by Karleen Koen
Once it was read, he carefully refolded it, leaned back, closing his eyes, his hands together before his face.
“Henri Ange. Henry Angel. Skilled in the use of poison. Father French, mother Italian. Known to have apprenticed in Rome under Michaelanglo Exili, a poisoner of first rank. Went with Exili to the court of the queen of Sweden for a time.” He opened his eyes. “Left the household of the Chevalier de Lorraine to join the household of Prince Philippe of France. Left that household at the death of Princesse Henriette, went to stay with our same Exili, who it seems now lives in Paris. Seen out and about in Paris, but not exclusively in the company of Monsieur’s men. If he paid a call upon the Duke of Buckingham, or was summoned, there is no one who has spoken of it other than your Beuvron, who will not speak of it again, no matter the coins offered him. As you can see, I have taken your confidences to me much to heart. Why do you think this Ange has come to England?”
“To kill the queen. It’s the easiest way, isn’t it? It makes it unnecessary for you or the council to instigate a divorce and wrestle with the consciences of Parliament and the nation, perhaps provoke another war.”
“There would not be a war over her death.” Balmoral spoke without emotion.
His certainty was disturbing. “Yesterday the queen received a note. It said, ‘Three sights to be seen—’”
“‘Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren queen,’” finished Balmoral.
“She was—” Alice stopped. What word described touching a wound that did not heal, tearing it open afresh?
“I can imagine.”
“No, Your Grace, you cannot. It is not a face she shows anyone. There is to be a gathering tomorrow, Father Huddleston and Lord Knollys, others, who take her hurt to heart. I beg that you meet with them and listen to their concerns, perhaps advise them. I am very afraid for her.”
“I’ve put tasters in place in the royal households.”
“He doesn’t have to poison the food to kill her. The water Princesse Henriette drank wasn’t poisoned. Will you be able to follow the path of every fork, every plate? There was a tale in France of someone poisoning gloves. Can you guard the queen’s gloves, her combs, her shawls? I saw the princess die of his poisoning, and it was neither pretty nor short.”
“Has His Majesty been informed?”
“No. We’ve sworn ourselves to silence, fearing to stir up talk of divorce again, but I bring it directly to you.” She looked at his suddenly inscrutable face, tried to read it. “Unless you, like others, wish the queen gone. I’ve never asked it of you.” She felt tired suddenly. If Balmoral were against the queen, what would she do?
“I think this kingdom needs an heir from the king’s loins. I think that which God has joined together should not be sundered. A conundrum, is it not? Perhaps it isn’t the queen who is to be the victim. Have you thought of that, Mistress Verney?”
“Who else would it be?”
“His Majesty.”
“But why?”
“Oh, some men must always dabble in intrigue. If he died, in the chaos others might rise as regents or advisers or favorites. I must ask if you’ve shown this note from Beuvron to anyone else.”
She looked down at her hands, didn’t answer.
He took the gesture to mean no. “You do me great honor in your trust of me; you have from the beginning. I saw you looking at that armor in the corner. It is my proudest possession, from a samurai, which is what they call a warrior from the land of Nippon, on the other side of the world. Their honor is their most sacred attribute. They kill themselves if it is soiled. I find the thought of such a place comforting. If I weren’t so old, I’d go there, learn to be a samurai. I’d like to see with my own eyes a place where a man kills himself because his honor is soiled. We must see you married so that we may advance you to a place of honor in the royal household. You are a loyal servant to Her Majesty. Such is price above pearls. There is a suitor for your hand, I’m told.”
“He won’t consider me.”
“Nonsense. He is eager to have you as his bride.”
“No, Your Grace, he isn’t.”
There was a long moment in which neither spoke. A clock in the chamber—King Charles was enamored of clocks, gave them as presents—began to strike the hour of nine of the night. At the ninth stroke, Alice said, “There is one more thing.”
Balmoral waited.
“The Duchess of Cleveland likes me not. She’s told me she is going to say evil things of me to you because she knows my—that your respect for me is something I hold close to my heart. I beg you won’t listen to her, or if you do, you allow me to defend myself against what she might say. I could not bear it if you came to dislike me.”
“That would be quite impossible, my dear.”
