Dark Angels (3 page)

The smile on King Charles’s face faded. “Why are you weeping, dear one?”

“He would have been so furious at all of this. It is so wonderful to laugh instead.” The princess leaned on the side of the rowboat and held out her hand to Prince Rupert. “Come, sweet cousin. The least I can do is help you aboard again.”

“You can’t pull me in, gal. I’m as fat as Buckingham.”

She leaned even farther out, coaxing, and Monmouth moved swiftly to grab the back of her skirts, which made King Charles laugh again.

Prince Rupert swam forward. She kissed him on the mouth, and with Monmouth’s hand still fastened to the back of her skirt because the rowboat was tipping back and forth again, she went to King Charles and kissed him on the mouth and then raised her brother, the Duke of York, from his knees and kissed him, too. Then she turned to face the shore, and putting her hands to her mouth—the jewels in her bracelets gleaming a moment in the sun—she threw a kiss to the shore, where people erupted in applause, and courtiers, certain wild men of King Charles’s court, dropped their great fashionable hats and their great fashionable wigs and began to walk into the water, one after another like lemmings, to meet her.

“We’re not formal, but we do have our own style,” drawled the king, highly amused and therefore pleased at the way his landing was unfolding.

Laughing, feeling outrageous, and not to be outdone, Alice took off her beautiful shoes, stood on the railing of the yacht with bunched skirts, her green-stockinged feet sure and certain, and balanced there a long moment like an acrobat at some common fair.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped to Lieutenant Saylor, who did not know she was the best dancer at court.

“Well done. Now jump,” called Rupert, who did, from the water.

“Your Grace, if you please,” she said.

The Life Guards, primed now, held the rowboat steady as Monmouth stepped forward, gave his hand, and she leaped into the rowboat in a neat, clean movement. Only Renée was left, and it was clear that she was afraid and that she was ashamed because she felt her fear was spoiling the fun.

Lieutenant Saylor stepped forward and said in flawless French, “Mademoiselle, take my hand. I promise that I will die before I let you fall in the water.”

“Push the rowboat against the yacht and keep it there. Jemmy, you and Jamie man the oars.” King Charles touched the side of the yacht, held a hand up to Renée. “Just sit on the railing, mademoiselle, and trust the lieutenant and me.”

By now courtiers had waded to the rowboat, were introducing themselves to Princesse Henriette. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to be wigless, bobbing in water wearing satin coats. In another moment, Renée was on board, and York and Monmouth began to row the party ashore.

On shore, officers of the Life Guards walked forward to help beach the rowboat. The king’s orchestra, greatly excited, began to play. The musicians played violins, of course, for that was the fashion from France, and whatever France created, in art, in dress, in music, in war, in policies, others mirrored. King Charles and his brother and son stepped out onto the wet sand, but that would not do for their precious cargo. Princesse Henriette was carried by the king himself to dry beach, the waiting queen hurrying out from under her canopy into the sun to embrace her sister-in-law, still in the king’s arms. York followed with Renée. Wet and bedraggled, Prince Rupert walked out of the waves. “You grab Alice,” he told Monmouth. “I’d do it, but I’m wet through.”

Monmouth held out his arms to Alice. Just before she let him lift her up, she looked back, to the ships, at rest like great swans, their sails, instead of wings, folded in, to the people climbing down ladders, the rowboats and wherries filled with the French court. In her ears was the sound of wave and hurrah and violin. It was May, England’s happy, Druid festival of a month when hawthorn bloomed and roses opened wide and fish leapt out of green reeds in the river and folk danced around the Maypole to begin the month and pinned oak leaves to their hats to end it. It was her birthday month. She felt drunk with excitement, felt aware of time and place in some keen, sharp way. I’ll never forget this, she thought, never.

“Out of my way.”

She turned. It was her father. He’d left the crowd of courtiers under the canopy to come for her. And with him was Barbara, her dearest friend. “You made quite a spectacle of yourself on that yacht, missy. Green stockings indeed. What’s next? Rouge?”

“Well, I had to do something to remind you I was home.”

“My dear, dear girl,” her father said. They embraced, she in the rowboat, he out of it. He held her tightly. “I’ve missed you so, poppet.”

She began to cry. So did he.

I
T WAS MAYHEM.
There was no point even to fight it. The French were arriving, some of them so determined that they waded ashore in the splashing waves, others bleating like sheep, refusing to wet gowns or shoes, waiting for soldiers to carry them to dry sand. The princess had brought a large retinue with her, ladies, gentlemen, servants, priests, officials. People milled about the beach as the king’s household guards tried to bring order and direct people to the carriages and wagons that would take them up the cliff to Dover Castle.

The princess remained under the canopy surrounded by the important ladies of court, Monmouth’s and York’s wives and the Duchess of Cleveland, who was the king’s mistress. Members of the high council crowded around, too, as did various children, some belonging to the king, some to York, some to important noblemen. The king’s spaniels were there, growling and barking and generally getting underfoot. Beyond the canopy were carriages, wagons, horses, servants, the royal pages chasing and shoving one another like the boys they were.

Her father ahead of her, Alice walked arm in arm with Barbara toward the canopy.

