by S G Dunster
“Arms up,” Guzal said, and Thessaly lifted her arms as the shimmering gold silk of the underdress fell over her figure.
At least someone gets pleasure from this, she thought, as Guzal pulled on the rich, black velvet of the overdress, cinched it tight, belted it, and then began to sew on the sleeves with quick basting stitches.
“There,” Guzal declared when she finished, then tilted her head slightly, frowning as she looked at Thessaly. “Though what we’ll do with that hair, I do not know. Perhaps a coazzoni?”
Thessaly slid her hands around the thickness of her hair—soft brown with lights of red, waving like river rapids, and blown out so thick by the ships’ wind, it’d take hours to sleek it down properly. They didn’t have hours.
“Hmm,” Thessaly said.
“We’ll give it a thousand strokes tonight,” Guzal promised her as she set to pulling it painfully back, ripping it into three chunks, and braiding so tightly that Thessaly’s nape prickled.
“What a treat,” Thessaly replied.
Guzal gave her braid a twitch, bringing Thessaly face to face with her. “Stop it,” She said. “You get to dine in a king’s court tonight. Think of that.”
“It’s not much fun,” Thessaly said. “The men talk of wars and mathematics, and the women of God and the thread count of the cloth they bought at market.”
“You’d rather the mathematics,” Guzal laughed. “Mayhap you can settle in next to a great lord and listen along, smiling when you know a good point is made.”
Thessaly brought her hands together under her chin, palms together like the pictures of Saint Maria in the small chapel on Goa. “My Lord, how can I possibly manage to praise you enough for such a well-reasoned argument as you have just made?” She mimicked the soft, cultured tones of the Governor’s wife on Goa—a woman she truly despised. Soft in tone, sharp in words when one’s back was turned.
“Oho,” Thessaly went on, funning in a deeper, blustery tone, “Oho. We’ve a shrew among us! Mayhap I can tame her with the flat of my hand, or the length of my . . . sword.” She paused just before the last word and grinned at the flush that spread over Guzal’s face. Guzal quickly went around, finishing the braid and binding it with ribbons strung with pearls. Wordlessly, her eyes flashing hurt and an edge of accusation, she held up a mirror.
Thessaly saw a slender face, toasted by sun to golden-brown, with eyes that blazed the color of amber. Her hair, reddish in the candlelight, gleamed against the creamy splendor of the pearls. The black shadows of the dress made her seem paler, almost properly so, though her hands would never be anything but brown.
She turned and, feeling guilty, gave Guzal a bow. “I spoke inelegantly,” she said. “I apologize.”
Guzal’s face immediately regained its cheer and merriment. She tipped her head. “You are vexed,” she said. “Nervous. It is to be expected. You are forgiven. Now go,” she said, swatting Thessaly on the rump, “and try to keep your speech as comely as possible, or you may end up the wrong side of a… sword.”
Thessaly gaped at her. Guzal was very chaste in speech; the saucy return was most unlike her. Thessaly took in her impish expression for just a moment and went out the door feeling, oddly, a little better.
It’s the storm, she thought, feeling the immediate tingle of it, edging closer. It’s got us all fired up.
She stood on the small deck there, at the head of the sweeping mahogany staircase that led down to the main deck.
Land was approaching fast. The gleam of flickering candlelight, lamplight, spread out before her like stars, the dark mass of land a mystery where she was used to clear horizons, sky meeting water. Loose.
The five men to go ashore were all dressed elegantly. Bellccior grinned gappily at her, his dark bush of hair pulled back into a great pouf, a silver brocade coat and gleaming white shirt warring with the blood-red of his breeches. His hose were perfectly smooth, and he had on new boots, oiled and folded down from the knee. His scabbard fittings were polished to a blinding shine and the hilt of his sword, curving filigreed silver, made the scarred rough hands magnificent in contrast.
Anrrique, her cousin and her father’s clerk, was cloaked in pale green velvet, and looked like a papyrus reed with the bloom of his dusty brown hair flowing down over the collar. Jacome, the pilot, was fitted out in silver embroidered silk, and had meticulously trimmed his hair to the courtly bob and heavy bangs that men styled lately. His beard was close-shaven, a dusting of red against his tanned cheeks.
