The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (18 page)

Unnoticed in their dark corner, Francis raised a quizzical brow at Ashley and murmured, ‘I scent a ruse.
 
Come on.’

Ashley shrugged and followed him into an unbelievably untidy room, stinking of wine-fumes and sweat.
 
Empty bottles stood among half-eaten pies, cheese crumbs lay amidst spilled cosmetics and every chair was adrift with discarded items of clothing.
 
Even in the army, where you were often packed in like herrings in a barrel, Ashley had never seen such a mess.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘What a pig-sty.
 
Someone ought to give these people a few lessons in communal living.’

Aware of the Colonel’s passion for neatness, Francis merely grinned and advanced on the tiring-room door.
 
From the other side of it came the sound of laughter and chattering feminine voices.
 
Francis knocked.

The laughter stopped and the same voice they’d heard earlier exclaimed, ‘Hell’s teeth!
 
What now?’
 
Then the door was wrenched open and they found themselves face to face with a woman with a scar on one cheek and a gimlet stare.

‘Well?’ she demanded impatiently.

Francis’s bow, which swept the floor with the slightly-battered plume of his second-hand hat, would have graced a throne-room.

‘Madame – I beg you to forgive our intrusion.
 
If it is inconveniently-timed, you have only to say and we will remove ourselves directly. But we wished … that is to say, we
hoped
that we might be permitted to pay our respects to Mademoiselle de Galzain – whose performance this evening has left us dazzled.’

Smooth-talking sod
, thought Ashley.

Pauline Fleury subjected them both to a long, searching stare and finally, without giving any clue to her feelings, said, ‘Wait here.’

Shutting the door again, she turned to Athenais and, lowering her voice so the rest of the women couldn’t hear, said, ‘Put your wrap on. You’ve got to see these two.’

This wasn’t just unusual – it was unheard-of.
 
Eyeing her friend with amused interest, Athenais said, ‘I have?’

‘You have.
 
Judging by their clothes, they haven’t two
sous
to rub together.
 
But they’re gentlemen, they’re sober and they didn’t ask for
la petite Galzain
.’
 
A swift, surprisingly mischievous grin crossed lit the damaged face. ‘They’re also exceptionally easy on the eye.’

Athenais laughed.
 
‘What –
both
of them?’

‘Let’s just say I’d be hard-pressed to choose.
 
One’s dark as night and the other all tawny-gold.
 
Come and see.
 
It’ll only take five minutes.’

It was unknown for Pauline to spare more than a disparaging glance for the men who flocked backstage.
 
Intrigued, Athenais rose and pulled on her robe.

‘I take it you’re coming with me?’

‘What do you think?’

Once more assuming an expression of mild disapproval, Pauline opened the door again and indicated by means of a shooing motion that Francis and Ashley were not to be admitted to the tiring-room.

‘Five minutes,’ she said brusquely.
 
‘Mademoiselle needs her rest.’

As Pauline had said, there were two men outside the door … one dark, one fair and both equally beautiful.
 
There were two of them … but after the first glance, Athenais saw only one. He filled her vision and, for a handful of seconds, everything seemed to stop – as if the world around her had simply gone away. Her throat tightened, something shifted in her chest and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
 
Then, just as she had done earlier on the stage, she dragged air into her lungs and called upon her training.

Ashley heard Francis embarking on another epic speech and left him to get on with it while he himself took a long look at Mademoiselle de Galzain.
 
The sudden widening of her eyes … not brown as he’d expected, but dark grey, the colour of clouds just before a thunderstorm … and the slight hitch in her breathing were not lost on him but he gave no sign of it. The part of him that some people called The Falcon was as adept at governing his own expression as it was at reading those of others.
 
He wondered if her immediate reaction had been the result of recognition … and if, behind the pretty, practised smile she now wore, she was slightly embarrassed.