Alice retied the mask about her face, pulled up the hood of her short cloak, took the letter and refolded it, waited at the door for Balmoral to open it for her. He stood beside her; his hand was on the crystal knob, but he did not turn it. “I’m very old.” It was quietly said.
“So am I.”
He took her hand, gazed down at it before raising it to his lips for the lightest of kisses.
Door shut, Balmoral remained standing where he was for a time. Foolish to be stirred even in the slightest. He shivered. He was always cold, yet another reminder of his age. Opening the door again, he made a signal that told Riggs he would see no one else this night, drew a huge, fur-lined cloak about his shoulders, stirred the fire, added a log, sat down to watch it burn.
When winter began to breathe its icy arrival, every old battle scar he had ached. And there were a number of them, from the Roundheads, from the Irish, from the Scots, from the cavaliers. He’d fought on all sides in his lifetime, no shame to it. The times had been too treacherous for shame. And it had ended with him here, a duke and captain general of His Majesty’s army, such as it was.
Such as it was. He grimaced at the fire. The words were those of Lieutenant Saylor, his adroit young spy. One of the letters copied from France hinted at an agreement of some kind. And King Charles wrote about a cipher. Why give his sister a cipher unless she handled secrets? What had the king promised Louis? Whatever it was, he did not share it with his ministers. Was there some colony he gave? Some concession of trade? Something about the succession? He was pleased with Saylor’s work. He’d put him to finding this Henri Ange. And once found, what then? He ran his hand along the fur of his cloak as he ran his mind over the king’s closest ministers. Was there a decent man among them? Was one of them trustworthy?
Not to his mind. The last trustworthy adviser to the king had been the Earl of Clarendon, as much an architect of the Restoration as he himself was. And where was Clarendon now? Banished. Living in the Dutch Republic, writing his memoirs. Oh, this flirtation with poison had the smell of Buckingham, old Georgie Porgie, that confounded, treacherous, lecherous, lightning wit of court. He’d like to see Buckingham fall. What pleasure there would be in that. A last service he could do this kingdom. Did the fall include Buckingham’s minion Sir Thomas Verney? He had regard for Alice, always had. She had a quick mind and the wiliness of a born courtier. And lovely, lovely dark eyes. Ambitious little climber, said the Duchess of Cleveland. After you. Is it not too amusing, Your Grace? Thinking she can gather you in her coils, said Cleveland. Exactly what she seemed to be doing.
ALICE CROSSED WHITEHALL Street, stepped into the Life Guard building, and walked down a hall until she stood before a door. She could hear music from inside the chamber. Richard must be playing his guitar. She put her ear to the door. He was singing. She leaned against the door, her eyes closed so that she might hear better. After a time, she straightened her shoulders, knocked decisively. He stood framed in the doorway, holding up a sealed letter, which she took from him.
“Are you not engaged to go to His Grace’s?” she asked.
“Later. For Monmouth, it’s early yet.”
“You don’t enjoy it?”
He shrugged. “What adventure are you u
pon, masked like that?”
“No adventure.” Words were in her throat. She wanted to tell him about the letter, the note to the queen, her fears about Renée. But she was silent.
He cocked his head to one side, his expression quizzical. She took a step backward, turned with a light step, the letter for Renée clasped to her breast.
“Verney.”
She faced him again.
“I think we ought to call each other by our Christian names. Have I your permission to call you Alice?”
“Yes.”
Richard watched her walk away. She moved with an instinctive grace. Her mouth was lovely. The mask accentuated it. Had she a secret sweetheart? Who knew with Alice? He shook his head and closed the door.
IN THE MAIDS of honor’s apartments, Renée sat on the floor, skirts bunched around her, staring into the fire. A note had come to her that the French ambassador would be calling. He would ask how she did, if she had need of anything, and then he would come to what he really called upon her for. What news have you for me? Anything, no matter how small, he wished to hear. She was spy to this court. He was impatient with her, not understanding why she dallied when the king’s interest was so pointed. And there was a note from Lady Arlington, a lady-in-waiting to the queen, wife of one of the king’s privy council members. She wished to call upon her. The story of the king’s kiss on her palm was all over the court, doubtless in a letter on its way to King Louis at this very moment. What would Richard say when he heard of it? But perhaps no one would be foolish enough to tell him. The great ladies came to flatter, to be on her good side now that they saw for certain which way the grass grew. Renée smiled with the pleasure of knowing that a little nobody, one Renée de Keroualle, had caught the attention of a someone so important. She looked down at her hand, turned the palm over, starting at the place the king’s lips had brushed.