He’ll be bedding some susceptible court-lady tonight, Thessaly thought, seeing the flash of his carefully tended teeth as he spoke to her father.
Her father.
Antonio was magnificent in his captain’s coat, fitted with gold, cuffed with brocade. Black velvet, like her. Gold lace, like her—matching her on purpose, Thessaly knew. He’d cut his hair as well, and the bob suited him ill compared to the flowing dark mane he usually wore, but he was still fiercely handsome. A towering presence there on the main part of his deck, his crew gathered around him in their finery.
What do we need of a king’s court, Thessaly wondered, descending the stairs, when the court of the Espada must be twice as well-apportioned at least? And richer besides, with all the sea our holdings.
“You are a queen in beauty,” her father said, tucking her velvet-clad arm through his, fluffing the gold puff of her silk underdress which peeked through the velvet slashes of her sleeves.
“Aye,” Anrrique agreed, giving Thessaly a look of deep admiration. The others made heartfelt noises of approval, sending heat into Thessaly’s face, twisting her gut still further.
The small boat that would take them to shore slid down into the water, and the plank lowered to it. Thessaly’s father stepped down into it and held out his hand for her.
She paused a moment. Looked out at the mass of land. The lights.
“Daughter,” he said, in almost a growl, and she quickly grabbed his hand and allowed herself to be helped in.
They made for shore. The waves rocked the small boat, and Thessaly closed her eyes for a moment as the distance between them and the three ships of the fleet Espada grew, the magnificent flagship glowing in the warm light of the lanterns lit along the rail. She saw Cerdic’s pale form at the prow, watching. She caught a movement. It might have been a hand, lifted.
She took a deep breath and turned her face to shore.
2
K
ing Manuel’s court, as Thessaly remembered it, was not as colorful as the Milanese courts of the Sforzas. Smaller, more sober, much more religious and contained; fierce with pride. The men took themselves seriously and the women generally stayed quiet. In Milan, a few great women would debate fiercely across the table with scholars and lecturers at feasts and then dance as furiously on the floor, their Lords looking on with a combination of approval and alarm. By comparison, King Manuel’s court had been like church.
King Joao’s court is a bit more interesting, Thessaly thought as they entered the yawning stone hall, walls lined with long banners and tapestries, lit by a thousand flickering candles in sconces and hung from the round chandeliers above. The son of Manuel is more modern than his father was. This is good, perhaps.
Men and women were laughing along the great table, talking animatedly. Dogs and children played on the floor. The serving maids wore silk as well as linen, and this was more finery than the court could afford when Thessaly had been among them as a child.
She scanned the faces carefully looking for those she might recognize, and with a start, recognized Isabella, her childhood playmate.
Golden hair, golden eyes. Lovely curved cheeks, molded chin, winged brows, high, pale forehead. Her hair was caught back in a jeweled net, massed at the back of her head. She wore amber colored velvet and gold silk, and she glowed like honey. She’d been beautiful at seven, and at nineteen, she dazzled.
Her eyes met Thessaly’s and widened. She stood, upsetting the small dog who had been nestled in her lap
. She clapped her hands together, a delighted smile spreading over her face. “Thessaly d’Ainestille,” she called out over the noise. “What has it been? Ten years?”
“Twelve,” Thessaly declared, feeling immediately easier, then trying to draw in a deep breath and choking a bit as the stays on her front bit into her chest.
She had the attention of the whole room now—she, her father, and his ship’s officers. All stared at them, faces reflecting curiosity, calculation, and avid interest on the part of some of the ladies.
Joao rose and nodded. He had jowls and furry brows. He wore a collar of white ermine and a cloak of blue velvet. Thessaly could see immediately he was jollier than his father had been. But also, perhaps, more willful. She watched as her father took in those same details, as the look of calculation bloomed in his dark hooded eyes, as he waited, standing at attention, to be recognized.
