Dark Angels (47 page)

“Our dark angel? Where?”

“Here. Last night, at the fete. He danced with me, but I did not know it was he. We’d not taken off our masks yet. Why did you not come to the fete, Your Grace? I was vain enough to think I might tempt you to one dance.”

He ignored the irrelevant. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing of any importance. A hello, a good-bye.”

“My word, he has his gall.”

“He frightens me.”

“Let me summon the captain of the queen’s bodyguard. Will you have some refreshment, Mistress Verney? Some wine or a cordial? There’s a sherry from Portugal of which I am particularly fond.” He gestured toward the open doors of the cabinet, toward the beautiful decanter, its own kind of sweetest poison within.

She refused, and they waited in silence, she too upset and he too irritable for words, until there was a knock upon the door.

“Enter.”

Richard walked in, and Alice’s eyes widened. He bowed to her as she clapped her hands. “But this is delightful! Oh, you’ve made a wise choice, Your Grace. Lieutenant—I mean, Captain Saylor—showed such care in France. He—”

“He gave service before France and after. I believe myself quite capable of judging a soldier’s mettle, Mistress Verney.” He turned to Richard. “Mistress Verney saw an angel last night, Captain.”

“Henri Ange. He danced with me. I had no idea it was he. Then he spoke to me in French, and I knew. He wanted me to know.”

“He’s daring us to catch him. It’s a game,” said Richard.

“Captain, you will put the queen’s bodyguard on high alert. A taster is in place for both Their Majesties. They’ll take nothing, absolutely nothing, from anyone’s hand but his.”

“I will speak with the captains of Prince Rupert’s guard, His Majesty’s, York’s, Monmouth’s. Ask them to be alert to any strangers, any Frenchmen,” said Richard.

“He won’t be a Frenchman,” said Alice. “Last night he spoke as if he’d been found in a cradle in the rushes of the Thames.”

“Then an alert to any strangers—”

“And a description of him,” cut in Alice.

Balmoral watched them, their youth, something in them sparking off each other. Saylor had been tested in Tangier, hadn’t he? And done very well on his little missions in France. If the queen died, the young soldier would be ruined. A pity—but so be it. “I wish him captured alive, Captain. I will be satisfied with nothing else. You will report to me on a daily basis.”

“Yes, sir.”

Balmoral closed his eyes at a sudden dizziness and took a step backward, a half stagger. Richard caught him by the arm. “Your Grace!”

“It’s nothing. Call my man. And leave me.”

“Let me stay,” said Alice.

“Leave me.”

Richard waited with Alice in the bedchamber as she retied her mask, fingers fumbling, and pulled up the hood of her cloak. “I don’t want to leave him,” she said.

“Do you—have you feelings for His Grace?”

“Yes. Richard, please, let us work together on this. I will tell you anything I gather. Will you do the same for me? You may have all the glory of it. I just want to make certain Her Majesty survives.”

“As do I.” He held out his hand to her, and she shook it before hurrying away.

Alice and Balmoral, thought Richard. Well and well and well again.

C
HAPTER 26

A
court page walked across the open courtyard of Whitehall’s wood yard. Henri Ange, leaning against a wooden pillar, straightened.

“You there,” he called.

The page turned. “Sir?”

“I’ve lost my way. I’ve come to see the queen dine in state.” Henri held up a coin. “That’s for any clever boy who can show me my way out of this place.” He nodded his head to the piles of stacked firewood and dark piles of charcoal under the porches on each side of him.

“She doesn’t dine in state today. On Sundays at three of the clock, sir. And you’ll need to go past the guards at the banqueting hall.”

“Do I need a ticket?”

“No. Just a clean coat.”

Henri nodded his head toward the colored sash around the boy’s waist. “Are you a queen’s page?”

“No, I belong to the Duke of Monmouth’s household. The queen’s pages wear green hose and ribbons.”

“Green. Very good. Thank you, boy.”

The page held up the coin. “Thank you.”

Henri smiled. “Where do you think I see a bear baiting?”

“On the south bank, sir. That’s where you’ll find them.”

“I’ve heard they’re fearful.”

“That’s what I hear, too.”

“Never seen one?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, seeing as I’ve never seen one and you’ve never seen one, and I’m new to this great city, what about you showing me my way about and the pair of us going?”

“You’d take me to a bear baiting?”

“Unless that’s wrong. I hadn’t thought of that. Am I wrong to offer it?”

“No.” The boy put out his hand. “John Howard.”

“Henry Jones.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Jones.”

That made two of them.

C
HAPTER 27

November

Please to remember the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.

Q
ueen Catherine sat at her embroidery stand, colored threads and boxes of beads jumbled in a cloth bag nearby. Maids of honor chatted and played cards. Afire roared in the fireplace. A page played a guitar. It was the month of rain, of fog, of branches bare, naked to leaden skies. It was the month of Guy Fawkes Day, Queen Elizabeth’s Ascension Day, St. Catherine’s Day. Needle poised, as it had been for some time, the queen stared down at the pattern, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. In her mind, she wrestled with what to do.

