Dark Angels (21 page)

“He never put reins upon me. It was easier not to, and now I am quite used to none, I’m afraid.”

“Things will be different when you marry, Alice. A woman must be obedient unto her husband. Of course, if it’s Mulgrave, you’ll lead him about by the nose. He is not the brightest candle in that family chandelier.”

They laughed like witches, one at midage, one young.

“The queen, now that is quite another matter, Alice. She has, frankly, never been in a more precarious position than she is now. Brey and I were talking of it just the other night, he saying that if I were with her household, he might insist that I leave it. You cannot imagine the rumors that were swirling in the spring.”

“Divorce, I’m told.”

“There was a case that came to the Lords, Lord Roos wishing to divorce his wife for infidelity. Brey was most upset with it, even more upset by the fact that His Majesty came every day to hear the arguments. The queen had miscarried again, you know. The cruel fact is, Alice, there will likely be no children from her. He can litter boys all over the kingdom, but his queen can’t carry to term. Ironic, is it not?”

Alice’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap. “I think it sad, Aunt.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it’s that, too. At any rate, the talk of his divorcing her just consumed the court. You cannot imagine it. I know that both the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop Burnet were summoned to counsel with His Majesty, and he was told it was within his legal and moral right, as king, to do it. Not being able to conceive is grounds for divorce within the queen’s church, I believe. The Duke of York was adamantly against the Roos divorce bill and spoke most forcefully upon it, but Roos was allowed his petition. The harm done to the queen’s position was just awful, Alice. Though nothing has happened, the king and queen are estranged—or estranged as much as anyone can be with Charles Stuart as her husband. Certain of the council, the Duke of Buckingham for one, are dead set against her.”

So my father’s position is against the queen, thought Alice.

“Brey said there was someone on the privy council—he wouldn’t tell me who—who was ready to swear in a court of law that the king had married Monmouth’s mother ages ago during the exile—a lie, of course—so that Monmouth could be declared legal heir,” continued her aunt. “That rumor was everywhere this spring, too, driving a wedge between Monmouth and York. The Duke of York is outraged at the suggestion a bastard would be put in line to the throne before him.”

And Jamie is caught in the web, too, thought Alice.

“My advice, my dear, is go to another household. The Duchess of Monmouth is a favorite with King Charles. Go there, or even to the Duchess of York.”

“You’re good friends still with Lady Suffolk?” Lady Suffolk was Queen Catherine’s mistress of the robes, a powerful position in the queen’s household.

“Yes.”

“Can you see Barbara placed again with the queen? Please, Aunt.”

“Of course. Immediately. Our little Barbara needs her stipend, doesn’t she?” Barbara was quite a favorite with her aunt.

“Until she’s married properly.” A thought occurred to Alice. “You know, Aunt, I might push Mulgrave in Barbara’s direction.”

“Isn’t that what happened with Caro? Your pushing her toward Colefax—he might have a friend or relative for her, I remember you saying—and look what happened. You meddle too much, Alice. Don’t cut those eyes at me, young lady. I am your aunt, and it is my duty to tell you the truth.”

“Let’s not quarrel. I came today to see Barbara placed, for I know she’s fretted about it, and as for me, I’m determined to go back to Queen Catherine’s service, also. So can you help me?”

“If I say no, you’ll simply find someone else to aid you. I know you.” She sighed. “I’ll do what I can.” The last words were reluctant, but they were enough. Aunt Brey’s word was as good as gold in the hand. “Now, tell me about the death. We’ve heard the most outrageous tales. The Chevalier de Lorraine is not in France, is he? They’re saying he was summoned to kill her.”

And so, one more time, Alice told of it, biting her tongue on the suspicions that filled her, thinking as she spoke how she no longer knew this court. The players had changed positions, and she must maneuver carefully, but it had come to her last night that there was one in this court to trust, whose decency she knew firsthand. She was aware, now, in a way she never had been before, of the treachery that lay beneath the surface of things.

K
ING
C
HARLES TOOK
a long and furious walk in St. James’s Park with his dogs. The lines on his face were marked deeper, his eyes dark wells. He conferred with his council, went to a play, and allowed his lord chamberlain to set up the meetings for formal condolences from various ambassadors and courtiers, everyone warned to keep their condolences as brief as possible. The court packed to leave for summer palaces, Hampton Court and Greenwich, already talking about the horse races that would be held in Newmarket in July. It buzzed that because of the death the tide had swung to the Dutch, that King Charles was going to further alliances in that direction—there was already in place a treaty with them that had stopped King Louis in his land grab for the Spanish Netherlands. Of course, there were also two wars between the Dutch and English in the last ten years, but His Majesty was going to declare war on France, it was all but agreed.

“I
T’S WHAT
I think wise,” Sir Thomas said to Alice, who’d found a window seat in which to begin composition of the letter to the Duke of Balmoral that told all, or nearly all, of what she knew. “King Louis won’t stop with the Spanish Netherlands. He’s a threat to us all.”

“And you’ll lead the way to give King Charles all the coin and men he needs for such a fight?”

“All?” He smiled, truly amused. “There’d have to be some bargaining done between His Majesty and us, wouldn’t you think, poppet, tit for tat, so to speak.”

“Depend on it, Father, if you think that, so does the king.”