She was not unmoved by his kiss or his clear desire. What to do with that? What to do with anything?
IN THE QUEEN’S bedchamber there was a low, ornately gilded railing that separated the bed from the rest of the chamber, the way a railing separated the altar from the rest of the church. One had to have express permission from the queen to step inside. This night, the queen’s old nurse dozed on a cot just inside it. The queen had needed her presence—the vicious note had struck hard, struck well. The curtains around the bed were pulled shut.
Alice tiptoed inside the bedchamber to Barbara, who was sleeping as best she could, huddled in a chair some distance from the queen’s bed. Barbara started awake at the touch of her hand. Alice knelt down, thinking about Richard. Had she indeed stood before a man who was not run by pleasure? An amazing thing. “I lost my temper today, Ra. Say you forgive me.”
Barbara was silent. Alice couldn’t read her expression, but from another armchair, legs extended themselves out, and the face of Gracen appeared over the back of the top of the chair.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Alice repeated. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“Never mind it,” Barbara said.
CHAPTER 22
All Hallows’ Eve
A day later, Alice swept into her father’s drawing room before his new footman could announce her. She drew up short at the sight of Louisa Saylor and her sister, Lady Cranbourne, sitting, very much at their ease, with her father. The sight of the sisters took her cold anger and heated it to fury.
“Mademoiselle Verney,” said Lady Cranbourne, “what a pleasure to see you. I was just remarking to your father that we don’t see enough of you.”
“Try calling upon Queen Catherine once in a blue moon. You’ll find me there, on duty.”
The smile on the two sisters’ faces stopped looking quite so genuine.
“You haven’t taken off your cloak, poppet,” said Sir Thomas. “Whatever is the matter with that footman of mine? Perryman!” He bellowed the name, and Alice was pleased to see Louisa repress a wince.
“Perryman!”
“I did not wish to give him my cloak. Do we speak alone, Father, or do I enlighten your guests as to precisely the kinds of plots you make?”
Lady Cranbourne stood. “It’s time Louisa and I took our leave.”
Alice waited coldly while the Saylor sisters said good-bye to her father. She noted how he lingered over both the shapely hands held out to him, how he fussed over the gathering of their cloaks, how he had to help Louisa Saylor tie hers under the neck, how Louisa smiled up at him. Strumpet. She said not a word to the sweeter-than-island-sugar good-byes the sisters gave to her.
Once they were out the door, ushered away by her father’s treasure, young Perryman, the pleasantness on her father’s face dissolved. Brows drawn together, he advanced on her. She knew this trick. Pumping himself full of hot air so that he could blast away whatever was blown—rightly or wrongly—in his direction. She wasn’t having a bit of it.
“When did I become a procuress?”
The question stopped him. Alice watched him gather his wits together.
“How dare you do this to me? Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Of course I was.”
“You made a fool of me!”
“Never. You’re chilled through, that’s what it is. I’m sending for spiced ale, and you’re to drink it, my girl, whether you have a mind to or not. Perryman! Perryman, some ale for the pair of us. Now then, give me your cloak, sit down a moment, and let’s discuss this reasonably. That’s my poppet.”
“I’m not your poppet, Father. I’m someone you use the way you’d use the least servant in the house.”
“I’m a worthless devil, Alice, who ought to be horsewhipped for the way I’ve handled things. How is Mademoiselle de Keroualle?”
“Distraught.”
He considered this, and Alice watched him do it. Had he a single decent moral? Was he nothing but shifting sand? Richard was in her mind. And Balmoral. Honorable men.
“She should have said something before all my expense and bother.”
“Let me understand this, Father. Did Renée know that she was being brought over to bed the king?”
“You put it so baldly—”
“Answer me!”
“Well, who’s to say on that? I wasn’t there when she was first approached, now, was I? And I myself said nothing to her, depending on those in France to have handled the matter.”
