An Embarrassment of Riches (7 page)

“I’ll go and ask,” said Imbolya, and left the Konige’s side.

Csenge watched her leave. “A bit skittish,” she said as if to herself.

“She’s still half a child,” Kunigunde said quietly, as if she were vastly older than Imbolya. “Your guidance will help her.”

Satisfied that she had impressed the Konige, Csenge shrugged. “Yes. She’s new; she’ll learn. Shall I send for Tirz Agoston to play for you?”

“No.” She knew she should explain her refusal, but nothing came to mind.

“Would you like me to rub your feet?”

“I suppose so,” said Kunigunde, who realized that her lady-in-waiting needed to do something for her. “Yes, if you would. And turn the mirror away.” Her chainse was sticking to her body and it was not a pleasant sensation. “Do you think it would harm my child if I were to bathe?”

Csenge considered the question. “Klotild would know better than I, but if bathing would make you more comfortable, I doubt it could be too harmful.” She dropped into her chair.

“I will speak to her myself, later.” She took a deep breath. “Who is with my daughter this hour?”

“Rozsa and Betrica are with Kinga,” she said, using the four-year-old’s nickname. “They will tend to her until Teca and Milica take her into their care at sundown.”

“She was fussy this morning,” said the Konige.

“It’s the heat,” said Csenge. “The leaves are wilting on the trees.”

“Well, at least it should bring us a rich harvest.” She tugged at her bleihaut, exposing her lightest solers.

“Would you like me to use wool-fat while I rub? It should soothe your skin, soften it. There is the jar of it that Comes Santu-Germaniu sent four days since, in your private room. He said it has ginger and arnica mixed in it.” She spoke soothingly as she removed the Konige’s solers, exposing Kunigunde’s bare feet, the upper flesh puffy from pressing against the straps of the solers. “Would you like me to wash them first?”

“That would be nice. If you can find some cool water,” said the Konige.

“Cool water it shall be.” She rose and went to the door. “Gyongyi, the Konige would like a basin of cool water,” she called to the waiting-woman sitting in the open window at the end of the corridor.

Gyongyi of Tolna, a sturdily built woman with pock-marked skin and a lantern jaw, who was a few years older than Csenge, got up quickly and ducked her head before hurrying away toward the stairs and the distant kitchens.

On her couch, Kunigunde turned her head toward the windows. “No clouds,” she said in disappointment.

“Not in the east, no: there may be some in the west,” said Csenge, coming back to the Konige’s side. She wished Imbolya would return so that she could have a little rest. They could not leave the Konige alone, but Csenge was so uncomfortable, she wondered why Kunigunde had not sent her away to rest, as she had done with her body-servant Davni, who was a commoner, and a Bohemian, not Hungarian and noble as she was. Feeling ill-used, she patted her brow with the edge of her sleeve. The heat had made her nauseated and she knew she would soon become dizzy if she had no chance to lie down. It had happened before, but not with such vehemence as she feared might now be the case. There was a sourness in her mouth and a tightness in her throat that did not bode well. If only Erzebet of Arad was not laid low with a fever, she could demand some relief, and not only from her flibbertigibbet cousin—running off to the midwife like that!—but from tried and tested women of maturity and good sense, women who would not abandon the Konige so recklessly.

“Pader Stanislas said it will rain tonight, or tomorrow at the latest,” Kunigunde said; the Polish Augustinian served as her scribe and secretary and was the most educated man in her immediate Court, one whose pronouncements were highly regarded. “He has been praying for rain for the last three days.”

“A pity God hasn’t answered him yet,” said Csenge, forcing a smile to her face to avoid a rebuke for such irreligious sentiments; she remembered to turn the mirror arround.

Kunigunde did not return her smile. “He says it must come.”

“May God hear his prayers, and say ‘Yes’,” said Csenge, her smile widening to a grimace, for it seemed as likely to her that God would say “no”, and such an idea was truly blasphemous. The heat was working in her, like the flames of Hell.

“And say
we
all ‘Amen.’ ” Kunigunde rubbed her forehead.

Acquiescently Csenge crossed herself. “Amen, dear Royal.”

