Daughters of Babylon (24 page)

During their year in Jerusalem, Louis and Eleanor performed as king and queen. They entertained and were entertained; they toured the holy sites and dedicated new ones; they worshiped, made speeches, and contributed to pageantry. But from the day Eleanor heard the
partimen
, they never again held a conversation.

She watched Arturo from her deck chair and waited until he paused. “So what, may I ask, are you working on now with such ferocity?”

He rubbed his chin and set the quill on his lap. “A ghazal, but I fear it’s hopeless. The rhyme scheme better suits the word roots of Arabic and Persian, and I’ve a tin ear in both.”

“Not according to my sources. Rabbi ben Eliezer was most impressed with the letter you scripted on behalf of the Armenians. There was that one question of a puddle where you’d meant to say…what was it again?”

“Unguent. I’d been attempting to elucidate points of commonality between Kaddish and Christian last rites. I spoke of vials of holy puddles blessed by the bishop.”

They looked at each other and laughed until puddles of tears threatened to ruin Arturo’s ghazal.

“Here, use this to sop it up.” Eleanor lifted the fleece off her lap. “What about that poem you were working on during Holy Week, while we were touring?”

Arturo grinned, and a tawny flush rose to his cheekbones. “A poem during Holy Week? That would be sacrilege, my Lady. I’m quite sure I was composing prayers.”

“I’m quite sure you weren’t. I noticed the look in your eyes whenever you gazed off.” She tugged at a corner of the curling parchments. “Is it in here somewhere?”

“It is. Wait.” Arturo riffled through the pages. “It’s only in Galician, so far. I’d like to translate it into Occitan, maybe Catalán and Spanish, see how the nuance changes.”

“Please, I would love to hear it.”

He cleared his throat and ran a hand through the shock of black hair that fell across his forehead. “
Ata os pétalos de caída tristeza…”

Until the petals of sorrow fall from your eyes

I shall not dream content beneath the almond tree.

Until Heaven gives back the happiness she stole

I shall not string my lute, unless it pleases you

And only then for you eternally I’d play

So swears this poet from Galicia.

He kept his gaze downcast, his body taut and alert, as if stanzas were still pouring in from somewhere, with these being, so far, the ones he had caught and sealed. Eleanor could find no words herself, so she slipped a hand into his, and the rocking of the ship became their consolation and the pull of the oarsmen belowdecks the momentum that neither could quite carry yet. She’d known for some time that Arturo lost his unrequited love on that terrible day near Cadmos, but she didn’t know whether he still wrote for her—Lizibetta was her name, a beautiful girl, difficult mother—and it was not Eleanor’s place to ask.

And from the stairs, amidships, in sublime poetic timing, two women appeared, one of whom always had eyes for the poet from Galicia.

Catarina curtsied, a small precise bob with skirt plucked between thumb and two fingers, and a tip of the head, oh-so-Spanish in its formality. “Ahem.”

The second
femme de chambre
, taller, long-necked and sinuous, opened her hands at her sides and slowly dropped her head.

“Hello, ladies, I hope you’ve come to join us. Arturo and I are enjoying the fresh sea air in these last moments of daylight.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Catarina said, “you are most kind. However, the captain has requested we pass on his apologies. He will not be joining us for dinner. The cook has laid out a cold supper in the captain’s cabin, and he suggests we dine as soon as we are able. There are choppy seas ahead.”

“An early supper sounds perfect. We will share a table, the four of us. Is that all right with you, Arturo?”

He slipped the poem he’d been reading in amongst the parchments. “Of course.”

“Bilqees, you will honour us with your company, as well?”

Her newest lady-in-waiting dipped slightly at the knees. “As you wish, Madame. I have laid out your new purple gown. The portholes have been shuttered in the cabin, and it’s quite airless. The gown is Arabian silk and breathes most splendidly.”

“Excellent choice.” Eleanor rose, threw the fleece aside, and glanced toward
La Purezza
. The sister ship seemed to be moving away from them. “Arturo, we shall meet you in the mess in half an hour. I hope you will consider reading for us.”

He looked at the two women near the stairs and gathered ink and papers, fumbling. “As Your Majesty desires.”

“Running?” Silvina said to Gavriel Navarro, standing at the door. “No. I’m still adjusting to clean mountain air and not knowing what time it is.” She tipped her head toward the driveway. “New bike? It’s pretty hot.”

“You like? It just came in from Japan. I’ve been waiting for this colour for a long, long time.”

