“My lady’s aunt, actually.”
“Of course, of course—the aunt! Oh, but that does make me feel old. So many years! And this handsome lad must be young Prince Rupert, already grown and as tall as you are! Where have the years gone?”
Reynard had heard tales about King Gonzalo, but they hadn’t prepared him for this. Everything was odd: his strange behavior, his casual dress, and the informal way that everything was said and done. Reynard couldn’t quite decide whether the man was demented or was playing some subtle game. Well, if it was the latter and his goal was to put Reynard off balance, then he’d certainly succeeded.
“I know you must be travel-weary, so I won’t keep you any longer. My steward will take you to your quarters. You can relax a bit, have something to eat, and wash away the dust of the road. The slaves will bring your belongings, of course, and help you get settled.”
Reynard bowed again but only half as low this time. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” he said.
“As for this evening . . . well, I must explain that the summer palace has no great hall. It wasn’t the custom back in the days when this great old heap of an antique ruin was built. So we usually dine in accordance with the ancient traditions of the house.”
Reynard had heard tales about this, too: how Gonzalo and his guests sprawled out on silken couches, dressed in togas like the emperors of yore. But Reynard had not believed them. Those had struck him as the sort of colorful details people feel compelled to add when they can’t resist making a good story better.
“But alas, our dining space, while extremely charming, is also very small—only room for nine, you know, which won’t do for a royal banquet. So I apologize in advance for the informality, but we’re setting things up on the landing out back, overlooking the garden. Terribly rustic, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Like shepherds,” he added with a smile.
Demented, Reynard decided as he left. No question about it.
On the way to the guest quarters, the steward filled them in on the protocol—or lack thereof—for that evening’s banquet. There would be no grand entrances according to rank, as was the common custom. They’d be dining outside, after all, so such formalities would seem contrived and artificial. And King Gonzalo preferred to get there first so he could greet his guests as they arrived.
Reynard didn’t like this at all. He was a firm believer in established tradition. It honored the great as was fitting, formalized courtesy and made things run smoothly, and spelled out exactly what was expected so everyone knew his place and what he was supposed to do. For a king to go first into his own banquet and welcome his guests—as though he were the bloody porter or something—well, it was downright offensive.
But Reynard kept his irritation in check. He needed this alliance, however mad the king might be, not only for the obvious advantages it would bring, but to prevent his cousin Alaric from getting it himself.
The balance between their two kingdoms, Austlind and Westria, had been tilting in Reynard’s favor for some time. Alaric lacked the support of his noblemen, who thought him too young and inexperienced to rule. There’d been plots and counterplots, with pretty much everyone agreeing that the boy needed a regent to run the kingdom for him but with no one agreeing as to who that person should be. Reynard had hoped—no, fully expected—that a nice little civil war would soon break out, opening the door for him to step in and solve everything.
But then, in early autumn, the balance had begun to tilt in the other direction. Lord Mayhew—heretofore Alaric’s bitterest enemy and the chief conspirator—had inexplicably gone over to the king, urging the rest of the nobles to follow his example. By winter all the feathers had been smoothed, control had been reestablished, and Mayhew was busy building the king’s forces into a formidable and disciplined army.
It was true that Alaric had never shown any inclination to attack Reynard—but then he hadn’t had much of an army before. Now he did; and if he aligned his kingdom with Cortova (as was rumored he might), and married the princess, and got himself an heir—well, that would be the end of it for Austlind.
That’s why, these past eight months, Reynard had been courting the reluctant king of Cortova. He’d even agreed to come and negotiate in person—an outrageous demand on Gonzalo’s part—and had resigned himself to paying a king’s ransom if he must and making whatever concessions might be required, just so long as he got that alliance and Alaric did not.
Now, apparently, he would also have to go to this farce of a banquet—where they’d eat like bloody shepherds in a bloody meadow—and do his very best to be gracious, maybe even obsequious if it was absolutely called for. He just bloody well hoped they wouldn’t have to eat on the ground.
As it turned out, they would not.
Shortly after sunset, a small group of slaves, all dressed in the black-and-gold livery of Cortova and all of them carrying lanterns, appeared at the door of Reynard’s guesthouse. They had come to escort the party from Austlind to the king of Cortova’s humble banquet.
After a rather lengthy walk—through the north gate, down a series of long colonnades, turning left, then right, then left again—they finally came out onto a wide stone landing overlooking an expansive garden. There, trestle tables sufficient for any banquet in any great hall had been set up in the conventional U-shaped pattern, with a high table in the center and a long row of tables extending on either side. All the tables were draped in sea-blue damask, just pale enough to reflect the light of at least five hundred candles but dark enough to set off the countless arrangements of white roses, one set between each of the many candlestands. A silver platter rested at every place, along with a silver-gilt goblet, a silver spoon, and one of those newfangled forks that were all the rage these days.
Overhead, in the clear evening sky, the stars were just coming out. Below, in the garden, hundreds of little lanterns hung from the trees. And in the dark places beyond the lanterns’ reach, fireflies danced like fairies in the night. Soft music filled the air around them, seeming as much a part of the natural world as the sighing of the wind in the branches and the distant crashing of waves on the shore.
