Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  “I understand?”

  “You married, and for love.”

  Frances smiled an odd smile. “My passion was not, and is not, for His Grace my husband. I could not marry for love. There’s only one man I have ever loved, and he is already married.”

  Alice looked toward the window seat. King Charles held Renée in his arms, was stroking her hair, his face grave. His dogs were snuggled in her skirts.

  “If I’d become what he so desired—what I myself was so very much tempted to—the only difference would be that today I wouldn’t be watching him court Mademoiselle de Keroualle not three feet from me, because he wouldn’t want me to know. Because he cannot stand to quarrel. But it would still be happening. I comfort myself on long nights with that. I comfort myself at this very moment, as he courts her using words I very much imagine he used with me. It was a most lovely courtship. Oh, look. Here’s our Mrs. Sidney, up from her bridal bed, come to call upon the queen.”

  Frances rose as Barbara walked into the gallery, and they touched cheeks. It was the first time Alice had seen Barbara since her wedding some two weeks ago. Barbara walked swiftly to Alice to hug her, but Alice sat limply, her heart turned to stone. So, she was thinking, this is what I’m going to do. She hadn’t known precisely.

  Frances watched them for a moment, then said, “Come. I’ll take you to the queen. Mistress Verney has to stay and play duenna.”

  Frances linked her arm in Barbara’s, and after a moment, Barbara walked away with her.

  “She acted as if I didn’t exist,” Barbara said to Frances.

  “It will pass.”

  “She doesn’t forgive.”

  “What a shame. One loses so much when one can’t forgive. Let’s give her time to enjoy her anger, and then, when she tires of it, as she will, and misses you too much, as she will, she’ll come your direction. And it will be your turn to decide if you can forgive. A treacherous game, forgiveness, full of shoals. You look blooming, my dear. I’m going to hazard a guess that Mr. Sidney is showing his affection in every way possible. Alice and I were just talking about this new fashion of marrying for love. Tell me your opinion.”

  Barbara laughed, and there was such joy in the laugh that Frances stopped her and kissed her cheeks, then allowed herself one last peep at the king and Renée, which was foolish, because it hurt so to see. To see and remember. Once he’d commandeered a skiff, oaring it himself, to visit her at midnight and rail at her for marrying Richmond and breaking his heart. She’d adored his heartbreak and anger. It was all she could do to withstand it. When she’d had the smallpox, she’d thought, If I survive this, I will become his mistress, because as she lay on the brink of death, she knew finally what was most important to her, to show all the love she felt for him. But her moment was past. He would still bed her now and, knowing him, with great zest. But she’d lost his heart, that precious, greedy, inquiring, naughty, lively heart of his. Time and chance stand still for no man, or woman.

  My dearest, my beloved one, I kiss this paper a thousand times knowing your hands will touch it. I wait for you, dear one, and remain your faithful Dorothy.

  Dorothy sighed, then went about the business of making the letter ready to send. It was for Lord Knollys, who’d left court a week ago to go home to his wife. She was gravely ill. Again. She sprinkled some sand over the page to dry up the blots, blew it off gently, waved the paper about, folded it until it was small, then took her sealing wax stick and held it to the candle.

  “Brownie, they haven’t sent my trunk here yet.”

  Dorothy dribbled wax along the last fold, then took a signet ring and pressed it various places in the wax. That done, she turned to face a pouting Gracen.

  “Find Edward and have him see to it.”

  She scratched a name on the other side of the letter.

  “Lord Knollys’s place is near my father’s.” Gracen had stepped forward to see exactly what Dorothy was doing. “Give me the letter, and I’ll see it delivered. In fact, I’ll pay a call and see how his wife does.”

  “That would be most kind,” said Dorothy, not wanting to give her the letter.

  Gracen took the letter and kissed Dorothy’s cheek.

  “Come and help me choose which gowns to take back with me. Why must my mother choose this moment to be ill? I don’t want to go. There’s the Christmas revel, and everyone is having beautiful costumes made for it, and I want to stay and look beautiful with everyone else. More beautiful. I would. Only Renée is more beautiful than me.”

