Silent Water Read online

  Yet with the queen’s own advisors being against her involvement, and now the king having officially forbidden it, I was all she had.

  On the long walk to the State Chambers, my rustling skirts adding to the sense of urgency, I tried to breathe deeply to stave off a tide of anxiety swelling inside me. I wanted to speak to Konarski first, but with the war, the murders, and the mundane business of the realm, the wing was a beehive of activity, and I could not see him. Finally, I knocked on the door to Stempowski’s office, and when a clerk opened it, I said I needed to see the chancellor on the queen’s order.

  Stempowski was not in, but the clerk bid me come in and wait, then went off in search of his master. The office was spacious but sparsely furnished. In the center stood an oak desk, larger but less ornate than Don Mantovano’s Italian piece, and also much less tidy. There were piles of papers on it, several quills, bottles of ink, and a block of sealing wax on a silver tray. The only other furnishings were a long sideboard with a flagon of wine and goblets, and two bronze candelabra in the corners opposite the hearth, so tall they had to stand on the floor.

  Behind the desk, the entire wall was hung with a tapestry depicting a battle scene, rearing horses and raised weapons so stunningly detailed and lifelike I could almost hear the cries of the men and the clash of blade on blade. Above the field, the coats of arms of the Commonwealth—the white eagle on a red shield of the Kingdom of Poland and the charging knight on horseback of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania—were suspended like dual suns.

  “It shows the Battle of Grunwald in the summer of the year 1410, when our king’s forebear, the great King Władysław, defeated the Knights of the Teutonic Order.” Chancellor Stempowski’s voice jolted me out of my admiration. He must have been nearby, or I had been so entranced by the beauty of the tapestry’s workmanship that I had lost track of time.

  I turned around to find him making a small bow, then moving toward his desk.

  “That is very fitting,” I said with one more glance at the tapestry.

  “They have never regained their former glory, but they continue to be a nuisance as they scheme with Muscovy.” He gestured for me to sit in a chair across from his desk, while he took a seat in a heavy high-backed chair of carved oak upholstered in green damask. I noticed that he had made no mention of the Order’s scheming with the Habsburgs, which was closer and more long-standing than the alliance the knights had only recently forged with the ruler in Moscow. “I hope that Marshal Firlej will deal them a mortal blow this time,” he added.

  “That is my hope also.”

  The chancellor’s aged but handsome face was difficult to read, which together with his experience, skill, and the king’s trust, made him a formidable opponent. How was I to decide what he had done and what he was hiding, if anything? Just now he had spoken like the most fervent supporter of the war, even though a few days earlier, he had tried to slow it down, perhaps even stop it. Maybe he had fallen on the king’s side once the matter had been decided, or maybe he was only pretending. Who could tell? Not I, certainly.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Contessa Sanseverino, even under these deplorable circumstances,” Stempowski said. He began to look through a pile of papers, and I studied him again. He was very tall—around six feet, I imagined—and although his chair was larger than mine, his broad-shouldered frame filled it completely. I wondered if he had a military background, for he was built like a soldier, certainly more so than the spare Marshal Firlej.

  Finally, he set the papers aside and gave me a considering look. I felt a new surge of nervousness, and it was all I could do not to drop my gaze to where I tried to keep my hands steady in my lap.

  “I take it you are here on a matter related to Don Mantovano’s death?” His whole demeanor was polite and smooth; someone who did not know any better would never guess at the animosity between him and the queen.

  “Indeed.”

  Before I could say anything more, he leaned back in his chair and smiled, narrowing his eyes, though they remained watchful. “You are young to be acting as Her Majesty’s envoy, signora. Why didn’t she send one of her advisors?”

  The question disconcerted me with its correspondence to my own doubts about myself. Why had the lessons the sisters of Santa Teresa had tried so assiduously to impart in us produced all the wrong results? On the one hand, they caused me to question my fitness for the task with which the queen had entrusted me, but they also made me inadequate for the role of supervising adolescent girls. It seemed I was lacking all around.

