Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  “Poor York.”

  “He’ll be over it in three fortnights. She was a harridan, not like the queen, God bless her. You’re looking drawn lately, Verney. What’s troubling you?”

  “I look troubled?”

  “Those bright eyes of yours are dimmed a bit. Is your father giving you fits? He has the Commons in a snarl over the House of Lords changing the amount of tax on imports. We were glad just to be allowed the tax, and the next thing we know, each side is wrangling over whether changes may be made at all, is there precedence, that sort of thing. The Committee on Foreign Affairs has been summoned to find a ruling. I hope they do. We need the tax. The treasury needs coins. His Majesty is impatient. Me, I just tire of the everlasting quarreling. Every single bill in Parliament is a quarrel, and I tell you, I wash my hands of the Commons. If I were His Majesty, I’d hang them all, every man of the Commons, even your father. As for the Lords, Arlington can’t agree with Buckingham. Buckingham distrusts Balmoral. I listen to them snipe at one another, and I’m taken back to the war, when our generals couldn’t agree which way was south, and so Cromwell cut us to pieces. Sometimes I have half a mind to go privateering again, just commandeer one of the king’s ships and sail off and take what prizes I can. I think I’ll go to the Colonies, to a place called Hudson’s Bay, and live the life of a trader, trapping animals for their pelts. By the by, Alice, you ought to invest in my little trading company, put some pin money in it.”

  “Have you seen His Grace Balmoral this day?”

  “He called upon Jemmy last night, sat with him at the body. They talked for a long time. What’s this between you and Balmoral? You walk him around like a pet lion. He’s too old for you—and lest you forget, even an old lion has claws. But you’ll make a fine duchess if he doesn’t die before you wheedle a proposal from him.”

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Monmouth’s duchess won’t like it that you’ll be her equal. Princess Monmouth, I call her behind her back.”

  “I’m her equal now.”

  “Ha!” She made him laugh again. Tobacco smoke was like a fine haze around them, but neither cared. They puffed away on their pipes like two old sailors.

  “Your Highness, will you do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Will you have a regard for Captain Saylor?”

  “I already do. Too bad he’s gotten crossways with His Majesty.”

  “He should have been rewarded for the capture of Henri Ange.”

  “Who is this Henri Ange? I have heard the most preposterous rumors, and he isn’t discussed openly. Buckingham and Balmoral go behind closed doors with His Majesty to speak of him, and His Majesty won’t answer a question of mine. This can go no further than this chamber, and by that I mean your father is not to hear a word of this, but I hear Buckingham and Balmoral are in separate camps over what to do with him.”

  “Hang him.”

  “Ha.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Caro and Barbara sat together in the Duke of York’s apartments, among the gathering of courtiers who’d come to pay condolences.

  “She didn’t even l-look our way,” said Caro.

  “Perhaps she didn’t see us.”

  “I’ve given up c-courting her regard. She’ll n-never forgive me, and you know, Ra, I don’t think I care anymore. One can beg for only so long. If she were to c-crawl to me on bended knee, I don’t think I’d blink. I think I’d turn my b-back.”

  “Please don’t say that.”

  “Don’t you think it s-sometime?”

  Barbara didn’t answer.

  “She has Colefax in a twist, I’ll g-give her that.”

  “Because of Balmoral?”

  “He’s gotten it into his head that she’s going to m-marry His Grace.”

  “What if she does? Colefax is still his heir.”

  “He’s convinced she’ll have a b-baby some way, that he’ll be knocked f-from the dukedom.”

  “Oh, Caro, I don’t think Alice would be unfaithful, and one can’t just conjure up a baby….”

  Caro shuddered. “I don’t envy her the wedding n-night, or any of her n-nights, for that matter.”

  Barbara sighed.

  Caro reached out and took her hand. “Are you feeling well? You look s-splendid.”

  “I feel like a small beer barrel.”

