To Serve a King (50 page)
“No doubt she is petitioning the King on behalf of a paying customer,” Olympe jeered toward the elaborately plumed woman. “Everyone knows it’s the only way she can continue to dress and gamble as she does.”
Jeanne watched the retreating back of the woman, the corners of her wide mouth lowering perceptibly.
“Come, dearest Jeanne,” Lynette broke her friend’s sad reverie, “my
maman
would be so delighted to see you.”
“Oui,
Lynette, it would do me much good to see her as well,” Jeanne replied, shaking off her despondency.
“Olympe? Olympe?” The call came from behind them, and the three friends turned to see two young women and a cavalier walking briskly toward them. The small, auburn-haired girl in the lead waved her hand frantically at them.
“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle de Chouard,” Olympe said, looking down her long, straight nose at the women before her.
“Is it true, what we have heard? Are you to wed Monsieur de Loisseau?”
“Oh, dearest Daphne, is he one of those who wishes my hand?” Olympe looked around. “There are so many, I cannot keep track.”
Jeanne blanched at her friend’s egotistical rejoinder and was astounded when the group laughed in response.
“With such a wit it is no wonder they are lining up at your door,” the young man said, taking Olympe’s hand and brushing his lips across her translucent skin.
Olympe bowed. “Monsieur La Porte, Mademoiselle La Vienne,
Mademoiselle de Chouard, pray say hello to Lynette, whom you all know, and to Jeanne, whom I should hope you remember.”
Jeanne recognized Daphne de Chouard from chapel, having seen her pray with great vehemence on more than one occasion.
“Ah, Mademoiselle La Marechal, a pleasure as always to see you,” Daphne greeted Lynette; her companions nodded their enthusiastic agreement. “We were just speaking to your father. What a wonderful, kind man.”
“Many thanks, mademoiselle.” Lynette offered them a small curtsey, giving Jeanne a gentle push forward.
The courtiers’ eyes stabbed at Jeanne for a brief moment. Then the trio turned away.
“Keep us informed, Olympe,” Daphne called over her shoulder. “We wish to be the first to know of your betrothal.”
Olympe waved a limp hand at them, turning back to Jeanne. She watched with Lynette as anger and embarrassment colored their friend’s face.
“Do not bother with them.” Olympe twisted Jeanne away. “They are no one to be concerned with. You must learn to know the court. The plotting is constant on a grand scale, and
whom
to plot against is of most importance. From the Queen to the King’s many paramours, the ministers and the courtiers, they are all in it.”
Jeanne froze, aghast at Olympe’s words. Lynette twined her arm through Jeanne’s, pulling her forward toward the château.
“You must learn not to let the machinations of the courtiers affect you so,
ma chère.
” Lynette spoke softly, stroking her friend’s arm.
Jeanne smiled sadly, nodding her head.
“I know, I know, yet I have little tolerance for their hypocrisy. There is truth to the fashion of courtiers wearing masks, for some are indeed two-faced. They profess profound piety, yet their behavior speaks of anything but. They judge and belittle others they perceive as beneath them and hate any they deem as competition.”
Jeanne stopped, turning to her friends.
“I ask you, is this how God intends for his most righteous followers to behave?”
She held her heavy-heeled shoes in her hand as she tiptoed on stockinged feet down the long, empty corridor. On the floor above her rooms, Jeanne stealthily made her way to the farthest chamber. The oppressive heat of midafternoon pressed thick around her, and the sweat slid down her brow and between her breasts. She’d told Lynette and Olympe that she needed a nap, but instead she’d headed for this classroom, her refuge, as it had been almost every afternoon since her return.
Jeanne smiled gratefully as she reached the portal, thrilled to see it open, no doubt those within hoping for a stray breeze or two. She slipped into the room, gracefully dropping to her knees, sliding the rest of the way into a small cubbyhole as she did. From here she could hear everything taking place in the room and, when she dared peek out, could see those within as well. For the most part she kept herself utterly still, not wishing to expose her position, for to reveal herself would be to incur expulsion and more disgrace.