“Is he here?” she whispered, not wanting her father to hear.

“Yes.”

“Is she?”

“No.” Barbara stopped. “I may as well tell you this now. Their son died last month.”

Before Alice could respond, young women came running toward her from under the silk canopy, her friends, maids of honor to Queen Catherine of England. They hugged and kissed her, walking her forward to the canopy, their conversation and questions as clamorous as magpies’ chatter.

“Those green stockings. Everyone is talking of them. I want some!”

“Oh, Alice, I can’t believe you’re home. You have to tell us everything, everything. We hear that the beautiful La Vallière is in disgrace. Is it true?”

“Colefax is here. He’s been pacing up and down—I think he’s still in love with you!”

“What did you bring us? Did you bring us anything?”

A very slender man no taller than Alice planted himself in front of her. “I saw your exhibition on the railing of that yacht. Excellent balance, and the leap was perfect. I want to know everything you’ve learned at Madame’s, and I want to know it now. Never mind these rattlepates. None of them practice as they should, and they’re all clumsy as cows.”

She stepped into his arms for a hug. It was Fletcher, the queen’s dancing master.

“It’s about time you were home,” he said softly, then in another tone entirely: “Move along, cows, there’s talk of leaving for the castle now. Alice, we are packed like straight pins into the smallest space found in this fortress. I am in a barn sharing space with horses—horses, I tell you—and glad for it.”

“It’s only thirteen days,” said one of Queen Catherine’s maids of honor, a willowy beauty named Gracen. “Do stop complaining.”

Thirteen days, thought Alice. Not enough time, and yet it must do. She walked in under the canopy. Princesse Henriette was hidden by the bulk of men surrounding her, men in long coats that came to their knees and the great curling wigs King Louis of France had just taken to wearing. Their shoes had high heels, lacquered red, so that they towered even taller than they were. The king and his brother, York, were like giants.

There was Colefax, the black armband for his dead child around his sleeve. Alice turned so that she wouldn’t meet him. Gracen grabbed her hand.

“Queen Catherine is asking for you.”

The queen of England was tiny and dark haired and birdlike. Alice swept into a low curtsy for her, but Queen Catherine took her hands and raised her up to kiss both her cheeks. She was flushed with excitement, looking almost pretty, as she could sometimes.

“The princess is leaving. Hurry!” It was her father.

“Majesty, with your permission?” Alice said to Queen Catherine.

“Of course. Go at once.”

“We’ll meet later!” Alice called to Barbara and Gracen and her other friends among the maids of honor.

King Charles’s gentlemen of the household were directing people to carriages. Grooms brought forward horses for those who’d come down to the beach on horseback, but King Charles’s yapping spaniels made the beasts nervous, and they were pulling at the reins, attempting to rear. Children cried, musicians wandered about searching for some transport back to the castle, people speaking French demanded carriages, but no one was listening. Alice saw the princess climb into a carriage with the king, then someone called her name. It was one of the royal pages, her favorite.

“Where have you been? What carriage am I to ride in?” she asked him.

But he ran off without answering, and she saw that Queen Catherine and her ladies were leaving. She felt a hand on her arm.

“This way. You’re to ride in this carriage.” It was Lieutenant Saylor. “I told you I wouldn’t let you drop,” he said to Renée as he helped her inside, smiling. It was a dazzling smile. Alice caught her breath and then took Saylor’s hand to be helped inside herself. The carriage was crammed with other maids of honor from the Duchess of York’s household. They nodded coolly to Alice, aware that she served the French princess, that she had served the queen, that she was, so to speak, above them.

“You great clumsy oaf, you’ve stepped on my gown and torn it.”

The voice was unmistakable. Alice poked her head out the window of the carriage. It was the Duchess of Cleveland, the king’s mistress, and she was glaring at Prince Rupert, wigless still and drenched.

“Bloody cow,” he said to her.

“Stupid ox.”

Beyond them was Colefax, frowning, looking around as if he were searching for someone. He saw Alice. She pulled her head back inside the carriage, bumping it on the edge of the opening in her haste.

The carriage jerked forward. Nothing changes, she thought, thinking of the Duchess of Cleveland and Prince Rupert, of other quarrels that kept this court unsettled. But then it was no different in the household of Madame, as Princesse Henriette must be called in France, and Monsieur, her husband.

And then there was Colefax, with the band of black around his arm and sadness in his eyes. Nothing changes and everything does.

C
HAPTER 2

I
n a huge, echoing chamber of the keep of Dover Castle, the arrival banquet for Princesse Henriette was in full force, had moved its massive way through speeches and merry toasts, interspersed with soup, carp, pig, tongue, eel, crayfish, goose, venison, lamb, mackerel, pigeon, artichoke, green peas—something new, something French, of course—and salads. King Louis of France had sent French wine and brandy as part of his largesse, and any number of those bottles had been uncorked in the last hours. Servants were bringing in trays piled high with jellies, tarts, chocolates, creams. People began to push back chairs, to move up and down the long banquet table. The maids of honor from the various English royal households—Queen Catherine’s, the Duchess of York’s—sat in a cluster at one end of the table.