by Karleen Koen
Balmoral laughed. His teeth were long and yellow in the candlelight. “The two ministers don’t get along, do they? Well, I’m gratified to see His Majesty of France’s council is no better than His Majesty of England’s.”
The sun had lowered and set itself, and candles flickered in the dark while music played. Barbara remained silent, and Alice glanced down and saw that her friend was dozing, lying on the rug with her arm as a pillow.
“Your friend sleeps,” said Balmoral. “Your fall is a most happy accident. I was wondering how I would detach you from the queen to talk with you, for I’ve thought again and again of the letter you wrote me.”
“You have no idea how much I’ve been longing to speak of it.”
“Speak, then. Begin by telling me, even if you wrote it in the letter, everything you remember of the death.”
And so she plunged in, telling it all, the writhing, the sweating, the screams, the horrid priest hushing the princess, the visit from King Louis, his tears, Condé and Lord Montagu staying until the end, Monsieur’s odd dignity at times, his hysteria at others, the way the princess’s dogs huddled under her bed, the way no one brought her daughters, the way she seemed to shrink into her bones before their eyes, the weeping, the confusion, the fact that the princess spoke many times of poison, Lieutenant Saylor’s search for the cup, its disappearance, the autopsy, her words with the English surgeon. Finally she stopped, emptied at last.
“Lord Montagu. I was most interested in his instructions to you.”
“He said he must be the one to speak of poison to the king, he and no other. Lieutenant Saylor and I were not to conjecture, he said.”
“But, of course, you did. Do you think Monsieur killed her?”
“I think the poisoning began on her return.”
“Ah, yes. The mysterious Henri Ange. Tell me about King Louis’s regard for Madame.”
“It was high, very high. The fact that she was sister to King Charles meant much to him. And would not her closeness to King Charles make friendship between the two kingdoms more likely? Things might be said by her to King Charles, I would think, that no one would know of.”
“How true.”
“Lord Montagu told Lieutenant Saylor and me that her dying wish was that the manner of her dying not hurt the friendship between the kings. That is why he asked for our discretion.”
“Oh, that was the reason, was it?”
Something in his voice caught her ear. “Do you think my conjectures too wild? I swear I’ve told no one else of them.”
“I think only that Lord Montagu has been a very busy man,” he said dryly. “Monsieur did not come to Dover, did he?”
“No, and he forbade her to go without him, but King Louis somehow arranged it.”
“And so you’ve told no one else these thoughts you share with me. I’m flattered.”
Alice could feel her face growing warm. He referred to her father. Did he think her an undutiful daughter? Which, of course, she was. Her father wasn’t trustworthy, but those weren’t words she wished to say to the duke, no matter their truth.
“M-my father’s concern was more with whether there was a treaty—”
“A treaty?”
“Something secret, perhaps, between the kings that Princesse Henriette aided. I know the princess spoke in private with King Louis. And Monsieur took a casket of letters from her cabinet.”
“A casket of…whose letters were they?”
“I’m told they were letters from King Charles to Princesse Henriette.”
There was a long silence. She couldn’t read the expression on his face in the candlelight. “What does Lord Montagu say about this casket?” he asked at last.
“I am not aware he knows of it. I did not tell him. I am telling you.”
Balmoral leaned forward. He spoke softly and clearly, kindly but deliberately, so that each word was like a blow, but through velvet. “What you have shared is extraordinarily dangerous. I want to ask you, for your sake, to say nothing to anyone else, as yet. You have done me a great honor to trust me with it. May I ask for further trust about this?”
“I am yours to command.”
Balmoral shivered, and Riggs, the majordomo, stepped forward with a shawl and wrapped it around the duke’s shoulders.
“You should go inside, Your Grace,” Riggs said.
“The night is so very beautiful,” Alice said. “Could we not stay outside a while longer?” She felt so relieved, as if a huge burden had been taken off her soul, as if she’d perhaps done something for Princesse Henriette. She couldn’t bear to go inside just yet.
“Another song for the lady,” Balmoral commanded, and the musician strummed the guitar and sang a sweet love song:
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smudged it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan’s down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud of the briar,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
It was an old song. I wonder what he is remembering, thought Alice, thinking how the men of her father’s time and before, for all their loss and tribulation, seemed to find more meaning in life from those desperate years. She glanced down at Barbara and saw that she leaned on an elbow, awake. “Will you play for us, Ra? She has a lovely voice,” Alice said to Balmoral.
“Oh, no,” Barbara protested.
“Please. She plays beautifully, like an angel.”
“Yes, I remember you were to sing for the king tonight. Let me add my pleas to Mistress Verney’s.”
The musician brought her the guitar. Barbara strummed the chords a bit and then began to sing. Her voice rose clear and true into the summer night, mingling with the smell of roses, myrtle, lavender growing in distant beds.
Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman’s fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
’Cause another’s rosy are:
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flow’ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Alice sat still in her chair, listening to some beauty in Barbara’s voice that made her seem far away and grown up in a way Alice wasn’t. John Sidney put this lilt in her voice. I won’t have it, thought Alice, and her jaw became strong and hard in the darkness.
BALMORAL REMAINED SITTING in the gardens after the young women went to their bedchamber.
“It was good to see you smile tonight, Your Grace,” said Riggs, as he placed a branch of candelabra closer and then stepped into the shadows to wait until he was summoned again.
Balmoral smiled no longer.
Confound it and deuce take it. The letter Lieutenant Saylor had near killed two horses to deliver had not been shared with the council. Or, let me be more precise, Balmoral thought, it had not been shared with me. As captain general of His Majesty’s army, he stood ready to declare war, to sound the drum for soldiers. Buckingham had been his ally in demanding war with the French but was now hot to go to France and negotiate a secret treaty on behalf of King Charles. The others of the privy council felt this was a good time to gain concessions from France for a war with the Dutch.
Would that make two treaties, one for His Majesty and one for his council?
If a wily, ambitious rogue like Sir Thomas Verney had been on the scent of a treaty in Dover, it meant something. Depend on it. Jesuits were involved, had wrangled some leniency toward Catholics. And money was probably already in King Charles’s private pockets. It was part of Louis’s policy to bribe first and attack later. Guileful of King Charles to keep secrets, to play his council against one another, the mark of a statesman. Confound it! Charles would need to be one to keep Louis at bay. He’d need to b
e one to keep the confounded crown on his confounded head!
There were tremors, splits waiting to crack open wider. Whatever truce kept them together for the purpose of governing the country was fragile now, frayed after ten years’ wear. He’d like to die knowing that selfish, unsettled roués couldn’t tear it apart for the sheer whim of it—roués like George, the Duke of Buckingham, Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. He kissed his old friend Balmoral, didn’t he, played games on his own when they’d sworn to play together. Confound his confounded, deuce take it and the devil, too, scheming!
Floating somewhere was a report that young Lieutenant Saylor had written of his time in France. Where was it? Why had it not circulated to the confounded captain general of His Majesty’s confounded army? Little Alice Verney was a born courtier, had told him more in one letter and a conversation than he’d gotten all this summer from spies at court and in France. I am yours to command. Her words touched him as much as he could be touched with a heart that had turned to husk long ago. A casket of letters from King Charles. Now that would be worth putting one’s hands on, wouldn’t it? Not to go to war when a beloved sister was murdered. The mark of a statesman. And a scoundrel. And a king.
God save the king.
CHAPTER 12
When Alice returned to Newmarket the next afternoon, Poll brought her a letter from Renée, who missed her dreadfully, who rattled, she said, like a tiny, ignored seed in the household of Saint Cloud. The English ambassador had promised to aid her, but she’d not seen him in weeks. The notes she sent him went unanswered. Renée was so lonely, so at loose ends. Was there nothing Alice could do to help? Was there anyone Alice might recommend her to? Alice had been such a good friend to her. She would never forget such a favor at this time of her life, would be so grateful. She remained her friend, her lonely, sad, forgotten friend.
Alice refolded the letter into its square, tapped it against her chin, thinking.
Why not bring Renée over and find a position for her? Her presence would make it easier to foster a marriage to Lieutenant Saylor…. Besides, she needed something to keep her occupied while she plotted for Balmoral. And she needed another good friend.
That evening at the king’s house, there was a full moon in the night sky, musicians in the great hall, dancing, and gambling. Alice was sitting among her friends when Gracen touched her arm. “Look who’s making her way toward you.”
Alice looked over to see Caro walking toward her.
“She ought not to wear that color,” Gracen said.
Her child must be due soon, thought Alice.
“Be kind,” Barbara said anxiously.
“Don’t either of you dare leave me,” said Alice. Caro’s face was pink cheeked. Too pink. Full of wine, thought Alice, and felt her heart beating very fast.
“I want to talk to Alice,” Caro said.
Gracen stood up gracefully, grabbed Barbara by the hand, and before Alice could stop her was walking away. She turned her head to give Alice a cool smile. How Gracen, thought Alice, surveying Caro’s perspiring face.
“I w-want your forgiveness.”
Well, Caro had always been forthright, stammering, blunt, but even so, this caught Alice completely off guard.
“He took me by surprise. I’m n-neither clever nor handsome like you. And for him to even n-notice me was so amazing, I was—”
“Foolish. Deceitful. Lying.”
“Yes, all those things. I never m-meant to hurt you. I—he—when he kissed me—”
“Stop.”
Rustling in layers of silks and laces, Caro sat down clumsily. Everything she did was clumsy, but the pregnancy made it more so. She dressed badly, too, always had. Clothes wore her rather than the other way around. “Please forgive me, Alice. I’m not asking that we be f-friends again—”
“We can never be friends.”
“I know that.” Caro began to cry. “He isn’t k-kind to me, you know. He didn’t care for me. Not in the least. He hated me for getting with child. He—”
“How long were we friends?”
