Rough Magic (11 page)

Chiara felt her face growing rigid with pain, with fury she could not express. No doubt her mother saw it. Miranda faltered for a moment, then seemed to steel herself. She pressed on. “You must not wear black to your wedding, Chiara. After the ceremony you may wear a black armband, but no more. It is as it must be.”

Chiara looked down at her hands. She twisted them together in her lap to stop their shaking. “It is barbaric,” she whispered.

“Chiara,” said her mother warningly.

“I will do it, mother,” Chiara said, still softly. “I will do it for the reasons that you give. But it is barbaric, and both you and my father know it.”

“You are simply repeating what I have already said. But it changes nothing. It is still as it must be,” her mother replied.

The door opened again. Caliban stood there, his hood drawn up. He stopped at the sight of the queen. “I beg Your Majesty's pardon,” he said. He moved back into the hall.

“Stay,” said the queen, rising from the chair. She walked to him and, amazingly, took his hand in her own. “I am sorry, Caliban,” she said. And then, softly, so that Chiara could barely hear the words, she added, “He was your father as well.”

Chiara saw a look pass between them, but she did not think her mother could read the darkness of Caliban's eyes. The queen dropped his hand and turned back to her daughter.

“My father asked the king to grant him a final wish,” she announced. She could not keep the formal tone from her voice. Chiara was not surprised. There was nothing natural or easy in anything her mother was saying. “He knew his days were drawing to a close, and he wanted to make certain that Caliban was provided for.”

Chiara caught her breath. She knew how her father felt about Caliban. “Mother, please—”

“Be still, Chiara,” her mother said, interrupting her daughter once again. “My father asked that Caliban be allowed to accompany you to Spain, as your personal servant. The king thinks it is a preposterous request, but it was your grandfather's dying wish. I believe it is for the best,” she said, smiling gently at Caliban.

Then the queen looked down at her hands. She looked embarrassed. It was a rare thing to see Miranda looking embarrassed.
“She should be,”
Chiara thought.
“With everything she's said, she should be ashamed.”

“It pains me to say this,” the queen began. Then she lifted her face and looked Caliban directly in the eyes, all her gentleness gone. “My husband and I ask only that you keep to yourself when you arrive in Spain. Do not allow yourself to be seen more than is absolutely necessary.”

“Mother!” Chiara was mortified.

“I am sorry, Chiara. I find no joy in saying this. I am asking because it is in your best interest that this be so, and I know that Caliban understands and will agree to it for the same reason. Your position in Spain will not be secure for some time. You must win your husband's good favor. Caliban's presence… Chiara, no matter how much you care for him you must know how others see him.”

“They are idiots,” Chiara said, flatly. She could not believe her mother was speaking this way about Caliban right in front of him, as though he were nothing more than an insensible tree stump.

Caliban waved his hand dismissively. He always claimed that he didn't care what anyone thought of him. “I understand, Your Majesty. I will be a shadow, and silent. You have my word.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Caliban. That is that, then. Be well, Chiara.” She left the room, her perfume lingering behind her.

III.vi.

Chiara stared after her, then turned to Caliban. “I am so glad,” she said, at last. “Spain will not be so horrible if you are there. But I won't hide you, Caliban. People will think that I'm ashamed of you. They'll think that they can treat you badly. I won't have that.”

“I will not be in Spain.”

“What do you mean? Caliban, you won't abandon the ship and leave me?”

“I will abandon ship, but not alone.”

Heat spread across Chiara's cheeks. “I cannot, Caliban. You must not ask it of me. If I run away, I dishonor my family and leave my father powerless.”

“Powerless.” Caliban spat the word contemptuously. “He is a king with great resources. He does not need to enslave his child to achieve his political goals.”

“Stop it, Caliban. ‘Enslave,' what a ridiculous word. He's my father. You know—”

“It is not ridiculous. It is the truth. And I know more than you understand. I know that your grandfather wished you to escape, and bought that escape for you with his very life.”

