Silent Water

by P K Adams

  I had noticed that she appeared subdued and preoccupied. She spoke little and ate even less, every now and then casting anxious glances toward the hall entrance, as if expecting—or fearing—someone’s arrival. She sat at the other end of the table from me, and several times I had meant to ask her if everything was well, but I kept getting distracted by conversation. At one point I noticed that her place was empty, and from Magdalena, who was seated next to her, I learned that she had gone to visit the privy.

  The system of lavatories at Wawel was better than in the castles of Bari and Naples. Better even—if courtiers who had traveled around Europe were to be believed—than in France and England. Each of the residential wings had a bath chamber into which water was pumped from the castle well to be heated in large vats on a hearth. There were doors on each floor leading to recesses in the walls, where openings covered with wooden seats could be found. Helena would not have had far to go, yet she remained absent for so long, I was beginning to worry she had become ill.

  When she finally returned, she was much changed—her face was flushed and her eyes shone with a strange light, although that may have been the effect of the candles that had been lit in the sconces around the hall as the winter sun dipped behind the woods across the river. Perhaps she had indeed felt sick and had purged, which often brought relief in mild cases of indigestion. Yet that would have been unlikely to bring color and light back to her face; it would have done rather the opposite.

  As I watched her talking with a newfound animation to Magdalena, I was forced to acknowledge that it could only be one thing: she had a lover. I had seen that look often enough. A part of me felt sympathy and even curiosity—I had never had a chance to experience a youthful flirtation; I had been married to a man who had been introduced to me on the eve of our wedding day. Nonetheless, I was disappointed in Helena. She was one of the few girls who had not given me any trouble, but now I would have to have a talk with her. And I would have to keep an eye on her in the future. Soon that would be all I would do from dawn to dusk.

  I was about to look away when Helena gazed at her still-untouched plate of food and absentmindedly brought her right hand to her stomach and rubbed it gently, as if to calm a roiling inside. I felt sweat breaking out at the base of my neck—if she was sneaking around to secret assignations with some courtier and was suffering from nausea, that could mean only one thing. And if that proved to be true, it would be both our downfalls. The queen would blame me for having failed in my oversight duties, and she would send me back to Bari, where, I had no doubt, my mother already had a list of eager—and aged—candidates to claim my hand.

  My eyes went instinctively to the dais, and in that same moment, the queen turned to me. She beckoned me with two beringed fingers, and my heart sank. Did she already know? I walked up to her on such weak knees I feared I would not be able to rise from my curtsy.

  “I do not see the Master of Ceremonies anywhere,” Bona said impatiently as I leaned toward her. “Go and check if Kappelmeister Gąsiorek has set up in the throne chamber yet. The company is getting sluggish; it is time for them to revive to some music.”

  Unlike many in the hall, the queen had eaten lightly, not only because she was still not used to the cuisine full of meats and heavy sauces, but also because there were signs that she was with child again herself. But she liked her Italian wines, which she could drink in prodigious amounts without appearing any worse for it. In fact, when it came to revels, Queen Bona could outlast the hardiest of the Polish nobility, she was that robust. In the two years I had served her, she had never had so much as a sniffle.

  Bowing in relief, I did as I had been bid, and I returned shortly to inform the queen that the musicians were ready. She gave a signal, and everyone rose with a scrape of chairs and benches. Those who were not so drunk that they had to be taken home by their attendants began to drift to the throne chamber, where formal receptions were held. It was smaller than the banqueting hall, but with its gilded coffer ceiling, floor covered in shiny mosaic tiles, and colorful tapestries lining the walls, it exuded a stately magnificence like no other chamber of the castle.

  The musicians had set up in a corner close to where the two thrones stood under a fringed canopy of red damask sewn with stars and moons in gold and silver thread. As soon as the king and queen were seated, they struck the first notes of Ave Maria, Virgo Serena, and a four-man choir began to sing. As the vocal lines weaved around one another, we all stood transfixed, listening to the sound, pure and sublime, expanding and filling the chamber.

