by Stella Riley
Lucy pouted a little, allowed herself to be restored to dimpled smiles and finally let him escape. Ashley left the house with a feeling of relief, shot a baleful scowl across the road at Jem and, checking that he wasn’t being followed this time, strode off for the Louvre and a word or two with Sir Edward Hyde.
* * *
Four days later, he returned to the Rue des Rosiers after an hour’s fencing practice with the King to find Celia Maxwell ensconced in the parlour with Pauline and Athenais. Celia was tapping an impatient foot; Athenais was turning a small cake into crumbs; and Pauline looked thunderous. None of them showed any sign of indulging in conversation.
As soon as she spied Ashley, Celia stood up and said crossly in English, ‘At last. I’ve been waiting here for an hour. Perhaps you can tell me where Francis has got to?’
Like Pauline and Athenais, Ashley knew precisely where Francis had got to – and how long he was likely to stay there. But since this information had so far plainly been withheld, he said blandly, ‘No. I’m afraid I can’t.’
‘But surely you must have some idea?’
‘Not the sort of idea that Francis would appreciate my passing on to his sister.’
Athenais stopped torturing her cake and gave him a look that said, My. And aren’t you the clever one? Then, because she was tired of being polite, she favoured Pauline with a low-voiced translation. Madame Fleury hastily turned a snort of laughter into a cough.
Celia scowled at them but kept her guns trained on Ashley.
‘You needn’t hold back on my account. I assure you, my sensibilities are not so delicate.’
‘So we’ve ’eard,’ muttered Athenais.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nuffin.’
Ashley had always known her English must be execrable but it was the first time he’d heard her use it. Somehow managing to suppress a choke of laughter and stepping nobly into the breach, he said, ‘As Madame and Mademoiselle have doubtless already explained, there are any number of places your brother might be.’
‘I’m sure you could help me if you chose to do so.’
‘No. Francis and I are not joined at the hip.’ His expression became somewhat less amicable. ‘Also, you must forgive me if I tell you that I dislike being called a liar.’
‘I didn’t do so!’
‘No? I beg your pardon. I must have misunderstood.’
Celia flushed.
‘I can see that I am wasting my time here. If it’s not too much to ask, perhaps you will tell Francis that I called and that I wish him to wait on me as soon as possible – preferably today.’
‘If and when I see him, I will be delighted to do so,’ agreed Ashley. And then, ‘Allow me to see you to the door. I’m sure the ladies will excuse you.’
It was Celia’s turn to mutter. ‘Ladies? Ha!’
By the time Ashley returned to the parlour, Athenais and Pauline were pink with laughter.
‘Ha!’ said Pauline cheerfully. ‘Pot calling kettle and other similar clichés. She’s perfectly awful, isn’t she? And Francis, bless his heart, has put it all into his play.’
‘Why didn’t you tell her he’s at the theatre?’ asked Ashley.
‘Partly,’ she replied, rising to remove the plate of uneaten cakes, ‘because the woman put my back up in the first two minutes; but mainly because he wouldn’t want me to.’
On her way to the door, she passed Ashley who took the opportunity to filch a pastry and then, grimacing, swallowed it wholesale.
‘Ugh! Almond paste. Disgusting!’
‘Serves you right,’ grinned Pauline. She selected a tiny lemon tart and popped it into his mouth. ‘To take the taste away. What does she want with Francis?’
He took his time with the tart. Then, ‘Ask him. It’s not for me to say.’
‘Quite right,’ she approved. And left the room, humming.
Ashley suddenly realised that he was alone with Athenais for the first time since he’d kissed her. One look at her face told him that she was having exactly the same thought – and had no more idea of how to deal with it than he had himself.
In desperation, she said baldly, ‘Since Francis is at the theatre, shouldn’t you be there also?’
‘Yes. I’m late. I was fencing with the King and lost track of the time. But this shirt – though no longer clean – is my only decent one so I didn’t want to risk Etienne slashing it by mistake. His enthusiasm carries him away at times.’