Caro wiped a wet cheek and said through a sob, “Years, five years, six.”
“The whole court laughed at me.”
“No, Alice, they l-laughed at me. I was the court fool, not you. You left me behind to be eaten by w-wolves. I needed you, Alice. I needed your forgiveness. They’ve been cruel to me, my friends, c-crueler than you can ever imagine.”
“You forget yourself.” And then because Caro was so red faced and bumbling and sincere and had been, once upon a time, her dear friend, she said, “You’ve had too much to drink, Caro. Go to your bed.”
Alice stood, one hand on the handsome cane she’d borrowed from Dorothy Brownwell, and limped toward Cole, who was flirting with the Duchess of Monmouth. He broke off what he was saying at the sight of Alice, and his hawk’s face began its sweet smile.
“Your w-wife is w-weeping there in that corner, sir.” Alice’s tone and mimicry broke his smile to nothing. “Command her to bed before she embarrasses herself further.”
“By God, you’ve still got the sharpest tongue at court, Alice.”
“I whet it daily on married men who stray. As you may imagine, it’s never difficult to find a subject.” She turned, didn’t look back to see what might happen. Her heart felt like a cold stone, Caro’s words beating in her pulse. Friend. Friend. Friend. I needed you. Forgive me. Gracen was in among the dancing couples, as was Barbara. Was there any warmth to Gracen? Anything other than cool self-interest? Had her help in Dover meant nothing? Should she have told Dorothy Brownwell the truth? Dorothy stood smiling at Lord Knollys, and the way she smiled at him made a tidbit of gossip come to Alice’s mind. Gracen swore they were lovers, had been for ages. Did I love Cole? she wondered. She’d been excited by his regard, adored being paid court to, been proud of his title, his being heir to the Duke of Balmoral. She had been enraged and humiliated by his conduct, but love? What was that? This emotion Barbara seemed to feel, willing to become a nobody’s wife…and Lieutenant Saylor, when he spoke of Renée, there was a light in his eyes that hurt the heart. He, who had his way to make, had abandoned the regard of a duke’s wife for it…. The balladeers sang of true love. What was that?
Her father appeared out of nowhere and grabbed her arm. “The king would see you, poppet.”
“His Majesty?”
“Take my arm, and I’ll lead you to him. What’s this nonsense of you falling off a horse? There isn’t a horse alive you can’t ride.”
“Do you think I hobble like this for sympathy?”
“I think you’re up to tricks, missy, and I won’t have it. Falling off a horse at Balmoral’s. Interesting, I thought to myself when I heard it. I’ve half a mind to send a note of warning to His Grace.”
“You wouldn’t have to send a note if you’d do your duty as a father and see if he’d consider marriage with me.” Neither looked at the other in this game of emotional chess, played since Alice was old enough to reason. “I’ve something of importance to discuss with you, Father.”
“Later, after you’ve seen His Majesty.”
Her father opened a door and more or less pushed her through it. She found herself inside a small chamber in this rambling great house the king used as his palace when he was in the village for the races. Some of his ministers sat around a table with him, the Duke of Buckingham, Lord Arlington, and Thomas Clifford, as well as others of the court, Bab May, Thomas Killigrew, the Earl of St. Albans. A slim sprite of a woman perched on the arm of the king’s chair. It had to be Nellie Gwynn, the actress the king was keeping, thought Alice. Fair haired, sharply pretty, she wore a magnificent gown and good jewels and far too many patches. She patches the way a whore would, thought Alice. King Charles laid down a card, and Nellie pinched his ear.
“You’ll never win if you play like that, sir. It should have been this one,” she said.
A servant stepped forward and whispered in her ear, and the actress l
ooked up and saw Alice, who had remained in the shadow of the door, a bit overwhelmed by the scene before her, like a tavern, with men and smoke and intimate laughter. Nell came forward and curtsied. “Nellie Gywnn, Mistress Verney.”
Her accent was as common as a fishmonger’s or weederwoman’s. She can mimic anyone, said Fletcher, and sings like an angel, dances as well as you. Alice didn’t acknowledge her.
“Nell, take my place,” called King Charles.
“Thank God for that.” Nell settled in his chair, small in it, and smiled at the men, completely at her ease. “Call me a highwayman, for you may as well give me your coins now.” Everyone laughed.
King Charles led Alice to a chair at a far corner of the chamber, motioned for her to sit, then sat beside her, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, the charming, caressing, easy manner that got him his way, except with his House of Commons, in play. “I want you to go to France.”
She was so surprised, she didn’t answer.
“Be part of Buckingham’s party. He’s goes as my emissary for Madame’s funeral, a few others also, Lord Sandwich, Lord St. Albans. It’s fitting that you be included, as her former maid of honor, and there’s something very special that is coming back from France, something that needs a woman’s kindness. I’m going to want you to cosset it carefully. Your father will explain.”