Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  Richard closed his eyes and prayed, asking God’s blessings on his mission, asking that God watch over his mother and Tamworth, over his sisters. He asked that God make his eyes and mind sharp, so that he might help the princess, asked that the Duchess of Monmouth might forgive him, and his mouth be filled with the words that would make Renée and her father trust him. That he should be returning to France with her was a blessing he had not expected. He was besotted, a weak word that—he was bewitched, enchanted, bowled over. He was in love, the fire of it scorching, leaving nothing else standing. And in France, it was his hope to make the acquaintance of the two greatest generals in King Louis’s army, the Prince de Condé and Maréchal de Turenne, who led soldiers in an army that was the wonder and envy of Europe.

  Later, after Richard had been fed again and changed his shirt, and his mother and Susannah had packed his saddlebag with food, and he and Annie had walked around Tamworth so that Richard could see fields, sheep, apple trees, he knelt for his mother’s blessing, then swung himself up onto his mother’s horse, with Effriam, the groom, clamoring up behind him in the saddle, and they rode away.

  Jerusalem and Susannah went at once to the kitchen fire, and Susannah looked into the flames for a long time. She threw in some holy water that Annie had gotten for her when Master Richard was in chapel and listened to the resulting sizzle and hiss. Finally she shook her head.

  “I can’t see a thing about the sweetheart. Annie, go and fetch Nana her shawl.”

  Annie, sitting on the stool, blinked, did as she was told, but only after she lingered near the doorway long enough to hear her grandmother’s next words.

  “Bad times in France, though, I see that. Come here and look for yourself.”

  Dear God, thought Jerusalem when she’d done so. She went outside to walk restlessly along the stream, among the marshmallows and summer lilies blooming there, sending Richard blessings with every breath of her body. Someone would die in France, that’s what the embers said. She knelt among the marshmallows. Let it not be Richard, she prayed. Please.

  CHAPTER 6

  In Dover, one merry day led into another. There seemed to be no end to laughter, dancing, flirting, amusement. But on the morning of the day before they were to leave, all the English maids of honor were summoned to the chapel. Barbara came rushing to find Alice, still dressing, and pulled her to one side so they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “She knows—”

  “Nothing,” Alice said. “Whatever happens, you are to admit to nothing.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m not summoned, am I? It means they haven’t a clue as to who is doing what. Think, Ra.”

  But still, she and Fletcher crept into the back of the chapel at the appointed hour, sitting in the farthest corner, where the dark of the balcony hid them. Maids of honor from Queen Catherine and from the Duchess of York sat in the front benches used as pews, their chatter flying up high to the vaulted ceiling. Fletcher poked her in the side, pointed. From where they sat, they could see King Charles hidden behind a wooden screen. He sat twisting a ring around and around his finger.

  “You’re going to end hanged,” Fletcher whispered.

  The king’s lord chamberlain stood in front of the altar. It took the man a long moment before he finally had the attention of all the young women.

  “Someone,” he began, “has been playing a game with the Duchess of Cleveland, which has ceased to be amusing. We all understand high spirits, particularly on this festive occasion.” The lord chamberlain’s eyes swept over the sets of maids of honor. Alice shrank farther back in the corner, and Fletcher, beside her, couldn’t help but smile. “The high spirits of youth. But it is time to rein in such spirits. The duchess feels that certain attacks—”

  At that word, a low murmur rippled through all the maids of honor, and they turned to one another, exclaiming, protesting, questioning what was meant; but the lord chamberlain spoke over the noise, subdued it. “Attacks against her person have come from among these quarters.” The murmuring grew again. “I feel certain she is wrong,” he continued, “but I have promised that I would bring her suspicions before you. I have assured the duchess that she may rest easy for what little bit is left of our happy time. I should hate to see the last evening of Princesse Henriette’s visit ruined by antics that make everyone look foolish.”

  Barbara stood up. Alice took a breath. What was she going to do? Confess?