  “M-mothers together. When you’re a girl, such s-seems so far away. Do you remember how we’d go to my m-mama on Mothering Sunday? I thought about that this morning, you and m-me and Alice, in our best gowns, eating s-simnel cakes with M-Mother. You always brought her some t-trinket. She loved that.”

  Barbara had a sudden, clear memory of them at thirteen, at fourteen, and each year after, trooping off to Caro’s mother, Alice so excited because she’d never had a mother and Barbara usually sad because she could remember hers too well. “You were lovely to share her with us.”

  “She adored it. She liked you better as d-d-daughters than m-me. I could never p-please her. How many more months left?”

  “Two.” A shadow passed over Barbara’s face, but Caro didn’t notice. Barbara looked around the withdrawing chamber, her eyes lingering over every item, the color of the walls, the sun shining in on dancing dust motes, the expressions on people’s faces, the sound of conversation, smiles, frowns, everything in between, the familiar comfort and ease between her and Caro, the way John would glance over at her and smile his love. Every day, now, she thought, this will be the last time I see this, taste this, smell this. The knowledge was a pain so deep, it sharpened every sense. Even ugliness had been transformed. There was nothing ugly. She was aware of the smallest things, of the extraordinary beauty of all, magnificent, not to be wasted, not to be complained of. How she wished to tell John, but she would not mar a moment of their days and nights with sorrow. He’d have his full plate of sorrow soon enough. And how she wished to tell Alice, to lean her face into her shoulder and weep like a child all her fear, all her pain, and hear Alice’s protests, Alice’s solutions for how to trick death. She’d have them. The truth was life had never been more exquisite. She would have liked to tell Alice that, too.

  ALICE LEFT PRINCE Rupert and walked through the privy garden to Balmoral’s, Poll a few paces behind her. It was cold, no hint of the long summer dusks ahead, that magic time of talk and dance and laughter with friends in Spring Garden or Mulberry Garden or here in the privy garden, of rowing in the long twilights to Windsor, to Hampton Court, to Richmond or Chelsea. In France, Madame had summoned her musicians for dancing in the gardens, fountains nearby at which to sit, from which to bring handfuls of cool water to faces flushed from dancing, the scent of roses, jasmine, and orange everywhere, the servants gathering to watch, joining in as dusk turned to dark and the night was so alive with possibility, more exciting than the day.

  At Balmoral’s, no one made any attempt to fob her off. A servant rushed off to find the majordomo. She waited in the antechamber, and then there was Riggs, bowing.

  “Is His Grace here?”

  “He is not.”

  She came straight to the point. “Is he here but keeping from company?”

  He knew precisely what she meant. “No, I swear it.”

  She opened her hand, held out the coin for him, which he took. “I must warn you, Riggs, that I have most serious designs on your master.”

  “Yes.” He smiled, one side pulling up by the scar so that it was almost a grimace.

  “Is Captain Saylor here?”

  “If I may, let me lead the way.”

  She followed him up the stairs and down the hallway to the chamber allotted Richard. The door was open. Richard sat scribbling, a slight smear of ink on one cheek. Poll sat in a chair just outside the opened door. Alice walked in, went at once to the door leading to Balmoral’s closet, put her ear to it.

  Richard watched, amused that she would do that even before greeting him—she was nothing if not single-minded. “He isn’t in there. I haven’t hear
d a sound all day.”

  “Everyone is at the Duke of York’s. You must go and pay your condolences.”

  “Must I?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t hide away. Go and pay your respects and let the world see you undefeated.”

  “I’m not defeated, Alice, just heartsore. Not in the mood for the eyes of the crowd.”

  “You must endure it anyway. You must call upon York. Every official from the navy is there. How will the army ever maintain its place if you and Balmoral ignore the courtesies? How does Walter, and the Daniells?”

  “Well. My mother wants them to come to Tamworth to serve her after the baby is born. I think they may do it.”

  “I did not know your mother had met them.”

  “She was curious about Walter.”

  “He was most loyal, Richard, slept on the floor at the foot of your bed like a dog.” She moved closer, pretending to be reading what he’d written. “You have ink on your face.”