“We often have a few hot days around the Solstice, don’t we; this is more of the same,” Kunigunde observed, as if acknowledging it made it more bearable. “It sets the fruit and heartens the fields.”

It took an effort for Csenge not to make a sharp retort; it took all her training to remain courteous. The smile remained fixed on her lips, and she drew up a chair to the foot of the couch, saying as she did, “Gyongyi will bring the basin shortly, and my cousin will return from Klotild, and soon you will be more comfortable, dear Royal, and your babe less restless.”

“I would rather he be active; it would mean a lusty child, which would please the King.” She pressed her lips together, recalling the remonstration she had received for delivering a girl as a first-born.

“A boy born at harvest-time is said to garner plenty to himself,” said Csenge.

Kunigunde sighed. “That’s all to the good, but—” She stopped. She had no right to complain; she had a duty to Hungary. God had put her in her high position to do His Will, and if that honor brought occasional discomfort, she needed to renew her faith so that she would not become prey for Satan and his thousand Devils who were said to find every weakness in women.

Csenge patted Kunigunde’s foot, speaking to her gently to provide solace as well as relief. “Don’t fret, my Konige. Summer will end and your boy will be born, and Bohemia will rejoice with Hungary, in spite of the war.” She wiped her brow again. “God provides the heat in summer so that we will not starve in winter. To doubt His Wisdom and Mercy is the course of damnation.” She had heard this often from Episcopus Fauvinel, as had all the Konige’s Court.

“Deo gratias,”
Kunigunde murmured, crossing herself; she waited a moment for Csenge to do the same. “We must have faith, Csenge.”

“Certainly we must,” said Csenge, masking her irritation with a prim humility.

“Without faith, we are lost to God,” Kunigunde persisted.

If only it were not so hot, thought Csenge. If only it would rain. She realized she had to say something. “And God tests our faith through hardships—yes, I know.” This was more skeptical than she intended. “Just as He sends this heat to fortify the land and try His people, to strengthen them.”

“So we must endure this trial.” Kunigunde sighed again.

“Episcopus Fauvinel will offer Mass for rain tomorrow,” Csenge said by way of providing encouragement.

“And it will rain in France,” said the Konige, whose misgivings about the French bishop were well-known. She put her hand to her mouth, more for form’s sake than any real desire to unsay the words.

Because it was expected of her, Csenge laughed. “So it may.”

A tap on the door announced the return of Gyongyi, a basin in hand. “From the cistern in the kitchen cellar,” she said as she came into the solarium, ducking her head in recognition of the Konige. “I brought a drying cloth with me.”

Before Kunigunde could speak, Csenge was on her feet, reaching for the basin and cloth. “You come in good time. Did you happen to see my wandering cousin?”

“No,” said Gyongyi. “Where has she gone?”

“To Klotild, to see if she has anything that might ease the Konige’s present distress. So much heat may prove harmful to the child, my cousin believes.” She pursed her mouth to show her opinion of the notion. “What herbs can do to change the weather, I cannot think. If she has such power, it would smack of witc—”

“She made a poultice for Erzebet,” said Gyongyi, keeping Csenge from finishing the word.

“And Erzebet is still feverish, so perhaps Klotild isn’t—”

“Remedies take time,” said the Konige sharply, cutting off the exchange between the two waiting-women; she went on in a quieter tone, “Erzebet has been ailing for some days. It will be a while before her fever passes.”

“Of course,” said Gyongyi.

“Let me tend to your feet, dear Royal,” said Csenge, ignoring Gyongyi’s efforts to claim the opportunity to tend to the Konige, taking her place in the chair, the basin balanced in her lap against the foot of the couch. To secure her command of their circumstances, she added, “Gyongyi, there’s a chalcedony jar on the table in our Konige’s private room. Would you be good enough to fetch it for me, so I can rub its ointment into Kunigunde’s feet?”

Gyongyi gave Csenge a sharp look, but went to get the chalcedony jar.

With a little maneuvering, Csenge managed to get Kunigunde’s right foot into the basin, where she washed it gently, noticing how truly swollen the foot was. “You should lie here for an hour or more, for the sake of your feet, my Konige.”

