repeat of the defiance over oaths, and so for my part I decided to say no more about it.
It was clear, though, that Hannah was not the kind of servant I had been used to in France.
‘Why is a frozen cordial better than an unfrozen one.>’ Elias asked me one day.
‘Because it cools the palate of those courtiers who are fortunate enough to eat it.’
‘But why do they not simply take off their coats, and cool themselves that way?’
It was tempting to tell him to stop asking questions; but something about the boy reminded me of my own curiosity when I first started working for Ahmad. ‘Because a cream ice is more delicious than taking off a coat,’ I said patiently.
‘Can I try some?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is not a taste for children.’
‘Then why do courtiers like it, if children do not?’
‘Because courtiers are fools.’ That was Hannah, interrupting unbidden. She saw my look. ‘It is nothing but the truth,’ she said unapologetically. ‘And it is best he knows it now.’
I did not answer her direcdy, but spoke to the boy. ‘Courtiers are used to magnificence. They can appreciate fine things, which they are entitled to in consequence of their nobility, and their service to the king.’
A tut from Hannah’s direction indicated her disagreement. ‘The court is the source of all our problems.’
‘Without the court, there would be no government,’ I pointed out.
‘In this country we are fortunate enough to have a Parliament, which governed the country perfectly well when the king was living abroad.’
‘When the last king was murdered by the mob' I said pointedly.
‘and his son forced into exile^ this country, I am told, fell under the spell of a dictator.’
‘Parliament isn’t perfect,’ she said. ‘As for King Charles - there is no doubt that since his sister’s death lie has tried to throw off some of the rakes and leeches who surrounded him. But he is also weak, and when his grief has faded he will revert to*his old ways again. That is to say,’ she gave me a sideways glance. ‘Catholic ways. He is easily led astray by pleasures and novelties of all kinds, especially if they have the stamp of fashionable approval from France.’
This, of course, was so exactly the assessment of those who had sent me that for a moment I did not know how to respond.
‘He will not be led astray by my ices, at any rate,’ I said at last. ‘They are simply frozen waters and cordials. There is nothing about them that can change a person’s character, let alone his religion.’
Louise
I am being dangled.
Every time Lady Arlington suggests a walk in the park, lo, there is the king, also out walking with his court. We pause, exchange pleasantries. How are you settling ini Well, thank you, sir. I suppose you miss your friends? Sir, I am making so many new friends here I have not had time to think of it.
We do not speak, in these public encounters, of his sister. But the grief - the pain with which he stumbles over these simple exchanges - is all too evident.
And then, just as he clears his throat to ask me something more. Lady Arlington bids him good day. The same when we are out riding, or playing paille maille.
Even on the river, where I am taken to learn to row, my splashing efforts attract a glance from an open window in the palace: there is the king with a pile of papers, a knot of advisors, state business, looking down. He waves to me, courteously; the royal wave, one open hand across the body, like a farmer scattering seed.
And yet, never having been dangled before, I find the sensation not entirely unpleasant. When I walk away from him I can feel his gaze on me, the way you can feel the sun’s warmth on your skin even when your eyes are closed. Sometimes I even allow myself to glance back, to see if he is still watching me. Am I being a coquette} There is a part of me that is astonished at my own behaviour, another that finds the thought amusing.
And a part that thinks: I must behave as a favoured confidante, but no more. Buckingham’s crass accusation has been usefuclass="underline" it serves as a warning. They must have nothing to reproach me with.
To be a queen. To be a queen.
*
Now the king is playing tennis. At one side of the building, a banked tier of benches allows his courtiers to watch.
He plays well, his tall frame moving surprisingly quickly as he leaps from one side of the court to the other. Even so, it seems to me that the younger man playing him could win if he wanted to. Every time he takes a point you can see him hesitate, wondering if he has gone too far.
The king knows it too. As soon as the man is beaten, he calls impatiently for another opponent.
‘Do we play for love, or points, sir?’ the next young man calls.
‘Points,’ Charles says shortly. ‘Love has no place on the tennis court.’ '
‘Only the Royal court?’ the other player says dryly. There is a sprinkling of laughter, and a few eyes turn towards me. I pretend not to notice, but my heart beats a little faster.
This opponent is cleverer than the last: he builds up a commanding lead, and then gives the king the challenge of overcoming it. Beside me. Lady Arlington is murmuring into my ear.
‘It’s a good sign, he hasn’t played like this for months. Doesn’t he play well, such an athlete, a handsome man as well as a monarch. He swims too, and often walks all the way to Hampton Court. As well as his sport with the ladies.’
“‘The ladies”?’ I repeat, taken aback. :
‘Oh, the king is an accomplished lover,’ she says with a mischievous smile. ‘In addition to all his other talents.’
I blush. ‘Lady Arlington . . .’
‘I’m sorry. Am I being too frank? Perhaps I have been living too long in England. They are almost ridiculously relaxed about such things here. But then you are no child, are you? I am sure you know what’s what, as they say.’ She nudges me slyly. ‘After all, from what I hear, Madame was no saint.’
I do not reply. It has not occurred to me before that innocence in such matters could be dismissed as a childish thing.
Besides, there is just enough truth in what she says to discomfit
me. For Madame, delicate and ill, her husband’s attentions were, I knew, an increasingly unpleasant duty. But there was that one occasion when Monsieur was away, and I went into her closet for some pens. There was Madame, lying back on the divan, her frail legs wrapped around the king’s hips as the monarch heaved himself into her, his long shirt unbuttoned, his own legs bare and hairy ... I stepped back, appalled, and quickly shut the door. I could make no sense of it. Madame would not lie with Louis for advancement. Why, then? For love? I would not have said there was passion between the two of them so much as friendship; the deep understanding of those who had been born to similar positions.
I do not understand sexual relations^ I think, and the realisation makes me cross. To be clever, and yet so ignorant - to be able to play instruments, and speak languages, and write diplomatic letters, and yet to comprehend so little of this, apparently the most fundamental of desires ... it is like watching a game of tennis without understanding the rules.
Not that I fully understand the rules of tennis either, I think, forcing myself to concentrate on the game. The contest between king and courtier has become more intense now, like a duel or a rutting of stags. Charles sends a ball along the penthouse in such a way that it spins behind his opponent. The young man manages to get his racquet to it, but by now Charles is at the net. Fie smashes the ball straight up into the dedans, the window behind the server. I know enough to know that it is considered the most decisive way to win the point.
He acknowledges the applause of the spectators with a spin of his racquet. Then, stiU panting, he looks directly at where I am sitting.