Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  “Never mind it. They’re within us,” the man said.

  “I call upon all sprites and spirits everywhere to bless our gracious monarch, His Majesty, my father, and I command the dancing to begin.”

  The four sultans stepped forward, selecting Queen Catherine, Renée, and the Duchesses of York and Monmouth as partners. Monmouth selected Alice and led her among the dancing couples. “Beautifully done, my fair primrose.”

  “Jamie, I want you to do something for me.”

  “If the dancing hadn’t betrayed you, the first words out of your mouth would.”

  “I want you to flirt outrageously with Louisa Saylor.”

  “With utmost pleasure. May one ask why?”

  “One may not. Jamie, last year when Lord Roos brought his bill on divorce, were you a piece of that?”

  “I thought it despicable,” he said quickly, and Alice thought, He lies. “The men who surround my father haven’t always his best interests at heart.”

  “Yes, they’ll betray anyone, won’t they.”

  “My uncle—”

  “Isn’t, perhaps, the wisest of men, but he has a noble heart, and he is heir to the throne, and if ever he should wear the crown, he will need wise and loving councillors who have the best interests of us all at heart, men like yourself, Jamie.”

  “You continue to confuse me with a schoolboy. What boredom. I thought to enjoy my dance with the most graceful woman at court, and I find myself lectured once more.”

  The music ended. He bowed to her, and she sank into a curtsy, feeling flat, saddened.

  She grabbed his hand, still in the curtsy. “I was your first friend. Remember that.”

  “Remembering is what keeps me from cutting you out of my circle, Alice.”

  “And flirt with Louisa.”

  In spite of himself, he laughed, reached out to flick her under the chin before turning away. She stared after him. Her first true friendship was walking away.

  “There you are, poppet,” said her father. “I thought I’d gather a dance while I may. You won’t be free this night, I don’t need that mountebank Ashmole to predict that. Sweet Jesus, you should see the crowd lined up to have their palms read by him! Come dance with your father.”

  “How did you know which one I was?”

  “The moment you began to dance, I knew you. And Monmouth always danced with you first, didn’t he, before France? Tell me you forgive me. It frets me to have quarreled.”

  Just like that, he touched her heart, and yet he’d say anything to stop quarreling, as she well knew. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “And if the dancing hadn’t betrayed you, those words certainly would. Up we go, turn, and bow.” He liked to talk aloud the dance steps.

  “Patch whatever quarrel you have with Balmoral, Father. For my sake.”

  “Right, then left, skip, and turn. I don’t think it can be done. If you want him, you’ll have to help the king win Keroualle. You’ll be invited to sup with the Duchess of Cleveland in a day or so. Don’t refuse.”

  “She’ll never invite me to dine.”

  The Duke of York danced by. Sir Thomas glowered at him.

  “She’ll invite you, and that’s all I’ll say. Skip left. Back right. York—I’m told the Jesuits are corrupting him, including the one who is the queen’s own priest. They’re everywhere, Alice. All in the court, behind closed doors, quietly doing their worst because King Charles won’t listen to reason and ban Papists from court. So men like me, faithful, loyal, wait in line behind those whose first duty is not this kingdom, but the Church of Rome, that old whore of Babylon.”

  She was so startled to hear him say that—the old Roundhead description for Charles I’s queen as well as for the Church of Rome—that she stumbled.

  The dance was ending anyway. He left her without a parting kiss.

  Breathless, disturbed, she sat down beside Dorothy. Across the chamber, a woman raised a goblet to her. Jesuits—were these the phantoms her father feared? Was this how they blamed the queen now? Who did the blaming? Was her father in league to poison the queen or not? If Buckingham was, he was…She stood, unsmiling and grave, as someone approached her to dance.

  ANOTHER SULTAN WAS enjoying his third dance with Renée.

  “I’ve seldom been happier,” King Charles said. “How well you dance. Your gracefulness enchants me. We must have all our dancing masters come from France.” The papier-mâché face couldn’t smile, but a smile was in his voice. “My cleverness tonight also pleases me. I’d forgotten how love gladdens the heart, makes the mind nimble.”