Chiara's mind whirled. “What do you mean?” she asked hoarsely.

“He cast a wind spell with his breath. It took all that he had left. It will take us to the island, Chiara. There will be a storm. The sailors will believe us to be lost at sea. Your father will not be disgraced. He will simply have to look about for other means to further his ambitions.”

“Don't speak about him like that,” Chiara whispered. She stood and wandered about the room, her thoughts spinning. It was not honorable. Her parents would think she was dead. They would grieve for her while she fished for trout on Caliban's island. She stopped at that thought. It would trouble her father, but would he grieve? Her mother would, but her comfort would be found in small Ferdinand, their son. They would find another way to ally themselves with Spain. And she would be free.

“Let me think about it, Caliban,” she said at last. “I will decide. Let me think.”

She left the room quickly, unable to look at him. In her confusion she stumbled into a servant. The man caught her arm and steadied her, then stepped back and bowed. “The king wishes to speak with you, Highness. He's in his chamber now.”

“Thank you,” she said. She wanted to run out into the wood, but she steeled herself and walked the path of carpet-muffled hallways that led to her father.

She rapped softly on the door. “Come,” said her father's voice from inside. He was always direct in his speech.

She entered by slipping in like a thief, letting the door slide shut again behind her. King Ferdinand stood alone by the window, gazing out across the south grounds. Chiara knew he could see the small grove of Caliban's trees from there. He called it the “Pagan Wood.” No doubt as soon as they were gone, he would cut them down and put some pleasant garden walks in their place.

He turned and looked her over appraisingly. Chiara curtsied, then waited for him to speak. The king did not move from his position in front of the window.
That's all he is to me
, she thought.
He's nothing more than a dark silhouette in the shape of a father
.

He regarded her evenly. “You have spoken to your mother,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

He nodded. “I am sorry for the haste, especially at a time like this. But your grandfather understood the workings of state, however much he may have disliked them, and would have agreed with this course of action.”

Hah
, thought Chiara. She said nothing.

His mouth twisted, as though he could taste the lie and found it bitter. “It must be done, Chiara.”

“So I was told by Her Majesty.”

He heard the formal address. Chiara was never formal. It seemed to worry him. “You will obey?” he asked sharply.

“I will do what must be done,” she replied.

He did not hear the evasion. It was a satisfactory answer. “Good,” he said. He paused, casting about for the best way to end the interview. “Everything is in order, I take it, for your journey? You have no other needs?”

She looked away. “I have everything I require.” She paused, then spoke again. “Caliban and I are taking grandfather's journals with us. I'm afraid you can't have them for the library yet.”

The king frowned. “Your grandfather's obsession is dangerous, Chiara. You do not want to be called a witch.”

“Alchemy isn't witchcraft, father. No doubt they understand that, even in Spain.”

Her father's countenance grew darker. “I need this alliance, Chiara.”

She moved her hand as though brushing away his objection. “I just want to have them, Father. I won't be using them.”

He stared at her, searching for the truth. She looked back at him calmly. Finally, he sighed. “Take them,” he said, shortly. “Just make sure your husband understands the work was Prospero's and not your own.”

“Thank you,” she said. It did not escape him that she made no promise.

Silence swelled between them.

“Is there anything else you would like, to ease your leaving?” he asked, awkwardly.

“Nothing.”

“Ah. Good, then.”

“Goodbye, father.”

He laughed, without humor. “Good day, Chiara. It is not yet time for goodbye.”

She smiled, sadly. “Good day, then.” She curtsied again and left the room.

Tears burned her eyelids, but she would not let them spill over. She went to the star-gazing tower. It was odd to be there alone, odd to be there during the day. Everything looked smaller and dustier. She lay on her back and watched the clouds race across the sky. A bird, some sort of hawk, flashed in and out of view.

Chiara remembered the first time her father called her into his council chamber. It was shortly after she had started working with her first governess. She was only seven years old and completely terrified. The room had seemed cavernous, her father a stern giant. Why did she not attend to her lessons? He was told she was a clever child. Did she not like to learn?

