Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

Emotion nearly overcame Madame, who made unremitting fun of court ladies because they acted younger than their age, who made unremitting fun of herself for never bothering to fight the changes of growing older. The portly duchess wrapped her hand around Lotte’s arm. At Lotte’s glance, Marie-Josèphe moved up beside Madame. She slipped her hand beneath Madame’s elbow to support her.

“Let us take you to your room, Mama,” Lotte said.

“No!” Madame whispered. “The King would not like us to leave.” She straightened up, trembling, maintaining the illusion of her usual stolid self.

His Majesty mounted his throne. His sons and grandsons took their proper positions.

“His Holiness Pope Innocent of Rome.”

Innocent entered the room, in shining white, surrounded by his cardinals. Yves followed, bearing an elaborate monstrance of silver and crystal. The monstrance carried within its sculpted starburst its holy burden of the Body of Christ. Yves placed the monstrance before Louis’ throne. The crystal windows magnified the Host.

“We welcome the consummation of our treaty,” Innocent said.

“As do I, cousin,” Louis said.

The usher thumped the floor again. “His Majesty James of England and Her Majesty Queen Mary.”

James entered, Mary of Modena on his arm. They wore white velvet covered all over with pearls, gifts of His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud at the Queen’s fantastical headdress. She detected the hand of Haleeda, and she thought, I must find a way to return my sister to her home—or Queen Mary will surely kidnap her off to the cold island of England!

“Cousin,” James said, hardly lisping at all, “I’ve caused a gift to be made for you.”

The Queen’s half-starved little Irish slaves hurried in, struggling under the weight of an enormous picture frame of carven, gilded wood. White silk covered the painting. Louis leaned forward eagerly, caught himself, and sat back at his ease, making it appear that he had only shifted his position on his throne. He loved the paintings of the great masters; among his most prized possessions were paintings by Titian, gifts from Italy. If James had brought him another, it was purchased with Louis’ own money, but no matter.

James whipped the white silk away and revealed a larger than life image—a flattering image—of James himself in ermine robe and the crown jewels of England.

“So we shall always be near,” James said.

“Allied in the campaign against the heretics,” Mary said.

His Majesty nodded his appreciation to James, to Mary. The young slaves lugged the painting aside and held it upright, where it could watch the proceedings. James placed himself where he could see the painting.

“His Majesty the Shah of Persia.”

What a conundrum this must be for the Introducer of Ambassadors! Marie-Josèphe thought. How can he know what rules to follow, what precedence to set? Perhaps His Majesty made up new rules for this concentration of royalty.

Resplendent in gold robes of Eastern design and a tiered golden crown, the Shah strode into the throne room. He touched his forehead, his heart. Louis nodded courteously. The Shah’s viziers and attendants followed, in silk robes and white turbans, the servants carrying rolled-up carpets. They laid magnificent Persian rugs out before His Majesty, one after another, one on top of another, fifty of them, each more intricate, more magnificent, larger than the rest, till the pile stood waist-high. The topmost carpet covered the others, its corners and sides draping to the floor, as if it were risen from the ground, a magic carpet from the stories of Scheherazade.

The Shah spoke; his vizier translated.

“A token of our esteem and love for our ally, Louis the Great, King of Christendom.”

The usher rapped his staff. “The Prince of Nippon.”

The prince was a small and elegant man with straight black hair intricately arranged and lacquered. A dozen men in lacquered red armor accompanied him. He wore layers of silken kimono in autumn colors and patterns, very full white trousers, and a pair of curved swords. While the clothing of the French courtiers emphasized and increased their height, the robes of the prince widened his shoulders and his body.

“I bring greetings from Shogun Tsunayoshi in the name of Higashiyama-tennou the Emperor, the greatest monarch of the East, as you are the greatest monarch of the West.”

His attendants carried chests of black and red lacquer, painted with golden dragons. The chests contained fifty bolts of patterned silk, fifty kimono of exquisite color and pattern, and fifty jade figurines on silken cords, each jade creature so lifelike that the puppy might leap from the prince’s hand and scamper around the floor, the frog might croak and leap into the reflecting pond. Jade curves interconnected and intertwined; it was impossible to imagine how anyone had carved them.

Finally the prince took from beneath his outer robe a long narrow box of red lacquer, utterly plain.

“The greatest treasure, from our finest artist.” He knelt and placed the box on a small lacquer table carried in by two of his attendants. Reverently, he drew out a scroll and unrolled it. The backing and border were of fine silk with a subtle pattern, but the scroll was nothing more than white paper marked with three scribbles of black ink. The prince held the scroll as if it were a relic or the original parchment of Scripture. The courtiers whispered; Madame said to Lotte, “Why, when the Siamese came, even their gifts were better than that one!”

His Majesty nodded to the Prince without giving any hint that he might be disappointed or insulted.

“Our allies the War Chiefs of the Huron.”

Two wild Americans walked in, an elder and a younger man, side by side, wearing beaded deerskin, massive steel knives, and hats from Paris. They did not remove their hats, and no one corrected them. They never bowed; they never smiled, though Marie-Josèphe fancied she saw the younger man’s lips twitch with laughter. Lines of pain and age marked the older man’s face, for he had lived through the destruction of his village, his family, his people. The remnants of his band were the allies of the French in the same way as James and his court in exile.

Two servants carried a birchbark canoe to the King and placed it at his feet. The younger Huron unrolled a shirt of fringed white deerskin sewn with porcupine quills in striking geometric patterns.

His Majesty smiled. “You sent me beaded swaddling clothes when I was a child. It’s fitting that you give me a beaded shirt now that I’m an old man.”

The older chief unwrapped a smaller leather parcel and brought out a pipe decorated with long, golden-brown, white-tipped feathers.

“We bring the peace pipe,” the younger chief said in perfect French, “to celebrate our alliance.”

They laid the gifts at His Majesty’s feet.

“Her Highness the Queen of Nubia!”

The Queen of Nubia, her skin and hair and eyes the color of ebony, was the most beautiful woman Marie-Josèphe had ever seen. A million tiny beads of gold and lapis lazuli formed her headdress, clinking together in soft music. Her pleated linen robe was fine and sheer as silk, translucent, outlining and revealing her body. Only her wide gold necklace and girdle preserved her modesty, covering her breasts and her sex. She entered the throne room reclining on a litter carried by eight large dark men, followed by four young women, almost as beautiful as she, waving fans. Four more of her attendants led her gift into the throne room. The courtiers murmured in surprise, for they had never known horses to climb the stairs of the chateau, nor ever seen such strange striped horses as these, harnessed four abreast to a hunting chariot. Scenes of oryx and cheetah glowed in the colors of precious stones on its golden sides. Handsful of carnelian, turquoise, and lapis had been crushed to give the colors their unearthly intensities.