The Inquisitor's Wife by Jeanne Kalogridis

Author:Jeanne Kalogridis
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Historical, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780312675462
Publisher: Griffin
Published: 2011-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Eleven

Two hours later, with an opal moon shining full in the night sky, the royal carriage arrived—ordered, as the queen had requested, by Hojeda himself. The coat of arms of Castile and León—the golden castle against a red background, the crimson lion against white—was painted on the carriage’s lacquered black doors. As Lauro caught my elbow to help me climb inside, I saw my chaperone sitting inside on new leather cushions.

In the light of the carriage’s lamps, I could see that she was matronly, her flesh hanging slack at the jawline, the swell of her ample belly visible beneath her bodice. Her hair, medium ash blond divided into two braids coiled over her ears, was more than half white, draped by a pale mauve veil held in place by large silver combs. Had she not been so old, one might have thought she was pregnant instead of overfed. Yet traces of faded beauty were still visible in her now-jowly face, in the upward slanting pale eyes hidden in folds of flesh, in the freshly pinched lips that smiled coolly at me. Her gown was far more magnificent than the simple black silk the queen had worn. It was made of gray brocade, its raised pattern of twining vines and leaves shot through with a glittery mauve sheen that flashed deep purple when the torchlight caught it right. Blue-gray velvet lined the edges of the full bell sleeves with the gossamer “butterfly wings,” and the low, square collar of the bodice, which revealed pale aged breasts lifted as high and pushed together as hard as possible beneath her chin. The sight shocked me. I would have expected such immodesty of the French or Italians, but not from anyone at the pious Isabel’s court.

“I am the Marquesa of Valladolid, but you may call me doña Berta,” she said, her full cheeks dimpling. Her tone was so oiled and languidly aristocratic that at first I thought she was making fun of herself, and I let go a short, nervous laugh, only to realize in the next instant that her posh accent was no joke. She patted the cushion beside her with a hand that was impossibly white, small, and weighed down by jewels. “Come sit next to me, dear.”

I slid in and settled beside her, fighting not to cough at her overpowering perfume, a mix of rose, jasmine, and sweet orange blossom. I felt suddenly uncertain as to whether a marquesa merited a curtsy and whether I should attempt one now that I was already in the carriage. My decision was made as our vehicle took off and we were thrown back against the cushions.

“I’ll be your chaperone tonight,” doña Berta said in her unctuous Castilian accent, and she launched into a summary of royal protocol, most of which Antonio had explained earlier. I was to stand when the queen entered the room, to curtsy, to speak only if spoken to, to address her as “Your Royal Majesty.” I was never to touch her person.

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