The Kingdom of Little Wounds

by Susann Cokal

  “Never you mind,” says Isabel, looking down at what’s become of her gown. “I’ll say it’s all mine. Everyone knows you haven’t been sick a day in your life.”

  Isabel bustles around Elinor’s corner, wishing the heir would not get in her way. She can’t hoist Elinor (though Elinor is small) into bed herself; she will need help for that. It will be much easier to tend Elinor once she lies among the mattresses.

  “It’s not good to be ill in this court,” Isabel confides. “A suffering soul is easily dismissed.”

  Elinor’s throat makes a little sound, half whimper and half growl. Her eyes are nearly blue with pain.

  “Shhh, shh, sh,” murmurs Isabel. “Do not fret, a maid shall come.”

  One, two, three, and almost done.

  To say that I’m surprised by what I find when summoned to the Queen’s chamber would be to underdress my feelings. There is the Queen, on her feet but about to tumble over any moment, bent down and tugging at a figure on the floor — Midi Sorte! — who I realize quickly is the one who’s matted the rushes and carpets with a marshy substance fouler than anything I remember from the Great Sickness. It’s spattered down the Queen’s gown, too, and the bed curtains; it sizzles against the bricks of the fire nook.

  “I have been unwell,” Isabel announces with what I might call pride. “Do you see how terrible it’s been? Poor Elinor is quite overwhelmed with looking after me.”

  Elinor.

  I stare at Midi Sorte, and she refuses to stare back. Indeed, I wonder if perhaps she can’t; she does appear very sick indeed, so sick that I break etiquette and ask a question of Midi.

  “Should I fetch one of the physicians?”

  Midi manages some sort of grunt that could mean yes or no. Her answer doesn’t matter; Isabel decides, “Oh, goodness, we have everything we need here, don’t we, Elinor? I understand her better than any doctor. Unless” — she sacrifices some measure of pride —“Elinor would like Candenzius to examine her.”

  This time Midi’s grunting is clearly refusal; violent refusal. One might almost suspect Candenzius of having been the lover who jilted her, she is so opposed to having him summoned.

  Isabel beams. She’s proud to be chosen over a man (both her favorite and, in this case, her rival) trained by the great academies to the south. And maybe she really can understand Midi Sorte’s strange noises. Who but one madwoman could make sense of another?

  “Help me lift her,” Isabel commands, and at her direction I hoist Midi by the armpits and drag her toward the bed, never mind the pain in my own bones. The Queen follows behind, carrying the hat that Midi has been wearing as Elinor.

  Midi moans. I ease her down to the floor again, where she clutches her belly. The dye from her silk dress has melted in her perspiration and stained my hands a sticky black. I dart a look at the Queen to see what I’m to do next.

  Isabel drops the hat and holds out her arms in a cross. “You need to undress us. Both of us. We need a washing and fresh linens.”

  It’s clear that she expects me to do everything by myself, but nonetheless I ask, “Should I tell the ladies to come in and wait on Your Serene Highness?”

  “Pas de besoin. There is no need. After you’re done, Elinor and I will take care of each other.” She looks pleased at the idea.

  Of course this is ridiculous, but the last thing I should do now is to argue with the Dowager. So I wait on them both: I strip away the filthy clothes — the fabric tears where it’s been soaked — and swipe my rags across their naked skins.

  Which is how I discover what’s made Midi so ill.

  The belly that she tries to shield is swelling outward, round and hard as a ripening plum. Just enough to make herself look stocky, which is how she managed to keep the secret from her dorter-mates and then, later, from the ladies who also wait on the Dowager. She cowers from me.

  Four months, I think, or maybe five. I remember that time in the dorter when I held her head, and I feel stupid for not realizing it then. Particularly when she started writing Grammaticus’s name.

  A stab of jealousy makes me hot and sick myself — thinking of what Arthur gave to Midi instead of me, and at a time when he still spoke of marriage to me. He gave her a baby; he gave her his heart. But in the Queen’s presence, I force myself to keep wiping and rinsing, squeezing the rags instead of Midi’s neck. Then I get to the space between her legs, and my cloth comes back red. A strange red, not the metallic slickness I know so well from the monthlies; more a gluey streak that stays on the rag’s surface.

  And . . . I close my eyes.

  . . . I’m on the square of Helligánds Kirke, awash in the howls of the madmen and the hiss of the sword swallower. The pain, my pain. The neighbors’ whispers swept along by the red flood that left its stain on the stones of the square . . . A stain that was of my body, not some foreign paste that a desperate girl might use.

  With the tears pricking at my eyes, I discover an unexpected well of pity in myself. What else is there for Midi to do? She has even less recourse than I did.

  So I perform a small kindness, take care to hide the greasy rags from Isabel. I toss them into the fire, which I build up to a blaze in order to warm the two women I’ve somehow managed to tuck together into the white-curtained bed, Midi with a wad of dry linen between her legs. I wonder if a pregnancy as far along as hers will miscarry slowly or if there will be a sudden rush that reveals her secret.

  Isabel puts her arms around Midi, or as close to around as she can manage, cuddling her as a mother does a child. “Bring us some wine,” she orders me. “We need refreshment.”

  I don’t even begrudge Midi this service. In fact, I make both a prayer and a wish for her as I curtsy. I pour a cup and hold it to each pair of lips in turn.

  When I present the cup to Midi, however, she won’t open her mouth to drink. She pushes her face into the pillow.

  Far from noticing, Isabel seems to think all’s taken care of. “Very well,” she says, relaxing against her true friend. “You may clean the room now.”

  ISABEL

  WHILE the maid works, they lie together, Isabel and Elinor, whispering secrets. Or Isabel whispers and Elinor listens; the poor Countess needs distraction, to lead her mind away from the demons of illness.

  “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.

  HYSTERIA

  WHEN 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 th
ey 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?

  There is no answer to that question.

  When Count Nicolas is gone, Isabel sit still. She weeps. I think to pat her hand, to do what ladies do when they console each other. Even if I be not a lady and there for not allowed to touch before I am touched.

  Isabel did save my life. That I do believe. If it were worth the saving, that is what we ’ll see.

  I achieve one pat. It is strange, our skins are near the same color now but not quite, never will be. I feel some stronger from touching her my self, she the Queen and I a black slave nursey.