The Kingdom of Little Wounds (38 page)

“When I was young,” Isabel begins, “at the court of my uncle Henri, there was a beautiful fountain . . .”

As she speaks, her belly presses into Elinor’s. She feels the heir move — something he has not done for several days. To Isabel, this is proof that she is right to look after Elinor and is doing it in the best way.

“All silver,” she continues, “and quick. Alive. Our faces trembled in the surface reflection, and the falling drops dizzied us with beauty . . .”

Isabel, hearing nothing but the slosh of the maid’s cloths and buckets, takes a breath and confides shyly into the delicate darkness of Elinor’s ear, “Pleasure is that way, perhaps you know. It is the closest one ever comes to death.”

All this, and the Lump still with in me.

W
HEN Count Nicolas Bullen brings the latest sheaf of papers to Queen Isabel’s room on Epiphany, the last day of Christmas, the day her husband was entombed, he finds her abed with the upstart crow who has replaced Elinor Parfis in her household. For the first time in some days he is nonplused.

First, the Dowager is alive. Next, the other woman looks pale, if Negresses can be said to look pale. Old Queen Isabel, on the other hand, even seems to have found a new freshness; her skin glows with health, as if she has been sucking it from her friend’s veins. Isabel is feeding her black Elinor some kind of concoction from a bowl, spooning it up as if to nurse a foundling kitten. The Negresse (or Greek, as some call her) sips feebly. Her lips have turned whiter than those of a native Skyggehavner.

“I am saving Elinor’s life!” Isabel announces with a good deal more cheer than the courtiers have seen from her in recent months. “Poor, dear lady — worn out with looking after me. Now it’s my turn!”

Nicolas recovers and says, perhaps by reflex, “But, Your Highness, you must remember to make your own well-being your chief concern.” He watches another spoonful go to the Negresse’s mouth and adds, “I hope you are remembering to take your own remedies too.”

“Of course.” Isabel allows herself to show mild irritation. “But I’ve always found the best remedy for my ills is caring for someone less fortunate, as the ancient Christians used to do. Father Absolon will say so too.”

The Queen’s confessor, at the east wall with her small altar, bows his agreement. He looks uneasy.

“Charity, you see,” says Isabel. “Love. This is the basis of our faith.”

There is a crackle as Nicolas grips his papers tighter. “The child inside you —”

Isabel smiles, touching her belly. “He moves with Elinor. He responds to her.”

The courtiers behind Nicolas cough. No one is at ease in the presence of madness.

Count Nicolas says smoothly, “I’m sure you know best, Your Highness . . . Which is why I know you’ll be pleased — you must be — at the news I’ve brought.” He makes a gesture dismissing the rest of his attendants and Father Absolon, who go willingly; but he cannot clear away the sleeping dark Elinor without the assistance of at least a strong servant or two. He decides it is safe to speak, since he knows that, whether awake or asleep, she cannot.

He puts a hard cushion on the floor and climbs onto it so he can tower over Isabel. “Let us discuss this matter of importance,” he says in his soft, rich voice, “as one regent to another.”

My eyes stay close, but my lashes let through sight.

Nicolas bows so little he can and still show respect. He sound and look like that virtue which he played when I were a sugar-gift with a plum in my mouth. Justice. And this today be a masque as that last one were.

He say, “Your Grace, I seek my fellow regent’s blessing for a special project.” Now wait for Isabel response, but she say no thing, she look bored. Probably she want to feed me more.

Count Nicolas speak quick. “Here is my plan to save Skyggehavn and the rest of the land from possible invaders: I aspire to marry the Queen.”

If I be not abed all ready, I might fall down. Marry the Queen! She still be pregnant, and old, and no man’s willing choice. The Lump kick hard against my lung.

Isabel’s body is flush hot. “So soon?” I feel her move to look him straightly, feel her draw together as if she try to recall the girl she once were.

Nicolas admit, “It is early, perhaps, but we need to establish a strong political union through a prudent marriage.” He nod at the door behind where lords and pages and officers all wait. “The French betrothal proved unpopular with the council. They insist it be annulled.”

Isabel is confuse. “Betrothal? To France? I . . . King Christian is barely in the grave . . .”

Now she stop. She is the Mad Queen, but she be not stupid.

Nicolas’ voice goes gentle in a fancy way. “Your Eminence,” he say, as if he feel truly sorry to hurt another heart, “the Queen to whom I refer is Christina. Or Beatte, as she used to be called.”

Isabel tremble all cold now like white pudding. “She’s ten years old!” Then a pause, as if to wonder,
Is she?
I feel her count fingers.

Nicolas speak even gentler. “And so she is vulnerable, very vulnerable to foreign rulers and to schemers at home. As is her reign. Both must be protected.” I hear a teardrop swell in each his pale eye. He must work hard to summon tears, a snake do not make them easily. “The wedding will not take place, of course, for two or three years — as soon as she gets her courses.”