She looked at him curiously and, ignoring the latter part of his speech, said, ‘Do you often fight with your King?’
‘Not often. Just when he requires it.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘Moderately so.’ He paused, smiling faintly. ‘I gather the Marquis hasn’t visited the theatre recently?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s away – according to that effete friend of his, Henri de Vauvallon, on some business of the Cardinal’s. That may or may not be true. One never knows.’
‘No. He doesn’t strike me as the type to be happy being used as an errand-boy – unless it served some purpose of his own,’ came the thoughtful reply. Then, ‘I’d better change my shirt and go. Francis will be tearing his hair out.’
‘Of course. He can’t possibly manage without you at his elbow, can he?’ she retorted acidly. ‘And it would be a shame if you and I were to exchange more than half a dozen commonplace remarks.’
Something clenched in his gut. He thought, It would be worse if I let you drag everything into the open by putting it into words. But he kept his expression perfectly relaxed and said politely, ‘I’m sorry. Was there something you wanted to discuss?’
Yes – you stupid man. I want to know whether you only kissed me because I asked you to – or whether it meant anything to you. Closing one hand hard over the other, she said, ‘You don’t think we have anything to say to one another?’
‘Specifically and right now? No. I don’t believe so.’
‘I see.’ You’re going to keep on doing this, aren’t you? Retreating behind a stone wall of perfect manners while you pretend you don’t know what I mean. And there’s nothing I can do to stop you without completely humiliating myself. ‘My mistake, then.’
He knew better to ask her what she meant which left little alternative than to say impassively, ‘It would seem so. And now I really must go.’
‘Then go.’ She gave a slight, dismissive shrug and, though she refrained from voicing her thought, didn’t bother to veil her expression.
Ashley read it without difficulty and he smiled wryly in response.
‘You find me impossible? Quite.’ And, as he turned to leave, ‘Unfortunately, that isn’t likely to change.’
* * *
During the final week before the opening of Mariamne, rehearsals of all kinds took place on the floor of the auditorium while the stage was readied for performance. Sets were painted and then assembled on runners or attached to a complex series of pulleys; flash-pans were cunningly inserted and fused to provide the explosive effects Froissart was demanding; clouds were suspended on wires ready to be lowered when needed and great metal sheets took up residence in the wings, waiting to provide the rumble of thunder or clamour of distant battle.
Pauline spent nearly every waking hour overseeing the seamstresses working on costumes, players walked round muttering to themselves or gathered in corners, in spare moments between full rehearsal, to work on bits of script and Ashley’s swordsmen went over and over the routines he had set until their sweat could be smelled ten paces away.
Francis, outfitted as an armoured knight, was in his element.
Ashley, when he finally stopped laughing, said he looked like a lobster.
Francis agreed that he felt like one.
Athenais grew increasingly cross with herself for not being able to keep her eyes off Ashley, blade in hand and the epitome of athletic grace in his shirt-sleeves. She also found it intensely annoying that, since the start of combined rehearsals, virtually every
other lady in the company was doing the same. They flirted with Francis because he flirted back. But they sighed over Ashley because, though he was invariably pleasant, his exquisite manners created a distance that rendered him unattainable – and thus increased his attraction.
Meanwhile, the days sped by like sand in a glass.
By the opening night, having sat through three dress-and-technical rehearsals, Ashley knew more about the internal workings of the theatre than he’d ever wanted to but he still elected to watch the play from the wings. He told himself that he was there to see how Etienne and the others performed under fire – and what the audience thought of a properly-constructed fight sequence. It wasn’t true, of course. He wanted to watch Athenais.
Held back by a pair of jewelled combs, her hair flowed down her back in a torrent of gleaming curls that made his fingers itch; the gown of midnight-blue brocade moulded every curve of her diminutive figure and revealed an expanse of creamy skin that made his mouth water; and expert use of cosmetics rendered her eyes hypnotic and her lips seductive enough to make his body tighten. In short, merely looking at her was subtle torture.
