Dark Angels (74 page)

Queen Catherine took a breath. Once she walked through these doors, there was no going back. One more time, she thought. I survived the Duchess of Cleveland; I survived those years of his dallying with our lovely Frances, standing here beside us now, a haunted look in her eyes in spite of her diamonds and gold ringlets brushed to shining. Poor thing. It’s her first time. A certain grim amusement welled up. Queen Catherine nodded to Richard, and he opened the great doors that led to the other side of the palace.

They trooped down the corridors, the long hallways. It was dusk. Servants and pages were lighting torches in courtyards and candles in chambers, along the hallways. Whitehall was always beautiful by candlelight, her age softened, her odd rambling turned charming with darkness to drape it. Chambers they passed were in that half-shadow of earliest evening. Gold and silver candlesticks gleamed from tabletops. Courtiers, dressed for supper, for their night ahead, came to their doors to curtsy or bow. Already the word had spread. There was to be a truce between the king and queen and the one who would be the next great mistress.

Music from Renée’s chamber spilled out her doors, meeting them in the hall. Edward proudly announced the queen, and silence fell. There was a full crowd here, His Majesty, a few of his ministers—Balmoral among them—but mostly his favorites, his night companions, his howlers at the moon, Sedley and Rochester, the others who amused him, and ladies, clever wives already attaching themselves to Renée as the next official mistress, one they might receive in their homes, unlike his actresses or whores. Queen Catherine glanced around. The Duchess of Cleveland was not present. Satisfaction in that. What if she, his ugly little queen, outlasted them all?

These chambers were charming. The way candles and flowers were placed, crowded everywhere, among all the splendid objects, gold clocks, enameled vases, porcelain figurines, atop tables, atop the mantels of fireplaces. There was nothing stern in this chamber, nothing austere, from its sunny yellow walls to the cream color of the wood surrounding door and ceilings, to the objects everywhere. Servants were walking among the crowd to offer wine. A long table against a wall held towers of fruit, tarts, tiny pies, amid figures of marzipan and sugar paste. A large sugar-paste swan was in the center, roses in his mouth. This was what her lord craved, sophistication, elegance, style, and, above all, new amusement.

Sapphires at her ears and throat, Renée had dropped into a curtsy at the announcement of the queen. All the women did the same. Men bowed. King Charles walked forward and kissed Queen Catherine on each cheek, pleased that she pleased his heart’s desire by coming to her party. “I am so very glad to see you.”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Liar.”

He liked her tartness, tucked her arm in his and walked her toward the buffet. “Cousin Louis does this for his evenings in France, I’m told.”

Queen Catherine noted royal silver pieces displayed on the table, nodded toward a tapestry hanging large above the long table. “The Gobelins?”

“It was stored away, gathering dust,” he said offhandedly. He patted her hand, and she shut her mouth on complaints. There would be spillover from his generosity to Renée; if she was quiet, he would soon feel guilty. She’d have new furnishings, too. She intended to spend a pretty penny.

Seeing the king’s approval, courtiers pressed forward to have a word with the queen while she was still on the king’s arm. Frances, who had gone to sit beside Balmoral to ask of Alice, sighed at the sight of it.

Balmoral noticed, but all he said was, “Must Captain Saylor scowl so?”

“It hurts him to see Renée.”

“He’d best get over it.”

“Do we forget true love?”

“Yes, we do.”

“How is Mrs. Brownwell?” King Charles asked Queen Catherine. Now that she had acquiesced, accepted what was, he wished to know everything about her household.

Queen Catherine turned dark eyes on him. “Not well.”

“Knollys is a dog.”

It takes one to know one. “She goes for to live with the brother. I am having the thought, an allowance, yes…” She let the sentence drift off.

“Ten guineas?”

She opened her fan. “Seventy-five.”

“Twenty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“Fifty.”

“Done.”

“Your English is always most excellent around numbers, Catherine.”

She kissed him on the mouth, a gesture missed by no one. “My lord and master, so well you have know me.”

“I have hoped that we might be friends,” Renée said to Richard. She was nervous, twisting her hands together.

Richard bowed, the gesture as stiff as his expresssion. “I am your servant in all things.” He looked around the room, its profusion of objects, paintings, rich fabrics, the crowd admiring, envious, ready to serve her. This he could never give her. Frowning, he watched his sister flirting with Monmouth. What was this? Did the royal family think they might bugger all the Saylors? One was enough. King Charles crossed the chamber, stood behind Renée, as Richard made a deep bow.

“The queen is ready to play cards,” King Charles said to Renée. His eyes followed her as she went to order servants to set up tables. He cares for her, thought Richard, watching the king with wary, weary anger. Then, in spite of himself, his eyes, too, followed Renée. She was resplendent. The depth of his heartache, which he knew, explored whether he wished it or not each night before sleep, surprised him afresh. Are they lovers yet? he thought. No. It would have been an open secret if they were. Perhaps he would be in France when that gossip made its rounds. That would be a good thing. Turning back to the king, he saw that King Charles, in turn, contemplated him.

“Am I safe in my bed yet, Saylor?” The king’s smile did not reach his eyes.

“You are my liege lord. I would protect you with my life.”

The way in which Richard spoke, grave, resolute, was not in fashion at this court. King Charles blinked. He could remember being this serious, swearing loyalty to his father before a battle, ready to die for this liege lord who was also father. He’d been pure of heart then, the way Richard was now. It was a treasured memory. “I’ve never rewarded you for your capture of Henri Ange.”

Richard laughed. The sound made King Charles smile. “Alice Verney stabbed him. It’s she who should be rewarded—captain of your guard, perhaps?”

