, are we not? In Spain, we derive grim pleasure from dragging ourselves across the coals of His will.”

  “No!” He took my hand. “Never believe such a thing! You must understand that God is Love.”

  “Must I?” I had another drink. “That same God who sent bears to kill the little children that mocked His prophet’s baldness? That same God that slaughtered His own worshipers for trying to prevent the defilement of His carrying box? Love, you said?”

  Wind buffeted the eaves, and a fresh torrent of rain streamed down the window. We sat looking at it.

  Nicholas’s voice was quiet. “This is truly the Devil’s work: not women rolling on the floor and spitting toads, but this, the despair that you wake and sleep with.”

  I shrugged.

  “How shall I save you?” But there, look, he actually had tears in his eyes. I felt a sudden rush of affection and wished I could console him. I wished I could tell him the truth. He didn’t have to worry: I was saved, I was one of the lucky few who really would inherit the World to Come, in that wonderful faraway future where every toilet shall flush and there are cinema palaces on the moon. I was immortal, enlightened, and perfect, wasn’t I? But not Jewish. No, no, absolutely not, never, not me.

  “Don’t fear for me,” I told him. “If your God is truly what you say He is, He must forgive me. I came alive out of the Inquisition’s hand; have I not spent my time in Hell?”

  “I cannot judge you, certainly,” he replied, folding his arms. “I have never suffered as you have. I hope my soul should fare no worse, if God so chose to test me. And who can see what is to come?”

  How cold it was, the storm beating at the window.

  Nicholas went down the stairs first to make sure that no one would see me leaving his room, beckoning me down when he saw the coast was clear. He bowed to me, I curtseyed to him, and we parted.

  When I entered our room, Nefer was staring intently at the radio, which was broadcasting liturgical music. “You missed it,” she told me. “They just got married.”

  “Who?”

  “Philip and Mary.”

  “Some duenna you are.” I reached around to unlace my bodice.

  “Huh?”

  “Here I’ve been alone with a man in his room, and you didn’t even notice,” I giggled, just a bit shrilly. “Help me out of this, will you? My sleeve got torn and I—”

  “Torn?” She sat upright. “Did you—I thought I heard—”

  “Boy, who writes your dialogue?” My Shrill went up a notch toward Hysterical. “Yes! See? Mad with passion, he rent my sleeve. Turns out he’s an elbow man.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She came and helped me with the laces. “Here I am, bored out of my mind for three days, and the minute I have something interesting to listen to …”

  “Knock, knock,” said a voice outside our door. “Whisk those frilly underthings out of sight, girls, I’m coming in.”

  Enter Joseph, smiling and shaking rain out of the crown of his hat.

  “Quite a little tempest we had there.” He looked me in the eye. The sound of the choir stopped, and a voice announced, That was the Agnus Dei as performed by the choir of Winchester Cathedral. Things look pretty quiet down there by the altar right now; Their Majesties have received the Sacrament and appear to be praying. You’ll recall there was quite a stir earlier when the Prince’s new titles were announced. Supposedly they’re a wedding gift from the Emperor, though it’s popularly speculated that they are in fact a bribe to get the Prince to go through with the wedding.

  “Yes, sir, quite a little electrical disturbance,” continued Joseph. Nefer yanked off my bodice and handed it to me. I clutched it to myself in dismay.

  “I’m trying to listen to the broadcast!” she hissed at him. He raised his eyebrows at her and opened the door to his room.

  “Mendoza?” He gestured. I followed him in, hastily shrugging back into the bodice.

  “Have a seat. Have a glass of muscadel. On second thought, don’t have a glass of muscadel; you’ve been drinking burnt sack. I’ll have the glass of muscadel, and you can tell me why you’re metabolizing burnt sack in a torn bodice.” He went to a sideboard and poured from a decanter.

  “Where’d you get the muscadel?” I asked very calmly, sitting down and folding my hands. Yes, I was completely in control.

  “Master Ffrawney found it. He’s been bringing me all kinds of useful stuff to prove he’s a good Catholic. Wine. Sweetmeats. Gossip. On the subject of gossip, you want to tell Papa all about it?” He settled across from me, tasted his wine, and set it down.