  I searched for a reply that would justify my current mission. “Her Majesty chose me—I am not so young . . .” I stammered, feeling even more ridiculous. “I’m twenty-five.”

  He laughed one of those laughs that come from deep inside the stomach, as if I had told a good joke. “Same age as my eldest daughter.”

  A sudden emotion seized my throat as I was reminded of my own father, who had held a middling position at the court in Naples during the turbulent years of the French invasions and the restoration of the House of Trastámara. He had never been as ambitious as Stempowski, nor nearly as wealthy, but it was he, more than my mother, who had been responsible for my education. He had always believed that a woman should know more than embroidery and how to conduct pleasant talk at the table. What would he think of me now? Would he be proud, or would he be as dismissive as the chancellor?

  “Be that as it may,” I said, swallowing the knot and wishing to change the topic, “I found this in my chamber not long ago.” I placed the note on the desk between us and withdrew my hand quickly. “Her Majesty believes that you should see it.”

  The chancellor took the paper and read the message, then flipped it over to see if anything had been written on the reverse. He gazed at the writing for a long while, and once again I could find nothing to indicate that he had seen it before, much less authored it. In fact, he seemed just as puzzled as I was.

  Or he was pretending admirably.

  He rose and went to a small chamber that communicated with his office, and I heard him send the clerk in search of Konarski. The latter appeared a few minutes later, visibly surprised to see me, and the chancellor handed him the note without a word.

  He read it, and his face tightened. “Are you and Her Majesty safe?” he asked the question that Stempowski had not.

  “Yes, thank you, Master Secretary.”

  “Secretary Konarski keeps His Majesty informed on the progress of our investigation,” the chancellor explained. Then his tone turned official. “So, you found it just now in your chamber, slid under your door?”

  “Yes, about an hour ago. It was not there when I left this morning to attend on the queen and accompany her to Don Mantovano’s funeral. It must have happened when I was away, but the guards did not see any strangers or anyone looking suspicious about.”

  “Hmm.” His fingers, gnarled with arthritis, fiddled with his graying beard as he considered this. “And you don’t think it’s a practical joke, by one of your women maybe?”

  I hesitated. “I suppose it’s possible, but unlikely. They are serious and well-behaved young ladies,” I said, even as I recalled the copies of the illicit books I’d had to confiscate from them. “They would never make light of a situation like that. There was not a dry face among them on the morning Don Mantovano’s body was discovered, and they are scared themselves. This is a malicious threat by the killer”—I pointed at the note—“or by someone who doesn’t want me to discover who the killer is.”

  “So, you are searching for the killer?” Stempowski raised an eyebrow, even as the rest of his face remained impassive.

  I realized my blunder belatedly. “No—” I tried not to look at Konarski. “No, of course not. But I have discussed the various speculations that have been making the rounds.”

  “Discussed with whom?”

  “With Her Majesty, the ladies, Doctor Baldazzi . . .”

  “And?”

  I shifted in my seat. I
was not sure why he was questioning me like this.

  “I have expressed some reservations—” This time my eyes darted toward Konarski. He looked tense from where he stood behind the chancellor’s chair, but he did not signal for me to stop. “For example, regarding the theory that these crimes were committed for gain.” I paused, conscious that Maciek’s arrest had been justified in exactly that way. But the chancellor nodded for me to go on. “Don Mantovano’s ring and chain of office were taken, but there were silver candlesticks, an alabaster vase, and many other valuable objects left behind in his office. To me that suggests that the killer wanted to make it look like a burglary. And Zamborski’s murder,” I added quickly, before courage deserted me, “while seemingly a robbery too, appears cold and methodical, like . . . setting a trap.” It was a comparison that had occurred to me for the first time in that moment.

