Dark Angels (45 page)

Barbara seized the queen’s hand and kissed it. “You’re so kind.”

Queen Catherine had been happy, too, this particular way, once upon a time. The memory of it was treasure to her; she was as tender of it as she would have been a living child. “So? And when are there marriage?”

Barbara blushed and didn’t answer.

“A dower I give.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Nonsense. Go, now. They burn hazelnuts. You put your John Sidney in the fire.”

She turned back to her mirror. Ten years ago she’d been one and twenty, like Barbara. Princesses weren’t promised happiness, were they? How good to know it did exist. She would dower Barbara Bragge £2,000.

T
HE FIRE IN
their antechamber was roaring. It was tradition; no fire might go out this night, or evil things might enter through the chimney. Alice washed her face with a cloth. The other maids were in their nightgowns, sitting before the fire, waiting for her, huddled in their warmest cloaks, ones lined with wool or velvet or, if you were Alice Verney, softest, warmest beaver’s pelt brought over in a ship from the Colonies across the sea. Alice dried her face on another cloth, stepped back into the cloak Poll held, pulled it around her. Last All Hallows’ she’d been in France, Princesse Henriette alive. Now she was home, and they would do the old ways tonight, just as they always used to do, and tonight she’d danced with an evil spirit who threatened the queen.

Alice looked about her, thinking about the spirits said to be roaming outside the windows. Did Princesse Henriette’s spirit rest, or did she walk the corridors of Saint Cloud demanding revenge? Was she in a place of purgatory, or had she ascended to heaven? Luce was retching in a chamber pot over in a corner, her servant holding back her hair. The baby of them, Kit, was already in bed, asleep. They’d only just managed to unfasten and unpin her gown and take the ribbons from her hair before she closed her eyes and went to sleep. Alice had been that way at fifteen, too, awake one moment, romping like a wild thing, asleep on her feet the next. Barbara wasn’t here. Where was she?

“By earth, by air, by water, by fire, this circle is cast,” she said. The words were Poll’s, from her mother’s mother. So was the ritual they would do this night. All Hallows’ was one of the best nights for divining sweethearts.

“You sound like the magician tonight,” said Gracen.

“He was good, wasn’t he,” said Dorothy. “He took two coins from behind my ear.”

“Are we ready?” Alice took the basket of hazelnuts from Poll, held it before each young woman, and they took hazelnuts into their hands.

“One for you, and one—or two or three—for a sweetheart,” Alice reminded.

“Tell me again,” said Renée.

Alice repeated the instructions in French. “You hold it against your heart, think of your beloved—or admirers—then put it on the grate with your own. If it cracks open, he’s untrue. If it pops out, he won’t marry you. If it burns beside yours, you’ll wed and live in peace. If it begins to blaze and burn, he adores you.”

All became laughter and talk and teasing, as one after another they attempted to place hazelnuts on the hot grate without burning their fingers. Then came the anxious watching and waiting as the fire crackled and whispered, and then screams and questions as hazelnuts began to crack open, or blaze, or pop completely out of the fire, or burn quietly. A hazelnut flew off the grate and into the fire.

“That’s yours, Brownie!”

“I didn’t do one!”

“Yes, you did. I saw you!”

“Renée, one is blazing, and one popped out. Which one is Lieutenant Saylor? And who is the other?”

“Alice, both of yours are blazing! Who are they? Colefax and Mulgrave?”

“Gracen, Gracen, look! Yours just popped!”

Gracen grabbed the offending hazelnut and threw it into the fire, where it blazed up and then exploded. “Pooh.”

Gracen sat down by Barbara, who’d just joined them, still in her costume. “Come with me tomorrow to see Ashmole,” Barbara said very quickly, very quietly, so that Alice might not hear.

There was more laughing and teasing, and then the basket was passed again for another turn. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Alice always told them. Barbara let the basket pass her by. Beside her, Gracen dug through the remaining hazelnuts.

“He’s going to be faithful this time.”

“Are our games too silly for you these days?” Alice asked Barbara. How mocking my voice sounds, she thought. What did Barbara and Gracen whisper about? I’m a jealous witch, thought Alice, but she couldn’t stop herself.

“I saw Caro toast you tonight,” Barbara answered.

Everyone became silent.

“Ah, but you didn’t see me acknowledge it, did you?”

“Alice, why don’t you forgive her?”

Dorothy stood up, clapped her hands together. “Time for bed, everyone.” She shooed the young women off right and left, then picked up the basket of hazelnuts. But Alice and Barbara didn’t move.

“She betrayed me. I don’t forget betrayals.”

“She was with child. He had his part, yet you danced with him tonight. Why is hers so wrong and his forgiven?”

“It isn’t forgiven. I do it—” Alice stopped. She did it to hurt Caro, to show her she could take Colefax back if she wished, and to show the court the same. Not a pretty mix. “Friends don’t betray friends,” she finished.

Later, in bed, Alice lay on her back, unable to sleep, a knot in her heart. Barbara lay with her back to her. And Alice couldn’t bring herself to say words that would mend over their quarrel.

Over in another bed, Gracen snuggled against a sleepy Kit. “I saw my beloved’s face in the mirror,” Gracen whispered.

It was an old custom, to go alone to a looking glass, eat an apple before it, and comb your hair. The face of your future husband might be seen, looking over your shoulder. “Let’s play, Kit. Put your hand there, and I’ll put my hand here.”

“I don’t want to. They’ll hear us.”

Gracen put her lips on Kit’s neck. “No, they won’t. We won’t make a sound.” But later she had to cover Kit’s mouth with her own to stop her moaning.

