Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  Alice sat at a table, shuffling cards. The court was back at Whitehall Palace settling in for winter. August had ended while they were in Paris. Fall danced forward in small steps. Outside, in the garden of this barn of a house, leaves were beginning to turn, crimsons, ambers, golds, the shades Lady Nature wore for autumn. Buckingham had lingered long in Paris, over a month. He and his wretched plots, thought Alice.

  “I cannot believe it is already September, Renée. Can you?” she said, to say anything other than what was in her mind. “Marry in September’s shine, your living will be rich and fine. My mother was born in September, but her living was neither rich nor fine. She died bearing me.”

  “I don’t need to wear your pearls, Alice—”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Am I wrong to accept your father’s generosity? Does it upset you?”

  I must remember she is no fool, thought Alice. I must remember none of this is her doing. “He may do as he pleases, but I do think you might be wise to be a bit wary of him. He can be an old dog. But come, we’re going to pay a call upon the Duchess of Monmouth, and guess who will very likely be there?”

  “Richard?”

  Yes. The sight of Richard would dampen whatever might have been sparked by her father’s generosity today. Let her father, whose bloody ambition and bloody greed were never to be trusted—and might have drawn him into a plot to hurt the queen—buy as many dresses and fans and gewgaws as he pleased. It would be for Renée’s trousseau to someone else.

  Which was amusing, when one thought of it. Ha.

  THEY WENT BY water, with Poll and Poppy to accompany them. The tide was high, and they could step from the house stairs directly into the wherry. It was a short journey to Whitehall Stairs, and Alice wanted Renée’s first sight of the palace to be by river. Ahead of them, on the other bank, were the spires and turrets of Lambeth Palace, home to England’s highest prelate, the Archbishop of Canterbury. And there was the long sprawl that was Whitehall Palace, her world, her milieu. Ten years ago, she’d arrived there with her father as part of the king’s threadbare, ragged, beggared court. Growing up in rented chambers, moving often because there were never coins for the rent; this was the only home she knew.

  Whitehall Palace was a hodgepodge of buildings dating over five reigns, a sprawling complex of courtyards and linking galleries, a cobbled-together warren of chambers, halls, stairways, balconies, gardens. There were as many as two thousand rooms within its boundaries, and any number of courtiers, not to mention servants, as well as the royal family. Its north faced St. James’s Park, its south flanked the river; it began near Charing Cross and ended near Westminster Abbey. A royal rabbit warren, her father called it, but he was dismissive only because he had never lived within its walls, a grief to him.

  It had its own wharf and brewery and timber yard. It had been taken as booty from a bishop who displeased Henry VIII and been a royal palace since. King Charles I had died on a scaffold set outside one of its great buildings.

  “I’ll show you the spot where the king’s father died,” Alice said to Renée. “Some say his ghost walks at night.”

  Renée shivered and crossed herself.

  “Catholic,” said the waterman, eyeing Renée, and then spat into the river.

  Ahead of them lay a long, low stone pier.

  “Whitehall Stairs,” cried the waterman.

  These stairs were between the kitchen buildings and the queen’s suite of apartments. Farther on was an elaborate, covered river entrance, but that was the privy stairs, for the use of the royal family. The waterman helped them onto the pier, and Alice darted forward, pulling Renée by the hand. They walked between buildings, the chapel, the butteries, and pantries, to Whitehall Street.

  It was a melee of carriages—both those stopped and those attempting to turn around—and noise. Sedan chair bearers waited for passengers, grooms sauntered about or gathered in groups to talk to one another, coachmen shouted warnings and curses from carriages as they maneuvered horses this way and that.

  Added to the mix were porters, young court pages, servants, Londoners on business or pleasure, and barking dogs, some tied to stiles, some running free.

  “There,” said Alice, turning in a slow circle, “was the scaffold built for our dear Majesty King Charles the First. They built a scaffold before one of the banqueting house windows, and he stepped out to die.”

  At this juncture, the palace was built across the street in the form of Holbein Gate, and the only way a Londoner could continue by foot or carriage to Westminster—other than by river—was to pass through Holbein Gate, the palace rising on both sides, and rattle on through to King Street.