  When it was over, we applauded enthusiastically. Talk and laughter gradually resumed when the musicians intoned Dufay’s Ave Maris Stella, which is less spectacular and more melancholy. More wine was brought in and poured from ornate silver flagons, and piles of sweetmeats were carried around on gilded trays.

  I floated around, greeting friends and exchanging words with acquaintances, including Bartolomeo Berecci, a Florentine architect who had been commissioned to build a new chapel in the cathedral. I was surrounded by conversations in Italian, Latin, German, Lithuanian, and most of all Polish, a language I had been studying diligently since my arrival in Kraków. I enjoyed its melodic rustling sound, even as its bewildering number of declensions still largely eluded me.

  In a corner of the chamber, under the painting of Ghirlandaio’s Adoration of the Christ Child, which the queen had brought with her as part of her dowry, I spotted none other than Nikolaus Kopernikus. He was wearing canonical garb and was deep in conversation with two elderly men who, with their white beards and frowns creasing their foreheads under plain black caps, exuded a scholarly air, most likely teachers at the university. Kopernikus was very tall, long-haired, and long-faced; in fact, everything about him seemed elongated and oversized. With a sudden blush spreading over my cheeks, I remembered the poems he had translated.

  Turning on my heel, I took a few steps in the opposite direction only to find myself almost in front of Jan Dantyszek. He was a young and ambitious diplomat who had been part of the group of Polish envoys who had negotiated the queen’s marriage to King Zygmunt. Dantyszek was handsome, with a neatly trimmed dark blond beard and intelligent if slightly mocking blue eyes. His slender figure was clad in tight hose gartered with ribbons of white silk, elegant black breeches, and a matching doublet slashed with blue. The snow-white lace of his shirt was visible at his wrists and collar. He wore not one, not two, but three feathers in his cap and stood in a pose of disengaged ease, confident and suave.

  He was a known seducer, and although not the type of man I personally found attractive, I could see why others would. Dantyszek also fancied himself a poet. Two years earlier, he had published a collection of rhymes titled Elegia amatoria. It circulated around the court and was said to be far more scandalous than the volume of Kopernikus’s translation. I had already noticed Lucrezia’s interest in him, which seemed to be reciprocated. I watched her closely whenever Dantyszek was around, for I suspected he would not be eager to make an honest woman out of a conquest if she found herself in the family way.

  But it was not his person nor his intentions regarding the maids of honor that stopped me in my tracks; rather, it was the subject of his conversation. I grabbed a goblet of wine from a passing servant and stood near enough to hear, pretending to be enjoying the ruby sweetness of the drink while admiring a tapestry depicting a bucolic hunting scene.

  “What Reverend Luther postulates is worth serious consideration. I do not necessarily agree with all of it, but he makes several good points,” Dantyszek said in German, a language I understood well, though spoke poorly. His interlocutor was a narrow-shouldered slip of a man with wispy brown hair whom I recognized as Georg Fugger, a banker. “For example, the theses that condemn clerical greed—”

  “You should not speak such things, and during the Christmas season!” Fugger interrupted him nervously, and I understood why. He came from a wealthy family from Augsburg and had only recently settled in Kraków, some said
because of his devout Catholicism. The last thing he would have wanted was to be accused of reformist sympathies.

  “What better time to discuss matters of religion than Christmas, eh?” Dantyszek laughed and slapped Fugger’s spare shoulders, visibly enjoying his discomfort.

  “You are jesting, Herr Dantyszek.” He sniffled. “But imperial jails are full to bursting with men who have come under the spell of that preacher.”

  Dantyszek made a subtle gesture with his head toward the throne. “Our gracious king is a man of learning and curiosity, and he encourages debates even when views contrary to his own are argued,” he added with the smooth assurance of a seasoned courtier.

  The banker leaned toward him and dropped his voice so that I had to take a step closer to hear. “That may be true, but seeing as this push for religious reform shows no signs of abating, I have it on good authority that His Majesty is considering a proclamation that would ban this kind of talk at court.”

  “Well, he has not issued it yet.” Dantyszek chuckled, unfazed.

