Silent Water Page 13

  As all that was happening, Dantyszek’s well-composed courtier’s face could barely hide his disappointment. I, too, was surprised that he had been passed over for the post—he had as much Latin as Latalski, and far more diplomatic experience, not to mention charm. But then the queen addressed Dantyszek, and it all became clear. “My second reason is that I will need a trusted messenger to deliver a letter with my condolences to Signora Mantovano in Naples.”

  “I stand ready to travel wherever and whenever Your Majesty wishes,” he replied smoothly, the cloud lifting from his face.

  “There are four days until the Feast of Epiphany. I don’t wish to cut short your Christmas celebrations,” the queen said, and I detected a slight note of sarcasm on the word “celebrations.” She did not care much for the bibones et comedones, not least because some of the more sanctimonious members of the court grumbled that it was us Italians who had brought loose morals to Kraków with us. This despite the fact that, as Konarski had told me, the society had existed long before the king’s marriage. “Come back on the morning of Epiphany, and I will have the letter ready. You can leave as soon as the feast is over.”

  It was nearly midnight when the queen dismissed the men. As I was undressing her for bed, she told me not to wake any of the girls and sleep in her chamber instead, and I went to fetch my nightdress.

  I hurried down the quiet gallery, the chill making me shiver, my own words about not walking alone ringing in my ears. I was almost to my chamber when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and a patch of white detached itself from a shadowed alcove and stepped toward me.

  A small scream escaped me, and I clamped my mouth with my hand. “You scared me!” I exhaled.

  It was Helena, wearing a nightdress, her thick auburn hair falling in loose waves about her shoulders, making her face look small, almost like a child’s. Down at the entrance to the gallery, I could see two new guards standing sentinel, very much awake, and I scolded myself for my nervousness. One of them looked in our direction when he heard me, and I raised my hand to signify that everything was fine.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked sharply, wondering if Helena was on her way to or from meeting her lover. The lover she had promised not to see again. But I could not glean anything from her expression—she was calm and inscrutable, as always. “You will catch your death.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  “What about Doctor Baldazzi’s poppy milk?”

  “I ran out of it. He gave me only a small bottle. It is a powerful medicine—if you take too much you may never wake.” The corners of her lips curled in a slight smile, causing her eyes to narrow, which gave her a feline look.

  “Yes, well . . . I don’t expect that standing in a cold gallery at night will help you with that either. Go back to bed.”

  “You also cannot sleep, signora?” she asked.

  “I was in a meeting with the queen and her advisors.” I straightened my spine.

  “About the agriculture reform?”

  “About Don Mantovano’s murder.”

  Helena hugged her arms about her, her face a mask of apprehension. “Has Her Majesty discovered who did it?”

  “No, but we discussed some possibilities,” I said with a surge of pride. I felt like I was an advisor too, someone of wisdom and experience whose judgement was sought and respected. “There are some things that don’t make sense,” I went on, unable to stop myself. “This was no jealousy or robbery—these murders were planned, methodical, and sinister.” Helena’s eyes widened as I spoke, and I realized that I had said too much. The last thing I needed was to spread more fear or cause more gossip.

  “But mainly the meeting was about what happens next,” I hastened to add. “Her Majesty needs a new secretary, and also a messenger to take her letter to Don Mantovano’s widow. She entrusted Jan Dantyszek with the mission, and he will be leaving for Naples after Epiphany.”

  “He will?” She seemed somehow disappointed. A delicate blush bloomed on her cheeks, and I wondered if Dantyszek was the man she was in love with. But what about their hostility during the sleigh ride to Niepołomice? And even if, unbeknownst to the rest of us, it had been a lovers’ tiff—perhaps brought about by Dantyszek’s blatant flirting with Lucrezia—he was unmarried, so there would be no need for such secrecy. Besides, there was no overt animosity between the girls, as was common in such cases, although I had seen Helena look at Lucrezia with barely veiled disdain more than once when Lucrezia flirted with courtiers—any of them, not just Dantyszek. No, however I thought about it, it did not make sense; the more I tried to understand her, the more she seemed to elude me.

  I made to open my door. “Go back to bed,” I repeated. “Remember what I said about not going about alone? You know it’s dangerous these days, even with guards nearby.”

  “I have something to ask you, signora.” Helena said with a note of urgency. It was as if she had only just remembered it.

  “What is it?” I asked impatiently. I was tired, cold, and the queen was waiting for me.

  “I had a letter from my father earlier today, and”—she hesitated—“he has been ailing these past few weeks—since the autumn, in fact—and I worry about him.”

  “Oh, Helena.” I felt a surge of sympathy for her. My own father had died of the wasting disease shortly before I had left for Poland. The memory sent a twinge of pain through my chest. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “His doctors don’t know what it is. They keep bleeding him, but he is not improving. He wishes to see me in case he—” Her voice caught in her throat.

  I put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Of course. You have my permission to go. I will pray for his recovery.” I blinked, feeling pressure behind my own eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “He sent two of his men with the message. They are lodging in town and are ready to escort me to Lipiny the day after tomorrow.”