Before her first entrance, she remained a little apart from the other players. Her thoughts appeared to be turned inward and she took long, measured breaths whilst shaking her hands loose at the wrist. In the preceding days, he’d been aware of her watching him work. Now she didn’t even seem to know he was there. Every atom of concentration was focussed on what she was about to do and every distraction was firmly shut out. She looked like a soldier in the last moments before a battle. Ashley retreated into the shadows. She did not need him now.
When at last she stepped out upon the stage, the house greeted her with enthusiasm and then fell silent. Witnessing her performance at closer quarters than usual, Ashley was aware of nuances he’d never noticed before. He saw how her expression softened when she touched Etienne Lepreux’s cheek … how her breath seemed to catch when he put his arm about her … how she all but melted into his body when they kissed. She really was an incredible actress, thought Ashley. It really looked as though she meant it.
Perhaps she does, said a nasty little demon in his head. Then again, she was like that with you, wasn’t she? If it isn’t real now, it may not have been real then. Since she’s so good at pretending, how could any man ever be sure that she’s sincere?
The whole thing was beginning to threaten his sanity and make him wonder what in hell was wrong with him. In his entire life, his wits had never been so scrambled over a woman. But right now the question of distinguishing truth from illusion had him clenching his fists until they ached.
The pyrotechnical effects drew gasps from the audience and then coughs and sneezes as the auditorium became wreathed in smoke. The comic fight in the second act provoked gales of laughter and good-humoured catcalls and the more violent one in Act Four finished on a storm of applause.
Exiting the stage, Etienne slapped Ashley on the shoulder and said, ‘Thank you, Colonel. That felt … it actually felt good.’
‘You did well,’ nodded Ashley. ‘All three of you.’
Detaching himself from his corner, he passed Francis murmuring, ‘Have fun. Doubtless you’ll escort the ladies home?’ And, leaving by the stage-door, he made his way out into the cold, night air. He’d seen the last act three times already and, knowing what was in it, had absolutely no wish to see it a fourth. His guts were churning enough as it was.
~ * * ~ * * ~
NINE
Thinking that a walk might be the best cure for his mental state, he decided to make a detour to find out if Jem had any new information. If he hadn’t, Ashley reflected, there was really no point in continuing the surveillance.
A brief, specific whistle brought Jem ambling down to the corner where he waited out of sight of Mistress Walter’s windows.
‘A new face tonight,’ grunted Jem. ‘Been in there a while, an’ all.’
‘He’s still there?’
‘Aye. Tall fellow with an eye-patch.’
Ashley frowned. ‘Hair?’
‘Dark. Black, most likely. And lots of it.’ He waited expectantly and then, when the Colonel said nothing, ‘You going to wait to see him for yourself?’
‘No.’ The frown intensified. ‘If it’s who I think it is, he lives in the Rue des Minimes – near the Hôtel des Vaux. Follow him when he leaves and let me know as soon as you can. Tonight, if possible.’
‘Want to give me a name, Colonel?’
‘Not until I’ve made some further enquiries,’ came the clipped reply. ‘Just do as I’ve asked, will you?’ And he walked away.
Ashley wasn’t more than a street away when he realised that he was being followed. Again. Only this time, it wasn’t just one pair of feet – it was at least three; and, though they were taking some care to be quiet, all of them were wearing boots. He loosened his sword in its sheath, paused briefly in the shadows of a doorway to take out his knife and then strode on in the general direction of the Rue des Rosiers.
He was making what he’d hoped would be a discreet detour between two high-walled gardens when a figure stepped out in front of him, swiftly followed by a second one. He knew immediately that they were not thieves. He also knew that they weren’t there simply to hurt him. If you wanted to give someone a beating, you sent fellows with muscles and big sticks. Even in the fitful light of the courtyard, he could tell that his potential assailants were well-dressed and carrying swords. So … a killing matter, then.
‘Damn,’ breathed Ashley. And then, as a third man materialised away to his left, ‘Double damn.’