In her mind’s eye she pictured the room and all its details: a dozen or so young boys, aged from six to sixteen, wearing flamboyant clothing and bored expressions, lanky limbs draped across the scarred wooden chairs as they pretended to pay attention to the tutor. Bright light from the one wide-open window cast strange shadows across their faces, throwing their high cheekbones and long, straight noses into stark relief.
“The Romans believed in many gods, some of whom our own King pledges allegiance to, such as Apollo.” The tall young man perched on a chair at the front of the room spoke with elegance. His clothes showed signs of wear and overuse; the son of a lowborn baron, as were most tutors, the instructor was rich in knowledge
but little else. Jeanne thrilled at his voice as well as the subject matter.
The study of history was one of Jeanne’s favorite subjects and one intentionally omitted from her own formal education. History was considered recreational study, and there was nothing recreational allowed at the convent. She’d received instruction in only the basics: reading, writing, arithmetic, and diction. She had gleaned her love of history at the convent, but not from the nuns.
Had she been twelve or perhaps thirteen? Jeanne couldn’t remember. She’d been assigned to clean the convent library; a library the priests from the adjacent monastery accessed as well. Dusting the shelves with a dirty, ragged cloth, she’d picked up
Julius Caesar
, by William Shakespeare. When she dropped the old tome on the floor, the pages had fallen open, revealing, like the freshly burst flower reveals its stamen, all of the magnificent secrets hidden within. By the second page, Jeanne was enraptured. The gladiators, the Senate, the law. Her mind whirled as the words spun her back through the ages.
Sister Marguerite allowed Jeanne to clean the library for many weeks, until the young girl was discovered sprawled beneath a heavy oak table, sound asleep, Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales
as her pillow. Jeanne was forbidden to ever clean the library again, but the damage had been done: her love of history, books, and learning had become as much a part of her as her own soul.
“The intrigue among the senators was a many-layered briar patch.” The sarcasm lay heavy in Monsieur de Postel’s voice, the similarity of the times he spoke of to the present day apparent to him and Jeanne, if not to his pupils.
Jeanne smiled, silently congratulating this man for his insight. She admired teachers, thought teaching a noble profession, one she’d considered for herself, but only for a moment. A woman could only teach as an instructress at a convent, and the thought of ever again entering one of those dismal, depressing places was abhorrent.
He has accepted his position well,
she thought, hearing no dissatisfaction, only enthusiasm, in his voice. His father had been a member of the lower cabinet, a much more esteemed position than the tutor held. But M. de Postel was a Huguenot.
Louis’ grandfather had passed the Edict of Nantes eighty-four years ago, giving Protestants protection to practice their faith in freedom. During the last few years, the relations between the Catholics and the Huguenots had once again grown strained, and the King had slowly, and as inconspicuously as possible, begun weeding the Protestants out of positions of authority at court. Once a lawmaker, Baron de Postel was now one of the many tutors situated at court charged with the early education of the nobility’s children.
Jeanne leaned in and risked a quick glance at the man pontificating with such exuberance. His long, bony arm stretched outward, an imagined sword held firmly in his hand.
Why can I not be as accepting of my fate as he?
Jeanne wondered. Pulling herself back into her hiding place, she closed her eyes to the brimming tears and her mind to all such errant thoughts, allowing only the words of the past to enter.
T
he scalding heat rose up before her, reaching deep inside her like a selfish lover grasping for her soul. The fiery vapors scorched her fragile facial skin; yellow-orange flames seared their impression upon her retinas. When she pulled away, when she finally turned her gaze from the fire, her vision in the dim light of the stone-walled factory would be nothing more than the ghostly specters of the flames’ flickering tendrils.
Sophia Fiolario performed the next step in the glassmaking process in an instant of time, her instincts and years of practice leading the way, from the feel of the
borcèlla
in her hand, from the change in the odor and color of the molten material as it began to solidify. This was the most crucial moment, like the second of conception, when the glass was barely still a liquid, yet on the precipice of becoming a solid. Then, and only then, would she use her special tongs to conceive its ever-lasting form. If she didn’t perform perfectly, if her ministrations were inelegant or slow in the tiny void in time, she would have to start again, reheating the glass and returning it to a shapeless blob.