A long, tense pause. Expectation. Joao’s keen gaze. “Vasco,” he said finally, his voice booming across the stone hall. “You are welcome. You have tonnes of spice for me in your holds, I hope?”
“Many tonnes,” Antonio replied, tipping his head in a regal bow, tightening his hold on Thessaly’s arm for a moment.
He’s nervous, Thessaly thought with surprise.
“And also civet,” Antonio continued, “India silk, porcelain, Alexandria-woven cottons, and curious tokens and beasts. Gifts of the savages along the horn. Also this,” he said, nudging Thessaly away and bowing his head in her direction. “My most precious jewel.”
“All brought for our pleasure and diversion?” The king looked Thessaly over, his gaze lingering for a moment on the rounds of her bust, held up on display by the tight stays, then continued down the length of her. He bowed deeply. “Such lovely things are almost too painful to behold,” he said. “Come. Sit at my right hand, Maid Vasco.”
Thessaly obeyed, noticing that her father moved stiffly and followed close. Isabella and the long line of seated people at the table shifted two chairs for them.
Joao, King of Portugal, Thessaly thought as she settled next to him, their sleeves almost touching.
His breath smelled of wine. His hairy fingers were loaded with fiery blue gems. Thessaly had played with him and Isabella both, as a child. Isabella had always been a beauty; Joao, more dough-faced though with sharp, keen eyes and clever brows. He was still doughy, but the sharpness and keenness had grown, turning to a fierce, ready intelligence that Thessaly knew was not to be taken lightly. His jutting chin was now covered by a bush of a dark beard, but Thessaly knew the sardonic curl of the mouth hidden by it.
He watched her as she watched him for a moment, and then gracefully offered her his cup of wine. She took it and drank. It was port, of course, and as fine and thick and fruity as any she had drunk. She gave him a nod of thanks, feeling the warmth of the spirits creep up her throat and flood her face.
A boy came to her side with a bowl and cloth, and she washed her hands delicately, taking care not to splash any on the king.
As the chatter rose again, and conversations bloomed around, Thessaly could feel any time his eye found her, like a shock of lightning floe. A little uneasy again, she turned to look at her friend. She leaned across her father’s lap to speak to Isabella. “I thought you’d be in Charles’ court.”
Isabella smiled, rolled her eyes a little. “The man doesn’t like to be told,” she said. “He refuses to see the good offered him, but he shall come around. That little girl he’s betrothed to won’t soon give him issue, and he’s a man of hot blood.”
Antonio spoke up, addressing Joao, who turned a wary eye on him immediately. “Would that be in danger, then?”
For a moment there was tension—Joao staring into Antonio’s fierce weathered face with a look that promised chastisement. And then his cheeks rose, his eyes gleamed. “We shall do all right, Vasco. As long as the spices flow in, our alliances matter not. Only that we should make one alliance, or the other,” he waved his finger. “As my fair sister says, waiting is often the best answer.” He gestured to Isabella gracefully, but the stare he fixed on her held chastisement and a hint of warning.
We’re not trusted, Thessaly thought. Not yet. She took a deep breath, longing to shake off the frissons of tension that jounced all over her periphery like she would if she were alone. But it would be a strange thing to do in this company. Passion, she thought. Fire. Floes, singeing the skin of every courtier here. She was surprised they could not feel it. They went on eating, talking, passing bowls and cups and platters, directing glares, stares, envy, strife in streams of heat across the room at one another.
Thessaly passed around the platters, taking a claw of lobster and a few steamed mussels, a crust of bread and a dollop of Feijoada, the bean stew she remembered liking as a child.
It was good. Heady. The wine, the rich food. After months of fish and ship’s biscuits and salted meat, with the occasional lime to suck, it settled oddly in her stomach. But she couldn’t stop eating.
The chatter in the room ebbed and swelled. Thessaly’s father engaged in conversation with a man across the table, grey haired with a velvet pouf on his head. They were speaking the language of mathematics, a language Thessaly had not yet learned, but wished to. She watched the back-and-forth avidly, trying to glean anything, and flinched when Isabella reached across Antonio to take her hand.