  He rubbed at the wrong cheek. She put out her hand, touching at the smear with a fingertip, lightly, the way a butterfly might. Surprising himself, surprising her, he took her hand and kissed the palm. She could feel his inner lip, the moisture of his mouth, the hint of his tongue. Her knees went weak. She snatched her hand away, walked to the door, calling out over her shoulder, “Call upon York. Today.”

  Striding as if thieves were after her, she was back at the privy garden, Poll fussing behind her, before she had any mastery over herself. One of the king’s gardeners was tying the long, tender arms of climbing roses to a wall. She walked over to him.

  “Mistress Verney. And what can I do for you today?”

  “Mothering Sunday is almost here, and I need a nosegay of violets for my aunt.”

  “Easily done. I’ll mix in a bit of juniper and moss. And what about a colonial daffodil for your aunt? There’re some just in from a ship from the Americas. His Majesty is quite taken with them.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  Back in York’s chambers, she tossed off her cloak, found the queen to curtsy to her, then joined the other maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting, half listening to their talk, her mind playing over and over the suddenness of Richard’s movement, the way his mouth felt on her hand, the way her heart was beating still…If he’d taken her in his arms, she would not have been able to pull free. If he’d kissed her, she didn’t know what she would have done.

  He’d heard her.

  She’d prayed he hadn’t. She’d hoped he hadn’t. She’d convinced herself he hadn’t. But he had. As evening approached, watching the royal brothers, the queen, Rupert, the Monmouths at their public dinner, she felt still the pressure of Richard’s mouth on her hand. Mourning for Her Grace. No dancing. No public performances of plays for weeks. What would they all do with themselves?

  THE NEXT DAY dawned. King Charles, a page bringing his spaniels, went for an evening walk, Renée at his side, Alice and the others following, except the queen, who refused to join them. Lord Rochester made stupid, half-bawdy, tasteless comments, as if the maids of honor were actresses, who didn’t care what was said to them. Mulgrave, walking beside her, wanted to speak seriously, she could see, so she linked her arm in Renée’s. The king and Renée were talking of La Grande Mademoiselle, the most important princess in the French court. King Charles was mocking the French princess’s disdainful manner, telling Renée of how he’d tried to court her in his vagabond days and how she would have little to do with him. “And thus she missed wearing the crown of England,” he said.

  Where was Balmoral? It was day two; her stomach hurt, her head. Barbara looked so big with child. The sight of her yesterday at York’s had shocked her. Barbara and Caro huddled in talk. Did they talk about her? Say mean things of her? John Sidney had approached, wanting to speak with her. She must not like him. She wouldn’t. He was lucky she did not disclose him to her father as a Papist. Alice had watched Caro, thinking, What if I just went over and began talking; we could repair ourselves. But she didn’t. Richard had looked so thin, not quite well, as he entered York’s chamber. All the maids watched Renée, who could not keep color from rushing to her face.

  But Richard didn’t walk over to speak to her.

  He made his obediences to King Charles, whose face expressed nothing, whose eyes missed nothing, either. Richard talked for a long time with the queen, as if she were not in disfavor. He seemed to notice none of the mood around him, and he finally settled in between John and Barbara. Not once did he glance at Renée that Alice could see. A muscle showed itself now and then at his jaw. Alice could only guess at what the visit had cost him. He didn’t stay to watch royalty dine. And Monmouth and Louisa Saylor. What was going on there? Monmouth had only to look her way for her to smile. Hers was as blazing as her brother’s, and Alice felt guilty to see it.

  She glanced up. First stars. Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. She was glad to be walking briskly, His Majesty’s only way of walking. She wanted her bed. Wanted to pull covers up over her head and have this day done with. But there was to be no early to bed for her. Back in the queen’s antechamber, Rochester amused them for an hour with card tricks. Dryden passed out sheets of his latest play, and they took parts and read them. Strictures of mourning were going to be allowed liberal interpretation, it was clear.

