Mary Gentle (58 page)
Authors: A Sundial in a Grave-1610
My mind descended into panic.
I don’t want her to think I am enamoured of Lanier!
Better
that she thinks it. If she believes I have another woman….
But how may I let her think I’ve offered her such an insult as to be my choice only because Lanier is missing?
If I don’t speak, she’ll assume….
Dariole sat beside me, head down, staring at the grass that men’s boots had already begun to wear away. Over the camouflaging noise of loud conversations around us, she said, “Why did you say you were sorry? What are you sorry for?”
Without premeditation, I spoke the truth. “For being so stupid as to ask you to lie with me when you were raped not long ago, and raped
here
.”
Her head came up. The pupils of her eyes were dilated enough that all appeared black to me. I ached.
She said, “You don’t want me, messire.”
Reaching out, I grabbed her hand.
The one time she should not have let me have her hand, and she did.
I pushed it into my crotch. Through silk and linen, my male member stood up hard against my belly.
“What’s
that?
” I said roughly. “Except desire—”
She shrank away.
It was nothing like any movement I had seen her make before. Her whole body tensed and pulled back from mine, her fingers splayed out rigid.
“Oh God!” I let go of her hand.
In remorse, and in full view of any man who might watch us under the darkening sky, I scrambled around onto my hands and knees, and sat back. “I’m sorry! Dariole—forgive me—”
The earth did not turn; the grass did not shift under my knees; I was not so drunk. Had I been, my rebellious pride would not have been standing up as it did. I felt a disorientation, nonetheless, reached out, and found myself grabbing at her boot-tops, where she sat with her knees up and her arms clasped about her shins.
I let go as if they were forge-hot metal. “I don’t mean to beg in play, either!”
It took more courage than I had imagined to look at her.
Her face in the darkening evening showed white and unresponsive. I did not look around me.
“I know you must want nothing now to do with any man. Dariole—I am sorry!”
She put her hand out and touched my temple, one of her fingers sliding down my hair.
Mlle Dariole is well-known to me: how she carries, bears, and cultivates grudges for injury. And for such an injury as this!
I did not know, before, what your forgiveness for it would be like.
Unbearable.
The pads of her fingers moved to my cheek. She rubbed them under my eyes. “You’re wet, messire.”
What brought me to outright despair was not that I all but wept, so much as the smile in her voice—tremulous, a little shaky; but for all that, there. For that, I might well feel one hot tear ooze out from under my eyelid.
“I am any kind of fool,” I said harshly. “I should have had the sense to beg pardon of you long before now. Then perhaps I would not treat you so badly. Ah, mademoiselle! How is it that you can forgive me?”
“Because you asked me to.”
The shock of it reverberated through me.
She stopped, evidently considering it.
“You do not hate me,” I said foolishly.
The smallest curve appeared at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers moved to my hair, and she wrapped them in a long curl; tugged.
“Sometimes, messire, you’re very slow….”
“Don’t.” I sat back, away from her, shaking the fog out of my head. “There is this place between us; there is Fludd. Because I am too callow to understand you…I am not safe for you! Haven’t I just proved that? Dariole, I want what a boy half my age wants: I want
you
. I am not safe in your presence.”
The too easy acceptance went out of her expression. I could have done more weeping than one tear, but how would I look then?
And she has besides had too much of a drunken man’s slobberings for one night.
“I should have more sense than to get drunk, mademoiselle.” I made an effort to sound suitably contrite. “I apologise. Forget you’ve heard anything tonight. I am old enough to see such a situation does not arise again.”
“God
damn
you, Rochefort!” Dariole stood, a look on her face that I couldn’t interpret. “Who gave
you
the right to decide—”
She swung about and strode off. To all appearances, fury choked her.
Caught between shock, arousal, and a massive desire to get drunk, it was not until she was completely lost among the tents and crowds that I thought
I should have stopped her going
.
