The empress of ice cream

Louise

One morning Charles brings me a gift. Another gift, I should say, for there have been several in recent weeks. But none like this.

A necklace. Rubies. Darker than currants, darker than blood. He fastens it around my neck himself, then turns me to a mirror.

I see him stroke the side of my neck with the back of his finger, so softly I can barely feel it, tracing a line from my ear down to where the necklace sits against my throat.

‘It wants earrings, in the French style,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’m a fool not to have thought of it. I’ll get you some.’

‘Your Majesty has been generous enough already. Really, there is no need for jewels.’

‘You are a great lady of France,’ he says ironically. ‘How else should I woo you, if not with jewels.^’

‘ly Your Majesty wooing me?’

A silence. In the mirror, his eyes meet mine. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘Then I cannot accept this, because I cannot keep my side of the bargain.’ I reach up to take the necklace off, but the clasp is stiff. ‘Would you help me, please?’

He reaches up as if to help, then puts one hand on my hands to keep them there. With his other he reaches around, placing it on my stomach.

And I feel - I feel . . .

I cannot write it down. What are the words for this, this blossoming of warmth and trepidation? I am aware of a sensation - a kind of silkiness - something unknown, unanticipated. Unguents dissolving inside me, as a candle softens underneath the flame.

His lips brush my neck - tentatively, as if he knows he should not, but cannot help himself.

My chin lifts. I feel my back arch, involuntarily.

He increases the pressure of his hand, pulling me against him, and I realise that he is aroused. Startled, I draw in my breath.

‘Keep the necklace,’ he says, releasing me. ‘There is no bargain to keep or break. It is a gift without conditions.’

Once he says: ‘Tell me this.’

‘What, Charles.^’

‘If it were not for your virtue - if the world were a different place, and you and I were free to do as we pleased - would I be the sort of man . . .’

This is unlike him, this hesitancy. I think: a woman was cruel to him once, and for all his charm he has never got over it.

‘Charles, you are a handsome man, and a kind one too. Any woman would be lucky to have you as a husband. But I cannot answer your question. My virtue is as much a part of me as my hands or my head. How can I imagine what I would be if I did not have it?’

Brusquely, he says, ‘Then keep your virtue. I love you too much to wish you any different.’

He turns away. But even I, with my court manners, cannot altogether contain my surprise at his first use of that word.

Carlo

Gather ice in winter, that you may have the pleasure of ices in the heat of summer.

The Book of Ices

‘A harvest’, I had called the gathering of ice in conversation with the king; and that is exactly what it was. Seeing the first frosts in St James’s Park was like spying the first small sprouting of a longawaited crop. Each day the shoots grew a little sturdier, a httle stronger, nourished by the dark and the increasing cold. Men hurried through the streets now wrapped up in furs. Dray horses stamped their hooves where they waited to unload, and blew trumpets of warm breath as they laboured over the uneven roads.

Then the snow came. If the frosts were the shoots, this was the blossom. Great, fat petals of snow, drifting over the city, turning roofs white; setthng a little longer, a Httle deeper, every time it fell.

The ice did not harden yet, though. The ice was winter’s fruit, ripening slowly. First a tiny brulee of clear toffee on the surface of a puddle. Then a disc of glass. And finally a thick, white plate of porcelain, crazed with cracks where children had tried to stamp it through and found they could not.

Tee,’ I told EHas, ‘even ice that seems frozen, needs time. It sets slowly, over the course of a week or so. And the harder the ice, the more slowly it will melt. We want iron, not porcelain.’

‘We wait.^’

‘We wait,’ I confirmed.

After a week, the ice rang hard and true as iron. It was time to move out to Hampton. Where, of course, aU was chaos. The steward had neglected our arrangement; the labourers were idle; the

barn I had ordered was being used by cattle. Only the ice was perfect, thick enough to ride a horse across, as hard and unyielding as the frozen ground itself.

I invoked the king’s name, and swore' volubly in Italian. Litde by litde, my harvest was gathered in.

One morning I awoke to find that the air itself had turned white. A freezing sea mist had come in from the east, bringing with it a cold so bitter that holly leaves could be snapped in two like biscuits, and every twig and branch was furry with ice.

I remembered Louise talking about Brest, and wondered what she was doing now. I tried to put her from my mind. But sometimes, through the frozen mists, I thought I glimpsed a figure in a threadbare gown, dancing in the snow.