“So it’s yours, not a Croix de Cinq Diamants trade-up from a moped?” She opened the door wider, stepped back to let him in, but he stayed where he was.

“Yes, it’s mine. Actually, I was hoping you might want to take a ride to my place. I have some things I’d like you to look at.”

“Some things.”

He laughed. “Not like that. I’ve been Googling your Full Spectrum Training. You work with patterns.”

“I do.”

“You help people restructure thought.”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’ll enjoy what I’m going to show you. It’s part of what Viv and I were working on.”

“I thought you couldn’t talk about that.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should.”

“And now?” Silvina didn’t enjoy conversations in open doorways. Where she came from, it let in bugs. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “I was expecting you to show up yesterday.”

“Sorry. Something came up.” Seeing her expression, he continued. “Some people are hosting an event this weekend at
Reine du Ciel
, and we ran into snags. I spent most of the day texting, on Skype, or on hold. I didn’t get any photos taken either.”

“What people?”

His shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “My translators and…um, my fan club.”

“Whoa-ho, fan club! That’s got to be fun.”

“It’s heavy duty, you have no idea.”

“Okay, you’re off the hook. But before I change into something more bike appropriate, I’ve been wanting to ask, do you have any idea where Viv kept her mobile devices—cellphone, laptop, tablet? I’ve looked everywhere, and the only technology I can find is an antiquated desktop in her study—pre-Internet, connected to nothing.”

“She kept them in her bedroom. All the chargers were there, and she liked to work at the window seat. She even got reception once, for about three minutes.”

“So you don’t have them.”

“No. Why would I?”

“Don’t know, just asking.” She glanced at the sleek new shiny bike, the colour of Damson plum: juicy, stain your lips and dribble down the front of you purple. “I guess I should go change.”

“Why?”

“I’m in a dress.”

“This is the south of France. I have a spare helmet.”

If there was one thing Silvie loved more than patterns, it was non sequiturs. “Hang on, I’ll just grab my purse.”

In the captain’s cabin of the
Santa Clara
, Eleanor swigged from a bottle of burgundy so sour that tears welled up at the back of her eyes. “Ecstasy, my grandfather used to say, is the meaning of life.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the clay bottle across the table to Bilqees.

“All else is waiting for the caravan,” said the newest
femme de chambre
, who took a healthy swallow while the ship rocked and pitched, and slapped a palm on the table. The daughter of a Shirazi scholar and a dancer from Tikrit, the former slave tipped her head, listening or feeling for something, then, as the ship descended into the next trough, she returned the bottle to Eleanor in a graceful swoop that looked like flying.

“My grandmother told me before I left Poitiers for Paris where I would meet Louis that I had warring strands of bloodline. She fell in love with my grandfather when they were both married to others. Their affair angered so many in Aquitaine, nobles and Crusade widows, they called her
La Dangereuse
—to me, she was Mamie. I was only four when the Duke, my grandfather died, but I remember so vividly when they came to visit. My mother, Mamie’s daughter, would go to bed early, complaining of a headache, and I would charm my father into letting me stay up to watch the troubadours and join in the farandoles and cossantes.” She turned to Arturo at her right. “I’ve shared some of my grandfather’s poems with you, have I not?”

“You have, Milady. He is my constant inspiration.” The Galician sat across from Catarina, clutching his bottle of wine—goblets were out of the question in these swells—but had stopped quaffing some time ago. Catarina had turned the colour of green pea soup, while she clung, white-knuckled, to the arm rests of her chair.

“Cati,” said Eleanor, “you’re welcome to retire for the night. I’m sure the sight of food isn’t helping. Arturo, perhaps you could escort her to the berths.”

Catarina shook her head. “No, no, Madame, I prefer to stay here, thank you. At least, the chairs and tables are bolted down.”

“Very well—oops, here we go again.”

The
Santa Clara
had been sailing headlong into waves since they arrived in the captain's cabin. A trench ran down the center of the rectangular table with cheese, meat pies, bread, olive paste, dried fruit and nuts on platters that slid into grooves. The food stayed more or less stationary, but in one moment, Eleanor and Arturo were the highest people in the room, and in the next, Catarina and Bilqees towered over them. Eleanor couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself so thoroughly.

She took another long swallow and passed the bottle.

“Did you have injunctions against alcohol in your family?” she asked Bilqees, who followed the path of Islam.

“No. Ascetics were never part of our Court. My father refused even to engage them in debate. The devotee who denies pleasure denies Allah, he used to say, and there is no greater sacrilege.”