  “Love is a strong word, Your Majesty, one I hold most seriously.”

  “I’m smitten. All four sultans danced with you tonight, but I am every one of them.”

  “One of them should dance with Her Majesty.”

  “One of them is.”

  “But he isn’t you.”

  “No one knows that. I commanded them not to speak.”

  “Do you think she doesn’t know her own husband? She planned our entertainment this night for your sole pleasure, and this is how you repay her? She has all about her those who would hurt her. Will you hurt her, too?”

  “Am I understanding you, mademoiselle? Are you demanding I dance with my wife?”

  The caress in his voice was quite gone.

  “One can be kind. Kindness makes up for much.”

  The dance had ended. A sultan came forward and, after a conversation with the king, took Renée’s hand. Richard stepped forward to claim a dance. He hadn’t bothered with a costume, wore his guard’s uniform—a blue coat—and a black mask upon his face.

  “In one more dance,” Renée said to him.

  Something in her voice caught his ear. “Is everything well with you?”

  “Yes, oh yes. Just wait for me, Richard.”

  Annoyed, wary now from the tone he’d caught in her voice, he walked about the perimeter of the chamber, declining to join any of the groups talking and laughing. He passed by the line waiting to see the astrologer Ashmole. Sitting before the man was Barbara Bragge, John standing behind. It must be Barbara for John’s smile to be so broad. His sister loomed in front of him, masked, pert, pretty, and, he could see from the set of her shoulders, determined. She took him by the arm. “Walk me around the chamber, Richard. I scarcely ever see you.”

  “That’s because you keep yourself busy collecting admirers, Lou.”

  Delighted, she laughed. “Sweet brother, you’re the only one who calls me Lou.” They were passing Alice, who was not dancing. “She’d be a good catch for you.”

  “I’ve asked her to marry me.” His mind was somewhere else.

  “Alice Verney?”

  “Mistress de Keroualle. What are you talking about, Lou?”

  “I am talking about Sir Thomas’s only heir. I hear he owns half of the Thames’s left bank.”

  “And here I thought from all your outrageous flirting that you were set on marrying him yourself and providing a new heir. What then would be left for me?”

  “A handsome dower, my dear brother, enough to repair our precious Tamworth.”

  “I believe I can find my own wife. I have.”

  “Someone else is interested in her, Richard. Your passion may be dangerous. Do you find her ugly?”

  “Who?”

  “The heiress.”

  “No.”

  “But not pretty, either.”

  He saw dark brows, taut shoulders, a full underlip. “Not exactly.”

  “She likes you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The way she looks at you.”

  “Go away, Lou. Find someone else to order about.” He saw Alice, whispering now to one of the pages. He walked forward. She seemed to order most of them about as if they belonged to her, and they seemed happy to serve. When we were small, she was my first true friend, Monmouth had told him. I did whatever she asked; it never occurred to me that I might disobey her. Alice and Edward saw him,
stopped whispering.

  “Conspiracies,” Richard said. “May I join them?”

  But Edward was off, as if he had orders. He did, to find Balmoral for Alice.

  “Will you dance with me?” Richard asked.

  “Would you mind terribly if I didn’t? My leg is aching.”

  Richard shrugged and sat down, leaning his chin on the back of the chair in front of him, his eyes on the dancing, on one couple in particular.

  Alice followed the direction of his gaze. “Court is treacherous. You’ll have to be clever to keep her.”

  She stopped; he’d turned his full gaze on her. The black mask made the ice blue of his eyes startling. “Am I being warned?” The second time tonight, he was thinking.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she ask you to tell me that?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then.”

  Was that it? thought Alice, studying his profile. If the words did not come from Renée, did he believe no threat existed? “You think it so simple?”

  “What?”

  “Relations between a man and a woman?”

  Again, eyes framed by a black mask regarded her. “We’ve pledged our love.”

  “An ideal, like the stories troubadours once told of the knights of old.”

  “Is love an ideal?”

