Silent Water

by P K Adams

  She started pacing, and I wondered who she was referring to as “we.” Was it Baldazzi? If so, he looked too scared to offer any assistance. “But whoever he is, I know why he killed my secretary. Do you want to know why?” She stopped and looked from me to the doctor, her chin raised high as if in a challenge.

  All we could do was nod.

  “He killed him because they hate me! They have hated me from the day I arrived here to be a queen who understands the affairs of her kingdom and can be her husband’s trusted confidante and advisor, not just a broodmare.”

  I stood frozen and felt Baldazzi go still as well. There was no doubt in my mind that she was talking about Stempowski and his faction.

  “In Italy,” she resumed, “they value women like me, not just as means of perpetuating dynasties and making political alliances. Matilda of Tuscany ruled over the entire north of the peninsula and won battles against a Holy Roman Emperor; my great-grandmother Bianca Maria donned a suit of armor to join Cremona’s troops in their defense against the Venetians; my aunt Caterina Sforza once occupied Castel Sant’Angelo in Rome and defended her fortress at Forlì”—she raised a forefinger high—“also against the Venetians. Italian women have governed, fought, and negotiated with the mighty of this world for centuries! But here?!”

  She swept an arm clad in a fashionably flared sleeve of her robe, and the ribbons that adorned it trembled. “In this backward country, they cannot abide that I speak my mind, that I dare try to reform their ancient farms that keep their peasants starving and the Crown coffers empty.” She paused for a breath. “And that is how they thank me for attempting to save them from bankruptcy, something they have been unable to do themselves!”

  “But if that is so, Your Majesty, then who killed Signor Zamborski?” Baldazzi asked in a thin voice.

  A corner of Bona’s lips lifted in a contemptuous grimace. “I would bet my entire dowry and my rights to the Duchy of Milan that it was done on Stempowski’s order too. Everyone knows that he did not want Zamborski for a son-in-law; he had been aiming far higher, for that man’s ambition and greed know no bounds. And also”—she threw her head back and gave a bark of laughter—“Zamborski would not have remained faithful to his beloved daughter for a week. Two good reasons to get rid of him.”

  I had heard that before, but Baldazzi had not, and he looked even more terrified.

  As recently as the previous night, I had been questioning the queen’s suspicions regarding the chancellor, but with this new murder, the possibility that she might be right stood in my mind again. After all, I had seen the look of hatred on Stempowski’s face. All the same, I silently questioned the wisdom of sharing those suspicions with the doctor, who was a good friend of the Princess of Montefusco. Making such a grave accusation public could not possibly help matters, regardless of the chancellor’s guilt.

  ***

  The first day of January was also King Zygmunt’s fifty-third birthday. Traditionally, an evening reception was held in the throne chamber, where courtiers and invited guests greeted the king and conveyed their birthday wishes to him. I was worried whether the queen would be able to attend the ceremony that night, but she summoned me again an hour before it was due to start.

  With the help of her parlor maid Dorota, we dressed her in a velvet gown of Prussian blue, a shade so deep it was almost black. Don Mantovano’s death had not been officially announced yet, so the queen could not appear in mourning in public without giving rise to speculations, but she wanted to come as close to honoring her late secretary as possible. On her head, she wore a small rounded headdress embroidered in silver thread and decorated with gray pearls. After we had put powder and a little bit of rouge on her cheeks and dabbed her lips with madder-root paste, someone who had just arrived at the court would never have guessed at the heartbreak Queen Bona had just experienced.

  In the throne chamber, seated next to her husband under the red baldachin, she was every inch the monarch. She had a smile, nod, or word for everyone who curtsied in front of her before they moved on to wish the king more of God’s blessings for a long life and a fruitful reign. I was among the courtiers who queued to greet the king, and I could see that even as she put on a cheerful face, the queen’s eyes scanned the room and attendees every now and then. A few times I saw them rest on the chancellor, who stood on the other side of the king, as if she was trying to gauge what went on behind his courtly mask. He looked serious, as usual, but also more watchful of what was going on around the king, which was normally the job of the captain of the guard. The latter stood next to the chancellor, and on both sides of the royal thrones, men-at-arms had been posted in a display of heightened security.