“It is an accumulation of phlegmatic humors in the body,” said Kunigunde, repeating what Pader Stanislas had told her the day before.

“All the more reason for you to rest,” said Csenge, lifting her foot from the water and patting it dry with the cloth.

“The coolness is very pleasant,” said Kunigunde, offering her left foot.

“Then I am more than gratified,” said Csenge, gently massaging her foot and ankle. When she had dried the Konige’s left foot, she dropped the cloth on the floor next to her chair, then rose and went to dump the water out the open window, and returned to her chair. “As soon as Gyongyi comes back, I’ll—”

As if answering a summons, Gyongyi came through the door, the green chalcedony jar in her hands. “I found it, dear Royal,” she said, ducking her head before giving the jar to Csenge.

“Thank you, Gyongyi,” said Kunigunde; her headache was making her feel slightly dizzy, which she strove to conceal, reminding herself that she could give her suffering to God and the Blessed Virgin.

Csenge opened the jar and dipped three fingers into the yellow ointment. “It smells very nice,” she declared as she reached for the Konige’s right foot.

“How pleasant,” said Gyongyi, starting toward the door. “Is there anything I may do for you, dear Royal?”

“Not for the moment, thank you,” said Kunigunde.

Gyongyi ducked her head, then left the solarium to return to her place at the corridor window; she was fanning herself with her open hand as she pulled the door closed.

Carefully Csenge spread the ointment over Kunigunde’s foot, making sure to work slowly. “There is much virtue in this,” she said as the scent of the ginger filled the room.

“Won’t it make my foot swell more?” Kunigunde asked, unable to hide her anxiety.

“I suppose that’s what the arnica is for,” said Csenge, feeling her hands start to tingle. “Lie still, dear Royal, and let me tend to you.”

Kunigunde closed her eyes, and tried not to see the vivid depictions of Hell that Pader Stanislas had impressed upon her during morning devotions. There were special torments in Hell reserved for women who did not present their husbands with sons, and if her next child should also be a daughter, then she would have to answer for her failure before God. At the time she had asked if the birth of daughters was not God’s Will, as all things on earth were. But Pader Stanislas had reminded her that only God or the Devil could change the world, and when a woman obstinately refused to deliver sons, as it was her duty to do, it showed that she had come under the influence of the Devil. Had not God sent His Son, to save mankind? Why, after such a sacrifice, would He send daughters to Christians? Daughters, like Eve, were the allies of the Devil. She murmured a protest, and was jarred from her unhappy reverie by Csenge breaking off her massage and beginning an upbraiding of her cousin. The Konige opened her eyes.

Imbolya was back, holding out a cup. “Dear Royal,” she said, a bit out of breath. “This is from Klotild; she says it will make you more comfortable and release the waters pent up in your body, but do no harm to your babe.”

“Pader Stanislas said it is phlegmatic humors that try me,” Kunigunde told her two waiting-women.

“This will help those humors as well,” said Imbolya. “Phlegm attracts water, according to Klotild.” She gave the cup to the Konige.

Kunigunde sniffed at the dark-green liquid suspiciously. “What’s in it; did she say?”

“She told me it had juniper berries, parsley, celery seed, milk thistle, willow bark, and feverfew. I will drink some if you like.” She ducked her head. “They were ground with a mortar-and-pestle and mixed with spring water. It will encourage the elimination of moisture and lessen the tendency to accumulate heat in the flesh.”

With a slight shrug, Kunigunde made herself drink. “I don’t like the taste.”

“Klotild said you would not,” Imbolya told her. “She also said that if this provided relief she’ll make more for you tonight.”

Setting the cup down, Kunigunde said to Csenge. “The ointment is quite pleasant. The prickle it gives is … agreeable. You may rub my other foot.”

“What pleases you, dear Royal, pleases me to do.” It was the required response, and she made no effort to attempt to sound sincere. Csenge brushed the wisps of hair that had fallen around her hair, using the back of her wrist so that she would get none of the ointment on her face. “If you will recline again?”