The Spitfire (44 page)

Louis rashly tried to have his marriage to Jeanne de Valois put aside, citing his wife’s physical imperfections. Jeanne, a charming and intelligent woman, was a hunchback with a pronounced limp. Foolishly, he spoke publicly of his love for Anne of Beaujeu, and that lady, to whom duty and honor meant more than passion, ordered her bold brother-in-law’s arrest. Warned, Louis fled to Brittany, a grave error inFrench eyes, as Brittany’s duke was a thorn in France’s side.

A number of noblemen of consequence allied themselves to the Duc d’Orleans, but Anne of Beaujeu would not yield an inch. Indeed, she raised an army of twelve thousand men under the leadership of Louis de la Tremoille and defeated the rebels in July of 1488. Duc Louis was taken prisoner and incarcerated in the chateau at Lusignan. At first he was kept alive on only bread and water, his captors disregarding his high rank. His wife, the good Jeanne, intervened on his behalf, but although his diet was changed to a more humane one, he remained imprisoned. Anne continued to rule France in her brother’s name, for he, it was thought, was not yet ready to rule alone.

Charles VIII was briefly in residence in Paris at his Hotel de Valois. With the summer upon them he would soon be returning to his favorite home, the chateau at Amboise. Unversed in the protocol of court life, Arabella silently cursed Henry Tudor. How in the name of heaven was she supposed to join the French court? If she could not decide on some clever scheme to accomplish this feat, she would be useless to the English king and would lose Greyfaire. Her dilemma was solved for her with the arrival of a letter.

Astounded that anyone in Paris should send her a message, Arabella broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. As her eyes flew over the words, she felt relief pouring through her.

Madame. It has come to my attention that another victim of Henry Tudor’s rapacious greed has found her way to Paris. I would be honored if you would be my guest at a small fete that the king is giving on Midsummer’s Eve at the Hotel de Valois. My coach will call for you at four.

The missive was signed, Anthony Varden.

“Who is it from?” FitzWalter demanded.

“Lord Varden,” Arabella replied. No further explanation was necessary, as FitzWalter knew who Anthony Varden was. “He is sending his coach for me on Midsummer’s Eve. We are to attend a fete given by the king.”

FitzWalter nodded and returned to polishing his sword, but Lona began to fuss.

“That’s but three days away, my lady! How am I to alter one of those gowns that the queen brought for you in
that
time?”

“Lona.”
Arabella spoke a gentle warning.

Lona looked to where Avice was sweeping the salon and shrugged. “She don’t know what I’m saying, my lady, when I speak English. Why, my French is far better. I don’t think she speaks half a dozen words of English, and
no
surely ain’t one of them. The slut has bedded four of the men already, and has her eye on Fergus MacMichael, but if she makes an attempt in that direction, I’ll scratch her wicked eyes out!”

Arabella laughed, but FitzWalter cautioned, “Never assume anything, lass. Besides, what if someone were listening at the door who could understand you? They’d wonder why our queen was kind to our lady under the circumstances. In future be more careful, daughter.”

“The queen was kind because she felt guilty,” Lona said sharply, “and well she should! I’ll be more careful in the future though, Da.”

On Midsummer’s Eve Arabella was ready when Lord Varden’s coach called for her. The queen might have been charitable, but she had chosen the gowns she gave Arabella well, with an eye for the most flattering colors. Arabella suspected that the gowns had come from the queen’s own wardrobe, for although Elizabeth of York’s hair was darker, she was also a blonde. She was taller, however, and so the hems of the garments had been raised, and she was slightly stockier than Arabella, though not as ample in the bosom. Clever Lona had recut the bodice using the excess material from the skirts.

Arabella’s gown was of sky-blue silk, having a bare shoulder and a low neckline, with tight-fitting sleeves ending at the wrist. The overgown was a brocade shot through with a pale gold metallic thread, almost the same color as Arabella’s hair. A gilt leather girdle encircled her hips. From it hung a silver-gilt
tussoire
that helped to hold up the skirt which had an underskirt of ivory brocade embroidered with gold and small seed pearls. A long train lined in ivory satin added an elegant touch. Her shoes matched her gown, and her jewelry was spare. She wore a simple gilt chain about her neck, from which hung a pear-shaped pearl drop. On her hands she had only her signet ring.