  Alice went to sit with Dorothy.

  “What further news have you from Lord Knollys?” she asked.

  But Dorothy didn’t answer, and Alice left the question alone.

  She went to stand near the king, who was laughing at Dryden’s dialogue as spoken by Rochester and Luce. Dryden recited a poem, then Rochester. King Charles teased Renée to read a poem and show off her English. Alice yawned, found a fat French armchair, pulled up her legs, and, before she knew it, dozed.

  She woke to the sound of music. Renée was playing the lute for His Majesty, and the chamber was empty of people. The king’s face showed sadness, tiredness, but his eyes gleamed as he watched Renée.

  “Another,” he said when she’d ended.

  “‘Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime,’” sang Renée.

  The king’s heavy-lidded eyes were suddenly upon Alice. “Our duenna wakes.”

  “Hello, Alice,” said Renée, strumming without self-consciousness. The king’s attention no longer embarrassed her. “Look how tired she is. I think we can dismiss her.”

  And when Alice was gone, he said, “What about your reputation?” He spoke in French.

  “I weary of duennas. I’m not a child.”

  “I weary of losing those I love.” He sighed, and Renée put down the lute, stood behind his chair, put her arms around him. He pulled off his hat and then his heavy periwig, and she kissed his head, the hair shorn short. He put his hands on her arms and closed his eyes.

  “Memory plays its games tonight, Renée, and I am remembering my sister-in-law when Jemmy married her. She was a maid of honor at my sister’s court at The Hague. I am remembering how Jemmy would rather be beaten than go and face her when she was angry with him, how we laughed at him. I am remembering her father, who was my savior in those years when I had no place to put my head. He never abandoned me. He was steadfast when I was not. I’ve a letter from him, asking to return for the funeral, a reasonable request.”

  Renée, listening, rubbed her chin against his head and said nothing. It was exciting for this man, this majesty, to tell her his thoughts.

  “No, is my answer, though I don’t say that yet to my council. Let Buck and the others that urged his exile squirm a bit. So many people I loved are gone, one after another. Come here and sit in my lap. My beauty, my little treasure. If I didn’t have you…” He closed his eyes a moment, and the melancholia that he dreaded descended, a black cloak smothering hope.

  Sensing it, Renée kissed his brows, his closed eyes, and, finally, his mouth.

  He responded hungrily, a drowning ma
n thrown a rope, his hands caressing her hair, pulling out ribbons, caressing her bare, white shoulders, her covered breasts, her narrow waist. They kissed until they were reeling from it, until they were lying on the floor pressed together. He pulled himself away and stared down at her. “You have the king of England tumbling about the floor like a boy at a country fair.”

  She traced his full lips with a finger. “I don’t like you to be sad.”

  He put his head in between her breasts, not loverlike, but as a child would, and she wrapped her arms around him. She felt wildly protective. He showed her what no one else saw—he needed her. It was as heady as the finest wine. It went to her head like champagne. No one else saw him so. They stayed quiet for a long time, she hugging him, and he not groping, or jesting, or doing anything but lying against her. After a time, a shudder moved through his body, and he sat up. “You have my heart. When are you going to allow me in your bed?”

  There was no reproach, no pleading, in his tone. They might have been discussing the weather. Renée loved this about him, his matter-of-factness. They might have been bargaining for bread. It was very French. She laughed, and he pinched her arm. “I think I ought to have my own chamber,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  Now teasing and more was in his voice. She sat up, too, made him lie down so that she might stroke his forehead, and he sighed again. She kissed that forehead. So much wit there. So much curiosity. So much knowledge. This man who was king. Who loved her above others. “It would be kinder.”

  “To me, that’s for certain.”

  “To Her Majesty.”

  There was a silence while he took her words in, a rebuke. “I’m not kind, am I? Not when I want something. Yes, you’ll have your chamber and servants to serve you on bended knee. Give me your body, sweetheart, and I’ll give you half of Whitehall.”