Dark Angels (7 page)

“What are you two up to?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve swallowed candles, your eyes are shining so. Tell me at once.”

“Nothing,” replied Alice. “Let’s go hear the singing.”

Without another word, she and Barbara and Fletcher walked through the crowd into the chamber, where a soldier, a trooper, stood at one of the room’s long ends, singing. Sitting on chairs and cushions and footstools in the light of dozens of candles, people were clustered close to listen. Most of the maids of honor were here, and therefore so were many of the men they attracted. It was that witching time of evening, the wolves and jackals among the court out, circling, manners dulled by drink, no statesmanship and certainly no wives to keep them from the magic maidens, they whom everyone adored, the maids of honor. We thrive on their notice, don’t we? thought Alice, aware of the pride she felt to be one. We bridle if we obtain it. We’re ready to dance with disgrace for a glance, sighs, love letters, promises, all ours for who we are. It was heady stuff to be the maid of the moment, to be the subject of ballad, song, poem, play—not to mention someone’s passion—few could withstand all the glory it brought. Some survived, flew like swallows to greater heights. Others fell, crushed by seduction and disgrace and a court as fickle as it was fun.

Monmouth was here, as was his wife, both surrounded by admirers, sycophants, and the ambitious. People were as respectful to him as if he were a crown prince. Maids of honor sent glances and little smiles his way. Alice wondered how much beyond their friendship was changed. Queen Catherine sat with a few of her household. Barbara went to the queen, settled in beside her, nesting like a sweet mourning dove.

“And where are you going?” Fletcher asked Alice when she didn’t follow Barbara.

“There.”

“I’m coming with you, then.”

Alice and Fletcher walked straight over to Colefax.

Leaning with a shoulder against a wall, he straightened at the sight of them, his face changing, his eyes lighting with welcome and more.

“I’ve heard your uncle is ill,” she said. No greeting. No polite talk. It was emotional to speak with him, more emotional than she had imagined; her heart was pounding in her ears.

“It’s nothing serious, just a recurring vexation.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. You’ll give him my regards, tell him I asked of him, please?”

“I will.”

“I’m sorry for the death of your son.” It might have been our son, Cole, she thought, and her heart ached, and she clutched Fletcher’s arm, glad he was there because she didn’t know what she might have done otherwise.

“My uncle said I treated you abominably. I have no excuse for what I did, but many regrets.”

Yes, Balmoral was the sensible one among them, mending scandal, demanding honor, sending Alice away. Best, he said. “How is your wife?”

It was as if she’d dashed cold water on him. His face closed. Poor Caro, thought Alice. She turned on her heel and went to sit at the feet of Queen Catherine. The maids of honor were whispering among themselves, her little scene with Colefax witnessed, her old scandal in mind and, if not known or forgotten, retold now, revived. Left almost at the altar. Poor Alice Verney. Am I glad your son died? thought Alice, meeting Cole’s eyes a moment across the space that separated them. No. Am I glad now not to be your wife?

“You be careful,” Fletcher whispered. “It’s in his eyes. He still wants you.”

Yes, he wanted what he couldn’t have but had been careless when it was his for the taking. She turned away from all that was in her, listening to the words of the song and, since everyone was watching her anyway, making certain the shocking green stockings showed just a bit.

Can you dry it on yonder thorn,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

Which never bore blossom since Adam was born?

And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Queen Catherine’s small hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her face unsmiling. The emotion of the trooper’s tender voice, the words, were stirring. Queen Catherine looked wound so tight that the slightest touch might shatter her. Alice had been the queen’s maid of honor since she was twelve, beginning the day Queen Catherine had arrived as a new bride on these shores. She touched the toe of one of Her Majesty’s pretty satin shoes where it peeped out from under her gown. Poor queen. Good queen. Kind queen. Barren queen. Living among the wolves, living with a husband half wolf himself.

G
RACEN STOOD AGAIN
in the opening of the alcove. Her fan, open, whipped back and forth before her face as she contemplated d’Effiat, his small hands, his concise gestures. When finally he raised his eyes to meet hers, he did not smile but returned to the game as if she were not there. She remained where she was. D’Effiat might be ignoring her, but the other men with him were finding it harder to do so. Their glances touched on her again and again and then away. She made them all uncomfortable standing there, haughty, righteous, vengeful. Their fun, the easy jests in English and in French, dried up. D’Effiat laid down a card. Beuvron did, also, and laughed a little as he raked coins toward himself.

“Remain where you stand, O vengeful goddess,” he said softly. “You bring me good fortune.”

At those words, d’Effiat stood, walked to Gracen, looked her up and down once more. He wasn’t that much taller than she was, but he might have been a giant. He made a jerking gesture with his head to Beuvron, who cursed under his breath but obeyed, joining them at the alcove’s opening.

“Do we quarrel here, before everyone? Or in private? Ask her,” d’Effiat ordered.

“She says here, before everyone,” Beuvron translated.

The expression on d’Effiat’s face shifted. He almost smiled. He bowed to Gracen as if to say, Ladies first.

“Your kingdom’s reputation for courtesy has been greatly exaggerated. I’m angry with you.” She spat the words, furious, quite willing to make a scene. “How dare you treat me so rudely. I am many things, sir, and none of them are dull.” She turned on Beuvron. “Tell him every word. Don’t change one. And don’t change his for me.”