Lona handed her a pair of ivory kidskin gloves embroidered with seed pearls, and a drawstring bag of blue silk containing a pomander even as an elegantly attired gentleman entered the hallway.

“Lady Grey. I am Anthony Varden. Welcome to Paris!” He bowed politely, but the smile he gave her was dazzling.

Arabella was astounded, though she hid her surprise well. That this man should be Henry Tudor’s friend stunned her. Unlike the king, who was a somber man, Anthony Varden was obviously a gentleman who enjoyed life to its fullest, a fact that amazed Arabella, considering Lord Varden’s physical appearance. Though the nobleman had the face of an angel, he was small of stature—no taller than Arabella herself—and one of his shoulders was just slightly higher than the other. Remembering her manners, she curtsied.

“
Merci
, my lord. I am indeed grateful for your kindness.”

He offered her his arm. “Then, madame, let us depart, for Midsummer’s Eve is upon us and the festivities will soon begin. All of Paris will be celebrating, and it will be hard to get our carriage through the streets as it is.”

Once inside the coach and safely under way, Anthony Varden turned to Arabella, saying, “It is safe to speak here, Lady Grey. My servants are English and loyal beyond all to king and country.” He assessed her frankly. “God’s bones, I can see why Henry sent you. You are ravishing, madame, and will surely lure several big fish into your nets for us.”

Had it been another man, another time or place, Arabella might have been offended. Instead she laughed weakly. “I think the king mad to have sent me here,” she answered Lord Varden. “I have spent most of my life away from cities and courts; and I am no wanton to lure a man.”

Looking even more closely at her, Anthony Varden could see that she was telling the truth. Damn Hal for a fool, he thought, but they would all simply have to make the best of the matter. “I would not want a woman of experience in this matter, Lady Grey,” he told her gently. “It is your naiveté that is so alluring. As for the rest, I will guide you. You need fear nothing, for I am your friend and will not desert you.”

“I am not even certain what I am to do, or how I am to act,” Arabella admitted nervously. “I am really a country mouse, my lord.”

He smiled. A warm smile that reached all the way to his gray eyes. “Did you not spend some time at the Scots court, my dear?”

“Aye, my lord, I did. My husband was half brother to his majesty, King James III, and is uncle to the current king,” she told him, not certain how much he knew of her background. “My former husband,” she quickly amended. “We did not, however, spend a great deal of time at court, for Tavis loves his home at Dunmor.”

“The French court,” said Lord Varden, “is a sophisticated court, but despite the sophistication, human nature is the same the world over, I have found. Familiarize yourself with its charming, dangerous, and jaded inhabitants. In particular I would have you be aware of Adrian Morlaix, the Duc de Lambour. He is close with both the Beaujeu faction at court and the young king himself. ‘Tis a rare feat balancing between those two. He is privy, I suspect, to certain information that would be of use to King Henry.”

“How will I know him, my lord?”

“He will seek you out sooner than later, my dear, for the Duc de Lambour is a great connoisseur of beautiful women. As you are new to court,
and
beautiful, you will be eagerly sought out by the gentlemen. I would suggest you be chaste with them all. Most will eventually fall away, but Adrian Morlaix will not. The challenge your virtue presents will prove totally irresistible to him.”

“And shall I eventually succumb to him, my lord?” Arabella said softly. For some reason she felt close to tears.

Anthony Varden could see the moisture shining in her eyes, and he again silently damned his Tudor friend. “That must be your choice, and yours alone, Arabella Grey. It very well may be that you can play the game and win it without surrendering your chastity. But highborn women who take lovers are never ostracized here, so if it must come to that, you need not distress yourself unnecessarily. Besides, a woman as beautiful as yourself surely cannot live without love. To entrap the Duc de Lambour in Cupid’s snare would make you a
succès fou,
my dear, I assure you.”

“Does he not like women, then? Is he married?” Arabella inquired curiously.

Anthony Varden laughed. “Oh, Adrian Morlaix likes women very much, I assure you, and aye, he has a wife. A mousey little thing of a surprisingly robust nature, who dutifully presents him with a child every other year. He keeps her away from the court, although I did see her once several years ago, when they first wed. She and their children live in a large chateau in Normandy which the duc visits, but only often enough to get another child on her. Adrian stays with the court most of the time, acquiring and discarding mistresses with shameful rapidity.”

“He sounds a most dreadful man,” Arabella said.