  I admired his self-confidence, but Fugger was likely correct. The king’s devotion to Rome was well known. Indeed, his very coronation vows had included a pledge to uphold the tenets of the Catholic faith and defend the Holy Church. And what once had seemed like a relatively harmless manifestation of disobedience on the part of an obscure German cleric was now— if the reports from foreign courts were to be believed— a cresting wave, ever more difficult to tame. Crackdowns were happening all over Europe, as Fugger had said. Dantyszek should indeed have minded his tongue, for we lived in dangerous times.

  As those reflections went through my mind, I had no idea that for one among us at the castle that night, the danger was far more immediate than I could have imagined.

  I glided back to the dais and seated myself to the right of the queen, next to her senior ladies. It was fully dark outside, and I was beginning to feel tired from the wine and the heat of the chamber. All I wanted was to rest while listening to the music, but it was not to be as the queen’s cousin Giovanna d’Aragona, Princess of Montefusco, turned to me. She was a beanpole of a woman with thick graying hair that she could barely fit under her headdress. Once she started talking, it was difficult to stop her. She immediately launched into the story of her arduous journey to Poland, which she had undertaken in the autumn only to now suffer the bitterest winter cold in her life. I listened with half an ear, as I had already heard the story twice. The complaints about the cold and snow were so common among the Italians at the court that nobody paid them heed anymore.

  The princess paused midsentence as the large figure of Grand Chancellor and wojewoda of Kraków Aleksander Stempowski emerged from the crowd. Stempowski bent his knee before the throne with the slowness of an arthritis sufferer, pressing his hand to the thick gold chain of office that rested on his chest. The king motioned for him to approach, and the chancellor leaned in to whisper in the royal ear. I did not see the king’s face, obscured as it was from my view by the princess’s headdress as she leaned forward to see if she could hear anything. She was not one to miss a piece of gossip if she could help it. This lasted only a moment, then we were all scrambling to our feet as the king rose, kissed the queen’s hand, and excused himself to her.

  The music stopped, and the chamber fell silent as he descended from the dais, wearing his habitual expression of pensive sadness. The crowd parted with a low bow until the door closed behind him. There was a momentary murmur as the courtiers exchanged puzzled looks, but conversations soon resumed, as did the music, for it was known that, contrary to his wife, the king disliked prolonged festivities. Most likely he had retired. I was quietly envious, for I wanted nothing better at that hour, but I had to stay until the queen was ready. Yet there was no sign of that, despite her condition.

  At least the princess turned her attention elsewhere. I was free once again to observe, which was my favorite way to deal with large court gatherings. By now the musicians had moved on to playing frottolas in a nod to the queen, who enjoyed music from her native land. With a surge of homesickness, I listened to the melancholy tones of the lute, harp, cornett, and viol, and the clear voices of the singers that told of airy woods, sighing winds, and the vain hopes of separated lovers.

  I could not help marveling at the beauty of the performance under the direction of Stanisław Gąsiorek, who had been born a peasant. Earlier in the evening, I had seen Bishop Erazm Ciołek holding a lively debate with Archbishop Jan Łaski, a political rival and opponent of Chancellor Stempowski. Ciołek was a son of a wine merchant, and I wondered at this singular kingdom of many nationalities and languages that allowed men to rise from such humble origins to positions of great power and prestige.

  I was still ruminating over that when another courtier approached the dais. I recognized him as Sebastian Konarski, a junior secretary in the king’s household and a nephew of Jan Konarski, the Bishop of Kraków, who had officiated the queen’s marriage at Castel Capuano two years before. I had first met the young Konarski six months earlier, during noc świętojańska, the Midsummer Eve celebration when we all went down to the river to light bonfires. But we had not spoken since then; he always seemed busy with the king’s business and did not appear one for small talk at court gatherings. Now I considered him again from up close. He was shorter than the chancellor, but he was well-built, with a slim waist and broad shoulders encased in a tight-fitting black velvet doublet with leather trimmings. He had wavy dark hair, brown eyes rimmed with thick eyelashes, almost feminine in their length, and a clean-shaven face. It was a rare choice to not wear a beard, but it suited him, for it showed the fine line of his jaw and chin, neither too large nor too weak, but of perfect proportion to the rest of his face and body.