“I do,” she had replied, her lips white with terror.

“Then I don't understand.” He frowned. She trembled.

“I want to learn new things,” she whispered.

“New things? What do you mean, new things?” He looked puzzled, less irritated. It gave her some small courage.

“Teacher is having me learn my letters and the sounds they make.”

“And what is wrong with that?” he asked, his frown returning.

“I know those things. I already know how to read. Grandfather taught me two years ago.”

He had laughed then. She liked the memory of him laughing, how he seemed suddenly so young and kind and generous. He had shooed her from the room, telling her that he would speak to her teacher, that all would be well.

It was the only time she remembered him laughing like that. The rule of Milan and Naples, consumed him, pulled him away from the smallness of her life. It pushed her here, to this tower, to Caliban.

Caliban, who had cleaned the dirt from her small scrapes. Caliban, who had listened as she described her nightmares and explained what they meant. He never told her to forget them. Caliban, who let her rage and storm and laugh and cry, never saying that she should not feel so, not behave so.

Any duty she owed to a father she owed to Caliban.

She would go to the island.

III.vii.

They stood together on the deck of the ship, both wearing hooded robes. Chiara knew it made her look like Caliban, and knew that bothered her parents. She looked down on them, standing together on the wharf, doing their best to look cheerful and mask their disapproval. It would be kind to pull back the hood and show them a respectfully tearful farewell, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. The hood's sheltering shadow was too comforting to leave.

It had been a difficult parting. None of them knew what to say. Her father had been nervous and stiff. She supposed that he was ashamed. He should be ashamed. Awkwardly he shook her hand –
shook her hand!
– goodbye. It killed her last, secret, ridiculous hope that he would change his mind.

At least her mother kissed her farewell. Then they had held one another for a long time, as though they could make up for all the empty years to come with one embrace. Miranda had whispered, “Be brave, Chiara,” which had made them both cry. Chiara had stumbled up the ramp onto the ship, her vision blurred. Caliban waited for her on the deck, an unlikely beacon. As she stood there, she let the bustle of a ship getting underway distract her. Her tears dried.

“I do not feel sad anymore,” she said quietly to Caliban. “I feel empty.”

He said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

The noise and clatter increased. Ropes were thrown off and pulled aboard. The command to sail was given. Chiara raised her hand in farewell. Her parents did likewise. She turned away as the ship set sail.

“When do we loose the spell?” she asked.

“Let's go to our cabin,” he said. “We can't stay out here on the deck.”

Chiara looked around helplessly. “Do you know where it is?” she asked.

“Follow me,” he said.

They stumbled past coils of rope and around sailors at work who moved out of her way politely. Nimbly. She felt like a great lumbering beast next to them. How could they walk so easily on a pitching floor? Finally she made it to their small cabin. Chiara threw herself down on the narrow bed. It was attached to the wall and floor of the cabin. She lay back and gripped the edge of it with her right hand, willing her head to stop spinning. “I don't think I would have made a very good pirate,” she managed to say.

“There was never much doubt about that,” Caliban replied.

She lay there with her eyes shut, praying that the tumult in her stomach would pass. It didn't. She opened her eyes to a squint and saw that Caliban was still standing. He was swaying. She shut her eyes again and said, “Sit down, Caliban. Please.”

He sat on the room's only chair, a plain wooden one tucked under a rough writing desk. The desk was also bolted in place. Their traveling trunks were the only other things in the room. Gloomily, he looked at Chiara on the only bed. She opened her eyes in time to catch his expression. Forcing a laugh, she said, “I know. We've barely set sail and I'm already wretched.”

“You don't look like you'll be moving from there for a while,” he agreed. He pointed to a mess of net hanging on one wall, and a hook across the room from it. “That will be my bed.” She pulled a face at his false cheerfulness. “Oh, come now. A hammock is a far sight better than the floor.”