A tray had been left in his room as usual, but Rodvard hardly ate from
it before flinging himself down to lie supine, watching the pattern of
light through the shutters as it slowly ticked across the wall, trying
to resolve the problem that beset him. Brunivar with his noble aspect
and surely, his noble mind. “Free will and the love of humankind,” the
Baron had said, and they called it the doctrine of the apostate Prophet.
Yet for what else had he himself joined the Sons of the New Day? What
else had the Baron put into practice out there in his province of the
west?
Yet here is Mathurin saying that no happiness could be bought by love of
humankind, since certainly no love of humankind would let a high man go
to shameful death when it might be prevented. No, perhaps that was not
true, either; even barbarians had sacrifices by which one gave his life
that many might live, though their method in this was all superstition
and clearly wrong. . . . But only by the consent of the one, Rodvard
answered himself; only when there was no way but sacrifice.
Brunivar had made no consent; was being pushed to a sacrifice by
malignance on one side, with the other accepting the unwilling gift he
gave. Yet in that acceptance was there not something base and selfish?
He remembered the curious unformed thought of treachery he had surprised
in Remigorius’ mind, Mme. Kaja’s active betrayal, Mathurin’s violence,
and was glad they were joined with him, in one of the minor Centers of
the Sons of the New Day. When that Day rose—but then, too late for
Brunivar. Ah, if there were some deliverance, some warning one could
give that would be heeded.
A clock somewhere boomed four times. Rodvard twisted on the bed,
thinking bitterly how little he could do even to save himself, willing
in that moment to be the sacrificed one. With witchery one
might—Lalette . . . Little cold drops of perspiration gathered down his
front from neck to navel at the perilousness of the intrigue in which he
was now embarked for the night, perilous and yet sweet, delight and
danger, so that with half his mind he wished to rise and run from this
accursed place, come what might. With the other half it was to stay and
hope that Cleudi would not interrupt the rendezvous in the box, as he
had said, so that the heart-striking loveliness he had now and again
seen from far in the last seven days (for he did not doubt that the mask
to meet him in the box would cover the Countess Aiella) might lie in his
arms, come what might to the felon of Lalette’s witcheries. Was he
himself one of those whose purposes were hideous, as Tuolén the butler
had put it, with an inner desire toward treachery toward her who had
received his word of love? Wait—the word had been wrung from him, given
under a compulsion, was the product of a deed done under another
compulsion. This, too. Before a high court I will plead (thought
Rodvard) that I myself, the inner me who cherishes ideals still, in
spite of Mathurin or Tuolén, had no part in betrayals . . . and
recognized as he thought thus, that the union in the place of masks was
of that very inner me, given forever . . . or forever minus a day.
Flee, then. Where? A marked man and a penniless, trying to escape across
the seignories, with only a clerk’s skill, which demands fixities, to
gain bread. Brunivar might perhaps be held from flying to safety by
compulsions as tight as these—at which the wheel of thought had turned
full circle; and the realization of this shattering the continuance of
the motion, Rodvard drifted off into an uneasy doze, twitching in his
place.
He came fully awake with a final jerk, swinging feet to the floor in the
twilight; stood up, made a light, and not daring to go on with his
self-questionings, pecked a little at the gelid remains of his noon
viands, while speculating on Cleudi’s intrigue. But the Count had so
buried the line of his plan that nothing could be made of this, either;
Rodvard went to seek Tuolén, in the hope that he might have some light.
Vain hope; the butler’s cabinet was dark and everyone else encountered
in the corridors was hurrying, hurrying, with burdens here and there, in
preparation for the grand ball. There was an atmosphere of anticipatory
excitement that built up along Rodvard’s nerve-chains until he stepped
forth into the spring eve to escape it.
Out there, the evening had turned chill, with a damp breeze off the
Eastern Sea that spoke of rain before sun. All the flowers seemed to
have folded their wings around themselves to meet it, and Rodvard felt
as though nature had turned her back. He longed for a voice, and as a
girl’s form came shadowy around a turn of the path, he gave her
good-evening and asked if he might bear her burden.
“Ah, no, it is not needed,” said she, drawing back; but a shaft of light
from a window caught them both and there was mutual recognition, she
being the breakfast chambermaid, whose name was Damaris.
