Part one: Gilded Cage
She was, Merivel decided, a thrush.
Court held birds of a great many sort; his Majesty the King was clearly the eagle of his realm overseeing all that happened around him with a keen eye, plumage majestic.
There were elegant swans and sleepy-eyed doves and lush little quail everywhere about, preening and cooing and oh so easily, deliciously caught behind hedges. There were bright, brassy canaries and lovebirds and scarlet tanagers flitting about court everywhere. One had to but reach out a hand and a bird would be in it, giggling sweetly.
And everyone knew the saying about a bird in the hand, of course, although pursuing two in the bush was ever a charming hobby as well, particularly in spring.
Nevertheless, there were other avian species at court, and Merivel knew them too. The disapproving vultures, like the King's Majordomo. The warhawks, bringing his Majesty news of the piracy and privateering in the New World. The foreign fowl from French bantams to Dutch geese to Spanish cockerels, prancing to catch the King's eye.
And then there were little thrushes like this one, perched on a garden wall, holding what appeared to be . . . a book.
He studied her, trying not to be seen doing it, and took in her features carefully.
Not pretty, but fair. She had brown hair, and although it was neatly done up after court fashion, the curls were loose and natural. Her dress was . . . plain. Good quality dark green silk, but minimal embroidery, and no jewels or brocade or ornamentation to speak of. Had it not been for her pearl drop earrings and the book, Merivel might have thought her one of the servants of the court in a moment of repose.
He moved closer, wondering what held her interest so intently, and marveling that she could read. Not many ladies in waiting had the learning to, beyond a few Bible verses, or sheet music, and the tome in her hand looked to be a serious one, heavy and dull-covered.
She didn't look up as he approached, but she spoke. "Sir, I say this with no intent of flirtation or intrigue—please leave me."
"Madame?" he replied, momentarily startled by her resigned tone. She looked up briefly and seemed to recognize him as she cocked her head.
"You are Lulu's champion . . . Merivel. Your kindness to dogs gives you some credit in your favor. Pray show your gentlemanly courtesy and leave me to my pastime."
"Indeed, I shall," he nodded, and moved to go, then turned around and held up a hand apologetically. "Once . . . I know what has you so enthralled."
Her look was one of amused exasperation. "Does it matter in the least?"
"The very least," Merivel countered, warming quickly to the sport of provoking her. She was certainly different from the other ladies at court, who would have at least bantered back.
She held up the book, and he could barely make out the letters on the cover, so faded was the gilt.
"La coquette vengée," he murmured stepping forward, and shot her a puzzled look.
The Flirt Avenged," she translated wryly. "Written four years ago, but still well-sought and worth the only free time I have which is now being whittled away by a lackwit."
"As you say," he murmured, tilting his head in meek acknowledgement, "Having spent my time on Latin over French, I am at a loss to know the title or author."
"Authoress," the girl corrected, and gave him a smile of half-apology, "and as for my manners, I beg your indulgence. My courses are upon me, and such always puts me in foul humors."
Merivel blinked a little, startled at the girl's utter bluntness; to speak of such a thing to a new acquaintance, particularly a man was astonishing, even for court. She caught his expression and held it, her expressing daring him to say anything.
"Ah," he managed, and felt his face redden. "I . . . have just remembered a prior engagement," Merivel turned to go, but after a few paces, added over his shoulder, "Willow bark. In a tea. The Mistress of the Bedchamber has stock of it. Two teaspoons brewed for ten minutes."
He risked a peek at the girl and she was looking at him with a peculiar expression; one he hadn't seen in a long time.
True surprise.
*** *** ***
She felt rather sorry for him. Miriam had seen it all before; the King was notorious for playing favorites, and fond of elevating one over the other in a constant game of emotional chess. His Majesty's game was the only one with several queens to one king, and pawns everywhere.
Including herself, at times.
Still, as the queen's distant cousin, Miriam knew that she held a bit more status than others on the board, and she'd learned long ago how to move discreetly around the more flamboyant and lively members of court. Merivel was just another little piece on the board, moved into position to marry Lady Celia last night, and now drunk and asleep out here on the floor.
Poor little pawn, she thought, bending to look at him. She held a draught of coffee, still hot from the kitchen, and waved it under his nose. He stirred, blinking heavily, his eyes unfocused and his beard heavy in the morning light.
"Is it . . . what day is it?"
"Day enough," she replied, and pressed the rim of the cup to his lower lip. "Drink and clear your head."
He took a sip and spluttered, but Miriam held the cup steady and he slowly drank the rest in quicker gulps, his body flinching at bit at the heat and bitterness. When he was done, Miriam pulled the cup back and looked at him thoughtfully as he did the same to her.
"T-thank you," he coughed. "I think."
"You're welcome," she told him, rising up. "And now you have your toilette to attend to, sir, since the King will want his costume back."
He said nothing, his expression suddenly haunted, his face melancholy and it was a look that made Miriam pity him all the more. She held out a hand and he took it, letting her pull him to his unsteady feet.
"You have the advantage of me, madame," he murmured, running a hand through his disheveled hair under his lopsided wig.
"Nearly everyone at court does," she replied, but gently, and smiled as she said it, adding with a curtsey, "Miriam Maria Isabella Branzaga, in waiting to her Majesty, queen Catherine."
"The . . . reader," he mumbled in recognition. "Something about a flirt."