  “Look around you.” She gestured toward the groups of courtiers, less decorous now, with the night passing, with the wine flowing.

  “Is this where you’ve always lived, Alice, at court?”

  “Yes, except when there was no court. And this is where you must live, Richard, if you are to prosper. And this is where she lives—”

  He stood. Without a parting word to Alice, he threaded among the dancers until he stood between Renée and the sultan with whom she danced, taking her in his arms, leaving the sultan standing alone, something so direct and clear in his action that Alice pressed her hands to her heart. If it was the king, Richard had just deliberately insulted him. Foolish, and daring…and something to be admired.

  She stood and walked swiftly around talking groups to where the Duke of York stood. He had his mask and wig off and stood amid various maids of honor, some from the queen, some from his wife, some from the Duchess of Monmouth. Alice slipped in among them, put her arm around Barbara’s waist, and hugged her. “Did you have your fortune told?” she whispered.

  “I did indeed.”

  “Now who among you beauties will I dance with next?” York was saying. The handsomer of the brothers, he hadn’t the hooded eyes of the king or the craggy face, but he hadn’t the charm, either. Alice moved gracefully in front of him and dropped into her deepest curtsy.

  “The fair primrose, is it?” Pleased, York tossed his wig to a page nearby. “It is you, Verney, isn’t it?” he asked a few moments later as they stood in front of each other, waiting for the first notes of the next song from the violins.

  “It is indeed.”

  “I thought so. I can scarcely tell who is who. When is everyone to unmask?”

  “On the stroke of two, I believe, sir. Sir, I come as a messenger.”

  “A messenger? Fair Hermes, are you, in female form? And yet you look like a primrose.”

  “There’s a beautiful maiden among us, someone who wishes to dance with you, who has long admired you from afar.”

  His interest was caught; he had a weakness for pretty girls. Alice felt a faint prick of guilt to do this to Richard’s sister, but then she thought of her father, of his treachery, and her resolve stiffened.

  “I’ll give you a riddle, sir.”

  “I’m no good at riddles.”

  “Who’s blond and fair, tender and kind, sister to a sailor who never sails the sea?”

  She watched him mulling over her words, watched his pale eyes go to where Monmouth and Louisa Saylor were dancing—tiny and graceful, Louisa was laughing, and her laughter was like silver bells ringing out—watched his eyes widen.

  “You don’t mean…?”

  “But I do. Yet have a care. Her brother is jealous of her reputation. Discretion is the order of the day. I’ve said not a word.”

  Exhausted suddenly, Alice thought, I want to sit down, my leg is hurting, I’m tired of myself, I’m ashamed of my scheming. Where was Barbara? She’d find Barbara, and they’d find a place to hide away from suitors and wine-filled gallants, as they used to do when they were younger and the court, with its many cruelties, hurt them. But Barbara was sitting with John Sidney, who, like Richard, couldn’t be bothered with a costume and was talking to her earnestly, and Barbara was listening just as earnestly. Bah. Where was Dorothy? thought Alice, looking around to find the mother of the maids, she who was to guard them, protect their chastity and reputations. Dorothy was sitting holding hands with one of the sultans. Lord Knollys, judging by the silly smile under the bottom edge of Dorothy’s mask.

  ON THE DANCE floor, a sultan walked forward to Renée, who still held Richard’s hand in hers, though the music of the last song had ended. “My dance,” the sultan said.

  It was the king. Richard recognized his voice.

  “Begone, soldier,” His Majesty drawled.

  Richard bowed. “You command me in all things but this. Only she may ask me to leave.”

  “Do it, then, mademoiselle.” The voice was not the least angry, but not to be argued with, either.

  “Go, Richard, please,” Renée whispered. “I will walk with you later in the gardens.”

  “Well, I’ve done what you asked,” King Charles said, his tone clipped, crisp, as they began to dance. “What is my reward?”

  “You’re angry with me,” said Renée.