  “Your Majesty, I bear disturbing news.” I was jolted from the contemplation of that jaw by Konarski’s words, pronounced as he bowed before the throne. The ladies’ chattering ceased, although the crowd behind him still hummed like a beehive.

  “Tell me,” the queen commanded with a flick of a hand.

  “One of His Majesty’s men has been found dead inside the castle,” he said. “By tomorrow morning the entire court will know. His Majesty wanted Your Majesty to learn about it directly, rather than from gossip.”

  “I thank you, Signor Konarski.” Bona’s face remained impassive, but I could see curiosity shining in her eyes. “Who is the man?”

  “Kasper Zamborski, Majesty,” he replied.

  My head, which had been swimming in fumes of wine, suddenly cleared. I knew him, or rather I knew of him—everybody did. He was a courtier and a prominent member of a semi-secret group known as bibones et comedones, tipplers and devourers. They were a society of men and—rumor had it—a few women as well who enjoyed a lifestyle centered around drink, good food, and amorous pursuits. The king tolerated it as long as they were discreet about it—and they were, for nobody knew the true extent of its membership beyond the few who did not care to hide it, like Jan Dantyszek, who also happened to be their leader. Perhaps the royal indulgence was due to the fact that some of the highest-born youths of the realm were said to belong to the group, and King Zygmunt liked to avoid confrontation wherever he could.

  The queen’s women exchanged looks of consternation, covering their mouths or pressing their hands to their bosoms. “Zamborski? Was he not engaged to be married to Chancellor Stempowski’s daughter in the spring?” someone asked.

  With her usual self-importance, the Princess of Montefusco started nodding—she was already up to date on all of the court matches and upcoming nuptials—when a woman’s cry rose up to the ceiling.

  We all turned as the crowd parted to reveal young Celina Stempowska crumpled on the floor in a heap of carnation silk and white lace, sobbing uncontrollably. Those closest to her held out their hands to raise her and lead her to a chair by one of the tapestried walls, and someone brought a goblet of wine for her. Konarski was wrong—the court would not know about it by tomorrow morning; it would k
now before midnight.

  I thought about how strange it was that the chancellor, when he had come to speak to the king earlier, had looked serious but not particularly distressed. Then again, as a longtime courtier and a skilled politician, he must have been adept at hiding his feelings.

  All at once, I remembered that the king had been ushered through the door on the left, which led to the State Chambers where he conducted official business, rather than through the right-side door that opened onto the corridor leading to his private apartments.

  And then I knew that this was no ordinary death.

  Chapter 3

  December 26th, 1519

  The court, as expected, was abuzz with all manner of talk by the following day. The queen forbade us to report on gossip, but she was not going to be kept in the dark. In the late morning, she started sending her secretary, Don Ludovico Mantovano, to find out more from the king’s men. Eventually, Mantovano returned accompanied by Secretary Konarski.

  Dressed more plainly during the day in a dark blue doublet, open at the neck to reveal the frilly collar of his shirt, Konarski still cut a dashing figure. He wore a black velvet cap adorned with a single sapphire brooch on the side, and I was struck once again by how he eschewed predominant fashions. It was a rare courtier who did not wear feathers in his cap or rings on his fingers, and it made him look somehow fresh, more intriguing. I glanced at the maids of honor sitting on both sides of the queen and on the cushions at her feet, and I saw avid curiosity on their faces. I doubted that poor Zamborski’s fate was the only reason for it.

  “Majesty.” The secretary bowed. “The hunt for the killer has been launched, but I cannot report any progress yet. It’s still early.” His face was polite but reserved, a perfect courtier. “We are pursuing many leads,” he added in a tone of assurance.

  “We?”

  “Chancellor Stempowski was charged by His Majesty with finding the man responsible. Doctor Baldazzi will be helping him.”