  “Of what do we stand accused?” Barbara asked.

  “Dung in dancing shoes, frogs in bed, salt in a sugar bowl…” The lord chamberlain paused.

  “False mastic,” King Charles called out from behind the screen. Alice could see that he was amused.

  “False mastic,” repeated the lord chamberlain. Alice had remixed the mastic with which patches were glued to one’s face. The fashion was a few years old. Still, women were mad for the little dark spots of silk shaped like half-moons or stars or other things that could be put on their faces, at their mouths, upon their cheeks, or near their eyes. Only married women might wear them. Men patched, too. One of King Charles’s councillors wore a patch, like a thin lightning bolt, across his nose to disguise an old dueling scar. Queen Catherine swore it was why half her maids of honor married—to be able to patch and wear rouge. The Duchess of Cleveland’s patches had fallen, one after another, into the first course of the supper served last night. Alice considered it one of her finest moments.

  “Is there any one of us who is suspected?” Barbara asked. She looked very regal and very pretty, color the shade of strawberries high on her cheeks, as if she had been accused.

  King Charles walked out from behind the screen. Young women stood, dropped into curtsies as best they could standing in the narrow spaces confined by backless benches. His eyes swept over them. The sight of them, woman after woman, head bowed, earrings dangling, the bolder of them peeping through their eyelashes at him, was charming. “You’ve done your duty,” he said to the lord chamberlain, who let out a huge sigh. King Charles looked from one woman to another. Alice could see he was holding his mouth not to laugh.

  “It would be a great service to me,” he said, “if the pranks might stop. In other words, behave yourselves, I command you as your sovereign. I beg you as a gentleman. It would be an even greater service if there were no gossip about this. Be gone, now. Shoo.”

  Women obeyed him, talking nonstop, leaving the chapel in groups. Alice and Fletcher caught up with Barbara, dragged her away from the others.

  “We need to outdo ourselves this evening,” Alice said excitedly.

  “Alice Verney, are you mad?” interrupted Fletcher. “As your dancing master, I forbid it. Bragge, I forbid you to have anything more to do with her if she so much as glances at the great cow.”

  “You were magnificent. I had no idea you could lie like that,” Alice said, and she and Barbara both laughed.

  “It’s our last day, pets,” said Fletcher, taking them by the arm so that they were on each side of him.

  Barbara’s face changed. Alice saw it, looked away in irritation. Gracen would have been beside herself to go to France. Caro would have given diamond earrings. But Barbara drooped. The cause was doubtless one John Sidney. Too bad. The deed was done.

  IT WAS AFTERNOON of the last day.

  “We’re so jealous,” murmured Gracen. She’d survived her escapade, the mother of the maids never suspecting anything near the truth. The only evidence it had happened was that she was as sweet as island sugar to Alice.

  Touching the ribbon tied tight around her neck, Alice said nothing, but then she had no need to. Every day of this visit, the princess and her ladies had worn something unique—starting with the vibrant green stockings—something that set them apart, and every day the English ladies of court had grown more excited to see what would be next. Today, the last day of their visit, Princesse Henriette’s ladies wore ribbons of black tied tight around their necks. It was charming and symbolic�
��the princess mourned leaving her brothers and England, but in a way none of her household could prove or protest.

  “Blast!”

  It was Prince Rupert. Ladies immediately began to fan themselves with their elaborate, spreading hand fans and to giggle at his language.

  “Beg pardon,” he called to them.

  They were watching the men play at bowls. The gentlemen’s long jackets were off, the loose sleeves of their shirts pushed up, held with women’s garters Monmouth had collected like medieval tournament trophies from among the more daring of the women. The day was sweet, a breeze teasing skirts and wigs, the sun shining and warm. The men’s admiring audience, Princesse Henriette, Queen Catherine, the other great ladies, sat in chairs or on footstools, and everyone else thronged around them, sitting on rugs, lying against cushions piled everywhere, fat cushions with tassels at their corners. The orchestra performed from atop a castle parapet.