A quarter-hour by the Tower’s clocks: and I walked down to that part of the fortress where there is a river-gate they call Traitor’s Gate. The wind came cold off the water, cooling my cheeks. The lapping of the water echoed under the masonry arch. The peak of Summer, still: the last light not gone by nine, and a man not cold enough even for a cloak. Of those men of the Trained Bands that slept tonight, most would sleep in the open air.
Why do I desire her—and desire to protect her?
Something crystallises and a man cannot go back. What was only a possibility, unlikely as the stars interfering in human Fate, becomes a fact. And all is changed.
I looked down at my just visible reflection in the black water. Valentin Raoul Rochefort. Who was Valentin Raoul St Cyprian Anne-Marie de Cossé Brissac. And who is a fool.
Is it that I am arrogant enough to think I can take advantage of a young woman’s obvious crush, to fornicate with her?
You should be a friend, an uncle, a father,
I thought. Much as M. Saburo is to her. A mentor, a teacher. What in God’s name must she think of you? And when you go so far as to force her to
touch
….
I swung around and leaned my back against the chill stones of the wall. A colder sickness invaded my belly. It would not take much to make me puke.
Two yeomen warders passed on their guard, acknowledging me with respect. I bowed silently and moved off, walking between vast high stone walls and towers that have doubtless, in their sixteen centuries, seen more embarrassing incidents than a drunken middle-aged man forcing a young woman’s hand onto his prick.
Although I cannot, for the moment, imagine what.
“I’ll go to her and apologise.” I spoke to the night air; abruptly laughed. “Man to man….”
The cold air rendered me sober enough that I had no excuse.
I know what I will do, if I am in her presence.
I will fall at her feet, and grovel. Or else I will kiss her; try to prove to her that one man is not like another; that the one who abused her is an animal, and I am a man….
And she will have nothing but fear of me. I see it in her face.
I considered how gladly I would have had M. Dariole afraid of me in Paris, three months past, and laughed loud enough that the ravens startled in their roosts.
“I will write to her,” I told them.
I had little enough sleep that night, spending my time in my quarters, endlessly scribbling on sheets of paper, and then burning each one in the hearth.
I have not been known as a man at a loss for words, when they are needed. The education of a gentleman beat into me the rudiments of letters, oratory, spiritual confession.
About two of the clock, I found myself writing sonnets in strict measure—a disreputable spy and dishonoured gentleman thinking he can write Petrarch to a sixteen-year-old girl!—and had the bare amount of sense necessary to conclude that I was not in my right mind. I burned my poetry. It was very bad.
I can put nothing to paper, I thought, gazing out of the black window. Yet I want to have explained myself to her before we meet again, likely in public. So far, I am no further forward in any effort than “Mademoiselle, I apologise.” After that, my letters descend into convoluted gibberish.
An hour before dawn, I fell asleep with my head on my desk. Neither the clocks, nor the boy I had paid to bring me shaving water, woke me.
I stirred at last with a pulled muscle in my neck, and the sun putting the shadows of the lattice windows over the papers in front of me.
There were no linen samurai garments laid out on my bed; I stayed in my own clothes, disreputable as they now appeared. With no more ceremony than dousing my head in a bucket of water, I struggled rapidly into cloak and hat, half-ran to the stables as I buckled on my rapier, and—a hundred yards beyond the Tower gate, unshaven, and with my eyes speared by the brilliance of the dawn sun—caught up with the escort of the Nihonese Ambassador.
36
T
he stables had given me a bay with more desire to roll on the grass of Tower-hill than anything else; I brought him up into the Nihonese Ambassador’s train and edged my way through to the centre of the mass as we entered the city.
Men crowded the open streets behind us, and a number followed for a dozen yards—men from the Guilds, men merely curious; a few of Henry’s supporters making noises of discontent at the samurai, “King James’s Demon.” I noted several other Ambassadors as we rode up the highway, and my heart contracted as I vainly looked for the Ambassador of France.