  Holbein Gate’s octagonal turrets and slate roof gave it an old-fashioned look. Its opening was wide enough only for a single carriage to pass through, so there was always a jam of carriages and impatient coachmen waiting their turn. Alice pointed to the gatehouse’s second story, where there were sets of narrow, high mullioned windows.

  “A wicked one lived there.”

  “Who?”

  “The Duchess of Cleveland.”

  “Ah…,” said Renée, for if her king’s mistresses were famous, so was this one, whose reputation for wildness, beauty, and ruthlessness had followed her even when a girl.

  “I used to see her at the windows or on the roof of the banqueting house. She loved it when the coachmen brawled among themselves.”

  Behind the gatehouse, one side of the palace was devoted to the king’s privy garden; the other was a warren of royal buildings in which various dukes lived.

  Alice knocked on a door, and it opened, and they stepped into the handsome ground floor of the Duke of Monmouth’s apartments. Poll and Poppy stayed below as Alice and Renée gave over their cloaks, looked at themselves quickly in pier glasses to shake their curls, and walked upstairs toward the sound of music and conversation.

  The chamber was long and large, everything in it of the latest fashion, from the beautiful oval plasterwork on the ceiling to the sets of matched chairs to huge silver firedogs at the fireplace. Twilight had come, and footmen were at the candles, lighting them. Musicians played a viola and a violin at one end of the chamber. The Duchess of Monmouth sat on cushions on the floor, surrounded by her maids of honor and various friends. In a window seat farther down the wall sat Barbara and Gracen, talking with their heads close together. John Sidney sat beside Barbara, Alice saw at once.

  She made her way to the duchess, curtsied, said, “Ma’am, I do bring my guest, Mademoiselle de Keroualle, to meet you.”

  “Back from France, are you? Monmouth will want to know all of the funeral. He’s somewhere about.” And then the duchess said in French, quite coldly, to Renée, “Mademoiselle.” She turned back to the others even as Renée was curtsying, and Alice led Renée from one friend and acquaintance to another, introducing her.

  Richard, who was watching one of the card games being played, saw them. In two strides, he was beside them. “You’re back,” he said to Alice, but his eyes were on Renée.

  “Yes, I’ve brought you a surprise.”

  “God’s word, you have.” In French, he said, “Mademoiselle de Keroualle, I am overcome to see you. I had not expected this.”

  “She’s to join our court,” said Alice.

  “What good fortune is this?” exclaimed Richard, smiling down at Renée in a way that was dazzling.

  “Indeed, she’s to be a maid of honor for the queen. Where’s His Grace?”

  “In his closet playing dice.” Closets were the most private of chambers, where only those invited might enter.

  “Will you tell him I’ve arrived—and stop staring at her in that way. You’ll make her noticed.”

  Richard saluted and sauntered off. Barbara and Gracen came running, John Sidney following them. “Alice!”

  Barbara kissed her cheeks, and Gracen followed suit.

  “When did you arrive back? And you’ve brought Mademoiselle de Keroualle with you. How delightf
ul.” Barbara spoke in French to Renée, “Welcome, mademoiselle.”

  “Now why have you brought the beauty to outshine us?” said Gracen in English. “I was the most beautiful after Barbara, and now you ruin my chances with this chit.”

  John Sidney stepped forward to greet Alice, but she ignored his presence, saying to Barbara, “Why are you not with the queen?”

  At once, Barbara looked guilty.

  “Boring,” said Gracen. “We play truant.”

  “We have stayed rather long. We ought to go back,” Barbara said.

  “Pooh,” said Gracen. “Kit and Luce are on duty, not us. We don’t have to be at her side every second.”

  “But the evenings,” said Alice, all the while thinking, How bold Gracen is becoming. Evenings were difficult for Queen Catherine, when shadows she held at bay during the day gathered and pounced.

  “You’re quite right, Alice. I forget my obligations. We’ll go at once,” said Barbara.

  “Go where?” It was the Duke of Monmouth, who took Alice’s hand and kissed it.

  “To the queen,” said Alice, dropping into a quick curtsy.

  “You may not leave. You’ve only just arrived. And we must talk.”