  When my turn came to approach the king, I stopped three paces before his throne as he had just leaned toward his dwarf jester seated on a cushion at his feet. If it were not for the inequality of their station, Stańczyk could have been said to be the king’s best friend—someone His Majesty turned to for both entertainment and consolation, even more so than his wife. According to a centuries-old tradition, the jester was the only person who could comment mockingly or critically on the king’s actions without risking severe penalty, which meant that he sometimes expressed truths aloud that nobody else dared to. For that reason, members of the court had come to regard his statements with a certain respect.

  I could not hear exactly what the king and Stańczyk were discussing, for they spoke in low voices, but I had an idea as words like “secretary” and “suspicious” reached my ears. I was startled when the jester said, more loudly and in a tone that sounded definitive, “This was no man’s fury,” followed by a chuckle and what I thought was a wink in my direction. The king, as if taking his cue from Stańczyk, gave me a benevolent smile tinged with sadness, like a dear old uncle, and I hastened to convey my wishes. But as I moved away from the throne, the jester’s words rang uncomfortably in my ears. They reminded me of Maciek’s enigmatic last words in the jail cell about a phantom who had stalked his corridor on the night of Zamborski’s death. Could the boy have been right, even in his weak mind? For the king’s dwarf—a man physically impaired but with a quick mind and a sharp wit—tended to see things that others had missed. Was the manner of Mantovano’s death, the fact that his killer seemed to have relished the slow agony, a sign of something otherworldly and diabolic?

  I took a deep breath, reminding myself not to lose common sense. If I had spoken my thoughts aloud, I would have sounded like a madwoman. It was far more likely that both victims had died by a human hand, however sinister. But whose hand?

  I considered the gathered crowd and, once again, could not help but wonder if the killer was among us. I’d had the same thought the night before at the New Year’s Eve celebration. Then, the faces had been smiling and flushed with excitement, and it was hard to imagine. Today, many of the same courtiers bore the signs of those revels in a certain sluggishness of movement and the redness and puffiness of the eyes from too much drink and too little sleep. The mood was less exuberant, but everyone made a good effort for the sake of the occasion. I still could see nobody who would arouse my suspicions in any definite way. Not even the chancellor, I had to admit.

  But someone was killing courtiers at Wawel Castle. The murders were not random—of that, at least, I was certain. The subdued mood of the chamber and the tension emanating from the royal dais cast a pall on the court. Now more than ever, it was critical that the culprit be found, for otherwise the entire monarchy might be in crisis.

  Chapter 9

  January 2nd, 1520

  After the birthday reception, the queen remained sequestered in her bedchamber the whole of the following day, only receiving a visit from the king, who came to inquire after her health and comfort. She refused to eat the herbed mutton dish that had been brought for her midday meal, threatening, not for the first time, to send to Italy for real cooks. She was tired of the meaty fare favored in Kraków, she said, and she wanted something light. I took the opportunity to go to
the kitchen to order a bowl of plain broth for her. I had not been outside since the morning of the sanna, and I needed air.

  It was warmer once again, with a touch of dampness that was refreshing, but the clouds hung low and leaden white in the sky. Even the courtyard’s limestone colonnade seemed darker, making me feel melancholy despite the bustle of servants, courtiers, and knights who came and went in and out of various buildings. Many of them were still oblivious to the evil stalking the castle’s corridors at night. If only I had been so blissfully unaware!

  Even before I arrived at the door of the kitchen across the courtyard, I saw men coming out of there carrying barrels of wine. Inside, preparations for dinner had already started, a dozen cooks and as many assistants busying themselves around pots, roasting spits, chopping boards, and bread ovens. In the back of the ground-floor chamber, there were stairs to the upper story, where five women from Italy and France worked every day on the most elaborate confections imaginable. But I preferred the downstairs, with its mouth-watering smells and the warmth of the fires.

