by Karleen Koen
“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.
GRACEN 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.”
CHAPTER 4
The 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.
“I’ve called Poppy,” Poll whispered. Poppy was Alice’s groom. “He’s waiting.”
Once outside in the hall, Edward spilled over with talk, like a cup too full, while Alice’s groom listened, frowning. “They’re in the chapel, Alice, and I don’t know what they’re doing, but Mistress Howard is crying. She snuck out of the queen’s chambers an hour ago. It was luck that I saw her. Leo and Geoffrey and I were playing dice in a corner, and we looked up, and there she was, sneaking by, with a mask on her face. She gave us a coin to be silent, but I followed her. She went into the chapel where the marquis and the others were. I didn’t like it, Alice. They’d been in there for hours, drinking. So I went up a stair and into the balcony to see what I could. Some of them are half-dressed, and they’ve taken a crucifix down and leaned it upside down on a table, and the altar has a black cloth over it, and candles are lit everywhere on the floor. And Mistress Howard wanted to leave, but the marquis said no.”
A black mass? thought Alice. It was the latest rage among a certain set of noblemen and women in Paris, spoiled, too privileged, wild animals in their search for farthest pleasures. If Gracen was in the middle of that…She didn’t want to take her thoughts further. She raced down the corridor with Edward leading and Poppy, the groom, following.
Can you wash it in yonder well,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,
Where never spring water nor rain ever fell?
And you shall be a true lover of mine?
Voices, accompanied by a guitar, mingled and fell out into the hall as they passed by. Alice peeped into the chamber. It was Lieutenant Saylor and John Sidney and that trooper with the massive shoulders and tender voice singing, several wine bottles on the floor between them. They looked like choir boys, and the harmony of their voices was beautiful. Something in their faces, something clean and strong, still innocent, boyish, made Alice risk stepping into the chamber.
John stopped singing at the sight of her. “Isn’t that—”
“A lady who doesn’t wish to be known,” Alice said quickly, cutting him off. Richard stood a little too carefully, put down the guitar a little too carefully, and walked over to her.
“Someone’s in trouble,” Alice said softly. “I might need your help and your discretion.”
Richard bowed, his head almost touching the floor. “At your service.”
She nodded toward John and the trooper. “Can they hold their tongues?”
“Of course,” Richard said. He turned to face the others. “We have to help Mistress V—” Alice pinched him. “This lady, I mean, and we have to be discreet.” He hiccuped.
“Whatever you need,” said John, stepping forward to bow, like Richard, a bit haphazardly, and Alice smiled, suddenly liking him, seeing what Barbara liked.
“Lead the way,” said Richard.
A boy, a groom, two slightly drunken soldiers, and a clerk, thought Alice, running behind Edward as he led them to the floor where the chapel was. It will have to do.
At the closed chapel doors, Alice put her hand carefully on the handles. The doors were locked. She put her ear to the door. She could hear what might be crying, what might be talking, but nothing clearly.
“This way,” whispered Edward, and he led the way up a steep, narrow stair that opened to the balcony. Richard followed Alice. In the balcony, as dark as night, the three crept forward.
Below, in the chapel, they could see Gracen, masked, her cloak off, her gown in disarray, twisting and crying to free herself from men who held each of her arms. D’Effiat, his shirt off, his chest bare, and Beuvron, fully dressed, argued. Lighted candles were everywhere on the floor of the chapel, making odd, frightening, flickering shadows play about the room, and the altar table had been pulled forward. The men holding Gracen were trying to put her upon the table, but she fought them too hard, and Beuvron and d’Effiat were telling them conflicting orders, to let her go, to hold her and tie her down. Other men stood in monks’ dress, cowls pulled up so that their faces were in shadow.
“Hands of Jesus Christ,” Richard swore very softly, recognizing Gracen. He motioned for Alice and Edward to follow him back to the stairs. He ran down them, taking them three at a time. If he been mildly drunk before, he seemed completely sober now.