  “Let me go to the queen and pay my respects—”

  “And introduce Mademoiselle de Keroualle. She’s to be a maid of honor,” said Richard.

  Monmouth stared at Renée for such a long time that she flushed. Not understanding what anyone was saying, she stepped closer to Alice.

  “All is well,” Richard said to her in French. “We argue about where next we go.”

  “We’re not arguing,” said Alice.

  “Because you’re not leaving,” said Monmouth.

  “If it please Your Grace, just for a little while, to pay my respects to Queen Catherine. And then I’ll speak with you, tell you everything about the funeral. There’s so much to tell.”

  “We could all go,” said Richard.

  “A capital idea,” agreed John Sidney.

  “Bring the musicians,” said Richard. “They can fiddle us to her chambers. We can dance in the gardens.”

  “That would be amusing,” said Barbara, and her soft excitement seemed to settle it for Monmouth.

  “But what is happening?” cried the Duchess of Monmouth as Richard spoke a word to the musicians, and they ended their tune in its middle.

  “We go to pay a call on Her Majesty,” said her husband. “Come along, madam wife, you and all your ladies. It’s my wish.”

  And in another moment, most in the chamber were trooping down the stairs, out into the dusk, across Whitehall Street, and into the privy garden, where night bloom and roses, bay and rosemary, perfumed the air. The violinist led the way.

  Alice tossed her head to the rhythm of the music, loving the evening and the music and the scents and the silliness of what they did, thinking, I could dance out here all night. Thoughts about queens and poison, fathers and treachery, lessened. The spell of the dark and garden and music seemed to enchant others as well. Men and women danced here and there; some of the duchess’s ladies began to dance together.

  Renée said to Richard, dancing toward him, “Why did they stare at me so?”

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  She laughed. “This is madness. Is everyone mad?”

  “We’ve gone mad because you’re here.”

  “You mustn’t speak so.”

  “Because I haven’t your parents’ permission yet or because you wish it?”

  “Because you haven’t my parents’ permission.”

  He took her and twirled her, and they smiled at each other in the dark. “I love you,” he said, but he spoke in English.

  “I love you,” John Sidney said to Barbara, who was holding out her skirts on each side, sashaying toward him. There was no mistaking the look that passed between them, and it was a good thing that the garden was dark, except for torches burning from the buildings that formed part of its boundaries, and Alice couldn’t see it.

  THE NOISY, BABBLING group entered Queen Catherine’s withdrawing chamber, led by the fiddler. Alice glanced around. The maids of honor who must be on duty this evening were there, and the lady-in-waiting, and then the loyal ones: Dorothy Brownwell; Fletcher; Queen Catherine’s master of the horse, Lord Knollys; and the queen’s old nurse. A dreary little group. The canary cages were not covered yet, and the birds sang and flitted about the cages. The queen’s pet fox leaped from her lap to hide under a cabinet. The draperies were the same apple green they’d been when Alice left. Edward and the other pages smiled, happy to see her. Here was home, the only permanent home she’d ever known.

  “Verney!” cried Queen Catherine. “You return. No one tells me.”

  “Ma’am,” said Monmouth, bowing handsomely. “We came to pay a call.”

  Queen Catherine’s cheeks colored. It was clear she was touched. “I am happiness that you do.”

  “We brought our musicians and vagabonds we found along the way.”

  “I adore it.” Queen Catherine clapped her hands. “To the privy garden. Monmouth, lead the way.”

  And back through halls and corridors they went, Edward carrying a chair for the queen. In another ten minutes they were within the privy garden, and couples were dancing, and Edward brought more torches and pushed them into the soft dirt of the gardens, so that there was more light, and Queen Catherine danced and talked with everyone, as happy as a girl. On the two sides of the garden that were bounded by buildings, courtiers came to their windows or out on their balconies to stare.

  Alice brought Renée to meet the queen. “I bring you Mademoiselle de Keroualle. She’s to be your new maid of honor and will be presented formally in a day or so, but I wanted you to meet her. She has been a dear friend to me in France.”

  Queen Catherine’s face changed. Alice glanced down at Renée to see if she noticed, but Renée was too busy with her curtsy.