“Tell her virgins are always dull. It can’t be helped,” d’Effiat replied when Beuvron had done as Gracen asked.

“It’s you who is dull, dull and stupid and rude.”

“This is a childish exchange. Tell her I offer my apologies for speaking my mind. Tell her I invite her to join us at cards.”

Beuvron looked at d’Effiat. “Don’t do this. Send her on her way.”

“Tell her.”

Beuvron did so. D’Effiat held out his hand, waited for Gracen to put hers atop it, which she did. He escorted her to the table, put her in his place, waited, again impatient, his foot tapping, while a footman found another chair for him, and sat down in it.

“We’re playing a guinea a game,” Beuvron told Gracen.

“I haven’t a guinea, but I will tell you backstairs gossip, as malicious as I know, until I begin to win. Then I’ll wager coins.”

“This is ridiculous,” Beuvron said as he translated. “I’m not going to play.” He sat with his arms folded.

“Let me hear your gossip,” d’Effiat said.

Gracen smiled. “The Duke of Monmouth’s mother died from drink and from the pox. She was so awful that King Charles had his son kidnapped. Before he was made a duke by the king, his name was James Croft. You can enrage him by mentioning his mother.” She arched her back, preened like a peacock as Beuvron translated. One of the Englishmen at the table folded up his cards, stood, and left the alcove. Gracen stared after him, her face changing, some of the preen leaving her.

“Was his mother a common whore?” asked d’Effiat.

“No. She was a maid of honor gone bad.”

D’Effiat smiled, moved the coins he had piled before him in front of her. “A loan. I’ll tell you my terms later,” he said. “I warn you now they’ll be high.”

C
HAPTER 4

T
he next day, certain high personages of court met in the chapel of the keep. Early morning sun streamed through the colored glass of the windows, made the gold of the crucifix gleam. King Charles’s Life Guards stood at the closed chapel doors, in each of the corner towers, and along the stairs. The French ambassador unfurled papers while a Jesuit priest, fluent in English, French, and Spanish, stood ready. King Charles was there, and his brother, York, and Princesse Henriette. A few, not all, of the king’s closest advisers were there. Buckingham was not. Balmoral was not. The exclusion was deliberate.

The Jesuit quickly pointed out different sections of the treaty, and King Charles listened, nothing lazy, nothing easy, in his face now. He and these carefully chosen men had been working on this treaty for months, as had his sister in France. He dipped the quill he held into a bottle of ink and signed his name. The Jesuit dripped wax, and King Charles pressed the great seal of England into it.

“There, it’s done,” he said.

Princesse Henriette rushed forward, hugged her brother. He pulled her into his lap, kissed the top of her head. There were fourteen years between these siblings and so much more, but they might have been born under the same star. She was small and fair, with chestnut hair, like her brother, York, while Charles was large and dark as a gypsy. It was their wit that met and sparked. It had always been so, since she was a child of four and he a great gawk of eighteen, on their very first meeting ever, when he’d knelt before her and taken her hand and said, “I’m your eldest brother. I pledge you my heart.” She’d given him her heart in return, and the affection had never varied. This treaty—a secret treaty, a dangerous treaty—was the result of that loyalty.

“Well, Jemmy,” King Charles said to his brother, “you’ll have your ships now.” York was admiral of the navy.

“And you your war,” said York. They planned a war with the Dutch Republic, subsidized by the French, who would be their allies in it.

“And I my heart’s desire,” said Princesse Henriette. She took King Charles by the hand and led him to the altar rail, and they knelt, York joining them.

The French ambassador rolled up the treaty, and the Jesuit took it, put it inside his robes, then went to the royals to hear confessions and prayers. The others, the ambassador, the advisers, slipped out side doors, through back corridors, Life Guards before and after them, to make certain that no one else saw them or came near. For all anyone at court knew, the royal family attended chapel together this morning. It could only be thought affectionate and appropriate, after all their time apart.

“You won’t regret this,” Princesse Henriette said to King Charles when her confession and prayer were done.

His dark eyes glinted. He hadn’t taken confession, in spite of certain promises in the treaty. His sister and brother were the devout ones. He’d been warned as a boy by the great duke who was his mentor, his teacher, his governor, not to be too devout. One can be a good man and a bad king, that duke had said, and had added another piece of advice: above all, my prince, be civil to women. He’d taken both pieces of advice to heart. Mischief was in his expression now, a mischief that made him beguiling to women. “Our business is done. We do nothing serious from this moment on, other than poke fun at Jemmy here. Is that clear, Minette? As your sovereign brother, I command the diversions to commence and your plate to be filled with nothing but jewels and laughter.”

She kissed him.

That afternoon, they went sailing; that night, they danced on the roof of the keep, after they’d sent kites flying high into the evening dusk above them, Life Guards holding the lines steady, while the kites’ tails fluttered whitely, like angels there among the stars.

A
WEEK INTO
the visit, Alice woke out of a sound sleep. Someone was shaking her arm. It was her servant, Poll, a lighted candle making odd shadows play across her face, and behind her Edward, Alice’s favorite court page.

“You have to come with me,” he whispered. “It’s Mistress Howard. I think she’s in trouble.”

He stood with his back turned as Poll helped Alice pull on a gown, find slippers and a mask to wear. When a lady didn’t wish to be recognized, she wore a small cloth mask over her eyes. They all held their breath as Renée, sleeping in the bed with Alice, tossed fitfully but didn’t wake.