“But he is not,” Lord Varden assured her. “He is charming, witty, and surprisingly kind, but he does bore easily.”

“And yet yon expect me to intrigue him so that he will bare his innermost thoughts to me? My lord, I fear we are all doomed to disappointment, for if the elegant and sophisticated beauties of the French court cannot hold the Duc de Lambour’s interest, how on earth do you think I can?”

“My dear madame,” her companion said, “have you no serious idea as to your beauty, and how that beauty can be used to ensorcel a man?” He chuckled. “If you are truly innocent of the wiles you may employ, I shall advise you. Simply, but sweetly, refuse all offers of a licentious nature until he sincerely begs. Be exactly what you are, and you will, I promise you, succeed beyond our wildest dreams.”

The carriage was drawing to a stop.

“You will not leave me?” Arabella felt a trifle panicky.

“I will be at your side the entire evening, my dear, although I imagine my behavior will disappoint the many who will see and covet you. I shall make it clear, however, from the start that we are not lovers, although I regret the fact. I am simply a sympathetic countryman.”

The coach came to a full stop and a footman leapt down to open the door and hand them both out. About them were other carriages and a swirl of elegantly-garbed people within the courtyard of the Hotel de Valois, which was built about a quadrangle, one end of which opened onto the street, and the other end of which opened into a garden. Lord Varden offered Arabella his arm, and they began to thread their way through the crowd. He nodded and bowed as they went to many of their fellow guests, whose eyes widened with speculation at the beautiful woman on his arm.

“There is the regent, the Duchesse de Bourbon,” he murmured low to Arabella, tilting his head just slightly to his left. “Be brave, my dear, for I am about to introduce you.” He stopped before the duchesse and swept her a bow as Arabella curtsied low. “
Bonjour
to you,
madame la duchesse
,” Lord Varden said. “May I present my fellow countrywoman and fellow exile, Lady Arabella Grey?”

“You have left England of your own free will, madame?” the regent inquired.

“I have left England because that miser who calls himself our king has robbed me of my small property,
madame la duchesse
, and all because I am a woman. He said a mere female could not hold a small keep, and so he stole it from me,” Arabella said, her voice bitter.

“And he did not give you another property of the same value in return, madame? Why is this?” Anne of Beaujeu demanded.

“
Non, madame la duchesse
,” Arabella said, “he gave me nothing in return, for my family, all of whom are dead but for me, were related to our late King Richard.”

“Ahhhhh,” the Duchesse de Bourbon replied understandingly. “‘Tis the way of kings, I fear,
ma chere madame,
to wreak their vengeance upon the families of their rivals, but this English king of yours shows a lack of chivalry to disenfranchise a helpless woman with no man to defend her. I wish you better fortune here in France.” The regent turned away from them to greet others, and dismissed, they strolled about the gardens.

“She is no beauty,” Arabella remarked of Anne of Beaujeu, “but she is most elegant.”

“She favors her mother more than her father,” Lord Varden said, “but she does have the Valois nose and thick neck. Fortunately, she possesses her mother’s sense of style. Charlotte of Savoy was a great lover of luxury and had an excellent eye for fashion.”

“What is King Charles like?” Arabella looked about her for someone who might be France’s king.

Lord Varden chuckled. “Charles? Look, my dear, over there. The lad with the flaming red head.
That
is the king.”

“That puny, ill-made boy!” Arabella was astounded, for there was nothing royal about France’s king at all. He was short, and yet his legs were too long and spindly-shanked for his torso. His head was far too large for his body, and the globular eyes that stared out at the world were just a trifle nearsighted, giving him the vague appearance of someone who was not particularly bright. He had a large and long hooked nose which came near to touching his upper lip, lips that were thick and wide. His round chin was pierced by a deep cleft. “God’s bones, sir, tell me that this king has something to recommend him, for he is surely the ugliest man I have ever seen!” Arabella whispered.

“He has little to recommend him,” Anthony Varden said, restraining the laughter, which threatened to well up and burst forth. Lady Grey was most outspoken. “The king is of a nervous temperament. He is hasty and headstrong as well, yet he is a strangely affable young man for it all, my dear, but look! There is the Duc de Lambour just entering the garden. We must contrive to reach the king’s presence at almost the same time, that he may get his first look at you,” Lord Varden said, suddenly serious.