prepared. I will go out to Saint Peter’s to pray among the tombs.”
That island monastery floating in the bay is one of few places a king might find true peace. “And, Nicolas, you will accompany me.” This much, surely, Christian can allow himself. They will pray together on their knees.
Lord Nicolas smiles. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
I have been disappointed to discover that the life of a court — dazzling as it is with jewels, soft with velvet, gleaming with gold wires — is so often ugly. Among the apron wearers, especially, there is a hunger that cannot be satisfied in the kitchens and dining halls.
The palace teaches us all to want more than we can ever have. A little wealth, a bit of luxury, some measure of happiness such as the poets describe in their sonnets or the actors in their plays. We do foolish things to satisfy a fraction of our desire: We pilfer a sweetmeat here, a scrap of silk there — I once took a piece as big as my hand, to stroke at night while trying to fall asleep; it in turn was stolen from me the next night. We have relations with nobles who offer little more than the fleeting feel of a jewel beneath the hand or a case of Italian Fire. We labor till we lose our eyesight in fine work, our fingers in rough.
When my father told me, “You must do your best,” all of these facts were contained in his simple words.
My next interview with Lord Nicolas takes place in the afternoon. I give him my obedience in the same manner as before, kneeling by the desk in the casemates where food and miscreants are stored and marveling again at how much wealth I can hold in my hand: a lord and his jewels, a king’s ransom. Enough to buy a house and shop in some nice district or to start a new life in a foreign land.
I force my mind to focus on the order in which he identified his jewels: emerald, turquoise, ruby, pearl, turquoise . . . thrilling to me, and some compensation for the act I reluctantly perform; but to him, guardians against disease and poison. I know that amber is believed to cure almost every illness, from a cold to the pains of teething; rubies are for strength and help the wearer avoid resentment when caring for others. Emeralds attract love. Pearls bring good luck or bad, depending on how willing the oyster was to give up his treasure.
I count the bumps with my fingers, trying to think what good each one might bring me — that emerald might draw Jacob back or grant me some other love; that pearl might forgive and bestow something wonderful . . . But if we all make our own luck, as my mother used to insist, I will need to please Nicolas in some other way. My wrist is growing tired.
I do wish that, like a story’s noble seducer, he might think to offer me some wine, or perhaps a lump of cake to remove the bitter taste that being with him leaves in my mouth. A little coin to add to my future. Of course, such a thing would make me a true whore rather than a member of the angel army.
So I keep at my task. Imagining what wonders lie beneath his thready scars and how they might make the refrain to a melancholy song (
O! for she was a dutiful girl . . . Ruby, turquoise, emerald, and pearl . . .
), I use my fingertips to tickle each jewel in the order that my mind rehearses it.
But Nicolas stops me, slapping my hand away. “Enough. Your skills are not up to the task tonight.”
I draw back as if he’s stung me. The little bird pecks hard.
“Alors.”
Nicolas tucks himself into his breeches. He is in a poor temper. “On to our true business. Ava Mariasdatter, what news do you have for me today?”
“I . . .” Hesitate. I can’t tell him that the one rumor I have uncovered is about Nicolas himself, or rather his family. He once had a father and mother, as we all have done, and an older brother as well; but they died suddenly (some say waylaid by bandits, others a hunting accident) when Nicolas was sixteen. It was one of those surprises of which Nicolas says he is not fond
That island monastery floating in the bay is one of few places a king might find true peace. “And, Nicolas, you will accompany me.” This much, surely, Christian can allow himself. They will pray together on their knees.
Lord Nicolas smiles. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
I have been disappointed to discover that the life of a court — dazzling as it is with jewels, soft with velvet, gleaming with gold wires — is so often ugly. Among the apron wearers, especially, there is a hunger that cannot be satisfied in the kitchens and dining halls.
The palace teaches us all to want more than we can ever have. A little wealth, a bit of luxury, some measure of happiness such as the poets describe in their sonnets or the actors in their plays. We do foolish things to satisfy a fraction of our desire: We pilfer a sweetmeat here, a scrap of silk there — I once took a piece as big as my hand, to stroke at night while trying to fall asleep; it in turn was stolen from me the next night. We have relations with nobles who offer little more than the fleeting feel of a jewel beneath the hand or a case of Italian Fire. We labor till we lose our eyesight in fine work, our fingers in rough.
When my father told me, “You must do your best,” all of these facts were contained in his simple words.
My next interview with Lord Nicolas takes place in the afternoon. I give him my obedience in the same manner as before, kneeling by the desk in the casemates where food and miscreants are stored and marveling again at how much wealth I can hold in my hand: a lord and his jewels, a king’s ransom. Enough to buy a house and shop in some nice district or to start a new life in a foreign land.
I force my mind to focus on the order in which he identified his jewels: emerald, turquoise, ruby, pearl, turquoise . . . thrilling to me, and some compensation for the act I reluctantly perform; but to him, guardians against disease and poison. I know that amber is believed to cure almost every illness, from a cold to the pains of teething; rubies are for strength and help the wearer avoid resentment when caring for others. Emeralds attract love. Pearls bring good luck or bad, depending on how willing the oyster was to give up his treasure.
I count the bumps with my fingers, trying to think what good each one might bring me — that emerald might draw Jacob back or grant me some other love; that pearl might forgive and bestow something wonderful . . . But if we all make our own luck, as my mother used to insist, I will need to please Nicolas in some other way. My wrist is growing tired.
I do wish that, like a story’s noble seducer, he might think to offer me some wine, or perhaps a lump of cake to remove the bitter taste that being with him leaves in my mouth. A little coin to add to my future. Of course, such a thing would make me a true whore rather than a member of the angel army.
So I keep at my task. Imagining what wonders lie beneath his thready scars and how they might make the refrain to a melancholy song (
O! for she was a dutiful girl . . . Ruby, turquoise, emerald, and pearl . . .
), I use my fingertips to tickle each jewel in the order that my mind rehearses it.
But Nicolas stops me, slapping my hand away. “Enough. Your skills are not up to the task tonight.”
I draw back as if he’s stung me. The little bird pecks hard.
“Alors.”
Nicolas tucks himself into his breeches. He is in a poor temper. “On to our true business. Ava Mariasdatter, what news do you have for me today?”
“I . . .” Hesitate. I can’t tell him that the one rumor I have uncovered is about Nicolas himself, or rather his family. He once had a father and mother, as we all have done, and an older brother as well; but they died suddenly (some say waylaid by bandits, others a hunting accident) when Nicolas was sixteen. It was one of those surprises of which Nicolas says he is not fond
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