Swathed in a voluminous wrapper, she remained perfectly still as she absorbed Francis’s seemingly endless eloquence. Though the almond-shaped eyes were still outlined in kohl, her face was neither smothered in grease-paint nor streaked with sweat and the rich copper mane cascaded loose down her back. She looked both smaller and younger than she had on the stage, thought Ashley clinically … but she wasn’t any less beautiful.
 
He found the fact unreasonably annoying so he reminded himself that looks weren’t everything and that the girl behind the face was supremely talented in the art of pretence.

The fathomless grey gaze remained locked on Francis.
 
And when he finally reached the end of his soliloquy, she said demurely, ‘You’re very kind, Monsieur. I’m glad my performance pleased you.’

‘It was magnificent,’ enthused Francis – for what Ashley thought was probably the third time.

‘And you, Monsieur?’
 
She flicked a polite glance in his own direction.
 
‘Did
you
think I was magnificent?’

‘I think,’ responded Ashley suavely, ‘that you do not need to be told.
 
But I feel impelled to remark that Rodrigue was also superb tonight.’

Since she was clearly used to being worshipped, he’d expected her to be piqued.
 
Instead, she said eagerly, ‘He was, wasn’t he?
 
Truly brilliant, in my opinion.’
 
Then, on a gurgle of laughter, ‘I do hope somebody tells Clermont.
 
He’ll have a fit!’

Surprise stirred, bringing with it a sort of awareness that he neither expected nor wanted.
 
He squashed it with the likelihood that this apparent generosity of spirit was probably about as genuine as the shift from gutter vernacular to smooth gentility.
 

Pauline gave a discreet cough.
 
It wasn’t wise, even now, to laugh at Clermont.
 
She said, ‘It’s late, Athenais.
 
If the gentlemen will excuse you, I think it’s time you finished your
toilette
and went home.’

Athenais spread expressive hands.

‘You see, gentlemen?
 
I am ruled with a rod of iron.
 
But Pauline is always right – and I
am
very tired.’

‘Of course.’ Taking her hand, Francis saluted it with matchless grace.
 
‘It was extremely good of you to receive us at all.
 
Perhaps, on some future occasion, you – and Madame, of course – might do the Colonel and myself the honour of supping with us?’

Holy hell
, thought Ashley.
 
How does he expect us to pay for that?

Withdrawing her hand in order to extend it carelessly to Ashley, she said pleasantly, ‘That is kind of you, monsieur – but you must forgive me if I refuse.
 
I prefer to keep my private life separate from the theatre, so I never accept such invitations.’

Thank you, God – and please don’t let Francis argue
, thought Ashley.

He took her fingers in his, felt them tremble a little and, like a bolt from the blue, felt a spike of pure lust.
 
Shaken but intent on keeping it out of his eyes, he bowed over her hand but sensibly declined to kiss it and said smoothly, ‘We understand perfectly, Mademoiselle … and will strive to conquer our disappointment.’

A faint frown creased her brow and then was gone.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘It’s always a worry when gentlemen take rejection personally – so I’m delighted you’re not wholly cast down.’

Francis’s brows soared and Ashley narrowly suppressed a grin.
 
Whatever else she might be,
la petite Galzain
was plainly no fool.
 
He said, ‘I’m sure Major Langley here is devastated.
 
I, however, am a connoisseur of lost causes.’

‘And don’t waste your time on them?’

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ he replied negligently.
 
‘On the other hand, there are sometimes worthwhile exceptions.
 
Good night, Mademoiselle – Madame.’
 

Long after they had gone and Pauline was once more bustling about the tiring-room, disposing of costumes, Athenais sat before the glass mechanically brushing her hair but making no move to dress.
 
And finally, noticing her lack of activity, Pauline said, ‘All right.
 
Which one was it?’

‘What?’
 
Pulling on her gown, the girl offered her back for lacing-up.

‘Don’t be coy.
 
No one could blame you for being smitten.
 
I’ve rarely seen one man as pretty as that – let alone a pair.
 
So which took your fancy?’

‘Neither, particularly – though I suppose the dark-haired one was the nicer of the two.
 