“She should be captain of something. Between you and me, I pity Balmoral. She’ll put him in his grave for certain.”

Alice as widow, thought Richard. There was something interesting in that.

King Charles moved on, and Richard could hear Alice say, Idiot, he gave you an opening to ask for what you wish. But Richard didn’t desire King Charles’s blessing. He didn’t want the royal seal upon his backside for services rendered. He was going to General Turenne in his own way.

C
HAPTER 43

A
lice’s face was as white as the lace on the pillowcase under her head.

“Mind you don’t jolt her too much!” Sir Thomas fluttered and fussed, had been doing so all morning, and all the servants’ nerves were stretched to the breaking point, but Perryman and a footman managed to place Alice on the board that had been set across the seats in Balmoral’s best and newest carriage. A goose-feather pallet lay across the board, and covers and pillows swaddled it. Poll crawled in and fluffed pillows as Alice closed her eyes.

“Now, mind you drive carefully! There isn’t a decent road between here and there.” Sir Thomas glanced toward Balmoral. “Have you thought of that? She’ll be jolted to death.”

“I’ve given her a draft that will let her sleep the journey,” Jerusalem answered.

“Pull down those leather shades,” Sir Thomas commanded Poll, “lest the air give her a chill. Has she enough coverlets?” As Sir Thomas circled the carriage, looking for yet another fault or lack, Richard hoisted Jerusalem into her saddle, then mounted his own horse. A caravan was on its way to Tamworth—he was commanding a troop of six men Balmoral was sending for protection, as well as the two carriages, one Balmoral’s and the other Jerusalem’s. The second carriage contained young Nan Daniell, whom Jerusalem had talked into coming to Tamworth as a serving maid. With her was her child.

Balmoral opened the carriage door, possessed himself of Alice’s hand, and kissed it. “Be well. You see you make her well,” he commanded Jerusalem.

“But of course I will. You’ll be watching her dance at her wedding in a month.”

“I’d better be.”

“Best to be off,” Richard said, “before the sun goes much higher.” He saluted Balmoral and rode forward to divide the men into two groups, one riding before the carriages, the other behind.

A
S DUSK FELL,
they made camp in a meadow just off the road. Troopers built a fire, while Richard rode in a wide circle around their camp, taking the lay of the land, finding a farmhouse. He came back with pullets hanging from his saddle and jars of ale and honey mead in his bags.

That night, he stepped over sleeping men here and there to make his way to Balmoral’s carriage. His mother had had Poll open all the shades to the night air. Poll lay sleeping under the carriage, where his mother would sleep when she came to bed. Where was she? And then he saw her, in the meadow, a solitary figure standing quite still under a full April moon, its silvery light as direct as a lantern. He saw Alice through the carriage window. Her eyes were open.

“Do you see the stars?” he asked her.

“Yes.” Her voice was a thread.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m fretted for your sister. Monmouth—”

“Never mind Monmouth. I’ll care for my sister.”

“Don’t wait too long,” It took all her strength to speak. There was so much more she wished to say. “Where am I, Richard? I don’t understand.”

“You’re going to Tamworth.” The thought of it rose in his mind, the house, its brick, its twisted chimney stacks, its gables, its garden with a maze from a pattern of the old queen. The stream, the woods, the lane to the village, the fishpond, his mother’s kitchen garden where in summer herbs scented the day and night. Tamworth, where his boyhood mostly was, where his father lay in a family vault in the village church, and his grandfather, also. Rooms with the dark paneling and carving of the fashion of the Tudors, odd hallways, crooked stairs, a great hall. Tamworth, peace of heart, quiet of soul. Tamworth, backwater, old-fashioned, forgotten by time, haven and home. Where he had thought to bring Renée as bride. Funny how standing here with Alice softened all that.

T
HEY ARRIVED THE
next day.

“No,” said Richard, “I’ll carry her.”

He lifted her out of the carriage, shocked at how light she was. Alice leaned her head against his shoulder. He carried her in under the porch, into the great hall, which opened high and wide and echoing.

“I want her here,” said his mother, moving to a door that led to a parlor on the ground floor. Great swaths of sunlight cut across the dark of the floor from the mullioned windows across one wall. Jerusalem began to push out the lower windows and open them one by one.

Richard sat in a high-backed chair near the windows with Alice still in his arms. The smell of tansy and thyme wafted in, and he breathed it like balm. Alice trembled, and he pulled her closer to him, wrapped his arms tight around her, willing her his own strength, put his face against her hair, fierceness, protectiveness, young lions in him.

Poll came to drape a cloak over Alice. House servants and some of the troopers were staggering forward through the door, carrying in pieces of a great bed from upstairs, its columns, its frame, its headboard massive.

“In the sun, facing the windows,” his mother commanded. The chamber was mostly empty, its furniture burned for firewood during the civil war. A mattress was carried in, and as soon as the bed was put together, servants pulled on sheets that had been dried in the sun, that smelled of green grass and clover. Jerusalem scattered catnip and chamomile among the sheets, atop the pillowcases, so Alice would sleep well.

In another moment, Richard placed Alice in among the sheets, and the moment her head touched the pillow, she closed her eyes, settling into a deep sleep. She opened her eyes once, the next day, to see Poll sitting near and Richard standing by the bed, looking down on her. I love you, she wanted to say, but sleep was calling her back down, and anyway, it was best that she not say that, and any thought made the ache in her head threaten its murder and mayhem; there was something she had to be ashamed of, something she had to feel, but she closed her eyes and went away again into the cool dark.