“Are there other doors to the chapel?” he asked Edward.
“Yes.” Edward’s eyes were small saucers.
“Take—” He stopped, looking at Alice’s waiting groom.
“Poppy,” she told him.
“Take Poppy and see that every door out of that chapel is locked. If you can’t lock it, barricade it. Then find every priest you can and send them here, find the French ambassador, find His Majesty’s lord chamberlain.”
“I want to stay, to help you fight them,” Edward said.
“No fighting!” interrupted Alice. “The scandal will ruin her, and someone may be hurt!”
“Run on, Edward,” Richard said. “There won’t be any fighting. You,” he said to Alice, “drag her off to safety, to privacy, the moment the door opens.”
“Is it going to open? What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer. “John, once the woman in there is out, get the key and relock these doors. Trooper”—this to the man who only moments ago had been raising his voice in a tender rondel—“you help him. The pair of you keep that door shut, and if you can’t…” Richard pulled the sword he wore from its sheath, threw it handle foremost to John, who caught it and stared down at it. “Stop them any way you have to.”
“No—” began Alice, but Richard had sprinted back up the stairs to the balcony, his mind moving far swifter now than his legs.
He moved again to the edge, looked down. Not a pretty scene, the upside-down crucifix, the drunken, quarreling men, their faces slack, some vicious, some simply vacant. He recognized a few, the rogues of court, Rochester, Sedley, Killigrew, who would try anything once, particularly if drunk. Gracen’s pleading hurt to hear. Thank God for the one called Beuvron, who was arguing fast and hard, or there was no telling the state they might have discovered her in. If he had to jump over the balcony, onto d’Effiat, could he do it? He measured the distance, tense and ready for whatever must be done.
Then he stepped forward, speaking in hard, deliberate French. “Let go of her at once!” The command fell like a thunderclap on the disarray below; the men holding Gracen dropped her arms, looking around to see who had spoken. “Unlock the doors! Now! I command you in the name of King Charles and King Louis!” He then said in English, “Run, mademoiselle! Leave this place!”
Gracen needed no second urging. She ran from the line of Richard’s sight, and d’Effiat and Beuvron raised pale, startled faces to him.
“Who is that?” asked d’Effiat. His speech was slurring, he’d drunk so much.
“We’re caught,” said Beuvron, his tone disgusted. “Well done, Marquis. You’ve brought disgrace to the gentlemen of Monsieur’s household. The king will be furious.”
He ran toward a door to open it and save himself, but it was locked. Others were doing the same, running to doors, but all were locked.
Beuvron looked upward to the set face of the English soldier, who was leaning both arms on the balcony, staring down at them as if they were animals. He went to the crucifix, crossed himself, gently turned it right-side up, hung it on its nail again, and sat down in a pew.
JUST OUTSIDE THE doors, Alice caught a fleeing, sobbing Gracen in her arms.
“Follow me at once,” she said.
And they ran down the corridor, down stairs and more stairs, out into the night, across the gravel of the keep to the constable’s gate, a collection of massive towers that framed the entrance to the castle and where Queen Catherine and her household were staying. Alice could hear Gracen crying behind her, but she didn’t stop, not until they’d run past a startled Life Guard at the entrance and up stairs. There in the stairwell, Alice stopped, untied her mask. Gracen sat on a step, sobbing into her hands.
“I was so afraid,” she said over and over. When finally she’d quieted, she untied her mask, wet with tears, used it to dry her face, and looked up at Alice. “Thank you, Alice. I’ll never forget this, never. I’ll always be in your debt.”
“Did you think I lied? How could you be so foolish?” Gracen flinched, but Alice was past caring. “What if Edward hadn’t seen you? Do you realize you might now be—”
Gracen put her hands to her ears. “Don’t say it!”
“What did you call them? My friends? Only one is that, and even he isn’t completely trustworthy. Being a maid of honor isn’t a talisman against harm, Gracen.”