  Then Monmouth found Alice and led her away from the crowd, toward a bench against the privy garden wall. “Everything,” he said. “I want to know every last thing.”

  “It would be to your advantage, you know,” said Alice, settling herself, “to be kinder to the queen.”

  “And how would that be to my advantage?”

  “Beyond the courtesy of a gentleman, do you mean? Most despise her because she cannot bring a child to term, Jamie. Yet if she did, even once, where would you be? Perhaps not His Majesty’s dearest darling then.” She patted the bench, wondering, Was he, in this new arrogance she wasn’t familiar with, part of the faction of courtiers who were set against the queen, who schemed of dreadful things like divorce? Would she and Jamie, who had always schemed together, now scheme against each other?

  “Haven’t you heard? I take lectures from no one these days, Alice,” he replied. “Not even old friends.”

  She dropped her eyes, felt the burn that must be showing on her cheeks. Without missing a beat, she began to talk of the funeral. “The funeral was magnificent. The coffin lay in the center of the choir, covered by cloth of gold edged in ermine and embroidered with the arms of both France and England. There were hundreds, hundreds of flambeaux and wax candles. Monsignor Bossuet gave the sermon, and it was magnificent. I have a broadsheet for you, but I’ve memorized some of it. Listen: ‘O, disastrous night, O, dreadful night, in which resounded like a clap of thunder the unbelievable words: Madame is dying! Madame is dead! Like the flower of the field in the morning she was gone from us by night. What haste! In nine hours His work was done.’”

  MUCH LATER, NEAR to dawn, Alice walked the paths of the garden.

  Poll lay on a bench, huddled in her cloak, sleeping. Her groom was asleep on the floor of a hall in Holbein Gate. Renée had left with Barbara and Gracen a few hours ago to sleep in their bed with them. The party had broken up by bits and pieces, yet even the last of the most hardy had drifted away some time ago. It seemed that only she was unable to sleep.

  She became like this sometim
es, so keyed up that restlessness wouldn’t abate.

  She walked through a silent courtyard until she found herself near the kitchens. She thought she might take off her shoes and sit on the quay and put her feet in the water. But a man and a woman stood on the quay of Whitehall Stairs, embracing. Alice waited back in the shadows, not wishing to disturb them. The woman had a cloak over her nightgown and embroidered slippers on her feet. The man stepped back into a boat, which a riverman rowed out into the current. The woman remained for a time on the quay, watching. At last she turned and walked back into the palace, and the hood of her cloak slipped. In the light of a torch that was still blazing, Alice saw it was Dorothy Brownwell, the mother of the maids of honor.

  She tried to find some place to hide herself, but it was impossible, so she stayed where she was. Dorothy, after a moment in which she saw Alice, hurried on by. Alice walked out onto the quay, watching the river. She would wait for the sun to rise. Surely it was near sunrise.

  In her mind were scenes from this night. Jamie snubbed her. She could no longer go to him with anything on her mind and have his help unconditionally. She must now bow and scrape first. Her old friend grew away from her, too important, too almost a prince, to heed her anymore. His reprimand stung like venom in her heart. John and Barbara danced together, Richard and Renée, Brownie and Lord Knollys—for it must have been Lord Knollys who embraced Brownie a moment ago on the quay. Queen Catherine, the expression on her face when Renée was introduced, sadness, a sudden sharp etching of it. Why? Barbara continued her foolish flirtation. Everything changes and nothing does. King Charles came to call on her father today, and she’d been up all the night and kept Renée up with her. Her father would be unhappy. Good.

  The sun rose quietly in the distance, coloring the sky ocher and peach and old gold. The tide was out. The mud of the river stank. Time to go home.

  CHAPTER 15

  Turn around,” commanded Sir Thomas.

  Renée did as she was told, while Alice watched with narrowed eyes and mounting temper. Never, not even when Colefax had come to make a formal request for her hand in marriage—an alliance at which her father had been overjoyed—had he demanded to see what she would wear or offered an opinion on such. Yet here he was in her bedchamber, scrutinizing her—but it was really Renée, she saw that clearly—as if they were fillies he was about to put up for auction. Did he wish to show off before the king? My pretty little mistress-to-be?