Actually, I was wondering why the other man’s voice seemed vaguely familiar – and why he didn’t seem to like me very much.’

Or didn’t want to
, thought Pauline.
 
But said, ‘And?’

‘And I’ve no idea,’ shrugged Athenais.
 
‘Not that it matters.
 
They’re unlikely to come back.
 
They didn’t look as though they could afford a hair-cut – let alone to be spending money on theatre tickets.’

Pauline’s gaze was thoughtful.

‘You’re very hard to please.
 
Unless you’ve got your eye on somebody else, of course.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
 
Athenais threw her cloak round her and headed for the door. ‘You notice I haven’t asked which one
you
fancied.
 
Or perhaps you’re savouring the idea of a
ménage a trois
?’
 
And made a brisk exit.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

Paris flocked to
Le Cid
, resulting in it being held over for two weeks and then three.
 
At the end of the first one, Froissart gave way to Pauline Fleury’s constant nagging and awarded Mademoiselle de Galzain an increase in salary.
 
By the end of the second, with Athenais fast becoming the darling of Paris, he was glad he’d done so.
 
And at some point during the third, Pauline told Athenais that she no longer had a choice about moving from the Rue Benoit.
 
It had become a necessity.

‘What about the house on the Rue des Rosiers?’ she asked.
 
‘Is it still empty?’

‘I think so,’ replied Athenais, as if she didn’t make a point of passing it every day to check. ‘But the Widow Larousse wants twenty
livres
a month and I only earn two for every performance.
 
So, since one still has to eat and --’

‘And give your father enough money to come home sodden every night?’

Athenais sighed and said nothing.

Silent and ferocious, Pauline scowled into the middle distance. Drawing a long, resigned breath, she said, ‘You could afford it if you had someone to share the rent.’

‘A lodger?’
 
Athenais gave a sudden gurgle of laughter. ‘Oh yes.
 
But how long do you think that would last with Father touching them for money once or twice a day?’

‘He won’t try that with me.
 
Not after the first time, anyway.’

Athenais stared at her.
 
‘
You?
’

‘If you don’t like the idea, you only have to say.’

‘Not
like
it?’
 
She swallowed hard.
 
‘Pauline – I would
love
it.
 
But you can’t possibly want to give up your rooms on the Place Royal.’

Pauline looked at the girl who was the nearest thing she had to family and whom she hoped to see become the queen of Parisian theatre.
 
Then, in two syllables, she cast her precious independence and her tranquil, beautifully ordered existence into the void.

‘Why not?’ she said.

*
 
*
 
*

At the beginning of June, Froissart replaced
Le Cid
with a popular pot-boiler and commenced rehearsals for a lavish revival of
Cinna
.
 
He cast Etienne Lepreux in the title role, gave Athenais the plum part of Emilie and announced that Monsieur Laroque would be making one of his rare appearances as the Emperor Augustus.
 
Marie d’Amboise, indulging in a fit of epic sulks, became (as Etienne put it) a thoroughly livid Livia.

In the meantime, Pauline called on the Widow Larousse, offered her sixteen
livres
a month and eventually agreed upon eighteen.
 
And Athenais spent her time at home alternately cajoling and arguing with her father – whose attitude to the proposed move was nothing if not predictable.

‘Go and live in the bloody Marais?
 
Me?
 
Not sodding likely!’

‘But why not?’ she demanded.
 
‘You can’t like this flea-bitten ’ovel.’

‘Never said I liked it, did I?
 
But it suits me.
 
I got friends round ’ere,’ stated Archie.
 
And, with an attempt at pathos, ‘What’m I going to do in the Marais?
 
Just tell me that. Them gentry-coves ain’t going to pass the time of day with the likes of me, Agnes.
 
And I’ll wager there ain’t a cheap boozing-ken for miles.’

‘Good,’ she snapped.
 
‘And for Gawd’s sake, don’t call me Agnes – nor Stott, neither.
 
Once we’re in the Rue des Rosiers we’re likely to ’ave visitors once in a while and I don’t want the pit shouting for
la petite Stott
or
la Stottette
or – or little sodding Aggie!’
 