He do not flinch to talk this part of womanhood. He who may have stop
my
courses with his sloppy cruelness.

He make his case through those skinny tears. He say that at last he have found little Beatte
a consort who will secure the realm, father new kings, bring the government out from the curse left by that evil new star, promote a prosperity throughout the land,
and countless other thing that may be true but which I forget as I remind me:

This person is him self. He want to marry my Beatte, whom I have save from death. He will use on her that awful thing beneath his belly that can have planted a horrible thing in mine.

He say, “She has no father, no uncles, no brothers. She is a lamb in a land of wolves. But as her betrothed — in time her husband — I am prepared to do all that’s required to keep her safe. And happy. And free from suffering of any sort, whether it be from intrigue . . . or disease.”

At that, Isabel who have remain silent, make a whimper sound but no words. I peek one eye and see her twist the red ring to frame the stone between the knuckles. Then twist again to hide it.

Nicolas’ smile get wider. He look his usual rat-snaky self. He say like a saint with a sacred vow, “Your Eminence, I shall destroy all enemies of the Crown. As her mother, surely you want this for Christina-Beatte. As her regent, you must desire it for the good of the land. I have the contracts here; they require the regents’ signatures.”

“Say it again?” Isabel ask. She scratch at her ear like to dig the madness out. “You must say it all again.”

So Nicolas repeat him self. His voice stay slither-smooth and he mention disease once more at the end, cause be “Queen Christina-Beatte will not suffer weakness of any sort, from any source, now that she is fully under my care. Do you understand? I will protect her against
all
enemies. I have especial methods against disease.”

There be silence. Even were I truly Countess Elinor, I would not be notice at this moment unless I run at Nicolas screaming with a knife in my fist. Queen Isabel is caught by some word in Nicolas’ speech that have her wiggling like a moth stuck with a pin.

“I can’t think!” she cry at last. “May I see her? My Beatte. I would ask her wishes.”

All this make a fine fit to Nicolas’ plan.

“Your Eminence,” he say, “you
must not
think. You may have recovered a bit of health — for now — today — for which we thank the Lord and your excellent physicians. But thought is taxing to the complexion, and another bout of illness might send you . . .”

We hold breath till he go on, with out a threat, “The Queen Apparent is yet young, it’s true. So her wishes are prone to caprice, and her advisers must make decisions for her. The council seeks the assurance of your blessing now. Today. The people must know the future of their monarch is secure if the Lunedie bloodline is to be protected.”

“But the King.” Her voice shake, she hold her belly, she worry on her health and future. “There will soon be a strong, beautiful King.”

“Yes, Your Eminence, there will be.”

I guess his face to wear a smirk, may be round the eyes where he think no one might notice. Nicolas never have seen a man he think more handsome than he, and if he be not so strong in body as some, he be clever enough to make others think he is so. Now he wait, smug like a spider, standing on a cushion. It is the cushion that read
CHATTE,
I saw it when he took it from the bed. A cat.

Isabel make a choking sigh. She let Nicolas put his pen in her hand.

“Your Eminence, sign here.” He hold the contract which be laid upon a tablet such as Arthur use.

Isabel surrender. Her name scratch weak upon the paper. She say, “You are picking my children to pieces, Nicolas.”

I believe he answer, very soft, “They are in pieces already.” Or may be that is just my thinking.

Betrothal! Even if I didn’t know Count Nicolas as I do, the news would make me sick now. Christina-Beatte is far too young to bleed, and still suffering from
Morbus,
no matter what ugly Krolik says. But of course Nicolas feels he will be safe from all disease, thanks to the magic stones he carries in that ornamented scepter of his breeches.

If anyone else is enraged at the announcement that Nicolas makes as he leaves the Dowager’s chamber, that person is wise enough to smother all emotion for the time being. All, that is, but for the polite pleasure that must be expressed as they congratulate him, not only for his prudent decisions but also for his willingness to sacrifice himself for the Crown in this new way.

There is a sour taste in my mouth, even as I observe from very far away. With my bucket and my rags of invisibility.

Nicolas is gracious in accepting his friends’ attention. His face is strained, but he has managed a spectacular feat and is well aware of the fact. He thanks his congratulators with a weary smile and requests that Rafael af Hvas make plans for a betrothal feast.

In the far yards, my fellow aprons grumble:
Sweat of Saint Peter
this and
God’s collops
that. The city’s larders are near exhausted; sweet makers will have to make do with honey rather than sugar, and there won’t be more than a bullock or two within sailing distance, especially at this season; but still they must do their best, for their (our) lives depend upon making a good show. This is a celebration. Of love.

Nicolas glides around the palace like a black swan, appearing and disappearing as if by magic, always somehow everywhere.

Run the nobles’ whispers in his wake, those rumors he’s planted carefully:
A man might know all kinds of love for a woman, if he raises her up from a child to a wife.

And eventually, very quiet, comes one that he did not invent:
What love will
she
know by raising him from a count to a king?