That was the end of sightseeing. For as she shot clear of the little island, and curled round to swing back towards d’Avaux, she discovered that she was sharing the ice with a slow-moving clique of skaters. She glimpsed both men and women, finely dressed. To knock them down would have been bad form. To stop and introduce herself would have been infinitely worse. She spun round to face towards d’Avaux, skating backwards now, letting her momentum carry her past the group. She carved a long sweeping U round the west end of the Hofvijver, spun round to face forward again, built more speed without lifting her skates from the ice, by means of sashaying hip-movements that took her down the long front of the Binnenhof, in a serpentine path, and finally stopped just before running into d’Avaux by planting the blades sideways and shaving up a glittering wall of ice. Nothing very acrobatic really-but it was enough to draw applause from Blue Guards, St. George Guildsmen, and noble skaters alike.
“I learnt defencing at the Academy of Monsieur du Plessis in Paris, where the finest swordsmen of the world gather to flaunt their prowess-but none of them can match your grace with a pair of steel blades, mademoiselle,” said the prettiest man Eliza had ever seen, as he was raising her gloved hand to smooch it.
D’Avaux had been making introductions. The gorgeous man was the Duke of Monmouth. He was escorting a tall, lanky, yet jowly woman in her early twenties. This was Mary-the daughter of the new King of England, and William of Orange’s wife.
As d’Avaux had announced these names and titles, Eliza had come close to losing her nerve for the first time in memory. She was remembering Hanover, where the Doctor had planted her in a steeple near the Herrenhausen Palace, so that she could gaze upon Sophie through a field-glass. Yet this d’Avaux-who didn’t know Eliza nearly as well as the Doctor did-had taken her straight into the Dutch court’s inner sanctum. How could d’Avaux introduce her to persons of royal degree-when he didn’t have the first idea who she was in the first place?
In the end it couldn’t have been simpler. He had leaned in towards Monmouth and Mary and said, discreetly: “This is- Eliza.” This had elicited knowing nods and winks from the others, and a little buzz of excitement from Mary’s entourage of English servants and hangers-on. These were apparently not even worth introducing-and that went double for the Negro page-boy and the shivering Javanese dwarf.
“No compliments for me, your Grace?” d’Avaux asked, as Monmouth was planting multiple kisses on the back of Eliza’s glove.
“On the contrary, monsieur-you are the finest skater of all France,” Monmouth returned with a smile. He still had most of his teeth. He had forgotten to let go of Eliza’s hand.
Mary nearly fell off her skates, partly because she was laughing at Monmouth’s jest a little harder than was really warranted, and partly because she was a miserable skater (in the corner of Eliza’s eye, earlier, she’d looked like a windmill-flailing without moving). It had been obvious from the first moment Eliza had seen her that she was infatuated with the Duke of Monmouth. Which to some degree was embarrassing. But Eliza had to admit that she’d chosen a likely young man to fall in love with.
Mary of Orange started to say something, but d’Avaux ran her off the road. “Mademoiselle Eliza has been trying valiantly to teach me how to skate,” he said commandingly, giving Eliza a wet look. “But I am like a peasant listening to one of the lectures of Monsieur Huygens.” He glanced over toward the water-gate through which he and Eliza had just passed, for the house of the Huygens family lay very nearby that corner of the palace.
“I should’ve fallen ever so many times without the Duke to hold me up,” Mary put in.
“Would an Ambassador do as well?” d’Avaux said, and before Mary could answer, he sidled up to her and nearly knocked her over. She flailed for the Ambassador’s arm and just got a grip on it in time. Her entourage closed in to get her back on her blades, the Javanese dwarf getting one hand on each buttock and pushing up with all his might.
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.”