Athenais paused and drew a calming breath.
 
‘Pauline says --’

‘That bossy cow says a sight too much!
 
And she ’ates me.
 
Always ’as. So if you fink I’m living in the same ’ouse as the long-nosed bitch, you got anuvver fink coming!’

She held his gaze with one of equal obstinacy.

‘You ain’t got no choice, you stupid old goat! I’m going to the Rue des Rosiers and Pauline’s coming too because I can’t afford it wivout ’er. And I’m damned if I’m going to squander money I ain’t got to keep you living in this ’ole, drinking yourself into an early grave.
 
So you’re coming to the bloody Marais if I ’ave to drag you there – and that’s flat!’

*
 
*
 
*

The opening night of
Cinna
was another triumph, with scuffles breaking out in the Rue Vieille du Temple amongst those who couldn’t get in.
 
And later, whilst taking off his make-up, Monsieur Laroque found himself honoured by a visit from the Marquis d’Auxerre – cousin, several times removed, to royalty and – more relevant still – a favoured protégée of Cardinal Mazarin.

The Marquis had returned to Paris from St. Germain, he said, especially to see the Marais Theatre’s latest production and had not been disappointed.
 
He then enquired whether the company might oblige with a private performance of
Le Cid
later in the year to celebrate the completion of his new house on the Isle St. Louis … and named a fee which made Laroque feel quite faint and reply that the company would be delighted.
 
The Marquis pronounced himself overjoyed.
 
And then, very much as an after-thought, asked if he might meet Mademoiselle de Galzain – about whom, it seemed, all Paris was talking.

Athenais, duly introduced and catching the warning gleam in Monsieur Laroque’s eye, curtsied deeply and summoned her best behaviour.
 
Monseigneur was languidly entranced.
 
He returned the following evening bearing a posy of flowers and, three nights later, was back again with a party of friends and a box of sweetmeats.
 
His third visit brought Athenais six lace handkerchiefs … and an invitation to supper.

Athenais accepted the gifts with maidenly reluctance but excused herself from supper – thus earning a lecture from Froissart on the necessary evils of patronage.
 
She listened politely, then replied that the audience bought the right to see her on-stage and nothing more.
 

‘If you believe that,’ he snapped, ‘you are likely to have the shortest career in the history of Parisian theatre!’

Athenais shrugged but was secretly disconcerted as much by Pauline’s unaccustomed silence on the subject as by Marie d’Amboise’s suddenly friendly encouragement to stand her ground.
 
Then the Marquis returned, unoffended and ready to give chase … after which, it seemed to Athenais that she was never free of him.

*
 
*
 
*

It was perhaps fortunate that, before further complications could develop, Fate took a hand. The cauldron of the Prince’s Fronde which had been simmering away since the previous autumn, suddenly boiled over – and the Marquis returned in haste to confer with the Cardinal.

The first indication of change came when, having accepted the thankless task of mediation, the young King of England managed to persuade the Duke of Lorraine (currently being paid by Spain to assist Cond
é
against Mazarin) to withdraw from the fray.
 
Infuriated by this, Cond
é
retaliated by throwing Charles and his mother out of Paris, sending them to join the rest of the French court at St. Germain.
 
Then, before anybody was expecting it, Marshall Turenne set about trying to reclaim the city on behalf of his royal master.

At this point, Colonel Peverell immediately enlisted on a temporary basis.
 
He told Francis – who, for obvious reasons, refused to join him – that he was doing it for the sake of a few weeks’ pay and because he wanted Charles back in Paris, away from the decadence of the French court.
 
The truth, however, was that he had reached the limit of his endurance.
 
The continuous inactivity of the last few months was stifling him; and if he didn’t do something about it soon, he thought he’d go mad.

Fighting under Turenne to reclaim Paris was just the tonic he needed.
 
He hadn’t realised how much he missed having a sword in his hand until it was there again.
 