“Father, she isn’t a woman of the streets, a whore to be bought and sold at whim!”
“Of course she isn’t. She’s a good, decent young woman, a far cry from those actresses he’s been after of late.”
“And if she doesn’t bed the king, there will be no harm done. We’ll find her a decent husband, and King Charles may go on his merry way.”
“Who says so? Why wouldn’t she? I’ve not spent my coins to dower her for some other man, Alice.”
“But you’ll spend them on gowns and jewels to catch the king’s eye, like a pimp?”
“Where do you learn the language you do? You shock me, Alice, indeed you do!”
“From court! From Rochester and Sedley and Buckhurst! From Sheffield and Killigrew! From you!” Ferocious anger rose in her as she named the rogues who amused the king. If her father had had any part in the queen’s despair, she would poison him herself. “You should have enlightened me!”
“It’s no dishonor to be mistress of the king.”
“Father, there have to be some proprieties. She is unmarried, has no family here to protect her. The wolves are already gathering, wanting to be in at the kill.”
“Who?”
“Lady Arlington. The Duchess of Lauderdale. The Countess of Suffolk.”
“Those conniving—excuse me, Alice—but I’m the one who has spent all the coin—”
“And used his own daughter as procuress! How could you allow this? You know my loyalty to the queen!”
“Yes, well, if you love the Portuguese, you’d best keep her husband distracted.” The words were harsh, but no more so than the expression on his fa
ce.
“She is good and loyal and does her duty. She brought millions to the treasury in her dower.”
“That was then, and this is now. She’s barren. It’s her duty to give us princes. There are none. Some of us believe there never will be. It’s what, ten years?”
“King Louis was born after twenty years of barrenness.”
“His father fancied men. Our king is a proper man. His wife isn’t a proper woman.”
“The marriage cannot be undone. Marriage is a sacrament. Those who say otherwise are unholy.”
“And she’s a Papist. I was against it at the time. Let us have a proper Protestant, a German or Austrian or Dane, as our queen, I said. No one listened.” He stared hard at Alice. “You’ve not become a Papist, have you?”
“Would you hate me if I had?”
There was a strained silence between them. A pulse beat up high in her temple. He would hate her. And she loved him in spite of everything, all his flaws, his betrayals.
“I won’t help Renée become the king’s mistress.” Her voice was trembling.
“Not even if the king would be grateful, do anything he could for you in return? He might, for instance, have a word on your behalf to Balmoral, and his word counts for something, wouldn’t you say? Ah, your face, Alice, not quite so high and righteous now, are we? Truth is, Balmoral isn’t keen to ally himself with me at the moment. We’ve some differences between us, and that’s all I’ll say on that. And word is the Duchess of Cleveland has put a bug in his ear about you—That reminds me. I’ve thought of a trick we might play, just this once so, as you say, suspicion will fall elsewhere.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Life isn’t filled with easy choices,” he called to her retreating figure. “We all of us get our hands dirty after a time. How do you think I kept you fed when we were abroad?”
Outside, Alice huddled in her cloak as the sedan chair borne by bearers lurched from side to side in its journey back to Whitehall, her groom walking alongside the chair. She was chilled, especially in her heart. How much was her father a part of the plot against the queen? Today was the day of All Hallows’. Evil spirits abroad. She leaned back against the straight, uncomfortable seat. King Charles to help with Balmoral. Her father knew precisely what to say to her. Weren’t all her schemes for this, to be his duchess, to be above the fray, to set her friends in fine marriages like so many pieces on the chessboard, to know she was at the whim of no one, to aid the queen, to repay Colefax for scandal and distress? That’s what being a duchess meant. And to be the duchess of a man of honor, well, there was nothing higher. Her mind moved here and there, around the situation, thoughts glinting like silver fish surfacing in the river of her mind…Richard loved Renée, and she loved him in turn. Was there a way she could seem to aid the king’s suit but actually aid theirs? King Charles had forgiven Frances Stewart. He would forgive Renée. For him, there was always another woman. In her mind, she saw a series of keepers, saw a long finger wagging up and down at her, the child Alice, naughty, willful, running wild because her mother was dead and her father was absent. Would you both have your cake and eat it too? The question was ridiculous. Yes, was the answer. Always.