  “You’re really good in this role, aren’t you?” I said, not without admiration. “You’ve really become the Spanish Intriguer. But what possible use could you have for local gossip in a place like this?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He stroked his beard. “Lots of strange stuff goes on, and it’s all interconnected, and you never know when you’ll discover something that may be useful later. Works for Miss Marple every time. Mostly, though, I get into the habit of being nosy about everything because the character I’m playing is supposed to be nosy. If I’m true to all Doctor Ruy’s mannerisms, I believe in him, and all the mortals I encounter believe in him too. Characterization is very important in the field. I don’t think you’ve exactly got a handle on that, yet.”

  “I have too,” I said hotly. “I think I’m portraying a late medieval Spanish adolescent very well.”

  “No. You are a late medieval Spanish adolescent. It’s not a role for you, not yet. You need to develop that little bit of emotional distance between yourself and the person you want mortals to see. That person is your mask; that person is the one who reacts to the things you encounter. You, yourself, don’t get emotionally involved; you let your character do all the reacting so that you, personally, never lose control. As so lamentably happened just now.”

  I fumed. He had another sip of wine.

  “So. Just what happened up there in the gallery with Master Harpole?”

  “It was your stupid explanation of the radio. Why’d you have to say it had a holy relic in it? You know how Protestants feel about stuff like that! So I was explaining how it was really something connected with your scientific research and, you know what, Mr. Smart Guy? He leaped to the conclusion that you’re a secret J-J-Jew.”

  Silence, but for some distant bishop droning out a blessing on Philip and Mary.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Joseph at last. “This was obviously where little Mendoza got excited. Dear me. And what a clever guy this Harpole is, isn’t he? Awfully good at noticing all kinds of little unusual things about people and keeping them on file in his head. So he’s built a theory around us, has he? He added two and two and came up with five, but nobody else in the house was aware there was anything to count. This is just the sort of mortal that puts a mission in jeopardy. What can we do about Master Harpole, Mendoza?”

  “I don’t know!” I snarled. “Is the Spanish Intriguer going to put poison in his ale?”

  “Nothing so crude. Speaking of drinks, who gave you the burnt sack?”

  “He got it for me,” I muttered. “And he mended my sleeve.”

  “All right, this is a good sign. And did he recoil in horror at your supposed ethnic origin? No, he obviously didn’t. What does this tell us, Mendoza? Think.”

  “He’s brilliant and tolerant and humane and ahead of his time. He’s like one of us.”

  “Well, now we know how you feel about him. And he feels—?”

  “He’s interested in me,” I guessed. “Sympathetic.”

  “Bingo. Vulnerability can be very appealing. So, what do we do about Master Harpole, Mendoza? I’ve been saying all along, in my jolly avuncular way with just a hint of the pander, that you t
wo would make the cutest couple.”

  “You have got to be crazy! I just embarrassed myself to death in front of that man.”

  “Oh. I see. All right. Forget I ever mentioned it. Say, I’ve always meant to ask you: Did you ever remember what your mortal name was?”

  “What?” I started.

  “Your name, when you were a mortal. At Santiago? We couldn’t figure out if you were so little you didn’t really know, or if you knew your name but were afraid to tell us.”

  “I really didn’t know.” Sweat broke out on my forehead.

  Joseph sipped his wine.

  “Remembering something?” he inquired.

  “No!”

  “Well. I guess we needn’t worry too much about Master Harpole. Now that I know I’m supposed to be a Rosicrucian alchemist-kabbalist, I’ll drop a few corroborating remarks here and there. Doubtless that will satisfy his curiosity. Okay? And I’m sure things will work themselves out.”

  I stayed in my room the next four days all the same. It rained steadily, so I had an excuse, but meals were awkward. Nefer brought me bread and cheese a couple of times; I could hear her downstairs, graciously informing them that Doña Rosa was indisposed, with that monolithic dignity she could summon at will. She had a good grasp of cover identity. Joseph was right: I had to work at my character more.