  The central counter was piled high with chopped cauliflower, celery, and leeks, vegetables rarely eaten by Poles but popular in Italy, from where they were regularly imported. They were favorites of the queen’s. That was where I found the chief cook, a woman named Michałowa, who eyed them dubiously. I imagined how hard it must have been for her to get used to the new foods after a lifetime of working with beets and turnips. Of course, the latter continued to be consumed, though one would never guess that from the dark look on Michałowa’s face. Still, just like with the queen’s new fashions, the eating habits of the Polish aristocracy were changing fast, and that must have left many old cooks like Michałowa bewildered. Yet she had no choice but to adapt if she wanted to keep her position. The specter of a contingent of Italian cuochi arriving to take over her dominion must have been keeping her awake at night.

  “Where are they taking the wine?” I asked, pointing at two more men emerging with barrels from the cellars and heading for the main door.

  Michałowa let a huff out of her ample bosom and waddled over to a vat of pottage, her large hips wobbling like jelly under her skirts. She proceeded to stir the soup energetically. “So much wine is bein’ sent from Milan that the old cellars under the castle proper had to be reopened.” She pointed the wooden ladle in the direction I had come from. “They’re movin’ the stores there, and a good thing too, if you ask me. It takes forever to carry flagons from ’ere to the banqueting hall, and the servants get an earful from the lords impatient to refill their cups. Tha’s what ’appened during the Christmas feast.” Michałowa nodded sagely over the steaming vat, her round face red from the heat, then tapped a heavy foot on the floor to indicate the space below. “I always says these cellars are good for storin’ nothin’ but old sacks. They’re too small and used to be crypts.” She crossed herself, and I remembered that the kitchen was built on the site of an ancient church. “But tha’s where we still keep our beets and parsnips, and . . . those things.” She snorted, tilting her head toward the leeks and cauliflower.

  I opened my mouth to put in the order for the broth but was forestalled.

  “I hope the good Lord will let me live long enough to see some other storage built. It gives me the creeps to go down to these cellars. Always expect to trip over some old bones.” She crossed herself again. “But even under the castle, there may not be enough room, so much wine is bein’ delivered almost every day. And wha’s wrong with ale and mead? We’ve been drinkin’ it forever! My father drank it, my grandfather drank it, my great-grandfather drank it. I says as much to the Master Cupbearer the other day, but who’s goin’ to listen to old Michałowa?”

  Well, I had to listen for a good while longer before I finally managed to get a word in and state my business. I was on my way out when I felt the urge to have a piece of fruit—a winter diet can do that. Looking around and hoping there would be a bowl of them somewhere, I asked if I could have a few apples for the queen’s antechamber.

  “They’re also in the cellars to keep fresh,” Michałowa said. “Marta!” she shouted toward a passing scullery maid, a timid-looking girl of about thirteen. “Go down and bring up some apples and peaches for Pani Caterina.” I noted her insistence on the Polish form of address, and I smiled. Any Italian cook to join her staff would have a tough time of it.

  Still, my mouth watered at the word “peach.” It had been a long time since I had tasted one’s soft, juicy sweetness, so different from the tartness of Polish apples. I followed the maid eagerly as she headed for the door to the cellar, but Michałowa stopped her. “Nie tędy!” Not that way. “They’re still bringin’ up the wine. Take the other door and take that clean linen sack with you. It’s for Her Majesty!”

  We went down a passage that led from the main kitchen toward the back of the building, where meat was stored and prepared. Through an arched opening, I could see pig and calf carcasses swinging from hooks in the ceiling, and the long butcher’s block covered with pink slabs of meat already cut up. Halfway down the passage, there was a wide door in the side wall, and it stood slightly ajar. Slowing down, I saw that it led outside, but not to the main courtyard; rather it opened to an area partially enclosed by a section of the castle wall with its own set of doors. The slick flagstones were untidy, dusted with a white powder and littered with vegetable scraps.