“Oh, your pardon, Ser,” she said. “It is most good of you,” and let him
take her package, which was, in truth, heavy.
“Why, this must be gold or lead or beef, not flowers as it should be on
festival eve,” he said, and she trilled a small laugh before answering
that festival it might be for those badged with coronets or quills, but
for her class it was a night of labor—“and it is not gold, or I would
run away with it, but one of those double bottles of Arjen fired-wine
for the box of the Count Cleudi, whom you serve.”
She turned her head, and in the light which threw across the path from
another window, he caught a glint of her eyes. (She was very friendly
after a week of bringing him breakfasts, in which he had treated her as
courteously as though she were high born.) “Will you have no festival at
all, then?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, tomorrow afternoon, when all the court’s asleep. In the
evening when they wake, it will be duty again.” They had reached the
door of the great hall; within workmen were attaching flowers to the
bowered dais where the musicians would play, there was a sound of
hammering from somewhere along the balcony behind the boxes, and Tuolén
the high butler was revolving in the midst of the dancing floor,
pointing where a flower-chain should be draped or a chair placed. His
movement was that almost-prance which Cleudi had demonstrated. The
girl’s face turned toward Rodvard (her eyes suddenly said she wished him
to ask her something, he could not quite make out what, they were so
quickly withdrawn, but it was connected with the festival).
“I’ll have no festival myself unless someone takes pity on me,” he said.
(That was it.) “Would you—come and dance with me? It is only a servants’
ball . . .” (She was a little frightened at her own boldness in asking
someone so far above her in station, yet trembling-hopeful he would
accept.)
“Why—have you no partner?”
“My friend has been called away to serve in the army. I have my ticket
already and it will only be three spadas for yourself.”
(Somehow he would get them; it would be an afternoon of real relaxation
from complexities.) “You honor me, Demoiselle Damaris. Where shall I
meet you?”
“Oh, I will wake you with breakfast as usual, and wait for you. Here is
the door.”
The box was larger than one might think from the outside, and already
heavy with the perfume of flowers.
10
PRELUDE TO THE SERVANTS’ BALL
Under the colored lanterns swinging from trees, there were already a
score or more carriages lining the side drives. Coachmasters talked in
groups. The doors of the hall stood open, a wide bar of light
silhouetting those who came on foot from the opera-hall, and turning to
a more vivid green the tender grass. Violins sounded piercingly; as
Rodvard joined the throng at the entrance, striving to walk with
Cleudi’s slight strut, he saw how all the floor beyond was covered with
jewels and flashing feet, while nearby the mingled voices were so high
that only the rhythm of the music was audible, with women’s laughter
riding on all like a foam. Right behind him a bearded Prophet of
Mancherei showed the slim legs of a girl through an artfully torn silken
robe, and tossed at him a rouge-ball which marked his white jacket; he
must weave his way to the foot of the stairs around a group gaily trying
with tinsel swords to attack an armored capellan, pausing to bow before
one of twenty queens.
Halfway up the stairs in the dim of the balustrade, an archer of the
guard, with his star-badge picked out in emeralds, was kissing a
sea-witch in flowing blue. They disembraced at his footfalls; the
sea-girl leaped up and threw her arms around Rodvard’s neck, crying;
“Snowlord from Kjermanash, I will melt you. Did I not tell you, ser
archer, that witches are all fickle?”
“But are tamed by those who battle for them,” said the archer, as
Rodvard gave her the kiss she sought. (Behind her eyes was nothing but
reckless pleasure.) “My lord of Kjermanash, I challenge you; will you
duel or die for her?”
“Oh, fie!” cried the sea-girl. “No one shall ever tame me,” and giving
them each a box on the ear in a single motion, ran lightfoot and
laughing down the steps to throw herself on the capellan, shouting that
he was her prisoner.
“Lost! Lost!” cried the archer in mock agony. “Come, my lord, let us
make an alliance for the conquest of witches less fickle than the
marine. I will provide the arm and you the purse, from that secret
gold-mine which all Kjermanash keep.”
“Ah, ser archer, it is magic gold, and at the touch of a witch, would
vanish.” Rodvard bowed and turned up the stairs.
