Dark Angels (38 page)

“You shall be mistress of the robes someday,” he said to Alice, tapping a finger on an ace and a queen nearby. He turned over a card in front of Renée. It was the king of spades. He said nothing, turned over another card quickly. It was the queen of hearts. He laughed, his whole face lighting up. “Your palm, mademoiselle,” he commanded.

Renée held out a hand. He stared into her palm, then ran his finger lightly down a line. “You’ll be mistress, too. It’s in the cards and in your hand.”

He leaned forward and quickly, boyishly, with just a hint of a beguiling and unkingly shyness, kissed Renée’s palm. “Not of the robes, however. Unless you wish it. Then I’ll snatch it from Verney in a moment.”

Various courtiers in the chamber looked at one another, having noted every gesture he made.

Renée pulled her hand away. “With your permission, sir.” She stood, curtsied, walked out of the chamber.

King Charles gathered up the cards, shuffled them slowly, his face rueful. “I can read cards. It’s like touching for the king’s evil, a second sight that Jemmy calls devilish. You will be mistress of the robes someday.” He pulled the king of spades from the deck with a deft movement of his fingers. “That is me. When my father was alive, it was my father, and I was the jack. But now I am king. So, Verney, does she hate me? My portraits show an ugly fellow, but I am told I have some charm.”

“I—That is…”

“You dismay me. You are never at a loss for words. And yet you sit before me like a cow poleaxed before butchering.”

“Lovely comparison, sire.”

“That’s more like it. I’ll ask again. Does she dislike me?” Cards tripped from one hand to the other, lightning fast. Alice tried to forestall him.

“What did the cards tell you, Your Majesty?”

“You’re playing for time, Verney. Answer me.”

“I have no answer.”

“Does she talk of me?”

“No.”

He made a sound, gathered up the cards, and then spread out a few before him. He tapped a jack. “That’s Buckingham.” He tapped the queen of spades. “That’s Her Majesty. Interesting they should show up together. Have I brought her all this way for naught?” It was as if he were talking to himself. He turned over another card, then another. Then he looked directly at Alice. She felt pinned by the acute intelligence of his stare. “What’s a king to do, Verney?”

“Play the game slow, sir.” It was all she could think to say.

“I thought I was. Slower still? I thought there was an understanding of my interest, that her journey here was an acquiescence to hear my suit. Have I been misled?”

“I don’t know. I knew little or nothing—perhaps she, too—” The words came jerking out, making no sense, as it occurred to her how much she’d been duped, and by whom.

“Ah well, so little in life is straightforward, I’ve found, and people do prefer to lie to kings. It makes their life easier, truth being a disordered bitch. Speaking of which—” He whistled. “Come along, girls.”

Two ladies-in-waiting stopped their talk and glanced in his direction.

He smiled at them. “I refer to my dogs, of course.” He stood, as did the spaniels lying at his feet and around his chair. Alice hurried to stand, too, then dropped into a curtsy. Courtiers and spaniels followed him from the chamber.

Alice sat down the moment his back was turned. The little fox pawed and whined from behind the door that hid her, and Edward let her in. She ran to Alice and curled herself on her feet. My father, thought Alice. Up to his neck in this and telling me nothing. I will flay him alive. And then something else occurred to her. If Richard and Renée were not to marry…She shivered, and the queen’s little fox jumped up from her feet and ran to Edward, who was playing dice in a corner with another of the pages. She went to stare at herself in a pier glass. Her curls were thick and glossy, dark, just like her eyes. But she was no beauty. Richard could never prefer her in place of Renée….

And it didn’t matter anyway.

She would have Balmoral, no one else.

Her father always took the easier route, even if it meant betraying her. Why should her eyes fill with tears for that old truth? Because she was tired. Because she was running now on court air. Because Cleveland stalked her, and the queen had been treated treacherously, and she’d quarreled with Barbara.

This day was not done. There was a letter in her pocket that must be dealt with. And the queen’s note spoken of—but only to he whom she trusted. She thought again of Richard. Her mouth trembled. Tired, that’s all. Tiredness made things seem more important than they were. She couldn’t appear before Balmoral in hysterics, and they were there, crouched all low and tensed in her chest, in her throat. Made a fool of by her own father. It wasn’t the first time, was it? She’d find a napping place, a hidden corner in this labyrinth of a palace she called home, and nap. Then she’d go to Balmoral.

“H
E’S IN HIS
closet with someone,” Edward whispered. “But I gave your coins to his majordomo, and he says he’ll make certain you have an interview.”

Alice wore a mask and a short cloak that came only to her shoulders; the hood framed her face and hid her hair. Rested now, her hysteria quieted, she looked mysterious and fashionable. She put a coin in Edward’s hand, and true to form, he took it.

“Shall I wait for you?” he asked. He had good instincts and knew something was brewing. She shook her head. He pointed to a man adding wood to the fire in this antechamber, where several others besides Alice were waiting. It was Riggs, the servant from His Grace’s country estate. “I gave him the coin. He’s the one who will inform the duke that you are waiting.”

“Thank you, Edward.”

Balmoral was standing at long windows that looked out onto St. James’s Park when Riggs ushered Alice inside. Every inch of the wall in this chamber was filled with paintings by Verrio or Holbein or Titian. Interspersed among them were ceremonial swords in ornate scabbards. Jade figurines stood atop cabinets. There was an elaborate and huge chimneypiece that took an entire wall, a suit of armor in a corner, such as a warrior of another century might have worn, but strange to Alice’s eyes, its helmet oddly formed, with horns coming out of it like a devil, the color of the armor a dull red, and the armor itself rounded, skirted, floating out at the shoulders. Balmoral gestured toward one high-backed stiff armchair, then sat in the other. She pushed back the hood, untied the mask.

He smiled at her. “Do you fear for your reputation?”

“I’d be honored to have my name linked with yours.” He pursed his lips, and Alice hurried on. “I wanted no one to know that I was visiting you. I come on a matter of great importance.” She handed him the letter.

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.