Dariole gave me a glare. She wore samurai head-gear—which turned out to be a cloth covering, part of which wrapped across the bottom of the face, with all covered to cheekbones, and from brows up. It would be a clever man who could recognise her in that and samurai linen robes.
Saburo rode at the head of our small train, with yeomen warders loaned to his Majesty by Sir William Waad. Behind Saburo rode a man in the samurai’s own outlandish dress, of very much the same conformation as him: heavy in the body, broad across the shoulders.
A man would not know the King in what M. Saburo called kimono and hakama, and with his face covered; so much appeared certain. I could not help but smile.
Dariole turned in the saddle. “Heavy night, messire?”
Her tone held icy formality and sarcasm. She had her hand down on her hanger as she rode, where she wore her rapier over the samurai clothing.
I groaned under my breath. With the bay about to take advantage, I recovered my grip on the reins. Apprehension grew within me, that was nothing to do with the likelihood of a duel.
If she were another kind of woman, I thought—if she were a woman in the court, in skirts—I would understand what my sin is.
If she were another woman, my unpardonable sin would be that I did not come to her bed last night.
Watching the anger on her face, I wondered,
Is it indeed so?
Despite this matter of Fludd that lies between us? And if it is, does she know herself well enough to understand that?
“You would have been afraid of a man’s touch,” I said, in French, as quietly as I might. “Rightly so, at present; all I could have done was frighten you.”
She rubbed her hand against the muffler of linen that covered the lower half of her face, as if it were uncomfortable. Her eyes were perfectly cold. “I’m not afraid of you. Under any circumstances.”
I clenched my fist.
Oh, that was well said, Rochefort…
We passed into the shadow of St Paul’s and slowed as we came to Fleet Street, it being busier.
Still in French, and too quietly for any other man to hear, I said, “Here, where I may do nothing else, may I ask you to forgive me?”
The look she gave me was open, self-possessed, and rather older than one might expect from a woman of her years. I found myself reminded that most women of her years have not spent a year or two in Paris, living by the sword, and killing or injuring her fellow man.
“Messire, we may not be at home in Paris, but there’s still a gutter here, and you can end up in it!”
I winced, but did not let it show.
Yes, I am correct; yes, there is no apology I may make.
Ahead, the yeomen warders slowed. I realised we had come far enough towards Middle Temple to be at our destination—Prince Henry’s room, as it had been known before his accession; set aside for meetings of the council of the Duchy of Cornwall. The arrival cut off any possibility of converse with Mlle Dariole: I regretted that, with a sick ache that was part heart-ache, part hangover.
The house stood on the south side of Fleet Street, the Prince’s room at the front, in the jettied first storey. I thought it a poor place from the outside: merely oak beams and plaster and a little carving. We dismounted and were escorted in, by men in Henry’s livery. Upstairs, they ushered us into a broad light room panelled in oak, the jewel of which was a great white ornamented plaster ceiling, the initials
P
and
H
and the Prince of Wales’ three feathers bold in the centre of the complex patterns. It was of a quality that a man might almost have thought commissioned by a Frenchman.
A long table stood down the centre of the room, uncomfortably reminiscent of the one used for cover in Wookey caves. As we entered, a small, hunched black figure rose to his feet.
Two of Cecil’s men accompanied us into the room. They spared no real attention for the two extra ronin—
they are used to M. Saburo,
I realised. And I am a useful distraction: the notorious duellist Rochefort…
I moved to the King’s side, with Mlle Dariole behind him. Painful as the admission may be, of the four of us, she is capable of defending herself far better than he.
I had expected a cry of “Arrest the pretender!” the moment we entered the building. None came.
And still none comes,
I thought. Although there may still be one before we leave. But for the moment, Mademoiselle Dariole’s play-borrowing works. Dear God.
Finding myself beginning to sweat, I smiled sardonically, wishing myself also safe from being seen, beneath Nihonese head-gear.
The diminutive Robert Cecil received Saburo’s bow. There was no sign of the Prince—or King—yet; that did not surprise me. Henry leaves Cecil to sound us out, first.
