Silent Water Page 9

  “Pan Zamborski’s death has not been far from our minds, unfortunately,” Helena spoke for the first time since Don Mantovano had joined us. “We discussed it on our way over.”

  Lucrezia shook her head with the not again look and turned demonstratively to look out over the river, shading her eyes against the sun’s glare. I, too, felt a surge of irritation at Helena’s bringing up the murder again to mar the pleasure of the ride. It was as if she was trying to ruin the day.

  To my surprise, Mantovano blushed, a pink tint rising from his starched collar, the only white part of his otherwise black attire. I had never seen him do that. With the previous glances cast at Helena, did he have a secret crush on her? It was such a ridiculous thought that I laughed.

  Helena gave me a quizzical look, then turned her gaze back on the queen’s secretary. “There seems to be an agreement that he had a mistress whose husband took exception to the affair, and Zamborski died as a result. Is that your view also, Master Secretary?”

  Mantovano’s blush deepened. It looked so incongruous under the dry sallow skin of his cheeks, on which the first lines of age were beginning to show. “Yes, well”—he stammered—“I suppose that is possible. Although—”

  “Although what, signore?” Helena awaited his reply keenly. Why did she have such an interest in this murder? She had never shown signs of being interested in gossip before.

  Mantovano lowered his gaze, clearly disconcerted. “It is hardly a transgression worth killing for—whoever Zamborski had an affair with, her husband probably also had a mistress—it happens all the time.” He cleared his throat. “If courtiers killed their romantic rivals, half the court would be dead,” he added, still staring at the floor of the sleigh.

  Lucrezia turned back from looking out, and as our eyes met, I saw in her face the same sentiment I felt: Mantovano was right. Of all people, that dull colorless man who did not even partake in similar liaisons made one of the truest statements I had heard on the matter. It laid to rest any lingering doubts I may have had about that explanation for the murder.

  “Tomorrow night, of all nights, new affairs will form, so everybody better watch their back.” I had intended this as a joke to lighten the mood, but it fell flat.

  “Not me.” Mantovano laughed, a mirthless, forced kind of sound. “I will be working on Her Majesty’s agricultural reform plans. We will be designating fields on her estates that will be sown with summer and winter crops later this year, and those that will be left fallow. I will likely not get much sleep,” he added, his voice pitching higher with an oddly boastful note.

  Lucrezia made a mock yawning face and shot me a what-did-you-expect look before turning back to the river.

  The atmosphere turned heavy again and I felt tired, even though it was still early. I wondered once more what was going on with Helena. She had brought up Zamborski’s death twice today. Had he been her lover and—possibly—the father of her child? If so, and if their relationship had soured over his infidelity, I would have understood her mockery of Dantyszek, Zamborski’s comrade in the games of love. But Mantovano? What could he possibly have had to do with it?

  Suddenly, I wanted to be back and—if the queen was still in the council—spend some time alone in my chamber, listening to fire crackling in the grate and rereading old letters from Bari. Not for the first time, my official role weighed on me. Being constantly alert and aware of the girls’ behavior, having to deal with such extremes of personality as exemplified by Lucrezia and Helena, was exhausting and unsatisfying. I began to suspect that I was not cut out for this. But what was I cut out for?

  As we approached Kraków the weather changed, a broad veil of clouds moving in from the east and hiding the sun. We took a different route and rode by Baszta Sandomierska—where Maciek still lingered—its rust-colored bricks like dried blood. Above the tower, on top of the hill, the walls of the castle were no longer gleaming like they had in the morning, but they loomed dull and gray and somehow lifeless.

  It was a strange impression to have, yet apt, as I was about to be reminded.

  Chapter 8

  January 1st, 1520

  I usually rose before dawn, but on the morning of the first day of the year 1520, I slept until the sun had risen well above the city’s red-tiled roofs. The night before, I had not returned to my bedchamber until the clock had struck three hours past midnight.

  The New Year’s Eve celebration had started with a feast and was followed by dances in which the queen herself had participated. Bona had been an accomplished dancer since her youth, known throughout Bari and Naples—and even the papal court in Rome, which she had visited as a young girl with her mother—for her skill and grace.