  Despite his earlier unease, I saw Konarski suppress a smile. Meanwhile, Stempowski sat in silence, still pulling on his beard, which seemed to indicate deep thought. “This case is perplexing, with few clues and many questions for which we have no answers,” he said at length. “But I am determined to solve it.” He leaned forward, his thick eyebrows lifting to underscore the sincerity of his words. “For this madman killed my daughter’s fiancé, and as much as I disliked that loafer—he was good for nothing but drinking parties and dice—my Celina loved him, and her heart is broken.” A shadow crossed his face. “The killer has caused her suffering, and I will have his neck for it.” He bunched the fingers of his right hand into a fist and twisted it in front of his face as he clenched his teeth.

  “Of course,” I murmured. So much for him ordering that murder. He could still be responsible for Mantovano’s killing, however, although that seemed increasingly unlikely too. I would have bet my finest gown and a string of pearls that it was the work of the same man.

  I was just about to launch into explaining my other reservations, when Stempowski sat back calmly, every inch a courtier again. “Do you know what I think, Contessa Sanseverino? I think it was about a woman after all.” There was a trace of sarcasm in the way one corner of his mouth lifted. “If memory serves me, it was first suggested by that quack of Her Majesty’s”—half-turning, he leaned his head toward Konarski—“what’s his name again?”

  “Doctor Baldazzi, Your Excellency.”

  “I think that is the most likely explanation,” he went on before I had a chance to say anything. “In both cases. And here’s why.” He raised himself in his chair for a more comfortable and an even more authority-conveying position. “Jan Dantyszek, who was an old friend of Zamborski’s, testified that he never showed up for the Christmas banquet. They thought that he was indisposed, and therefore saw no reason to search for him. But what I think happened”—he raised a finger like a priest from a pulpit imparting a tenant of faith—“is that he went to that delivery passage on purpose, to meet someone. But instead of the woman, he came face to face with her husband and paid for it with his life.” He let out a bark of contemptuous laughter, and, regardless of what he had said earlier, I could see why the queen would think that he had rid himself of a man he considered beneath his daughter.

  Konarski’s face wore an inscrutable expression. I was forced to admit, once again, that when it came to Zamborski, that was at least a reasonable theory. But the queen’s secretary?

  “There is no evidence that Don Mantovano had any liaisons,” I said a bit defensively. “Her Majesty swears by his fidelity to his wife and—”

  “I know, I know. He was something of a prude.” The chancellor waved his hand dismissively. “But do you know that he brought wine to his office on the night he died?”

  “Uh . . .” I could not decide whether I should admit that I did and possibly get Konarski in trouble, but Stempowski was so excited now that he did not notice how flustered I was.

  “Not only that,” he continued, warming to his theme, “he shared his wine with the guards, who then fell asleep like a pair of newborns at their wet nurse’s teats. Do you know what that means?” I was so confused that I could not even shake my head, and Stempowski seemed to relish this. “It means that he laced the wine with something,” he finished triumphantly.

  “Laced it with what?”

  The chancellor shrugged. “I don’t know, but Mantovano was Italian, and if the Italians know anything, it is their poisons.” He guffawed, momentarily forgetting—or ignoring—the fact that I, too, was Italian. Behind him, Konarski reddened.

  A scene flashed through my mind with sudden clarity: a flagon of wine on the table next to Lucrezia’s chair on the morning the secretary’s body had been found. I had assumed that the chancellor had sent for it to calm her nerves, but had he?

  “The wine in Don Mantovano’s office—was it there when you arrived to question Signorina Alifio?” I asked, suddenly breathless.

  “It was.” The chancellor dipped his head in appreciative acknowledgement of my reasoning. “Later that day, after I talked with the guards and they confessed to having accepted a drink from him and then falling fast asleep, I grew suspicious. I had one of my men drink a cup of the wine from the office, and he went on to sleep for fourteen hours.” He looked satisfied at how neatly this seemed to explain his thesis. “Signorina Alifio had a few sips from it too, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yes. She slept until late that afternoon and was still groggy at supper.”