  “Are you—” The king stopped, so that York and Louisa Saylor, dancing near, almost fell into them. He took Renée by the arm, led her to some chairs, motioned for a footman, spoke a moment to him, then sat beside her, fishing in a pocket for a handkerchief, but there was none. He unwrapped the gauze belt around his waist and handed it to her as two sultans appeared, along with a few of his Life Guards. “Sit in front of me, and you others move to each side. I don’t wish anyone approaching. Knollys, are you there?”

  No one answered. “Buckhurst, help me take this damn head off…There. Eyes front. You’re all deaf and dumb tonight, is that clear? Killigrew, do you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned back to Renée, his hair clipped very short, so that his face looked every bit its age and hard besides. “Don’t weep. I never meant to hurt your feelings. Please, don’t weep. I’m a cad when I don’t mean to be, not to you. Do you love him? Say the word, and I’ll let you be.”

  “I do love him.”

  Shocked, he was silent for a time. He leaned back in the chair, staring at her as she wiped at her tears with the gauze belt he’d given her. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever admired who has ever asked me to be kind to my wife.” Madness, he was thinking, to be touched by that. But he was.

  “Handkerchief.”

  One of his guardsmen turned around long enough to hand him one. The king gave it to Renée, who sniffed, untied her mask, and then blew her nose. He smiled at the gesture, so common, so ordinary, so everyday. And coming from her, so moving. “I lie. I would woo you anyway.” He took her hand and held it. He felt like a boy, with a boy’s eagerness and fear. “Say I may have my chance.”

  She was silent.

  “Send me away, then. Tell me to leave you. I must hear it directly from your lips.” He was harsh now. “I’m no different from your lieutenant.”

  “I would not hurt Her Majesty.”

  He knew banter, particularly flirtatious banter. He did not hear that in her voice, but he also did not hear that she sent him away. She sidetracked, wasn’t certain. Her soldier hadn’t all of her heart, then. He smiled to himself. Very well. Very good. He would sidetrack right with her until they ended where he wished or until he was defeated. It added zest to the chase, which pleased him. She wasn’t a whore, to drop into his lap at a glance. About t
ime.

  “If you should ever consent to love me, you will hurt her. If you do not, you will hurt me. There’s no escaping hurt, my sweet, not in affairs of the heart. She is a good woman, and I do care for her after a fashion, but she is my wife for reasons of state, not for reasons of love. I must love someone. It is my nature, and a man can’t go against his nature. I would that someone were you. I’d see you dressed in silver and gold, hang diamonds upon you simply to see if they could possibly match the sparkle in your eyes.”

  “Do you think to buy me?”

  “Can I?”

  She laughed, and he raised her hand to his mouth, turning it over and kissing the center with all the passion he felt for her. “I’m an ugly fellow, not handsome like your soldier. Could you care for me?” he said to her when he was done. She didn’t say no, which was enough, as was the fact he was still holding her hand. He did love this game. He felt vital, alive to the possibility between them. He loosed her hand, stood, leaned over, and dropped a kiss on her mouth. Before she could speak, he was striding off, sultans and guardsmen with him, and she was alone.

  She sat where she was, her hand to her mouth, which felt seared. Her heart was stirred. What had she just done? But another, deeper part of her knew. Richard walked toward her, mask off, face angry. “That was charming,” he said, standing before her.

  “I told him I loved you.”

  The grimness dissolved into a sudden smile. He sat beside her and took the same hand King Charles had just held. “It’s done, then.”

  “Let’s dance, Richard. I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to quarrel. I have cried before the king of England at my first court fete. If you make me cry again, I will not forgive you. I just want to dance and dance and dance until I drop from exhaustion.”

  “THAT’S THE SECOND time this night he’s danced with her,” Buckingham said fretfully. He was referring to King Charles, who had not put his sultan’s head back on and danced undisguised with Queen Catherine.

  The fete was reaching a frantic pace. In another dance or two, masks were to be taken off. The wearing of them relieved a man and a woman of the need to be discreet—not that this was a discreet court—but the costumes added extra fillip. Couples were in dark corners, behind columns, in the gardens, touching and kissing, the bolder of them doing far more, the fact that anyone might see adding spice.