  One such dance found the queen, Dantyszek and me on one side, and Konarski, flanked by Lucrezia and a very excited Magdalena, opposite us. I watched Magdalena and Konarski, telling myself that it was for the sake of her virtue, which was my responsibility. All the same, I was aware that it was his reaction to her proximity that I really tried to discern. He smiled and gave her a small bow when she arrived at his side, and she curtsied while fluttering her long eyelashes expertly. Did he smile again? I thought he did, but maybe I imagined it. I held my breath. Would he speak to her?

  To my great relief, Gąsiorek’s musicians struck up La Gatta just then. The ladies curtsied, the gentlemen bowed, and, holding hands, we moved forward with small steps to the rhythm of the melody. When we were two paces apart, we bowed and formed a circle, moving three steps to the left, then three steps to the right. After that we broke up into pairs, two ladies at a time dancing with the two gentlemen, turning in place for three steps, palms touching high. During that pass, the other two ladies awaited their turn.

  My first partner was Dantyszek, who gave me a dazzling smile, beyond what was required of the dance convention. I could not help but return it, for the man was truly charming, even as I was surprised at how he enjoyed himself only days after one of his friends had been murdered. After our steps were completed, Dantyszek glided on to dance with Lucrezia to my right with an even bigger smile, and I had a moment of pause as I awaited Konarski’s arrival. For the moment, he was paired up with the queen to my left.

  I glanced around the hall. Joy was painted on all the faces, and food, drink, music, and conversation fueled the mood as we prepared to bid goodbye to the year 1519. It was as if nothing had happened at all to change the pace and purpose of life at the court. Most people still wanted to enjoy themselves while working to pursue the privileges that came with such a proximity to power. It was quite possible that the killer lurked among us in the banqueting hall, a betrayed lover or paid assassin, but that night it would have been impossible to form even the smallest suspicion by looking at the smiling faces, smacking lips, bright eyes, and flushed cheeks.

  My open palm touched Konarski’s, sending a small flutter through my chest. We had not seen each other since our visit to the jail two nights earlier. He inclined his head, and I could only hope that I was not blushing too much. I gathered my skirts in my left hand, and we took our three steps round, pausing briefly on the balls of our feet after each one. As we did so, I asked, partly to cover my fluster and partly because my mind was still on the murder and its possible culprits, “How fares Chancellor Stempowski? I haven’t seen him all night.”

  “He is at his palace in the city,” Konarski replied, his back straight and his right hand on his hip. “His daughter is in mourning, and he wanted to be with her until the New Year.”

  He glided on to Lucrezia, and as I waited for Dantyszek, who was dancing with the queen, I remembered the chancellor’s opulent home on the outskirts of Kraków where he held frequent banquets. I had accompanied the queen there once when she joined her husband for a supper with the chancellor shortly after they had been married. As Bona laughed and chatted with the noblemen at the table, the chancellor’s wife, Zofia, barely raised her eyes from her plate, and when she spoke it was to women only, as was the custom. The royal couple e
njoyed their lords’ discomfiture, but that was the last time the queen had visited Stempowski’s home, or that of any nobleman. From then on, she would receive them at the castle or other royal residences throughout the realm, where she made a point of displaying her Italian manners. Already, some of the nobility were imitating her, and nowhere was it more visible than at Wawel.

  When Dantyszek arrived, I caught the queen’s eye and saw the slightest nod of approval. She must have overheard my exchange with Konarski, although the image of Stempowski as a devoted father missing a festive occasion to console his grieving daughter was not exactly in line with her belief in his murderous nature.

  When Konarski and I came together again, I asked, “Has the investigation been closed?”

  He hesitated. “Not officially, but it will be soon.”

  “Because there are no other suspects?”

  “Yes.” I thought we had discussed you staying out of it, his face seemed to add.

  “Then why close it?”