For most, it was still too early to retire to the boxes, the corridor
behind them was empty of all but one small group of masks, laughing
together. Rodvard waited a moment with beating heart, turning to toss
one of his snowballs of perfumed fabric at random into the crowd below.
He thought someone down there in the group might have cried, “Cleudi!”
as the people at the end of the corridor entered their box and he was
alone. The handkerchief was in place; it was more than a little dim for
him to be sure of the color, but as he took it from its place with a
little tear, there could be no doubt that the perfume was rose.
Eight paces counted in automatic nervousness carried him to the door of
Cleudi’s box. Music and voices were muted from within, it was an island
of alone, the feeling deepened by everything in view. Other servants
than Damaris had been busy; the reek of flowers was heavier than ever,
even the chairs were garlanded and the odor enhanced by a tall candle
which stood on the sideboard, left of the entrance, sending a tiny curl
of perfumed smoke into the still air. Around the candle were viands;
beyond the sideboard against the wall, a divan with rolling edges; round
chairs facing the panels where the box would look out over the dancing
floor if the panels were let down and the curtains drawn back. There
were two chairs facing the table and it was laid, but in the center,
only the bottle of fired-wine, its cork already drawn. Rodvard poured
himself a dram and drank it rapidly, savoring the warm shock as it
coursed down his throat.
He wondered if he dared take a second draft and decided against, he
would need clear wits to play his part. A slice from the ham made him
realize hunger, but again he forebore to go further, it would be
ungentle to disarrange the meal before the arrival of his guest. He
walked slowly across and seated himself in one of the chairs, looking
outward toward the blank paneling, twisting his back into the comfort of
the seat, but without finding rest. From below the high note of a violin
in crescendo pierced the hangings; one might be one of those gods of
antique legend, who sit on the Shining Mountains, with heads above the
clouds, and control mortal destinies to whom all below would be what he
heard now, a babble with an occasional note of agony. Ah, but to be the
controller instead of the controlled—
The door was tapped.
So rapidly that the chair was overset, Rodvard leaped to his feet,
picked it up, cursing his clumsiness, strode swiftly to the door and
threw it open. On the threshold stood the Prophet of Mancherei, who had
teased him with the rouge-ball. He bowed over her hand, drawing her in,
and as the door closed, declaimed:
“Now that winter’s gone, the earth has lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
Now do the choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful spring:
The valleys, woods and hills in rich array
Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.
Now all things smile, only my love doth lower
Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congealed and makes her pity cold.
How shall we call it spring when she doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January?”
—in a half-whisper, yet joyously, with laughing lips, as Cleudi might
have done it, passing one hand around her shoulders, with the other
holding tight to her hand.
“A northern lord to complain of the cold? And to instruct the Prophet of
Love in love?” she said, in Countess Aiella’s thrilling voice. (If it
were only this one.) “I will not grant your right to sue until you have
proved love your prophet.”
“Ah, that would be epicene,” said Rodvard (the fired-wine working in
him; but it was too dim to wring truth from her eyes). “You must convert
yourself to a woman before you can convert me to your sacred love.”
“Oh, love does not remain true love when its longings are satisfied;
therefore the sacred, which can never be satisfied, is above the
profane,” she said, stepping to one of the chairs at the table with a
graceful play of ankle. Her hands went up to slip off the head-mask, and
she sat back, hair falling round her shoulders. “I am a little weary, my
lord of Kjermanash; give me something to drink that will warm your
wintry wit.”
Her fingers toyed with a goblet, but he took one of the festival-cups
from his belt, poured it full, then as she drank, disengaged it from her
fingers and finished it himself, lips carefully at the place where hers
had touched the edge.
“Not worthy of you, my lord. Is this the promised originality? Go catch
servant-girls with such tricks.”
“Alas,” he said, using the same half-whisper (the voice was the
danger-point). “True love and longing has no tricks, only the expression
by every means of its desire. Let us contest your heresy that satisfied
longing is the end of love; for in love, the momentary assuagement only
leads to further longings.”
He poured her more from the bottle, and this time took the other cup
himself. (The glint of her eye, momentarily caught, held some slight
anticipation of pleasure, but there was more in it of weariness with the
world.)
“Ah, if it only would,” she said, and turned her lovely head aside. “I
am hungry, my lord.”