“Ma’am,” said Frances, her lady-in-waiting, “Lady Brey is here to speak privately with you and Mrs. Brownwell.”

“Send for Brownwell.”

Frances shooed the others from the chamber, ushered in Lady Brey. Queen Catherine put down the needle she couldn’t seem to pull through fabric and waited as Alice’s aunt marched toward her purposely, began speaking even as she curtsied.

“You will forgive me, ma’am, if I speak frankly, but I know no other way. I’m not pleased with the way my niece, Alice Verney, is being overseen. At Monmouth’s fete, I found her sprawled on the floor and, if I am not mistaken, drunk.”

Queen Catherine was silent.

“It is the duty of the mother of the maids to protect the reputation of the girls she oversees. Alice must make a proper marriage, and if her reputation is spoiled, that will not be possible. I am most upset, most displeased. I’ve half a mind to withdraw her from court.”

“We protect the maidens.”

Lady Brey made a dismissive sound. The king set the tone of the court, and everyone knew it, the king and a queen who had power. This one had none.

Dorothy Brownwell, out of breath, entered the privy chamber, hurrying to curtsy before the queen. “A thousand pardons, Your Majesty. Lady Brey, how do you do? I apologize for my tardiness.”

“Lady Brey has no happy with care of the maids.” Queen Catherine was cold, tiny and frowning and cold.

“My concern is with one maid only, and that is my niece, Alice Verney. My sister died giving birth to her, so I feel a special responsibility, and of course she had to grow up like a gypsy before her father returned with her to England, and I quite fret for her. I encountered her drunk at Monmouth’s fete, and I am here to make certain that such does not happen again.”

“There must be some mistake,” said Dorothy. “Mistress Verney is decorous, I do assure you. Not that she doesn’t get into—what I mean to say is that she is quite lively, to be certain, but drunkenness is not one of her—”

“I know what I saw.”

“We protect the maidens,” Queen Catherine repeated stubbornly. “Good day, Lady Brey.”

Dismissed, Lady Brey curtsied abruptly and left the chamber. It was clear she was not pleased.

“Oh dear,” said Dorothy once the door was closed behind her.

“Perhaps you watch a little closer.”

Dorothy blinked with surprise.

“Not so much time with Lord Knollys, heh?”

Dorothy caught her breath.

“Someone, they tell me, not one, but more times. Whisperers of court, they look for bad. The reputation of a woman, she is all she has. Go.”

Dorothy left the chamber, eyes blinking with tears, a fury working itself up into something fierce. How dare Her Majesty fuss at her! She could do nothing! The king moved among the maids as if they were his personal harem. A proper queen would stop it. For her to criticize—she did the best she could in impossible circumstances!—well, it was too much, really it was. What were they saying about her and Knollys? That she ran after him, that she made a fool of herself over him? A woman became lonely. A woman became afraid. A woman became older. Oh, why didn’t his wife just die so she could leave this position where she was clearly unappreciated? Watch a little closer. Was she just to sashay up to the king and say, No, go away, sir? It’s a maid of honor, sir, mustn’t touch, sir? Respect, sir, you do remember what that means? Oh, that would be pretty. Before Renée it had been Frances, and before Frances it had been Winifred, and before Winifred it had been…she couldn’t even remember the name. Running after Knollys!

She slammed the door to her chambers shut with a bang, sat down in a chair, and cried until she could cry no more, then found the last bit of cake in her cupboard and ate every crumb.

B
ARBARA SLIPPED AWAY
with Gracen and a maidservant to visit the famed astrologer Ashmole. They walked down streets where boys and apprentices piled lumber and hay into high mounds that would be burned this night, the night of Guy Fawkes, along with effigies of the pope. When they found Ashmole’s lodging, his servant said to Gracen, “If the young lady would be so kind as to wait here.”

“I’ll join mademoiselle.” Gracen was as imperious as a queen.

“No, I’ll be fine, indeed I will,” said Barbara.

Elias Ashmole bowed to her and opened a door to a more private, smaller chamber, and Barbara went inside. Gracen made a face at the maidservant who’d accompanied them and began to prowl the place she was left in, several chairs, a table covered with a Turkey carpet, a bed with fine hangings, stars and moons embroidered upon them. She went to a cabinet, made of wood stained ebony, and tried to open one of its doors, but it was locked. She sighed, went back to the table. There was a pack of cards. She sat down and began to play solitaire.

In the other chamber, Barbara shivered inside her cloak and drew it closer. Ashmole’s eyes didn’t miss the movement. She gave him nothing else to draw upon. Her cloak covered her clothing, and a mask covered her face from forehead to chin. Her voice, however, was young. He continued to shuffle the cards, biding his time. They sat in a chamber that had been tinted a blue just verging on black. Planets and stars were painted upon the walls. Even the windows were painted over. The only light was the branch of candles on the table between them. The air was close. Bathing seemed to have no part in Ashmole’s telling of fortunes.