  I picked up my pace to catch up to Marta, who had already moved down the corridor to another door, smaller and so low that a grown man would have to stoop to enter. She pushed it open and began descending the steep steps to the cellar. I stayed behind, though well out of Michałowa’s sight lest she decide to entertain me with another complaint. Looking down, I could see that the cellars were also lit by oil lamps, like the crypt under the cathedral. In fact, they probably looked much the same. The only difference was that the cold air that wafted up to me was not as clean and crisp as that under the cathedral. Instead, it carried the earthy and faintly sweet smell of the fruits and vegetables stored there.

  At length, Marta reemerged, the sack in her hands bulging with rounded shapes that made me hungry again. As we walked back, I pointed to the side door and asked where it led.

  “It opens to the back of the courtyard,” she replied. Then she confirmed what I had already suspected, “This is where we take our deliveries.”

  The delivery area. This was where goods were first brought in from the town up that cobbled road that led past the jail tower. Somewhere nearby, perhaps behind those other doors set into the castle wall, was the corridor where Zamborski’s body had been found eight days earlier. The thought gave me a shiver. Was he killed close to the kitchen, or farther away toward the main part of the castle? Why would he have come to the service wing in the first place? And how was it connected to the murder of Mantovano? I pulled my cloak closer about me and shut my eyes tight for a moment, as if that could stave off the pressure of an ache that started blooming inside my head.

  When I was back out in the courtyard—the front part of it, where the backdoor delivery activities would never be seen—I spotted a familiar figure coming through the gate from the forecourt, a short cloak swishing in rhythm with his gait. My spirits lifted immediately.

  “Donna Caterina.” Secretary Konarski stopped when he saw me. “A pleasure.”

  “Good afternoon.” I gave him an apple from the sack, and he accepted it, smiling. Then he lowered his voice, and his face grew more serious. “What a terrible business with Don Mantovano. How is Her Majesty faring?”

  “She is hit hard by it. She was very attached to him.”

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  “Chancellor Stempowski has his hands full again,” I said.

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat, no doubt remembering our dance conversation from New Year’s Eve. “It is not the kind of development he had hoped for.”

  Is it not? I wanted to ask as we reached the entrance to the castle and stopped under an arch, away from the path o
f those who came up and down the main staircase. But I did not. Instead we watched as men continued to roll wine barrels across the courtyard.

  “What are they doing?” Konarski said more to himself than to me.

  “Emptying the cellars under the kitchen and moving all the wine to the castle so it is closer to the banqueting hall,” I explained.

  “Ah. Just in time for the Feast of Epiphany.” A cheerful note stole into his voice. Epiphany was always a big event at the court, with the celebrations rivaling those of Christmas and the New Year.

  “Does the chancellor think the same person is responsible for both killings?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I knew I had already tried Konarski’s patience, but the case, as terrifying as it was, was also intensely interesting to me. Was it because of the queen’s suspicions? The lack of clues? The deepening mystery of it all? Whatever the reason, I could not put it out of my mind. The prevailing explanations, including the one that the queen herself favored, seemed unsatisfactory to me. I still had no idea why, though thinking about it was more likely to give me a headache than to suggest any answers.

  “I believe so,” Konarski said. Knowing exactly what my next question would be, he added, “He ordered Maciek’s release this morning.”

  “Good.” I exhaled. “Does he have any new suspects?” Any other servant boys that he would make into scapegoats, I refrained from adding.

  “No, but he sent the two guards who were on duty in the queen’s wing on New Year’s night to Baszta Sandomierska.”

  Alarm must have been painted all over my face, for he hastened to add, “Only for a week, for drinking on duty. If they hadn’t fallen asleep, the murder might not have happened.”

  It might or might not have, I thought, for if someone had really wanted Mantovano dead, he would have found a way to kill him eventually.

  “But you will never guess who they had been drinking with,” Konarski said.