  I was surprised at how quickly this had been arranged, but perhaps the matter was indeed urgent. “Then I hope you will get some sleep before the journey,” I said. “It will not be an easy one at this time of year.”

  “I do too.”

  “I will inform Her Majesty.”

  “Thank you,” Helena said again. Then she added, before she disappeared into the darkness of the girls’ bedchamber, “I hope that whoever did this is caught.” She gazed at me levelly. “And that you are safe.”

  Chapter 10

  January 4th, 1520

  I found the note two days later.

  I had spent a busy morning accompanying the queen and her confessor, Father de la Torre, to a private burial for Don Mantovano. It was held at the Church of St. Agata in Kraków, on a quiet street a short ride from the castle. We were joined by the abbess of the Order of Poor Clares, who held the church in trust, and a group of Italians who had known the secretary well. There were also a few other courtiers in attendance whom I knew from sight but not by name; they must have been the chancellor’s men, sent to observe the proceedings and see if they could uncover any clues as to the killer’s identity. But if so, they must have been disappointed.

  “Into your hands, O Lord, we entrust the soul of your servant Ludovico Niccolo Mantovano,” the priest intoned in Latin as we stood before the oak coffin adorned with silver handles and trimmings and draped in rich black velvet. “Look mercifully upon the sins he committed out of human weakness, and grant him the joy of life everlasting in your presence.”

  He shook the censer, and swirls of pungent incense enveloped us before rising lazily to the vaulted ceiling. There, a newly painted image in vivid colors—by one of the city’s Italian artists, judging by the style of it—looked down on us. It was of God sitting in judgment, saints on one side, sinners on the other. Through the smoky haze, I could see the severe aspect of his oversized white-bearded visage, and it sent a shiver down my spine. But I still could not imagine Don Mantovano being guilty of anything serious enough to provoke that div
ine reaction when he stood before the Heavenly Father’s throne.

  After the prayer concluded, the priest began chanting the Office of the Dead, and we followed the casket to a side chapel where it was lowered into a crypt below the stone floor. The queen had paid for the crypt space herself, and she was the only one present who seemed genuinely moved; everyone else appeared to be there out of duty or necessity rather than any sense of loss or mourning for Don Mantovano. I found it sad that so few tears were being shed for him, although in truth I felt no great urge to cry either.

  Unlike that of Zamborski, whose body had been taken to his family’s seat to be buried, the cause of the secretary’s death had not been made public. The king feared panic after a second violent death, but rumors were already circulating. The queen was becoming increasingly impatient with the investigation. She had raised the matter again with the king during their private supper the night before the funeral, but it must not have gone as she had hoped because she returned to her apartments in a bad mood, and I dared not ask any questions. I was one of the few people at the court who knew the details of both crimes, and I found myself beset by an unsettling sense of something dark and sinister encircling us and slowly tightening its grip.

  Perhaps that was why, when I found the note, I was not entirely surprised.

  It happened after we had returned from the funeral. The queen went to the nursery, taking Lucrezia and Portia with her, and I returned to my chamber. But as I opened my door and stepped inside, I felt something slippery under my foot. I stooped to pick up a folded rectangle of paper.

  My stomach clenched with a bad premonition, even as I clung to a vague hope that it was a message left by someone looking for me while I had been out of the castle. But when I unfolded it and read the words written in a deliberately shaky, childlike hand to hide the writer’s identity, my hope vanished.

  THE KILLER’S WORK IS JUSTICE. STOP LOOKING FOR HIM OR YOU WILL BE NEXT

  With trembling hands, I refolded the note, which I noticed was written on a paper that bore the crest of the Sforza family, the serpents and the eagles, and had therefore come from Don Mantovano’s desk. Blood was pounding in my ears as I stood gazing at the windows where the remnants of a thick fog that had descended on Kraków that morning still clung to the glass. When the queen and I had walked to the carriage that was to convey us to the church, one of the servants had mentioned reports of a powerful snowstorm that had crippled the countryside to the east, making roads impassable and burying men and beasts as far as the eye could see. Right then, clutching that note in my hands, I would have preferred a blizzard to that silent milky veil that made me feel cornered, trapped, and blind.

  I stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind me, and the sound echoed hollowly through the empty gallery. But the guards were in their place at the entrance to the wing, and that made me feel safer. I took a deep breath, walked up to them, and asked if any stranger had come to look for me that morning. They said no. They had not seen anyone knock on my door either.

  After a momentary deliberation, I decided that I must inform the queen—she had said to bring her any news immediately, day or night. I reread the note twice on my way to the nursery, which was on the other side of the castle in the southern wing, to see if I could glean any clues or additional meaning from it. But it remained as cryptic and anonymous as the first time I had opened it. Nothing gave the author or his motivations away.

  I put the note in my pocket before I entered the nursery. It was one of my favorite places at Wawel, full as it was of childish chattering and laughter, and I understood why Bona had gone there after her secretary’s funeral. She wanted to be cheered, and I hoped that she had been. I hoped I would be too, if only for a brief moment, for the tidings I was bringing would disturb any peace the queen had managed to find.