  “I am sure the chancellor will be glad to reopen it should any new leads came his way,” he replied. It was a bland answer, but he, too, must have been aware that our conversation was not private. We said no more as the dance came to an end, and we all joined hands for the final circle and bow.

  I danced several more times that night, including a saltarello with Konarski shortly before midnight. He proved remarkably competent at it for a non-Italian, our performance earning us a round of applause. But no sooner had the cathedral bell finished ringing twelve times and the shouts of well-wishes died down than the queen gathered to leave, her condition finally making her tired. I went with her, followed by the maids of honor, but I was not ready to retire yet. After seeing the queen to bed and leaving Portia on chamber duty, I returned to the hall.

  It had emptied somewhat, mainly of women. Dantyszek and his companions greeted me with beaming smiles, but I also attracted some surprised and not-so-friendly looks. In Poland ladies were not expected to participate in nighttime revels. But I’d had just enough wine not to care, and, in truth, I had come back for only one reason.

  I stood uncertainly, trying to keep disappointment at bay as I looked around the tables. They were heaped with chicken bones, remains of lamb chops, orange peels, unfinished bowls of sweet cream, and overturned cups, the white cloths stained red and brown from wine and sauces. Revelers—though not the one I had hoped to find—still sat at some of the tables, drinking and talking, but with the candles burning low and the musicians gone, the hall had a weary, somewhat melancholy look. The feast was coming to an end.

  Dantyszek waved to me to come over, and I hesitated. I had no wish to be associated with his group; on the other hand, why not have one last cup of wine, a small one . . .

  “I thought you had gone to bed.” The voice behind me stopped me before I took a step.

  “I wasn’t tired yet,” I said, turning around. “I was going to join Pan Dantyszek for a little while,” I added, and the frown on Konarski’s forehead gave me an unexpected pleasure. Was he jealous? Afraid that I would become a member? Or—I thought, suddenly crestfallen—did he think I was one already?

  “Then I will not detain you.” He made a small gesture with his hand, a mockery of a courtier’s flourish. But he looked amused.

  I no longer wished to go. Still, I asked, “Will you join too?” I waited for his answer with bated breath. It would tell me a lot.

  He shook his head. “I have nothing personally against Pan Dantyszek—he is a skillful diplomat. But his is not a society I like to keep outside of the State Chambers.”

  His choice of words was not accidental, I was sure. He was not a member of the bibones et comedones! The joy this gave me took me by surprise.

  “Nor I,” I said. Then I hastened to add, “Outside of the Queen’s Chamber, that is—I mean—” I broke off, mortified at how tongue-tied I had become.

  Konarski laughed. He pointed to a table that was not too messy and signaled for one of the servants to bring more wine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dantyszek and his troupe scrutinizing us. They would hardly be scandalized, but I imagined what the others in the hall were thinking.

  As we awaited the wine, Konarski said, “I spoke with the chancellor regarding Maciek. I told him that his sister had petitioned me, and that I had gone to see him in the tower.”

  “And?”

  “I have a sense that he doesn’t believe in the boy’s guilt either. It is not likely that Maciek will be hanged.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Relief washed over me. “It would be a grave miscarriage of justice.”

  “But he might be kept in jail for a while until the matter dies down.”

  “In the meantime, the true murderer will remain free?” I could not hide my indignation.

  Konarski spread his arms, and I knew that my anger was not fair. He had done all he could. For a moment, I contemplated telling him of the queen’s suspicions regarding Stempowski, but perhaps wine is not always a tongue-loosening agent, for I wisely held my peace.

  The servant arrived with a new flagon and cups, and we did not speak of the chancellor anymore, or of Maciek. Instead Konarski told me how his pompous uncle the bishop of Kraków had a weakness for communion wine, and how, for visits to the family’s ancestral seat at Konary, he always brought a barrel of it with him, which he insisted the youngest and prettiest maids pour into his goblet at supper.

  Later, when my tongue was a bit slurry, he tried to teach me the proper pronunciation of Polish words like mistrz and deszcz, with little effect but with much laughter. And later still, when there were only a few of us left and we were both quite drunk, he confessed that he preferred the old-fashioned fitted sleeves, rather than the increasingly popular puffy ones, for they did not conceal the shape of the female arm. It was a comment that makes my heart race even all these years later, not least because of the terrible events that followed.