C
HAPTER 25

All Saints’ Day
November 1

B
almoral stood with his back to Richard, staring out at St. James’s Park. “You’ve been to every alehouse and tavern?”

“Every one between London Bridge and Whitehall. I thought I would go to those around the palace today, and across the river tomorrow.”

“Good. Someone will inform. It’s the way of the world.”

Richard cleared his throat. “If I may, Your Grace, why do we not raise a hue and cry, have it known from every pulpit that the queen’s life is in danger, describe Ange to the public?”

“This is a matter of great sensitivity. It is not to be bandied about on every corner of London or, indeed, every corner of Whitehall. There are larger fish to catch than Ange. I am placing you directly into the queen’s household. You will be captain of her bodyguard.”

Richard was silent. The promotion was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, he became a captain, with greater pay and rank, with an officer’s place in the cavalry. On the other, the queen’s bodyguard hadn’t the respect of the Life Guards. And the queen herself was not in favor at the moment.

“You have my permission to order her personal guard howsoever you see fit, to protect Her Majesty to the fullest. There is a council of her household in which you will participate, but it is imperative that you report directly to me, and it is imperative that you speak with no one, I repeat, no one, about what is discussed in that council. It is a secret council at the moment, whose concern is her welfare. Willbert in the treasury has your orders. You will be lodging near the queen’s quarters, just off the guardroom. Dismissed, Lieutenant—forgive me, Captain Saylor.”

Richard walked through the antechamber. Curious glances followed from those waiting to attend the duke as he dressed for the day—it was the custom, taken from France, to attend the dressing of great noblemen. A man on the way up allied himself with a nobleman by attending him, by listening to what was discussed, and by trying to be of use. It was a custom that Richard was impatient of, so he’d more or less ignored it, attending the Duke of Monmouth only occasionally. The talk there was of taverns and whores and escapades from the night before, or complaints as to how this or that councillor of the king had slighted him, of how his uncle, York, was cold to him. And lately talk of Jesuits in secret places, of the city filling with Catholics sent from France to spy and make trouble.

Alice told him he must attend several men’s dressings—Buckingham’s, York’s, Balmoral’s, Arlington’s. You must hear what is said in each and begin to know those who attend regularly, make friendships with them, for they will be carrying out the will of those they attend. That way, you will begin to see the blowing of the winds at court. They’re always blowing, Richard, and a wise man pays attention, so that he may survive the storms that arise.

Odd. He’d thought he’d be reporting to Lord Arlington, who was in charge of the secret service; he’d thought other councillors would be involved in this affair of the secret letters, now the poison…. Likely they were, he was simply at too low a level. Captain of the queen’s bodyguard. He didn’t wish to leave the Life Guards, but he was honored that Balmoral trusted him. He crossed Whitehall Street, walked through Holbein Gate, through a passage near the banqueting hall to the great public courtyard, to the buildings where the clerks for the army had a chamber. “Orders for Lieutenant Saylor.”

An officious clerk didn’t look up from his pen and paper but continued to scribble as if Richard weren’t standing there.

“Direct me to Mr. Willbert, please. I’ve orders from His Grace the Duke of Balmoral.”

That got the clerk’s attention.

Richard followed the clerk in and out of tables over which other men sat hunched, the sound of quill pens scratching over parchment, to stand before Willbert, one of the assistants to His Majesty’s secretaries of state, who rose and bowed to Richard, handed him a folded and sealed letter.

“You’ll present this to the lord steward. Lodging, firewood, and three meals at the queen’s open table are part of your pay. Good luck to you.”

“Have you supped, Mr. Willbert?”

“I never eat until two.”

“The beef at the Swan is very good. Will you let me buy you a tankard of ale to celebrate my promotion?”

“That I will.”

“I’ll be standing at King’s Gate.”

“Good enough, Lieutenant Saylor.”

Richard grinned. “Captain, it’s Captain Saylor.”

Whistling, he walked back through the tables of clerks. Might as well begin now, with this Willbert, a clerk to the secretaries of state. We supped at the Swan, he’d tell Alice later, and he told me all the secrets of the affairs of state. He’d call on Monmouth, tell him the news, go to the stables and check on Pharaoh, his horse. Then he’d walk across Whitehall Street and through the banqueting hall, into the privy courtyard and through the Stone Gallery, find Renée, kiss her, and tell her. Captain of the queen’s bodyguard. Order the household guard as you see fit. He smiled. He’d take his cue from Balmoral’s old regiment, the Coldstreams, the best regiment in Cromwell’s army, which had been the best army the country had seen. They weren’t ready for him in the queen’s bodyguard, but he was ready for them.

Several hours later, Richard walked into the queen’s guardroom and looked over the men lounging there. Some were sleeping, some were playing cards, some were drinking ale. An older man looked up.

“Captain Richard Saylor, appointed captain of this guard,” Richard said to him. They had the discipline to leap up from their places, be it bed or chair, and salute him.

“Sergeant, present yourself.”

It was the older man. “Thomas Miller, at your command, sir.”

“Where are my lieutenants?”

“Not on duty at the moment.”

Richard didn’t like that, but he’d deal with it later. One lieutenant should always be on duty here in the guardroom. It’s what ruined us, his father had told him, arranging tiny lead horses, tiny lead soldiers, across the quilted coverlet of his sickbed, our laxness and overweening pride. Courage is part of victory, but so is chance, and when chance is allied to discipline, a man conquers. Study Cromwell, my boy, study Monck, study Balmoral; they know how to lead armies.