  Dorothy kissed her on the brow, wondering if she’d been this selfish when she’d been this young, and they walked to the maids’ apartment to help Gracen choose her gowns.

  CHAPTER 33

  Second Week of Advent

  Near an Advent wreath in which two candles glimmered, Richard sat scowling at the letter from his mother. She asked if he would come home to Tamworth for Christmas. Last night in his dreams he stared down at a bloody, beautiful body, and the face had been Renée’s. He had waked with his heart pounding; he didn’t dare leave her. She was so weepy and irritable and changeable, one day loving him, the next cold. Words from this week’s sermon pounded in his head: “Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul. O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me….” He felt despair. It would be stupid to leave her on her own, and a part of him despised himself for that. A part of him also despised her.

  “Captain, meet us later for supper?”

  “Do we drill tomorrow?”

  “Are you going to the play this afternoon? A group of us will be in the pit.”

  He shook his head at the three men crowding his door, the lieutenants of his bodyguard. More and more they had become friends, in the loose, companionable style of soldiers who must live and work together in close quarters. They kept few secrets from one another, a man’s flaws and gifts were there for all the troop to view. They were proud they had been the ones to put out the fire on Guy Fawkes Day, proud their captain had discovered the murder of a notorious he-madam and thus shut down the brothel. They were proud Richard had been asked by Balmoral himself to copy Balmoral’s memoirs. They were even proud he stubbornly courted the king’s new love.

  He rose, put out the burning candles with his fingers. Two weeks left in Advent, the holy preparation for the celebration of the birth of Christ. What would happen with Renée by their end?

  HE WALKED OVER to Prince Rupert’s apartments, joining the others who gathered to watch the prince dress, to see and be seen. This was a levee, the rising, from the French court, who made this morning parade fashionable. Prince Rupert, his shirt half on, half off, was laughing with a man who someone whispered to Richard was Sir Robert Holmes, a onetime pirate, an admiral in the last Dutch war, a crack soldier, and an adventurer.

  “Do you remember when we were off the coast of Guinea and you got captured by natives?” Prince Rupert was saying to this Robert Holmes.

  “Never has my life been so close to ending.”

  “I saved your life that time. Have you paid me back for that?”

  “A hundred times over.”

  “Then we were caught in a hurricane off the Bermudas.” Prince Rupert launched into that story, beginning to talk about his brother, whose ship had been lost in that storm, of the rumors that his brother was in one colonial island prison or another. “He was never there when I’d send a messenger. It was never him.”

  Holmes saw Richard. “Saylor, isn’t it? I had the honor to know your father. You were in Tangier two years ago. I’ve been wanting to know more of Tangier. Tell me of that.” And Holmes pulled Richard off to one side and asked him a soldier’s questions, how staffed the garrison was, how the Moors were as fighters. “I can use a good man on the Isle of Wight,” said Holmes, who was governor of the island. “If you ever want to leave London, call on me. I’ll find a place for you on my staff.”

  When Richard left to attend Monmouth’s levee, Prince Rupert and Holmes walked thr
ough the privy garden, through Holbein Gate, to wait on Whitehall Street for Prince Rupert’s carriage to be brought round.

  “I offered him something in the Isle of Wight,” Holmes said.

  “Thank you, Robin. I like the lad, don’t want him crushed by this.”

  “The king will forgive all if she yields.”

  “She’s taking her own sweet time.”

  “She knows her value. Nothing wrong with that. And a man doesn’t appreciate something unless he has to work for it.”

  “You remember my writing to you of those two Frenchmen who put me under their spell with their stories of fur trade in the Colonies, in Canada, the northern Colonies across the Atlantic?”

  “Something of the sort.”

  “They’re back from their first expedition for us. I cannot tell you how excited I am about the prospect for trade. The king has granted me land and a charter for a fur trading company. It will be based in Hudson’s Bay, a bay a hundred times the size of anything we’ve seen, I’m told. I’m to be governor and looking for investors. Lord Cranbourne is in for ten thousand.”