C
HAPTER 11

July

T
he body of Princesse Henriette lay in state in Paris at the Cathedral of Saint Denis all the month of July, the vigil around the sarcophagus kept by Monsieur’s guards in their handsome uniforms, the light of a hundred candles, and monks chanting masses for the dead. Her funeral was to take place in August, and word was, neither the king of England nor his brother nor his cousin Rupert nor his illegitimate but best beloved son, Monmouth, would attend. As that news ricocheted through royal courts from Sweden to Spain, something else dropped into the mix. England would be represented—not by Lord Arlington or Lord Shaftesbury or the Duke of Lauderdale or the Duke of Balmoral, all august members of his council—but by the Duke of Buckingham, apparently most august of them all.

I
N
E
NGLAND
, J
ULY
was a crimson month, pimpernels, roses, currants, strawberries in the gardens, cherries in the orchards, robins with crimson breasts singing in the green trees. In the fields, laborers began to scythe rye and barley, wheat and hops, and to wash sheep for shearing, herding them into rivers and streams to clean their fleece before it was cut from their bodies and spun into wool cloth. It was the month the king traveled up-country to the village of Newmarket to enjoy a week or more of horse racing under serene blue skies.

On the outskirts of the village of Newmarket, Alice, Gracen, and Barbara, all good horsewomen, kept their restless, prancing horses in order. The queen’s carriage followed. The maids of honor—of which Alice was not yet one—wore matching gowns and hats with large brims to protect a lady’s complexion, which must be as fashionably pale as possible. King Charles waited in the village, where the races were held and where the actress who was his mistress had a house he’d given her.

“You were groaning,” said Gracen. “That same silly nightmare.” Gracen and Barbara were talking about their dreams of the last night. Barbara had slipped back not only into her position of maid of honor, but also into her close friendship with Gracen, which was fine, but when had Gracen and Barbara become such friends that Gracen knew about Barbara’s nightmare? thought Alice.

“Hello, you two,” she said. “You’re going to help me with my plan, yes?”

“At your service,” said Gracen.

“I hope you don’t hurt yourself,” said Barbara.

“If she falls on her head, she’ll be fine.”

Barbara gave a soft laugh.

Alice turned her horse abruptly, galloped to the queen’s carriage, and leaned down to the window opening. “Are you comfortable, ma’am? It’s a wonderful day.”

“It is, my Verney. It’s good to leave Whitehall.” The queen spoke with a Portuguese accent. “Is” became “ezz,” and “yes” became “jess.”

They were off to visit the Duke of Balmoral, who had an estate near Newmarket. Alice was along as an invited guest of the queen and at the express request of Balmoral. She kept her horse trotting by the carriage, her glance going now and then not to the fine day, the sun shining, the cloudless sky, the trees around them full and green, but to the two riding ahead, Gracen and Barbara, whose familiarity bothered her. She had not realized in Dover what friends they had become. Barbara could have more than one friend. She had more than one friend. Saying that to herself made her feel she had herself in command, and she flicked her riding crop against her horse’s haunch and rode back toward them.

“—one’s heart has its own path, and I think I should listen. It’s God speaking,” Barbara was saying.

“It could be the devil,” answered Gracen.

“What could be the devil?” asked Alice.

“Barbara has a softness for John Sidney,” Gracen said even as Barbara spoke over her:

“Don’t tell—”

“Don’t tell me what?”

“Oh, she thinks you’ll disapprove and lecture her and tell her what to do,” said Gracen.

“I do disapprove. He has no resources but must live on his wits.”

“I have no resources,” said Barbara.

“Which means you must marry wisely,” said Alice.

“Is the heart never wise?”

“Not that I can see.”

“She wants to flirt with Mister Sidney,” said Gracen. “Whatever can a little flirtation matter? Practice for greater things, I say.”

“Flirt with whomever you please, just don’t do anything hasty. My aunt says passion is fleeting, unseemly. It flames high, dies cold, and the embers leave heartbreak—”

“You were hot for Colefax,” Gracen pointed out.

I could slap her, thought Alice. “I was, and you see where it got me.”

“You’re a court favorite.”

“That has nothing to do with Colefax.”

“It has everything. If he hadn’t gotten Caro with child, you’d have never gone to France. If you hadn’t gone to France, you wouldn’t have come back so fashionable and full of fun things to do, everyone wondering who is going to snatch you up in marriage and shaking their heads over Colefax’s mistake. So maybe Barbara’s little flirt will lead her to great things—Oh look, there are the entrance gates ahead. All right, Alice, let’s begin your game. Last one there is the last one married.”

With a flick of her riding crop, Gracen was off, Barbara following. Alice deftly turned her horse in a couple of circles before riding after them, thinking, So, Gracen defended Barbara now. That had always been Alice’s task.

The Duke of Balmoral stood waiting on the top step of the house. In the courtyard, Alice raced through the gates, then pulled too hard on her horse’s reins, and, startled at such treatment, her horse reared. She took a breath and let herself slip off—but her trick didn’t go as planned. She hit the ground with a jolt and lay stunned. Gracen screamed, Barbara leaped off her horse and came running as the queen’s carriage rumbled into the courtyard.

Queen Catherine stepped out of the carriage; her page Edward ran ahead to Alice.

“Alice, please open your eyes,” he said.

“Say something, Mistress Verney, at once.”

At the command in that voice, she opened her eyes to look up, dazed, at the Duke of Balmoral. “My horse, someone please see to my horse,” she said.