"The same. And thank you for your advice about the willow bark," she added gently. "I must attend to other matters, but I . . . congratulate you on your marriage."
"Marriage," he echoed faintly, and Miriam fervently hoped that Lady Celia would treat him well, and worried that she would not.
Court intrigue could be very cruel, she knew only too well.
"Yes. I will light a candle in the chapel for you," she added, leaving him to decide if it was in celebration or not. Carefully Miriam curtseyed again and left him, hoping for the best.
*** *** ***
Life away from court was very different; certainly not like Hospital either, and Merivel wasn't sure yet if he liked it or not. Yes, the estate was magnificent, and the quiet support of Will and the rest of the servants made it easier to mourn the loss of other, brighter company for a while.
Still, it was difficult to pass the days without court distractions, and certainly harder to cope in the face of widely-known cuckoldry. Not that Merivel was in any position to object, but the pain was far more personal now, and he acknowledged that only to himself.
The restyling of Bidnold had been fun, and the party afterwards a bit more so, but the arrival of Celia had put matters into a different light indeed, and his mood swung from elation to despair as he tried to win her. Finn's arrival hadn't helped matters at all.
And then the terrible spiral of deceit, one slow step downward with each deed. The forgeries, the delays, the foolish trust in Elias Finn, and finally, Celia's cold and haughty rejection. Everything lost. Merival stood before the king, listening to his Majesty's clear and unemotional dismissal and wished himself dead.
As he forlornly walked away, the silver locket bouncing against his chest, Merivel chanced to look up at catch sight of a woman on the staircase, coming down. He nearly looked away until he realized he recognized her, and slowed his steps, wondering what to say, if anything.
He didn't want to speak; his personal pain was still too bleak and new, but she caught up to him and curtseyed quickly. "Merivel," she said softly.
"Lady . . . Maria?" he ventured, tonelessly.
"Miriam. Here," unceremoniously she shoved a wooden box at him and he took it without resisting. "T'is yours, I believe. You left it behind before going to Bidnold. Take it."
Looking down he recognized the case for his second-best hoboy, and his fingers clenched around it firmly. "Th-thank you. This is an unexpected charity, although . . . you seem to extend them to me with regularity."
The woman's mouth twisted slightly at the corner, and he noted a tiny gap in her front teeth, charming in its own way. "You are a good man in . . . difficult circumstances," she muttered, "And t'is unfortunate that you have been played a fool. I wish you well, and envy you the quitting of this place."
"Envy me?" he questioned, his tone slightly bitter. "Lady, I would trade places with you in the beat of my heart, believe you me."
She laughed softly. "You would not. For one matter, you'd be far prettier than I in a skirt and liable to catch his Majesty's eye in a fashion that would not end well when he discovered the deception. And for the other, gilded and beautiful though it is, Merivel, a cage is still . . . a cage."
He felt himself smile briefly, and took her hand, giving it a courtly kiss before speaking again. "Still, I am grateful. I bid you farewell, Lady Miriam."
"God speed you, sir," she replied, turned back for the stairs once again. Merivel watched her go and turned himself for the stables, cheered ever so slightly by the tiny kindness.
*** *** ***
Miriam didn't think of Merivel again for a long time; matters at court were in a state of constant agitation, and she spent her days alternately attending the queen or reading in the library. Then the news of the plague swept through the court, and the King made it known that all would be moving to Oxfordshire, which put even more turmoil into matters. Most of the ladies in waiting were panic-stricken at the thought of death or worse, disfigurement, and their frightened chatter made Miriam's head ache.
She was no fool; plague was dangerous of course, but if one took precautions, prayed and kept from running about like a headless chicken, matters were manageable. Miriam helped the queen and the mistresses pack, watched over the children, and supervised the crating of the dogs, hoping all the while that distance would help relax the tensions throughout the court.
In that first year, news came of a further disgrace for Merivel. Miriam heard it as the latest portrait of the king's favorite was unloaded and hung in his Majesty's bedroom. The artist, Elias Finn oversaw it, and chattily told her all that had transpired before inviting her to examine the painting. It was a beautiful piece, and although she wasn't fond of cherubs, the man's skill was not to be denied.
Finn preened at her admiration and after that, pursued her for a while; a situation that left Miriam not a little unsettled. He was a fop and a bit of a bore, but at least he spoke to her of matters other than the latest gossip, and that was . . . diverting.
For a while.
Then his true intent came out, and Miriam did not fancy being used as a conduit of commissions to the queen and her noble relatives in Portugal. She told Finn so bluntly as he painted her portrait. He merely smiled and kept painting, producing in his revenge, a picture of her that was in a word, hideous. He'd widened the gap in her teeth, left her hair looking lank, and exaggerated her natural roundness.
Miriam laughed and paid him for it. "A lovely piece, sir, and ever a reminder against the sin of vanity. I thank you for your talent and time."
The queen was horrified, but Miriam urged her not to dismiss Finn. "Good artists are difficult to find, mi Infanta; besides, what true harm has he done? I am neither a princess nor a mistress; I have no worries that some suitor will ever see this work."
In private, she wept. Although not generally vain, Miriam felt the sting of Finn's scorn, and although it lessened over time, she never forgot it. Nor did she destroy the ugly portrait, which hung in her small quarters, a reminder of the foibles of life at court.