  “Steep.”

  “Mortgage the family home, man. I tell you this is going to be big. Think of the Hollanders’ East India Company.”

  Holmes laughed and shook his head.

  AT MONMOUTH’S, THE young duke made much of insisting Richard see some new object in his closet, but when they were separated from the other courtiers milling about in the bedchamber, he said, “Richard, I regard you highly. You did what you could to keep me from acting stupidly when I was in drink more times than I can remember. And you behaved discreetly when someone close to me did not. I know your affections for Mademoiselle de Keroualle are true and deep, but I also want you to know that it would be much appreciated by someone to whom I owe everything—as do you—if you dropped your suit. He knows nothing can take her place, but hopes that new duties—and honors—might allay the hurt a bit.”

  Richard bowed, his face unreadable. “I am commanded in this by no one but her.”

  Call your dog off, was actually what King Charles had commanded. He doesn’t know this dog, Monmouth thought, stubborn in a way Monmouth envied. I think I may be fortunate you did not love my wife, he thought, and he wondered if his growing pursuit of Richard’s sister was going to come back to haunt him. He said nothing else but showed Richard a mezzotint he’d been given by Prince Rupert, who dallied with the art the way he dallied with a dozen other things.

  When they parted company, Richard went to the royal mews to see his horse. He knew they were hinting him off. Were threats next? Did he love Renée enough to endure disgrace? Yes. One could always make one’s way back from disgrace. It was like fashion, changing with time. But the deeper question was, did she love him enough?

  “Have you seen Walter?” Effriam asked.

  Richard petted Pharaoh’s nose. “I have not.”

  “He’s been sleeping here at night, near Pharaoh. I thought I saw him the other morning, and this morning I did see him, but he ran off before I could stop him.”

  “Another vagabond at Whitehall. Madame Neddie’s is closed. I would imagine he’s hungry.”

  “The same thought crossed my mind.”

  Richard pulled out a coin. “Leave that where he’ll find it tonight.”

  “You could use another groom.”

  Effriam had known Richard since he was born, had placed him on his first horse, was part and parcel of Tamworth, which was part and parcel of Richard’s soul. Richard would have guessed disapproval foremost from Effriam, not kindness.

  “I could train him,” Effriam said, stern to cover what he suspected Richard would see as softness. “He’s quick, and I’m not getting any younger.”

  “You’re sure? Well, when next you catch him—”

  “Oh, I’ll catch him. He’s quick, but I’m cunning.”

  “Offer him what you please.”

  “Undergroom, no more than that.”

  Richard walked to Balmoral’s, thinking about what had just occurred. Effriam, full of starch, unbendable as a post, knew Walter’s background, knew what he did to earn his living. Was Whitehall going to his head? Was Effriam creating an entourage of sorts? Other servants had them, underservants who were dependent and theirs to command. They flounced around court, self-important as minor kings. Or was he doing his duty as he saw it, bare-bones, harsh, not to his taste, but fair? Richard would bet on the latter. His father had set that example for them all.

  THE SPACE IN which he’d been given to work was a small, windowed chamber near the duke’s closet. Winter sun shone in. Richard moved so his back was in the sun, shuffled through the papers, stained, ink-spotted papers, the handwriting so wild as to be indecipherable at times. He wrote out what he could understand, leaving great blank spaces that meant he must ask Balmoral directly. He enjoyed the clarity and simplicity of Balmoral’s answers. Balmoral had many sets of tiny iron soldiers in wooden boxes; sometimes he’d set them out in a battle formation and talk to Richard about strategies of war, when armies faced each other across the darkling plain, each intent upon victory. Richard absorbed what Balmoral thought of sieges and armies and foreign command through his pores. Do you like war? Balmoral had asked him. I hate the killing, he had answered. Good, Balmoral had replied. You might make a decent commander, then. There’d been a “fit,” not long after Madame Neddie’s murder.