As Reynard and his party arrived, slaves stepped forward to offer them wine: chilled in ice that had been carried down from the mountains, served in cups of frosted green glass, clearly more than a thousand years old. Reynard had treasures of his own back in Austlind, but nothing compared to this! And how many of those cups were there, anyway? There had to be a hundred at least. Why, some ancient emperor might have drunk from the very cup Reynard now held to his lips. Truly, it took his breath away.
Obviously he would have to rethink Gonzalo. For those antique cups were more than just the usual display of wealth and taste. They’d been brought out to send a subtle but unmistakable message: that when those glasses were made, Gonzalo’s forebears were masters of the known world, builders of great cities, aqueducts, and bridges—while Reynard’s ancestors were little more than savages living in wattle huts, wearing animal skins, and smearing their bodies with blue woad and grease before going, half naked, into battle.
God’s bones, Reynard thought; he’d have to keep his wits about him!
And now here came Gonzalo himself, smiling warmly, dressed in a toga of the finest wool, soft as silk, trimmed with delicate embroidery. And in harmony with his theme of ancient grandeur, his crown was a laurel wreath of beaten gold studded with pearls.
“Welcome to my hall,” he said, all hint of buffoonery gone. “I hope you are well rested and have come with a healthy appetite. I have planned a very special dinner in your honor.”
And suddenly it all seemed terribly funny to Reynard: the comical way Gonzalo had played him for a fool and how easily he’d fallen for the joke, and now this astonishing dinner out under the stars with people dressed in ancient costumes and invisible musicians playing from somewhere, probably behind a boxwood hedge. And with the hilarity came a rush of warmth and high spirits.
Reynard clappe
d his host on the shoulder with a manly hand, then leaned back his head and roared with laughter.
“Like shepherds!” he said, and laughed again.
3
The Princess and Her Mirror
THE PRINCESS LOOKED INTO her mirror. A face of astonishing beauty gazed back. But Elizabetta didn’t smile at her own reflection. She already knew the effects of the many expressions she had at her command and when to bring them out to best advantage, just as a swordsman knows the variations on attack, parry, and riposte and how they can be used most effectively in combat.
And that’s exactly how she thought of her beauty: as a weapon, nothing more. She certainly hadn’t earned it, any more than she’d arranged to be born the daughter of a king. But while she took no credit for her great good fortune, she was perfectly aware of the power it gave her to achieve her goals—so long as she didn’t fall into the trap of self-admiration. That would be like turning her own weapon on herself.
This was rare wisdom indeed. She’d learned it from her mother long ago.
The princess had been only six when the queen, near death from childbed fever, had summoned her daughter to the royal bedchamber one last time. Betta remembered how dark and close the chamber had been that day—though it was late afternoon, the shutters had been drawn over all the windows, and the room was dimly lit by candles.
“I’m dying, sweet child,” the queen had said, reaching out to take Betta’s hand. “I’m so very sorry. But before I go, I have a special gift for you.”
Elizabetta’s eyes had darted nervously around the room, wondering which of her mother’s many treasures it might be.
“It’s not that kind of gift, dearest,” the queen had said. “This is something far more precious—hard-won knowledge that will prepare you for the years that lie ahead. I meant to wait till you were older and more capable of understanding, but it seems I cannot. So you must listen carefully and remember what I say. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” Elizabetta had said in a small, small voice, wringing her hands and trying not to cry.
“I know that you’ll be sad when I’m gone. There are already tears in your eyes, just at the thought of losing me. Is that because I’m beautiful and you won’t get to look at my face anymore?”
The princess had blinked in confusion.
“Is that the reason?”
“I don’t want you to go away,” she’d said, sobbing now, “because you’re my mother, and I love you.”
“Because I’m beautiful?”
“No.”
“Because I’m the great queen of Cortova?”
“No.”
“Thank you, child. Those were the right answers. You love me because you know I love you. Because I hold you in my arms and make you feel safe. Because I tell you stories, and kiss your head, and make you laugh. Because I listen to you when you have something to say and treat you with respect, even though you’re just a little child.”
The princess nodded. That was exactly why she loved her mother.
“Good. You understand what love is. Hold on to that; you’re going to need it.
“Throughout your life, people will admire you and praise you. They’ll seek you out because your father is the king, and they’ll gasp with pleasure when you enter a room because you’re such a beauty. But don’t for a minute think that means they love you—or even like you, for that matter. They might, or they might not, once they get to know you, once they’ve seen how you behave in different situations and are able to judge whether you’re clever and kind or shallow, selfish, and vain. But few will bother to notice those things.
“Betta, the hard truth is that those people aren’t interested in you at all—only in what you can do for them. They’ll bask in the reflected glory of being the princess’s friend, they’ll hope you will further their advancement, and they’ll enjoy the many delights of life at court. But if you were reduced to poverty and lost your looks, they wouldn’t give you a second glance.”
