William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

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, persuadinghim. 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 thelight 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 like fire in his brain. He imagined Helen of Troy might have had such a beauty in her old age. The blush and the firm flesh would be gone, but the bones were there, the eyes; the knowledge of who she had been would be there forever.
    Stephan had to take him by the arm and almost lead him inside through the great arched doorway, up a flight of steps and onto the main floor, which was so large it stretched from one side of the building to the other. It was filled with people laughing and talking. It blazed with light; reflections glittered on crystal, gleaming tablecloths, white shoulders and a king’s ransom in jewels. The clothes were gorgeous. Every woman in the room wore something which would have cost more than Monk earned in a decade. Silks were everywhere, as were velvets, laces, beading and embroidery.
    He found himself smiling, wondering if perhaps he might even meet some of the great figures of legend who had come here, someone whose thoughts and passions had inspired the world. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders. He cut a very good figure himself. Black became him. He was of a good height and had a curious lean grace which he knew men envied and women found more attractive than they entirely wished.He did not know how he might have used or abused that in the past, but tonight he felt only a kind of excitement.
    Of course, he knew no