  But I sat on my bed and watched the rain falling forever, and I entered requisition codes at my credenza, and I ignored Joan when she came in to clean, and I listened to the radio. There was steady music all day, some of it live. There was an evening news broadcast, and a great talk show in the afternoon: one of the station staff had a mortal cover identity as a lawyer, and he’d invite his clients to talk about their lives and problems in a room rigged with microphones. Occasionally the results were hilarious. Sometimes, lying awake at night, I heard strange little electronic noises coming from Sir Walter’s room—Joseph in there with his pocketful of cryptotools, performing some secret rearrangement of Sir Walter’s insides.

  I listened for Nicholas, too. His long stride came sometimes down the hall and paused outside our door before moving slowly on. He sat up each evening late, before his bed creaked with the weight of his length settling on it. He read a lot. I wondered what he was reading now.

  The fifth morning dawned bright and clear. No help for it: this would be a great day for collecting rare specimens of variegated shepherd’s purse or green fumitory. I crept down the stairs behind Nefer, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, and so naturally everyone was assembled in the great hall and all heads turned to stare at me as I entered.

  “Why, well met, Lady Rose!” Sir Walter rose and bowed. “Are you with us again? I trust our English air hath not given you the tisick?”

  “No, I thank you, sir. I am recovered now,” I murmured.

  “Excellent well! You shall dine on oranges in the Spanish fashion.”

  Oh, God, there was a bowl of ten oranges set at my place at table. I smiled feebly.

  “Master Harpole himself hath brought them in this morning. I thought we should never get more than three together ripe at one time, but it seems the weather likes them well,” Sir Walter babbled on. I glanced up at Nicholas. I glanced away.

  Hey, Nefer transmitted sternly. These people are trying to be kind to you. Behave yourself.

  Taking your role as duenna a little seriously, aren’t you? I shot back. But she was right. “Truly I am unworthy of such care from so gracious a host, Sir Walter, but I pray you accept my wholly inadequate thanks for this abundance of orangery.” I curtseyed.

  So with my bodice dagger I peeled one and set to, and as the others sat there with eggs and oatmeal, I ate oranges until the corners of my mouth stung. Nicholas kept looking at me, but I avoided his gaze.

  Just as the meal was concluding, Master Ffrawney hurried into the room.

  “Sir Walter, there is a great party come on horseback, express to see the garden. John hath collected their pence, and they wait but for a guide—thy duty, man,” he nodded peremptorily at Nicholas, who stood up and glowered at him. “And they have been at Penshurst Place and seem to be persons of gentle birth and consequence, and—wilt thou not go, Nicholas?—and one gentleman, being a Master Darrell of Colehill, particularly wisheth to speak to you, sir, wherefore I judged it best to advise you directly.”

  “Thou didst well.” Sir Walter rose in excitement, his mustache points quivering. He practically ran for the door, then halted, conscious of the fact that he had Spaniards sitting in his dining room. “Er, Doctor Ruy, for appearances’ sake—”

  “Say not a word, my dearest friend.” Joseph rose majestically. “You shall see that Spanish discretion is as great as Spanish love of fruit. Doña Marguerita? Daughter? Let us retire. I feel an urgent need to pray.”

  “A thousand thanks,” breathed Sir Walter, and hastened away with Nicholas stalking after him. As they departed, something strange drew my eye.

  Sir Walter was taller.

  High heels on his shoes? No. No, he actually was taller, coming farther up to Nicholas’s shoulder than he had, and his movements were nimbler. I watched their retreating backs with some wonder. Joseph’s clandestine retooling was beginning to show. How about that?

  “Yes, a day of retreat and meditation will serve me well.” Joseph selected an orange from the few still in the bowl. “Master Ffrawney.” He inclined in his direction and swept from the room. Nefer rose and hurried ahead of him, doubtless hoping to catch the morning news program. I got up to follow them, but Master Ffrawney stepped before me hesitantly and bowed low.

  “Good Lady Rose,” he said. “A word in your ear, with my most profound apologies for taking such familiarity, but I must speak.”