The princess had been confused by these words. Was her mother angry? Had she done something wrong?
“I know all this because I was a princess, too. And when I was young, I was almost as lovely as you. I thought very highly of myself and spent a shocking amount of time gazing into mirrors, smiling and posing.”
She made a cloying face to demonstrate. But she was weak from the fever, so the effect was more grotesque than she’d intended.
“I loved being petted and praised. I thought I deserved it, you see. I thought it was real. Then one day I overheard a conversation between two of the court ladies. They were talking about me. They laughed and called me ridiculous. I blush to think how shocked I was. Truly, I had no idea. I honestly believed that everyone admired me . . . because I was a princess and because I was pretty.
“So this is my gift to you, dearest Betta, wisdom I paid for with my tears: If you want to be truly loved, then you must be worthy of love. If you want to be fairly praised, accomplish something.”
Betta had cried herself to sleep that night, and early the next morning she’d been told her mother was dead. Weeks later, after the queen had been laid to rest with all due ceremony, the king had given his daughter a pretty little fruitwood box inlaid with ivory and gold—a gift from her mother, he’d said; the queen had particularly wanted Betta to have it.
Later, in her room, the princess had opened the box and found the real gift inside: her mother’s dying words all written out, so Betta would never forget a single thing.
She’d read that letter many times since then. And as each year passed, she’d understood it better, picking up subtleties that had been beyond a child of six, or ten, or thirteen. Now, as she faced the greatest challenge of her life, Elizabetta armed herself with her mother’s wisdom, planned her attack, chose her weapons, and honed them to a glistening edge.
She’d lived her whole life at court—not only in Cortova, but also in Slovarno, where she’d been crown princess for a year and five months, and later for a very short time in Westria. And so she’d seen every possible form of feminine adornment—from silks, lace, velvets, furs, feathers, veils, and jewels to steeple caps, false hair, kohl-lined eyes, plucked brows, rouged cheeks, and whitened skin. Reynard and his son would have seen them, too, a thousand times and more.
She would give them something altogether different.
“But my lady, are you sure you wouldn’t rather wear the gold chiton with the lavender palla?”
“Because—?”
“It’s so very grand and beautiful.”
“And with a chiton I must wear eight fibulae, not just two. So much shinier—all that gold.”
“It is a special occasion, my lady.”
“Estella, when you become a princess and have a royal banquet to attend, you may wear my gold chiton. Until that time, please bring me the saffron peplos. I’ll line it with cream and wrap it with pale blue—the palla without the fringe, please.”
“Of course, my lady. I’m sure you’re right. Why cover your beautiful arms with a great, bulky chiton?”
“Why indeed?”
Simple though the peplos was, the princess had given careful thought to her choice. She was aware, for example, that the saffron silk was exceptionally fine; it would catch the candlelight and glow like cloth-of-gold. And the pale blue mantle, when draped across her chest and over her shoulder, would draw the eye up to her face.
Now she sat before her mirror, not smiling, while Giulia began to oil and brush her hair as she always did.
“What do you think?” the slave asked. “Shall we build it very high to set off the diadem? Side coils would show it off nicely as well, but they’re so common now.”
“No. Just draw it back into a single braid, rather loose, if you will.”
“But that’s for every day, my lady, not for suitors!”
“Nevertheless . . .”
Giulia thought her mistress must surely have gone mad. But she did as she was told, smoothing back the princess’
s long, thick hair, then dividing it into three equal sections and deftly weaving the strands into a heavy braid. When she had finished, she fastened the end with a white silk ribbon to which she pinned a small golden ornament: a lion with tiny emerald eyes. Perhaps the princess didn’t notice. At any rate, she didn’t object.
“Now,” said Estella, kneeling beside the princess with the jewelry coffer open in her hands. “Which necklace will you wear, my lady?”
Giulia shot her a warning look, which Estella failed to notice. “May I suggest—?”
“No, Estella, you may not. I’ll wear the small pearl earrings and the diadem. Nothing else.”
“No necklace?”
“What did I just say?”
“But why, my lady? Merchants’ wives in Pelenos wear ten times more jewelry than that!”
Claudia, the elderly freedwoman who ran the princess’s household and had charge of all the slaves, had been listening to this in silence from her special chair. Now she removed Leondas, who’d been purring contentedly in her lap, rose ponderously to her feet, and drew the young slave aside.
“My dear,” she said gently, “I can see that you mean well, but the princess knows exactly what she wants.”
“Yes, but—”
“Tell me, Estella—when you saw those merchants’ wives in Pelenos, what did you really see?”
“I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”
“What do you recall? Could you describe one of them to me right now?”
“I . . . well, there was this particular necklace; it had three gold chains of varying lengths so that the top one held the whole thing together; then the next one hung below it, you see, making a nice little curve, like this; and then the longest one—”
“I can imagine it. What else?”
“Well, it all came together in the middle, where there was this very large ruby drop with pearls all around it.”
“You were very observant, Estella. Now describe the lady who wore it.”
The girl blinked, embarrassed.
The Princess of Cortova Page 2