  I remember returning to my bedchamber when most of the castle was already asleep and hearing the cathedral bell ring three times as if from a great distance. Two guards were always posted at the entrance to the queen’s wing, but that night both were snoring, one slumped on a bench, the other on a stool. On any other night and in a better state, I would have woken them up, but it was the New Year, and everyone was drunk.

  I slept uneasily, someone shouting, running, and slamming doors in my dreams. I awoke to a pain splitting my head and rose with a groan. Silently, I vowed never to drink again. Once I saw to my morning duties, I would send for Doctor Baldazzi to make me one of his concoctions.

  It would be an informal day, and everyone would feel much as I did, so I dressed more hastily than usual, forced my hair under a headdress with less care, drained the remaining water in the jug on the sideboard, and went outside.

  The moment I stepped into the gallery, I became aware of a commotion at the far end of the wing, where the queen’s advisors’ offices were located. A group of men—courtiers, servants, and guards among them—came in and out of those chambers, talking in animated but hushed voices. It was a strange enough mix of people to be found together in one small area of the castle, and something in their demeanor conveyed a sense of gravity.

  With a bad feeling, I went to see what the matter was, noting that the guards were not the same ones I had seen asleep at their post during the night. One particular chamber seemed to be the focus of the commotion, and it was the one where Secretary Mantovano worked. But as I walked in, I could see nothing immediately amiss. Just like the queen’s apartments, it was filled with furniture brought from Italy, lighter and more ornate than the large and heavy desks, chairs, and settles found elsewhere at Wawel. I liked it for it reminded me of home, so much so that I often imagined these rooms sunnier than they really were because of the memories they evoked. But that New Year’s morning, the feeling was absent because the mood was subdued, despite the unusual number of people crammed into the small space.

  In addition to Piotr Gamrat, one of the
queen’s advisors, I found Chancellor Stempowski there, who I later learned had been summoned urgently from his palace. Having eschewed the previous night’s revels, he looked bright-eyed and alert, unlike most of the others in the chamber. With him were two young men from the king’s household whose names I did not know, but they looked like underlings.

  I was just thinking that Konarski was probably still sleeping off the festivities, when I noticed Lucrezia sitting in a chair by the far wall. She was hastily dressed, without a headdress, and her face was swollen and blotchy from crying. In her distress, she looked nothing like the carefree chatterbox who had nearly got herself onto Dantyszek’s lap in the sleigh two days before. Next to her was a cedar table with a flagon and goblet of wine. The chancellor must have sent for it because Mantovano was not a drinker. But if the wine had been placed there for the girl’s comfort, she had not yet availed herself of it, for her goblet was still full. Perhaps that was because her hands, when she raised them to wipe her eyes, were shaking.

  It was as if someone had died.

  “Oh no.” My hand went to my mouth. I had a terrible notion of what had happened, even before anyone spoke, even as a small part of me still held out hope that whoever it was had died a natural death, peacefully in his bed . . .

  “Contessa Sanseverino.” The chancellor made a small bow, but his face remained impassive. “A prosperous New Year to you.”

  “My Lord Chancellor.” I curtsied. “And to you also.” The fire had been made up in the grate and the chamber was warm, but icy sweat broke out at the back of my neck. “May I ask what is going on? Is Her Majesty safe?” I cast a glance at Lucrezia and tried to keep my voice even.

  “She is, God be praised,” Stempowski replied curtly. “She is in her bedchamber with Father de la Torre, Don Carmignano, and uh”—he hesitated, trying to remember the name, and failing—“her physician. I’m afraid there has been another murder.”

  Dull dread twisted my stomach, and a spot of perspiration came out on my upper lip. I gazed around the room—the somber faces of the chancellor and the advisor, the fearful ones of the young courtiers, and Lucrezia’s terrified expression—and wished that Konarski was there with his calm, reassuring demeanor.