  The nursery was warm and bright as always, busy with the children’s play and the bustle of their nurses. But the queen, sitting on a settle upholstered in blue-and-gold damask and lined with soft cushions, looked melancholy. She still wore the somber gown trimmed with black lace, but her blonde hair was loosely gathered in a golden hairnet, so thin it was almost invisible. With strands escaping about her face, it made her look unexpectedly domestic, but also youthful and vulnerable.

  She was gazing into the fire as she held Princess Izabela on her knees. Between the settle and the hearth was a thick Turkish rug on which the king’s two other daughters—Jadwiga, who was now six, and four-year-old Anna—were playing. The elder girl was building an elaborate structure with brightly painted wooden blocks. Her sister was combing the hair of a pretty doll in a red silk gown, which I recognized as a Christmas gift from the Queen of Hungary. Nearby was a black rocking horse, and seated on it was five-year-old Beata, brandishing a wooden sword with a good imitation of knights’ belligerent cries when they practiced swordsmanship in the courtyard in the summer. She was the king’s daughter by his former mistress Katarzyna Telniczanka.

  For all her unhappiness—frequently and loudly expressed—about a queen’s limited role and expectations that did not go beyond producing heirs, Bona doted on all three princesses. She also took good care of Beata, whose presence at the court she had never questioned. She showered the children with expensive frocks and sent them trays of sweets, which even now were scattered on tables and windowsills throughout the nursery. The faces of the girls, including the baby, were smeared with brown streaks of caramelized sugar and white blobs of cream.

  I could not help smiling at the sight, and I marveled—not for the first time—at how the queen managed to so successfully combine those two realities. The children clearly adored her. It was evident from the intermittent glances they sent in her direction, full of hope for the attention to which they were obviously accustomed, despite her presently brooding aspect. It was one of the many contradictions in Bona’s nature—fiery and unquiet, yet nurturing; elevated by vivid intelligence but also hamstrung by stubbornness and impetuosity.

  She turned her gaze on me without a word as I entered the chamber.

  “Your Majesty.” I curtsied. I hesitated, not knowing how to broach the subject in the presence of the children. “I bring news . . . there is something Your Majesty must see. Privately,” I added, lowering my voice.

  She arched her eyebrows slightly, and I could see that she was bracing herself. But she did not want to act alarmed in front of the others.

  “Leave us.” She gestured to the nurses, who took the children away, including little Izabela. They removed to the adjoining chamber, which was to be the heir’s when he arrived in a few months’ time. Then she turned to Lucrezia and Portia. “You too.”

  With a smile but also a pang, I gazed after the children. Their presence, even if more quiet than usual today, was soothing. If my marriage had turned out differently, I would now have children of my own the age of Princess Jadwiga, or perhaps even older. There were times when that thought filled me with a certain wistfulness. I wondered then if I would have been a good mother. I had once believed so, but the struggles I presently experienced with the maids of honor left me unsure about that. Perhaps nurturing and protecting others was not in my nature.

  The doors between the chambers closed, and we were alone. I turned to the queen and saw that she had noticed the way I looked at the children. Our eyes met and there was a softness in her gaze that I was not accustomed to. Perhaps under different circumstances—if we were both mothers and of a more equal station—we could have forged a bond of friendship over sharing the joys and challenges of raising children. But that was not the case, and there were other matters to attend to. Her face hardened again when she remembered the reason I was there. “What is it that I must see?” she asked, her tone wary.

  I took the note from the folds of my gown and handed it to the queen. “I found this under my door after I came back from the church.”

  I watched her as she unfolded and read the message. She must have gritted her teeth, for a muscle in her cheek twi
tched.

  “The gall of this monster,” she hissed, flinging the note aside. She rose with more energy than I would have expected of her in that moment and began to pace the distance between the settle and the window.

  “I must report this to the chancellor,” I said, readying myself for a rebuke. I had no doubt that she believed the note had come from Stempowski, or at least from someone acting on his orders.

  “Yes, you must,” she said, and there was an eagerness in her voice that surprised me. “Take it to him and see what he says when he is confronted with it. I would do it myself, but my husband has ordered me not to interfere in a matter best handled by men,” she added quietly.

  I knew then that it was serious. For one thing, she had used the word “order.” Also, when Bona—ever mindful of court protocol and proper hierarchies—referred to the king as “my husband” rather than “His Majesty” it could only mean that she was furious with him.

  I started talking into the uncomfortable silence. “I am sure he only wants Your Majesty to be safe, given the condition—”

  “I am with child, not dying!” She tossed her head impatiently. “I cannot stay away from this. I will not,” she added firmly. “Especially if there is a chance that Stempowski will get away with it.”

  “So, I am to watch for his reaction when I show him the note?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” For the first time in days, her face broke into a smile as she savored her defiance of the royal command. “Report your impressions to me, and everything that he says.”

  I curtsied and left the nursery, but I was not sure what it was that she expected to happen. Did she think that the chancellor would break down and confess the truth when I handed him the note, if there was any truth for him to confess? That would be absurd—he was a seasoned diplomat and a high-ranking court official, and I was but a lady-in-waiting.