The layers of clothing encasing her body trapped the energy
thrown by the furnace. With a stab of envy, Sophia pictured the men of Murano who worked the glass clad in no more than thin linen shirts and lightweight breeches. As a woman, forbidden to work the furnaces, particularly during these prohibited hours following the evening vigil’s bells, she had no choice but to stand before the radiating heat clad in petticoat, chemise, and gown. The sweat pooled beneath her full breasts and trickled down the small of her back. Within minutes of stepping into the circle of sweltering air thrown by the furnace, a heat in excess of two thousand degrees, she became drenched in a cloying layer of her body’s fluid. Her own pungent odor vied for dominance over the caustic scent of the melting minerals and burning wood.
Sophia pulled the long, heavy metal blowpipe out of the rectangular door, the ball of volcanic material retreating last. With a mother’s kiss, she put her lips to the tapered end of the
canna da soffio
and blew. The excitement lit deep within her as the ball of material expanded and changed, a thrill unlike any other she had ever known elsewhere in all of her nineteen years.
Now was the time; this was the moment. The glass came alive by her skill and her breath. The malleable substance glowed with an internal energy, the once-clear material now a fiery amber, having absorbed the heat of the flames as well as its color. It waited for, longed for, her touch as the yearning lover awaits the final throes of passion. Quickly she spun to her
scagno,
the table designed uniquely for glassmaking. She sat on the hard bench in the U-shaped space created by the two slim metal arms running perpendicular to the bench on either side of her. Placing the long
ferro sbuso
across the braces, her left palm pushed and pulled against it, always spinning, always keeping gravity’s pull on the fluid material equal. With her right hand, Sophia grabbed the
borcèlla
and reached for the still-pliable mass. For a quick moment, she closed her eyes, envisioning the graceful, distinctive shape she imagined for this piece. When she looked up, it was there on the end of her rod. She could see it, therefore she could make it, and she set to her work.
When the man moved out of the corner’s shadows, Sophia flinched. He had been quiet for so long, she had forgotten him. As he stood to stoke the
crugioli,
she remembered his presence and was glad for it. Uncountable were the nights they had worked together like this. From her youngest days, he had indulged her unlawful interest in the glassmaking, teaching and encouraging her, until her skills matched those of his—Zeno Fiolario, one of Venice’s glassmaking
maestri,
her papà.
Zeno moved from furnace to furnace, adding the alder wood wherever needed, checking the water in the plethora of buckets scattered throughout the factory. The glow of the flames rose and spread to the darkest corners of the stone
fabbrica
. The pervasive, sweet scent of burning alder tree permeated the warm air. For his daughter, Zeno often fulfilled the duties of the
stizzador
—the man whose sole function was to keep the fires of the furnaces blazing—and his old frayed work shirt, nearly worn out in spots, bore the small umber burn marks of the sparks that so frequently leapt out of the crucibles.
His steps were slower than in years gone by, his shoulders permanently hunched from so many years over the glass, yet he jigged from chore to chore with surprising agility. As he passed Sophia, Zeno brushed a long lock of her deep chestnut hair away from her face, thick and work-roughened fingers wrapping it behind her ear with graceful gentleness. The touch was a succor to her soul and a jolt to her muse. Her wide mouth curved in a soft smile but her large, slanted blue eyes remained staunchly focused upon the work before her.
“It was the Greeks you know … uh, no,” her father began, faltered, tilting his head to the side to think as he often did of late.
Sophia felt the urge to roll her eyes heavenward as young people are wont to do when their elders launched into an oft-repeated tale, but she stifled the impulse. She could have finished the sentence for him. She had heard this story so many times she knew it by heart, but she let him tell it at his own pace. She would work,
he would talk, and though he feigned unconcern for her methodology, his narrow, pale eyes, fringed with thick gray lashes, followed each flick of her wrist, each squeeze of the pinchers. Her smile remained, undampened by the least twinge of impatience; she had learned too much, been loved too well by this man to begrudge him his rapt study of her work.
