The Duke of Monmouth saw none of this drama, engaged as he was in a minute inspection of Eliza. He began with her hair, worked his way down to her ankles, then back up, until he was startled to discover a pair of blue eyes staring back at him. That led to a spell of disorientation just long enough for d’Avaux (who had pinned Mary’s hand between his elbow and ribcage) to say, “By all means, your Grace, go for a skate, stretch your legs-we novices will just totter around the Vijver for a few minutes.”
“Mademoiselle?” said the Duke, proffering a hand.
“Your grace,” said Eliza, taking it.
Ten heartbeats later they were out on the Spij. Eliza let go Monmouth’s hand and spun round backwards to see the water-gate being closed behind them, and, through the bars, Mary of Orange, looking as if she’d been punched in the stomach, and Jean Antoine de Mesmes, comte d’Avaux, looking as if he did this kind of thing several times a day. Once, in Constantinople, Eliza had helped hold one of the other slave-girls down while an Arab surgeon took out her appendix. It had taken all of two minutes. She’d been astonished that a man with a sharp knife and no hesitation about using it could effect such changes so rapidly. Thus d’Avaux and Mary’s heart.
Once they got clear of the Spij the canal broadened and Monmouth executed a dramatic spin-lots of flesh and bone moving fast-not really graceful, but she couldn’t not look. If anything, he was a more accomplished skater than Eliza. He saw Eliza watching, and assumed she was admiring, him. “During the Interregnum I divided my time between here and Paris,” he explained, “and spent many hours on these canals-where did you learn, mademoiselle?”
Struggling across heaving floes to chip gull shit off rocksstruck Eliza as a tasteless way to answer the question. She might have come up with some clever story, given enough time-but her mind was too busy trying to fathom what was going on.
“Ah, forgive me for prying-I forget that you are incognito, ” said the Duke of Monmouth, his eyes straying momentarily to the black sash that d’Avaux had given her. “That, and your coy silence, speak volumes.”
“Really? What’s in those volumes?”
“The tale of a lovely innocent cruelly misused by some Germanic or Scandinavian noble-was it at the court of Poland-Lithuania? Or was it that infamous woman-beater, Prince Adolph of Sweden? Say nothing, mademoiselle, except that you forgive me my curiosity.”
“Done. Now, are you that same Duke of Monmouth who distinguished himself at the Siege of Maestricht? I know a man who fought in that battle-or who was there, anyway-and who spoke at length of your doings.”
“Is it the Marquis de-? Or the comte d’-?”
“You forget yourself, Monsieur,” said Eliza, stroking the velvet sash.
“Once again-please accept my apology,” said the Duke, looking wickedly amused.
“You might be able to redeem yourself by explaining something to me: the Siege of Maestricht was part of a campaign to wipe the Dutch Republic off the map. William sacrificed half his country to win that war. You fought against him. And yet here you are enjoying the hospitality of that same William, in the innermost court of Holland, only a few years later.”
“That’s nothing,” Monmouth said agreeably, “for only a few years after Maestricht I was fighting by William’s side, against the French, at Mons, and William was married to that Mary-who as you must know is the daughter of King James II, formerly the Duke of York, and Admiral of the English Navy until William’s admirals blew it out of the water. I could go on in this vein for hours.”
“If I had such an enemy I would not rest until he was dead,” Eliza said. “As a matter of fact, I do have an enemy, and it has been a long time since I have rested…”
“Who is it?” Monmouth asked eagerly, “the one who taught you to skate and then-”
“It is another, ” Eliza said, “but I know not his name-our encounter was in a dark cabin on a ship-”
“What ship?”
“I know not.”
“What flag did it fly?”
“A black one.”
“Stab me!”
“Oh, ’twas the typical sort of heathen pirate-galleon-nothing remarkable.”
“You were captured by heathen pirates!?”
“Only once. Happens more often than you might appreciate. But we are digressing. I will not rest until my enemy’s identity is known, and I’ve put him in the grave.”
“But suppose that when you learn his identity, he turns out to be your great-uncle, and your cousin’s brother-in-law, and your best friend’s godfather?”
“I’m only speaking of one enemy-”
“I know. But royal families of Europe are so tangled together that your enemy might bear all of those relations to you at once. ”
“Eeyuh, what a mess.”
“On the contrary-’Tis the height of civilization,” Monmouth said. “It is not-mind you-that we forget our grievances. That would be unthinkable. But if our only redress were to put one another into graves, all Europe would be a battleground!”
“All Europe is a battleground! Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“Fighting at Maestricht and Mons and other places has left me little time for it,” Monmouth said drily. “I say to you it could be much worse-like the Thirty Years’ War, or the Civil War in England.”
“I suppose that is true,” Eliza said, remembering all of those ruined castles in Bohemia.
“In the modern age we pursue revenge at Court. Sometimes we might go so far as to fight a duel-but in general we wage battles with wit, not muskets. It does not kill as many people, and it gives ladies a chance to enter the lists-as it were.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you ever fired a musket, mademoiselle?”
“No.”
“And yet in our conversation you have already discharged any number of verbal broadsides. So you see, on the courtly battle-ground, women stand on an equal footing with men.”
Eliza coasted to a stop, hearing the bells of the town hall chiming four o’clock. Monmouth overshot her, then swooped through a gallant turn and skated back, wearing a silly grin.
“I must go and meet someone,” Eliza said.
“May I escort you back to the Binnenhof?”
“No-d’Avaux is there.”
“You no longer take pleasure in the Ambassador’s company?”
“I am afraid he will try to give me a fur coat.”
“That would be terrible!”
“I don’t want to give him the satisfaction… he has used me, somehow.”
“The King of France has given him orders to be as offensive as possible to Mary. As Mary’s in love with me today…”
“Why?”
“Why is she in love with me? Mademoiselle, I am offended.”
“I know perfectly well why she is in love with you. I meant, why would the King of France send a Count up to the Hague simply to behave offensively?”
“Oh, the comte d’Avaux does many other things besides. But the answer is that King Louis hopes to break up the marriage between William and Mary-destroying William’s power in England-and making Mary available for marriage to one of his French bastards.”
“I knew it had to be a family squabble of some sort-it’s so mean, so petty, so vicious.”
“ Nowyou begin to understand!”
“Doesn’t Mary love her husband?”
“William and Mary are a well-matched couple.”
“You say little but mean much… what do you mean?”
“Now it is my turn to be mysterious,” Monmouth said, “as it’s the only way I can be sure of seeing you again.”