  From what Richard could see of it, Balmoral went on drunks, drinking until he collapsed and his servants could put him to bed. Alice seemed to know this state of affairs and yet continued onward with her determined courtship. He could throw no stones. Did he allow Renée’s flirtation with the king to run its course? Or did he make her an ultimatum? There seemed to be no answer in his divided soul.

  “I hold it fit that wise and experienced commanders when they meet with a new enemy—that is, of reputation—before they come to join battle should cause their soldiers to make trial of them by some light skirmishes,” wrote Balmoral. Richard copied the words, thinking about the practicality of what Balmoral preached, thinking about the tedium of drill that was a soldier’s lot. Drill made a soldier sharp and less easy to kill on the battlefield. He lost himself in the writing, in thinking about what he wrote as the pen shaped the words: “A good commander has to be a practical man, gauging the depth of his men’s endurance, as well as his enemies.”

  A sound of bells, sweet and clear, interrupted him. These windows overlooked the park. Richard looked out. Sleighs were pulling up, bells on the horses’ bridles. Young women were descending the stairs on the side of Holbein Gate, the maids of honor, hurrying into the shelter of the stair’s portico. A last sleigh was filled with branches of holly and oak, enough to decorate chambers with signs of the Christmas season so near.

  Richard saw Renée, standing near King Charles.

  She was laughing and talking, her face full of life, happy. The cloak she wore was white velvet, embroidered everywhere in silver and green, white fur inside, fur that framed her face like a halo. A gift, no doubt, because he knew she hadn’t possessed such before. Huge, fat pearl drops dangled from her ears. I won these in a card game, she’d told him, and he’d been happy for her good fortune. Now, watching, he suddenly knew she had lied. King Charles leaned forward and kissed her, fully, a long kiss, never minding the public eye, and her arms went round him. The gesture of her arms froze Richard. They tried to hint him away. They offered him bribes. He ground his teeth. Help me with my confusion, she begged him. What did she—whom he thought of as his beloved—truly desire?

  He knew, and the answer was sharper than a sword blade on flesh.

  THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN he went to find her and confront her, she wasn’t in the queen’s apartments or those of the maids of honor. She had a visitor, he was told, was receiving this visitor in one of the king’s chambers, a tiny withdrawing chamber in old rooms His Majesty seldom used anymore to be sure, but nonetheless, Richard didn’t like it. He paced up and down in the hall,
drummed his fingers on a window ledge, looking out at the gray day, frowning at any page who had the misfortune to walk by him.

  The door to the chamber at last opened, and Richard was surprised to see Colbert de Croissy, the ambassador from His Majesty King Louis of France, walk out. The ambassador saw Richard but didn’t acknowledge him. Anger filled him, moved aside grief. He walked in. Renée sat in a chair very close to the fire, her head leaned back, her eyes closed. The great white velvet cloak was lying carelessly on a stool. Before her was a wooden box, its lid off, wood shavings and straw around it. She opened her eyes and turned at the sound of his steps.

  “Why does de Croissy call upon you?”

  “He wants me to give myself to King Charles for the sake of France, and he wants me to spy on everything King Charles does and make a report to him.” She leaned forward to pick up what was in the box. “See what the king of France sends me, to show his pleasure.”

  “The deuce you say! I’ll call de Croissy out and shoot him from twenty paces. And I won’t miss! Have you told His Grace Balmoral of this, or Lord Arlington?” What else did she hide? In his anger was an awareness that this was larger than he’d dreamed. When had it grown this large? Was it always more than he knew?

  “Sit down by me, Richard. Move that cloak.”

  “Who gave you that?”

  “De Croissy, part of my New Year’s, from France.”

  “Why accept it?”

  “Why not? I haven’t a beautiful cloak like that. Are you going to buy me one?”

  “One day I might. What else have you accepted?”

  “You sound accusing.” She straightened in the chair. “What are you accusing me of?”

  “Of being a simpleton if you think you may accept presents such as these and pay no return.”

  “Oh, I tell de Croissy gossip I hear, nothing to harm.”

  “Good God, Renée! Are you telling me you act as a spy?”