“How have you been, dear sister?” She asked, her eyes glowing. She nodded at Joao. “My brother’s worried I’ll speak secrets to you. But I’ve missed you so. And I long to hear of what your life has been. You must have had such adventures since you left court. Tell me?”
Thessaly smiled and took the hand for a moment, warm and soft. “It has been a great deal of different things, one after another,” she said. “After leaving court here I traveled to Milan--”
“Milan,” Isabella hissed, her eyes moving in the direction of King Joao. “I envy you. What fashion is there! What style in those courts. Are they very different from this?”
“Very,” Thessaly said emphatically, glancing over the women—dark clad, with headdresses like the golden crowns in religious paintings, all smiles, demure conversation, and graceful passing of dishes.
“Papa Vasco,” Isabella added sweetly to Antonio, “May I move in beside your daughter so we can prattle away about velvets and music? I hate to talk over you.”
He obligingly rose, and Isabella settled in next to Thessaly. She was delicate; almost as small as a child, and as graceful as Thessaly remembered. “A fine occupation for such lovely blossoms,” Antonio said, giving Thessaly an approving look.
Isabella aimed a wry look in Thessaly’s direction when he turned away, and Thessaly snorted, muffling it with fist.
Thessaly told her of the courts—the great feasts, the music. The fashions as she’d seen them last, which she warned her friend had been five years before.
“Five years late, that’s where we are anyway,” Isabella sighed, “so you’ll be right on the stitch for us, in this tiny little backward country.” She murmured the last of it, glancing over her shoulder at her brother. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. I’ll be executed for treason. We’ll have music tonight. Will you dance?”
“Perhaps,” Thessaly said. She glanced around at the crowded tables. “In Milan, ladies can at times choose their dance partners.”
“Not so, here. We exist to blossom and be picked.” She gave Thessaly another smile and patted her hand, giving it a squeeze of reassurance.
Thessaly returned the pressure, grateful for the support.
The music swelled soon after, and as Isabella predicted, men rose, bowing and holding out a hand to the lady of their choice. Isabella was immediately asked and gave her head a little tilt in graceful acceptance before she rose and began to circle the room stiffly, formally, steps careful and exact.
Everyone, Thessaly thought dully, watching the dark figures swirl around the room. Stiff. Formal, exact. Very careful, treating the ladies like china.
I
sabella was beautiful. More beautiful than anyone at any court Thessaly had seen. She is going to be queen, Thessaly thought. The certainty of it fell on her after she thought it, with a tingle of loose floes—breath, for prophecy.
It shall be, then, Thessaly thought, and shivered. These things were burdens. These predictions. Was she sure she wanted to choose magicks loose?
Every magick has its burden, she told herself firmly. You’ve already chosen.
She watched her lovely friend circle, so mesmerized, so in her own thoughts that she started badly when a hand interrupted her vision.
“A turn around?” A low voice asked.
Thessaly studied the hand for a moment. It was well-boned, strong-muscled, and pale as a lily. She looked up at the face that accompanied it and saw a man with a peaked face, watery eyes, and a great hook of a nose.
For a moment she was befuddled, on the cusp of saying no before she realized that would not do. She was a lady now, and ladies did not get to choose who they danced with. Not here in Joao’s court.
She stood, giving the requisite little head tip, and allowed herself to be led onto the floor.
She’d learned dancing thanks to the Goan governor’s wife, though this precise, standoffish pavane was not like anything she’d done in real life. She managed to match the steps of her partner well, and he complimented her, tipping his head toward her.
He complimented and, for just a moment, managed to find her bodice in his grip rather than her hand.
That pale hand on the dark velvet of her bust. She almost thought she imagined it, so quickly was it rested there, then taken away. She could see in his eyes, though, that it was no accident, and there would be no apology.
She stopped still. The woman in line behind her cleared her throat gently, prodding her to move.
Thessaly moved. She stepped out of the line and stalked back to her seat, flinging herself down in her chair, folding her arms tightly around her chest.
The man gaped and his brows drew together.
Isabella, still in the dance, glanced at her, concern drawing her features wide. She shook her head and gestured for Thessaly to rejoin the dance.