  The men played in a specially designed area of the garden of the warden of the castle, where grass was thick, green as an emerald, cut to precise and even height. They rolled heavy lead balls at a jack, an earthenware ball of white. The object was to come as close to the jack as possible and to keep anyone else from coming near. The king rolled a ball close to the jack, and at Monmouth’s turn, he edged a ball away from King Charles’s. Princesse Henriette rose to her feet to clap. Alice saw two of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting put their heads together and whisper, clearly about the princess. Were they gathering evidence to present to Monsieur? And what would the accusation be? Your wife had too much fun, smiled, and laughed, and actually enjoyed herself? It was easy to forget what awaited them in France sitting here, where formality was dismissed for frivolity, where the princess had put down her guard, so loving, so affectionate were King Charles and the Duke of York, and the court followed suit. Every day had been one of diversion arranged to the princess’s taste. She must be amused, must be delighted. No wonder she glowed, her face softened, and she seemed as young as one of the maids of honor. But tomorrow they left this paradise, went back to the cage Monsieur and his lover had constructed bar by bar. Trust no one, thought Alice. That must be her litany beginning tomorrow.

  Scoring a point, Prince Rupert whooped like a boy. The Englishmen were playing the French. Alice turned her head idly and saw Monmouth’s duchess slip from the queen’s side to walk toward an ancient oak, one of the few to survive the war. Lieutenant Saylor stood under it. When had he returned? thought Alice. And where had he gone? The duchess began to speak to him quite earnestly. Fletcher said they were lovers. Alice looked around. Did anyone else notice? She saw Monmouth, on the bowling green, look up, see them, and his face became unreadable. Spoiled as he’d become, he was still her friend. Alice stood, picked her way through pillows and cushions and lolling bodies, walked over to the spreading oak.

  “Do look at that.” Richard’s sister Louisa nudged his other sister, nodded her head toward Alice.

  It was colder under the shade of the oak. The bells in it jingled. The smell of ocean was strong. Neither of them saw Alice. They were quarreling, or at least the duchess was.

  “—abandon me the way you intend—”

  “Do excuse me,” said Alice. “Everyone is watching.”

  The Duchess of Monmouth turned in a whirl of skirts to face Alice, furious as a cat. “Who do you imagine you are?” she exclaimed, and before Alice could answer, she shoved past her, strode off. But she walked right into Richard’s sisters, who were strolling together toward the tree. They surrounded the young duchess at once with chatter and laughter and themselves, bearing her back to the seated ladies as if nothing in the world were the matter and life was just grand. Richard, on the other hand, was dismayed and embarrassed.

  “You’re as red as a rose petal. Oh, dear, I do believe I’ve dropped my earring. Will you help me find it, Lieutenant?”

  She said it to give him time to recover—and because it amused her—leisurely fanning herself, while Richard crawled on the ground at her feet, searching. She glanced back at the crowd of courtiers. Yes. Alice Verney and Lieutenant Richard Saylor under the old oak tree wasn’t nearly as interesting as the Duchess of Monmouth and the lieutenant had been. Richard knelt on one knee, staring up at her.

  “I regret to say I can’t find it.”

  There was a moment of heart-stopping silence as she looked down at him, as she thought, over the sensation of falling that was making her heart beat fast—as it had done the first time she saw him on the yacht—His eyes are the clearest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. Richard tilted his head to one side, wondering why she stared at him so. “You look exactly like one of my father’s hounds,” she said. “Do get up.”