He was also appalled by how out-of-condition he’d become and was glad of the chance to repair the damage before he lost his edge completely.
 
Most of all, for the first time since he and Francis had arrived in France, he felt alive.

He had been twenty-one when the first flames of civil war had swept across England and he’d enlisted straight away under Sir John Byron.
 
In the ten years that had followed – even during times when the fighting had temporarily stopped – he had always found other ways of serving his King; ways which made good use of his talents and energy. And then, after the disaster at Worcester, everything had come to an abrupt end.
 
No one made plans any more. No one, indeed, seemed to know in which direction to turn.
 
There was no army, no money and no enthusiasm.
 
Disillusion lay over the Royalist cause like a funeral pall.
 
And there were times now when Ashley wondered whether the struggle to which he’d devoted a decade of his life would ever –
could
ever – recover.

It was at this stage that a sensible man would decide enough was enough.
 
At the age of thirty-one, with the reckless idealism of youth well behind him, a sensible man would stop trying to mend what couldn’t be mended and look to his own life before he turned into a pathetic, ageing adventurer, sitting in taverns, boring young men to death with tales of long ago.

It was a prospect which Ashley found frightening.
 
He had seen it happen to others; an insidious process you didn’t notice until it was too late. Life, surely, must have more to offer.
 
But what?
 
With things as they were, there was nothing for him in England. And the only other option was to forge a career as a mercenary, taking work where he could find it.
 
He knew that wouldn’t be difficult.
 
Marshall Turenne, for example, would be happy to have him enlist permanently.
 
He had only to say the word and sign on the line, as it were.
 
Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it because the unpalatable truth was that knowing better didn’t make a jot of difference.
 
Despite all the good advice he gave himself, he knew perfectly well that the merest hint of revival in the Royalist cause would have him taking the first ship home.
 
In short, whether from idiocy or devotion or optimism – or just sheer, habit – he had chosen his path and, for good or ill, was unable to turn from it.

For the time being however the battle for Paris enabled him to submerge himself in action and forget his worries.
 
His job now was to keep his men alive and his powder dry.
 
It consumed all his energy and all of his attention.
 
It even stopped Athenais de Galzain from sliding, uninvited, into the edges of his subconscious.
 
And for the first time in almost a year, he came close to being happy.

*
 
*
 
*

Not unnaturally, as the suburbs became a battle-zone and the rattle of musket-fire was clearly audible in the heart of the city, the citizens of Paris felt rather differently.
 
Those who could move themselves and their goods away from the guns and advancing troops, did so.
 
Those who couldn’t bolted themselves into their homes and prayed for deliverance.

Manager Laroque, meanwhile, debated closing the theatre until the worst was over and then, since they were still playing to packed houses, decided against it.
 
For a few days more life went on with surprising normality.
 
Then, at the end of June, Turenne drove Cond
é
into retreat, finally trapping the Frondeurs in the Faubourg St. Antoine – their back against the closed gates of the city and their front facing the Marshal’s eight thousand men.
 
This, in Monsieur Laroque’s opinion, brought the fighting too close for comfort and could not help but affect the takings.
 
Much to the relief of everyone except Athenais, he announced that performances would be suspended until the crisis had passed.

His decision proved timely.
 
Cond
é
’s force was no match for Turenne’s.
 
The battle of July 2
^nd
was hard-fought and bloody and things would have gone very ill for the Frondeurs had not Anne-Marie Louise d’Orleans – otherwise popularly known as La Grande Mademoiselle – decided to support Cond
é
instead of her cousin, the King and insisted that the gates be opened to admit the Prince’s army.
 
Then, as the Frondeurs fled to safety in the city, Mademoiselle prevented Turenne from giving chase by ordering that the guns of the Bastille be turned against him.
 
The Marshall ended the day hopping mad at being baulked of his prey; Cond
é
failed to persuade the Paris magistrates to shut Turenne out and prepare to withstand a siege; and La Grande Mademoiselle relinquished command of the Bastille in favour of turning her hand to mediation.