Dealing with two men was viable – dealing with three, less so. If all of them rushed him at once … but they wouldn’t, he thought. He hoped. One of them was in charge and would want his moment of glory. The others would only join in if Monsieur Watch-Me-Be-A-Hero’s attack looked likely to fail. That meant he needed to disable the fellow very fast and very thoroughly if he was to stand any chance of getting past the other two. His gaze swept over the space around him, taking in the fact that it narrowed to half-width where the third man lounged against the wall and that, between himself and where the other two stood, a gnarled tree-branch overhung one of the walls. Finally, on the far side of the courtyard, a flight of narrow steps curled up to he knew not where – which wasn’t likely to be particularly useful.
The man to his left couldn’t see the knife in his right hand and was probably expecting him to draw his sword. Moreover, decided Ashley, that insolent pose spoke of over-confidence. He’d seen that kind of idiocy more times than he could count. Young fellows who’d learned their swordsmanship in the best schools and were full of bravado without ever sparing a thought about what they might be up against. This one clearly didn’t know that his provocative attitude was an open invitation.
I could throw the knife. I can take him down from here.
But if he did that, the other two would be upon him before he could retrieve his blade and, for a number of reasons, he wanted it back. So keeping the knife hidden against his thigh, he strolled in seemingly idle fashion towards the would-be-hero, saying, ‘Were you looking for me in particular – or would anyone be fair game?’
The man detached himself from the wall, drew his sword and took a couple of steps forward. ‘I’d say that’s likely to be the least of your worries.’
Mentally measuring the distance and bunching his muscles ready to spring, Ashley halted at a precisely calculated spot.
‘What worries?’ he asked. And threw the knife with deadly accuracy.
It took the would-be assassin straight through his Adam’s apple. His face registered surprise and his knees buckled; but, before he hit the ground, Ashley was on him, wrenching the knife free with his left hand, pulling his sword screaming from its sheath and swinging round to face the other two men.
They were already bearing down on him but their pace slowed as they realised just how easily he’d despatched their comrade. One of them appeared to have hal
f an ostrich cascading from his hat; the other’s coat was adorned with the kind of elaborate floral embroidery usually favoured by women. Any professional assassin, reflected Ashley distantly, would laugh himself silly.
His own smile cold and hard, he said, ‘Your choice, gentlemen. You can still walk away.’
‘And you can still die,’ spat Feather-head. Then, without bothering to alert his companion, he moved straight into the attack.
Ashley parried the first blow and side-stepped the second so as to put the wall behind him before the other man could join in the fray. Then the fight exploded in earnest.
Using both sword and knife along with a good deal of physical dexterity, he managed to keep his attackers at bay whilst mentally evaluating both their skill and his options. As far as the latter were concerned, he didn’t have many. Running wasn’t possible – and he wouldn’t have done it anyway. He wanted one of these fellows either hors de combat or permanently out of the game – it didn’t matter which – and the other on the ground facing the point of his sword so he could ask the obvious question.
These young gallants weren’t here on their own account. Someone had sent them. Although he’d made various discreet enquiries regarding both Hyde’s letter and Lucy Walter, none were so far likely to have occasioned a serious desire for his demise - which left only one likely choice. The Marquis bloody d’Auxerre who, Ashley suspected, would be delighted to see his head on a pike.
He twisted to avoid a vicious slash to his left hand and swept his blade in a gleaming arc to push the other man back. Steel clamoured against steel, hissing and slithering in a wild accelerando. It was time to get serious and to stop using his brain for any function other than keeping himself alive.
In two extremely fast and complex moves, he forced one assailant back in order to avoid a slash that would have severed his hamstring and, pivoting, delivered a single, hard kick to the other’s sword-hand. It worked but not as well as he’d hoped. He succeeded in temporarily disarming Feather-head but failed to completely dodge a clumsy lunge from Monsieur Fleur. Cold steel pierced his left arm just above the elbow and, for a moment, pain took his breath. Blood started to flow down towards his hand but he kept a firm grip on the knife.