Weighed in the balance - Anne Perry [53]
“Did Friedrich regret his choice?” he said suddenly.
Stephan’s eyes narrowed a little. “I don’t think so. He didn’t seem to miss Felzburg. Wherever Gisela was was home for him. She was everything he really needed or relied on.” A gust of wind blew across the pavement, something of salt and effluent.
“I am not sure how much he even really wished to be king,” Stephan went on. “The glamour was wonderful, the adulation, and he could do all that very well. People loved him. But he didn’t like the discipline.”
Monk was surprised. “Discipline?” It was the last thing he had thought of.
Stephan sipped his wine again. Behind him, Monk saw two women walk by, their heads close together, talking in French and laughing, skirts billowing around them.
“You think kings do whatever they want?” Stephan said, shaking his head. “Did you notice the Austrian soldiers in the piazza?”
“Of course.”
“Believe me, they are an undisciplined rabble compared with Queen Ulrike. I’ve seen her rise at half past six in the morning, order her household for the parties and the banquets of the day, write letters, receive visitors. Then she’ll spend time with the King, encouraging him, advising him, persuading him. She’ll spend all afternoon entertaining the ladies she wishes to influence. She’ll dress magnificently for dinner and outshine every other woman in the room, and be present at a banquet until midnight, never once allowing herself to appear tired or bored. And then do the same again the following day.”
He looked at Monk over the top of his glass, his eyes wry and amused. “I have a cousin who is one of her ladies in waiting. She loves her and is terrified of her. She says there is nothing Ulrike could not and would not do if she believed it was for the crown.”
“It must have grieved her to the core when Friedrich abdicated,” Monk thought aloud. “But it seems there is one thing she would not do, and that was allow Friedrich back if he insisted on bringing Gisela with him. She could not swallow her hatred enough for that, even if it meant losing the chance to fight for independence.”
Stephan stared into his wine. All around them the soft sun-light bathed the stones of the piazza in warmth. The light was different here, away from the shifting glitter of the water. The breeze died down again.
“That surprises me,” Stephan said at last. “It seems out of the character I know of her. Ulrike doesn’t forgive, but she would have swallowed gall if she knew it would serve the crown and the dynasty.” He laughed sharply. “I’ve seen her do it!”
The party was splendid, a lavish, beautiful echo of high Renaissance glory. They arrived by sea along the Grand Canal just as dusk was falling. The barges and piers were all lit by torches, their flames reflecting in the water, fragmented into sparks of fire by the wakes of passing boats. The night wind was soft on the face.
The western arc of heaven was still apricot and a tender, faint blue above. The carved and fretted facades of the palaces facing west were bathed in gold. In the shadows against the light through windows shone the flickering of thousands of candles in salons and ballrooms.
The gondolas floated up and down gently, their boatmen dark silhouettes swaying to keep their balance. They called out to each other, sometimes a greeting, more often a colorful insult. Monk did not know the language, but he caught the inflection.
They arrived at the water entrance and stepped out onto a landing blazing with torches, the smell of their smoke in the wind. Monk was reluctant to go inside; the Canal was so full of vibrant, wonderful life—unlike anything he had seen before. Even in this sad, foreign-occupied decadence, Venice was a city of unique glory, and history was steeped in its stones. It was one of the great crossroads of the world; the romance of it burned