  I felt the bridge of my nose arch just a little higher. “What meanest thou, good man?” I said with condescending grace.

  “By your leave, Lady, it is Sir Walter’s man Nicholas. In him Sir Walter is much abused, I tell you, Lady, though he harbors him out of kindness. The knave is a pernicious heretic and an obdurate Gospel reader.”

  “Something of this I had heard before,” I informed him solemnly, “and I pray hourly for his poor soul. But thou needst not concern thyself, señor. We are well aware that many in England are subject to such vice.”

  “Yea, but it is no common viciousness that is in this man, Lady.” Master Ffrawney looked over his shoulder uneasily. I stepped closer to him, suddenly interested in his story. Having satisfied himself that Nicholas was not lurking nearby, Master Ffrawney stuck out his neck and spoke just above a whisper.

  “You must know, Lady, that of late there hath been much apostasy and such like wickedness practiced here in Kent. Not only the new heresies of the German distemperature, but certain ancient ones too.” He dropped his voice still lower. “More I may not tell a virtuous maid, but there was a community of such lewd persons in these parts, young persons given to idleness and heresy, and such a one, Lady,” he looked around again, “was Nicholas Harpole!”

  Wow! “I am shocked and horrified,” I said.

  “Yea, Lady, you shall find it is so, and though he came near to being hanged for his brawling and lasciviousness, he had friends at the University who excused and huddled it up, and set him here like a viper to be nourished at Sir Walter’s bosom.” He leaned back with pursed lips, nodding.

  I was ready to die with laughter there on the spot, but I clutched my rosary and said, in most grave tones: “Now by Saint Mary and Saint James, can this be true? Was he verily given to the lusts of the flesh? Thou must understand that I am only an innocent and hath been among the blessed sisters all my days, and know nothing of the twisted sexual practices of Anabaptists.”

  Master Ffrawney drew back at the very word, and we both made the sign of the Cross.

  “The more reason, gentle Lady, that I must warn you, for you go into the garden alone with this man and there is rumor (saving your grace) you were seen abovestairs with him, though no honest man believes it. But pray, beware
this Harpole!”

  How very, very amusing. “Fear not, good man, I will heed thy timely warning. Who would have thought he was one of those vile freewillers?”

  “Aye, forsooth! I could tell you such things; but you see the sort of creature this Harpole is, do you not? You will not be deceived by his smooth speech or his politic looks. He is a very Satan in persuasion, I say.”

  “I go forth fortified by thy counsel,” I promised him. “And now, I join my dear father in prayer. Buenos días, señor.”

  I skipped up the stairs and fell through our doorway giggling. Nef was sitting hunched up on our bed with a strained expression. The radio was on, as usual.

  “You will never, never guess what I just found out!” I whooped.

  “Mendoza, this is an interview with a mortal who raises Red Alderney cows, and if you talk through it, I’ll make your life miserable for weeks.”

  “Well, pardon me.” I started to flounce out of the room, but paused. Somehow I didn’t feel like telling Joseph. I wandered over to the window instead and looked out at the bright day.

  All in the garden green, there were the mortals moving. The top of Nicholas’s biretta appeared above a hedge and traveled slowly along it until he emerged, so tall in his black robe that the visitors scurrying after him looked like dolls. Two little ladies in claret-colored velvet, four little gentlemen in their flat caps with swirling feathers. One of the little gentlemen was in heated conversation with Sir Walter. Nicholas pointed at a particularly fine old elm tree and said something about it, and everyone stared at it intently, except Sir Walter and the fourth little gentleman. I looked down on them like a goddess leaning out from Olympus.

  What a snotty child she was, the little botanist Mendoza. Also gleeful, gratified, newly self-confident, and intrigued. She’d known there was more to Nicholas than met the eye. A wimpy Bible apologist is one thing, but a dark secret anarchist with a tortured soul, participating in religious orgies—well!

  As I observed the mortals with a cool and distant smile, Nicholas suddenly lifted his head and stared straight at me. I caught my breath and backed away from the window, into the middle of the room.

 

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