  “You see?” He spread his hands. “Now, why would Don Mantovano have put a sleeping draught into the wine he offered to the guards if not to get rid of any witnesses to his meeting with a mistress?”

  “Perhaps to get rid of witnesses to his meeting with someone set on extracting information about the queen’s business,” I said, still rankled by his comment about the Italians.

  Stempowski’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows met over his nose with a deep frown. “What are you suggesting, signora?” I flinched. This was my second blunder. Thus far I had found no evidence of the chancellor’s involvement, but I was rapidly antagonizing him, as was evident from Konarski’s alarmed face. “That he was a spy? For whom?”

  “I—I wouldn’t know,” I stammered. “I just thought—” I faltered, but he waited, slightly cocking his head. Was he genuinely interested, or did he think that my words reflected the queen’s suspicions that he might have a mole among her men? Once again, I felt my own inadequacy to the task, stuck as I was between these two consummate players.

  “I have no idea what happened that night,” I said, truthfully enough, as I collected myself. It was time for me to stop speculating. “And it does seem that Don Mantovano was . . . up to something.” It was also time to stop talking before I again said something I should not.

  “That much is certain,” Stempowski stated sarcastically. He sighed with an air of finality, and I knew that the interview had come to an end. He picked up the note. “I will keep this as we continue our investigation. And thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “Of course.” I began to rise from the chair, then something occurred to me. “Perhaps it is worth talking to Doctor Baldazzi? I know he offered poppy milk to another of my ladies when she couldn’t sleep. If he gave us—if he gave you”—I corrected myself hastily—“a list of who else procured it from him, you could look into whether any of them had a reason to see Don Mantovano dead.”

  “I already did.” The chancellor looked unhappy. “Half the court is taking it, apparently. Besides, there are several different extracts that can put a man to sleep.” He frowned as he tried to recall. “Valerian, lemon balm in high concentrations, hypericum . . . I forget what else.” He shook his head. “Baldi makes them all. It’s no use.”

  I was about to correct him on Baldazzi’s name when Konarski interjected. “My Lord Chancellor, may I suggest posting more guards outside Her Majesty’s apartments and Contessa Sanseverino’s chamber?”

  Stempowski hesitated momentarily, then he must have realized how bad a rejection of that suggestion would sou
nd. “I will summon the captain of the guard and give appropriate dispositions,” he said without enthusiasm. “And let’s keep this”—he waved the note in his hand—“quiet for now.”

  After we had left the chancellor’s office, Konarski insisted on walking me back despite my assurances that nobody would attack me in broad daylight with courtiers, guards, and servants milling about. Servants, in particular, were more numerous than was usual at that hour, and I recognized several of the kitchen staff who would not normally be there until suppertime.

  When we turned into the queen’s gallery, we passed Lucrezia and Magdalena walking in the opposite direction. There was no smile on Lucrezia’s face; it had not returned there once since the New Year’s morning. Instead, after acknowledging us with a nod, she continued staring ahead, her expression blank. Magdalena, on the other hand, shifted a curious gaze from Konarski to me and back. Then she tossed her head and jutted out her generous bosom with a lingering look at the king’s secretary. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him return her greeting absent-mindedly.

  As we neared my chamber, I wondered who that phantom was who was able to move around the castle with all these people about without arousing any suspicions. For even at night, corridors, hallways, and galleries were rarely empty. Except when there was a banquet.

  “Dear God,” I gasped, halting in my tracks. I pulled Konarski into a nearby alcove with a narrow window that gave onto the courtyard below. “The Feast of Epiphany is two days from now!”

  “Yes.” He looked puzzled. “I know.”

  “Zamborski and Mantovano were both killed when most of the court was attending a banquet—first Christmas, then New Year’s. That means that the murderer might strike again the night after next.”

  Konarski swallowed hard. “You’re right.” He ran a hand over his face. “Why have I not thought about this before?”