He leaped up at once and began to serve her from the sideboard, while
the joyous tumult from below and along the corridor became louder, and
someone in the next box was making high festival, with squeals of women
laughing and the rumble of men. They ate, talking a little more of the
nature of love and whether it lives by satisfaction or by the lack of
it. She drank more than he. There were springcakes; he set one before
her, but she only tasted it and pushed it away, whereupon he left his
own untouched and ran around the table to gather her in his arms. “You
are the only sweet I need,” he whispered, feeling at once strong and
weak, but she avoided her head from his kiss, and when he essayed to
hold her, shook herself free, with: “No. Ah, let us not spoil it.”
“Lovely Aiella, do not say that, I implore,” he cried, slipping down
with one arm around her waist, his face close to the sweet hair of her
turned head (and now with the fired-wine and nearness it was not of
Maritzl of Stojenrosek he thought of, Maritzl lost, or of Lalette, or of
the interruption that would come, but only of desire), and he slipped
farther to one knee, not saying anything any more, only drawing her
hands to him and kissing them again and again.
She took them from him and lifted his face gently to look him straight
in the eyes, for one long breath in which the sound of the twittering
recorders came from the floor beneath; then the Countess Aiella rose a
trifle unsteadily to her feet, and as Rodvard rose also, holding her in
the circle of his arms, said; “Shall we kiss?”
Her face was in shadow as the full lips met his, but as he swung her
from her feet toward the divan, her eyes came open (and he saw in those
deep pools that she would resist no longer, only hope that it would be
better than the others). He half fell across her, with fingers and lips
they devoured each other—
The creak of the opening door shivered through every muscle. “Be
careful, my lord,” said Cleudi’s voice, strongly. “By the Service!
What’s here?”
Rodvard rolled himself afoot (the thought of that other union
unconsummated in Mme. Kaja’s garret shouting a trumpet through his mind
and making him now glad, glad of this failure) and around to see Cleudi,
all in his purple costume, with the pudgy Duke of Aggermans, and between
the two a masque dressed as a bear. The man was very drunk; as the
lolling white head came upright in its swing, Rodvard found himself
looking into the eyes of the people’s friend, Baron Brunivar, and even
in the dim light, was appalled by what he saw there, for the man was not
only drunk, he had a witchery upon him.
The mouth opened. “Sh’ my always darling,” said Brunivar thickly, and
disengaging his arm from Cleudi’s, swung it in a round gesture. “Glad
you foun’ her for me.” Aggermans released the other arm; the Baron took
three stumbling steps toward Aiella, and as she slipped his clutch,
stumbled onto the divan, pushed himself around, focussed his eyes with
difficulty, and cried; “Now I foun’ her. Festival night. You go leave
us, and I do anything you want tomorrow, my lor’.”
Aggermans’ round face had gone cherry-red. “That I can credit, my lord,”
he said, looking steadily not at Brunivar but at the Countess Aiella.
“The more since I once would have done the same. But it is too high a
price for the temporary favors of a bona roba.”
The Countess laughed. “The pleasure of your Grace’s company has been so
small that you must not blame me if I seek elsewhere.” She turned to
Cleudi with a certain dignity. “As for you, my lord, I know whom I have
to thank for this shame, and believe me, I will not forget it.”
He bowed. “If the memory lasts until the next time when you laugh over
having given a rendezvous you never meant to keep, I shall feel myself
repaid for my troubles,” he said.
“Ah, she has been deceiving you, too?” said Aggermans, and turned toward
Rodvard as Brunivar made one more pawing effort to grasp the girl. “And
who is this? I think I should like to remember him.” (Concentrated venom
streamed from his eyes.)
“Why, since this is another costume of mine, I think this will be my
writer,” said Cleudi. “Take off your mask, Bergelin.”
Rodvard drew it off slowly, not knowing what to say, but the Countess
Aiella spared him the trouble. “I see,” she said. “It was all planned,
not a part only. At least he has a heart, and so the advantage over any
of you.” She stepped over to take the young man’s arm. “Ser, will you
escort me as far as my pavilion?”
Cleudi stepped aside to let them pass through the door and down the
stairs. “What, unmasked already, my lady?” cried someone in the gay
crowd round the door, but she did not turn her head until they were out
in the shadow, when she released his arm with; “Now, go.”
From within the hall came the moan of violins.