A line of footmen stood waiting at the entrance to greet visitors and escort them into the palace, taking them where they were supposed to go, prohibiting them (politely) from going where they weren’t wanted, and generally keeping people from getting lost. The palace had over four hundred rooms and a confusing number of hallways and staircases and corridors, and even Rodrigo, who visited the palace two or three days a week, found the footmen helpful.
Stephano mentioned the name of the Countess de Marjolaine and showed the footman her letter with her seal. The footman nodded and started out.
“I’ll come with you,” said Rodrigo.
“To make sure I go through with this?” Stephano growled.
“Yes. And I have nothing better to do until the royal levee, which is later this morning,” said Rodrigo.
The halls of the palace were wide and spacious with wood-beam ceilings and parquet floors. Paintings, colorful tapestries, and deer with immense racks of antlers adorned the walls. Suits of armor from bygone days stood in niches in the walls.
“Hollow knights with no heads,” remarked Stephano. “How fitting.”
“Do keep your voice down,” said Rodrigo.
Three young ladies of the court, dressed in colorful satin gowns, with the hems pinned up to reveal their decorated petticoats; long, pointed bodices and dropped shoulders entered the gallery from one of the staircases. At the sight of Rodrigo and Stephano, the young women raised their fans and drew together, laughing and whispering to each other.
Rodrigo “made a leg” as the saying went, placing one foot before the other and giving a graceful bow. The young women curtsied. Rodrigo offered to introduce them to his friend, “Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen.” The young women curtsied again, clearly in admiration of the handsome captain. Stephano removed his hat and gave a stiff bow and then stood fuming with impatience while Rodrigo exchanged flirtatious banter.
“I have an appointment,” said Stephano abruptly, interrupting one of the women. “If you will excuse me-”
He bowed again, turned on his heel and walked off. Behind him, he could hear Rodrigo apologizing and the low voices of the women talking behind their fluttering fans.
“That was the wife of the Count of Galiar you just insulted,” said Rodrigo, catching up with his friend. “I smoothed things over. Told her you were perishing of a broken heart. I fancy from the way she looked at you that she would like to help you mend it.”
“She seems much more your type,” said Stephano.
“I was in love with her once,” said Rodrigo in the sorrowful tones he always used when speaking of his past amours. “I was on the verge of proposing, but then she married the count.”
Rodrigo was always falling in love and always on the verge of marrying, but the women with whom he was always falling in love always ended up marrying counts or barons or dukes or earls-anyone besides Rodrigo. He maintained that he was unlucky at love. Stephano wondered, not for the first time, if his friend was unlucky or remarkably adroit.
The Countess de Marjolaine had a suite of rooms in one wing of the palace. Although she was no longer the king’s mistress, the countess remained King Alaric’s most trusted adviser and confidante. She wielded great power and was respected and flattered, hated and feared.
The countess’ suite was furnished with exquisite taste and every luxury, all paid for by herself. She was one of the wealthiest landowners in the kingdom and made it a point of pride to never accept money from His Majesty or anyone else. Stephano and Rodrigo were admitted to the countess’ antechamber by a footman wearing a royal blue velvet coat, lace, satin, and silk stockings. Petitioners and favor-seekers sat on curved divans and chairs, decorated with the countess’ bumblebee, waiting their turn to be ushered into her presence. Two noblemen, whom Stephano did not recognize, lounged in a corner, exchanging idle gossip. They stopped their talk long enough to stare in a haughty, challenging manner at Stephano, who stared back at them just as haughtily.
Stephano gave his name and presented the countess’ note to the footman, who bowed and took it to a young man seated at a desk before the door to the countess’ audience room. The young man-the countess’ secretary-looked at the note, looked at Stephano, and said crisply, “Lord Captain de Guichen, please be seated. I will let you know when the countess is at liberty to receive you.”
With a gesture, the young man indicated one of the divans. Stephano noticed that, at the sound of his name, the two lordlings in the corner inclined their heads together and started whispering. Stephano guessed that the countess’ bastard son was the subject of their conversation, and his face burned. He put his hand on the hilt of his rapier and took a step toward them. Rodrigo plucked his sleeve.
“They’re nobodies, my friend,” he said. “Hoping for a favorable glance from your mother, which they won’t get, no matter how many hours they wait here. Don’t waste your time.”
Stephano was annoyed. “I will not wait here with my mother’s flunkies and ass-lickers for hours until she deigns to receive me. She stated our appointment was for nine. It is now nine. I’m going inside.”
“If you try to barge through the door, the secretary will summon the footmen, who will throw you out. You see that one footman-the big brute with the shoulders whose velvet coat is starting to split at the seams? He was once a professional bear-wrestler. We can’t afford to make your mother angry by starting a row in her chambers.”
“Then I won’t stay-”
“Yes, you will. Leave it to Rigo. I deal with the secretary. You slip inside.”
Rodrigo walked up to the secretary’s desk and perched his rump familiarly on one corner. The secretary had been writing down numbers in a ledger. Shocked at such rude behavior, he looked up.
“Do you want something, sir?” the secretary said in a frozen tone.
“I have a wager I’m hoping you can settle, sir,” said Rodrigo in loud and affable tones.
He had by now attracted the attention of everyone in the room, footmen included. Stephano sidled closer to the door and rested his hand, covered by the lace on his sleeves, on the door handle and jiggled it. The handle gave slightly. The door was not locked.
“I have wagered that you are a fourth son,” Rodrigo went on. He shook his head. “Not even a church appointment for you, eh? Not worth the family spending the money on, I suppose. The most you can hope for is to do menial work for a great lord or lady.”
The young man flushed and rose irately to his feet.
“I will have you know I am the son of Viscount Telorind-”
“Fourth son?”
“Well, yes,” the young man admitted.
“And you’re new to court?”
“I have been here a month-”
“Ah!” said Rodrigo with a knowing look. “That explains a lot. You think you were sent here to learn the ways of court. In truth, you are here as a guarantee for your father’s good behavior, so that His Majesty can keep his eye on him.”
Rodrigo leaned forward, as if in confidence. “I’ll make another wager. All your correspondence to and from home is being intercepted and read-”
The young man gasped and began to sputter. Everyone in the antechamber was chuckling. No one was paying attention to Stephano, who pressed on the handle, opened the door, and slid inside. He shut the door on the rising voices behind him and advanced into his mother’s audience room, which was like her: quiet, refined, cool, and elegant.
A woman sat behind a desk containing a number of leather-bound ledgers and other papers. She was holding a lorgnette in front of her eyes to peruse one of the papers, a slight frown creasing her forehead. Opposite her, on the other side of the desk, Dargent sat, taking notes in a small book. The countess must have heard the door, but she did not look up. Dargent glanced around and, seeing Stephano, said something to her in a low voice.