  She turned. Cole was walking toward the oak, and with him was his uncle, the Duke of Balmoral. Alice’s hands flew to her heart. She sank into a curtsy deep enough for a king, watching the elderly duke as he advanced, one arm on Cole’s for support. Cole was pleased with himself, Alice could see. He thought to worm himself back into her affections with this gesture, little knowing he brought the noose with which she would hang all his ambitions. Her eyes went to the duke. He has aged even more in these two years, she thought. He was slight and thin, and the hand he gave her to help her rise was bony, its skin dry, leathery; yet there was some strength to it. His face seemed to be made of a hundred seams coming together at the mouth and nose and eyes. She had forgotten how old he was—his youth the time of cavaliers and court masques, his middle age the war, his old age the Restoration. It frightened her a little, all that lined and marked and bent him.

  “How long has it been, my dear?” he asked her.

  “Two years, Your Grace.”

  “France becomes you.”

  Alice found herself blushing.

  “It does me good to see you,” he said. “I wished to do my duty and say Godspeed to the princess. Her father, the king, was a man of great integrity. Colefax tells me you have decided to renew your acquaintance as friends….”

  Alice found Cole’s eyes. They had decided no such thing. You avoid me as if I carried the plague, he had complained to her. Yes, a plague of lovesickness that might make her ill still. I practice pretty speeches but never have the chance to say them. What might pretty speeches win you? she’d asked. Restoration of your regard. And she’d run away from him since, from the confusion in her.

  “And I am glad for it, Mistress Verney, for I always thought him a fool to lose you.”

  Now it was Colefax’s turn to become red.

  “Will you do me the honor to escort me to the princess, so that I may make my apologies for missing so many days of her visit?”

  Proudly Alice stepped forward, and he leaned on her as they walked toward where Princesse Henriette sat. Alice had to walk very slowly, and he breathed unevenly, laboriously, as if the walking took all his strength. Can I do this? Marry a man so old? she thought. Fear pushed up in her.

  Leaving him with the princess, she moved around people until she was between Barbara and John Sidney. She plopped herself down, whispered in Barbara’s ear, “I could not leave without a final gesture. Keep your eye on the great cow’s left cheek.”

  Barbara put her hands to her mouth to smother laughter.

  “What is so amusing?” asked John. After two weeks, he was having to make an effort to be gracious to Alice.

  “Secrets. Silliness.” Alice leaned back on her elbows and regarded him through slitted eyes.

  “Yes…well…if you will excuse me, Mistress Bragge, Mistress Verney.”

  Barbara leaned back on her elbows, too. “You’ve chased him off.”

  “I don’t think it possible.”

  “Why don’t you care for him?”

  “I can’t abide the idea of your marrying someone with those legs. Only think of your children.”

  Fletcher, sitting to the other side of Barbara, laughed. “I’m going to cut my hair,” he announced.

  “No,” said both Barbara and Alice. There was something d
apper and crisp about Fletcher, a small man with large eyes and luxurious, long, curling hair as beautiful as a woman’s.

  “It’s the fashion to wear a wig. There isn’t a Frenchman here with his own hair on his shoulders. I cannot be behind fashion, Alice. Not a man in Monsieur’s household was without a wig. I wonder what they plot out there, on the ship.”

  “They were so handsome,” said Barbara, as if handsomeness erased evil.

  “They resemble angels, but one evening in their company finished me,” said Fletcher.

  Angels, thought Alice. The new man in Monsieur’s household, the one from Italy, was named Henri Ange, or in English Henry Angel. Queen Catherine made a gesture, and Barbara rose to go to her, leaving Alice and Fletcher behind.

  “I don’t like the idea of your going back to them,” said Fletcher to Alice.

  “Barbara will be with me.”

  “Well, I don’t like the idea of that, either. She’s much more…” He paused.

  Alice tapped him on the head with her fan. “Delicate? Sensitive? Kind?”

  “Almost too tender for this world.”

  “It will do her good to see the French court, to learn French ways.”

  “Planning her marriage, are we?”

  “She can do better than John Sidney.”

  “The question, my dear Alice, is does she wish to. What’s happening?”

  The men on the bowling green had abandoned it. Women were rising from their rugs and cushions, from their chairs, greatly excited.