And
where
is Doctor Robert Fludd?
Cecil seated himself as the samurai did. As I moved forward and took my place behind Saburo’s chair, beside the King, there was a great deal of ruffling between myself and Cecil’s gentlemen, of the kind that goes unnoticed by any man who has not been bodyguard or gentleman-in-waiting to some powerful man. M. Saburo grunted to himself—in a European, I thought, it would have been laughter.
“If I may open proceedings unusually,” Robert Cecil remarked, a little dry. “Why is the Ambassador from the Japans accompanied by Monsieur de Rochefort?”
He looked no different from when I had seen him on Henry’s ceremonial barge: thin, hunched, eyes preternaturally bright, all his posture speaking power and confidence. I bowed, as a French gentleman should, speedily collecting my thoughts.
“Milord, because I have been in the King’s company from the masque at Wookey to this day: I can witness that he is indeed no impostor.” I looked at him steadily. “That it is indeed James Stuart, First of England and Sixth of Scotland, who has taken up his stand in the armoury of the Tower. And,” I added, “it is the father who will give joy to his son, when the Prince beholds him alive again.”
Cecil placed the tips of his pale fingers together. “Or—forgive me, Master Rochefort—it is an actor who resembles the late King, by whom rebellion can be fomented against King Henry.”
“The King will prove himself, Seso-sama,” Saburo interjected politely. “When he consider it right.”
I gave a shrug, holding Cecil’s gaze. “Once you lay eyes on him, milord, the matter is done. Prince Henry’s regrettable error can be rectified. And the less judicious counsellors to the young Prince, such as Master Fludd, can be relieved of their posts and held to account.”
Cecil frowned, very slightly, the long features moving into something lugubrious. “You are too much involved in this, Master Rochefort. Pardon my unusual frankness, but there are undoubtedly Catholics in France who would welcome confusion about the succession to the English throne, especially with the Huguenots in disarray as they now are.”
Something has happened,
I thought, coldness tightening in my belly. What? To the Duke my master?
“Here you are, in conjunction with another dead monarch,” Cecil remarked, his voice clipped. He fixed dark eyes on me. “I warn you, Master Rochefort: if I find the slightest evidence that you were connected with the accident that took the late King James from us, I will have your entrails out of your body, and your head on London-bridge, whether the court at St Germain likes it or no!”
Suppressed anger burned in his voice. That and the whiter patches on his cheeks would have put me in fear, if I had been the man he thought me.
Things being as they were, I felt warmly pleased. I did not catch James’s eye, fearing he might betray the masquerade too soon.
“
Are
you Catholic?” Cecil demanded.
“I am with your late Queen on this,” I said. “As to not making windows into men’s souls. A man’s religion is his own business, if indeed he has any religion. After the late wars in
if
he does. Milord, I am no hired Catholic assassin. I am here only as witness to the identity of the living James Stuart.”
Cecil’s expression, which had begun to relax, tightened almost imperceptibly. “If I were you, Master Rochefort, I should take care to depart from these shores while it is possible. King Henry is not liable to be merciful to men who play with his late father’s name and honour. Master Ambassador Saburo, I beg your pardon: this is not business with which I should interrupt your mission.”
Saburo grunted. “I’m only a humble captain of ashigaru, Lord Seso. Forgive an old soldier bluntness. We’ve no need to talk of will King Henry forgive this or that. Is no King Henry. Is King James, alive; I give word as a samurai.”
Cecil bowed his head, acknowledging the samurai. “While it’s true there were irregularities about the late King’s death—”
“You see.” Saburo planted his broad finger in the air, pointing at Cecil. “You’re magistrate. Judge. Investigate crime.”
The tiny man’s brows rose. More unguarded than I had yet seen him, he remarked, “Were I of the present King Henry’s party, or likewise were my lord Justice Coke, such a thing might be done. I am not. As matters stand, there is—forgive me, Master Ambassador—King Harry, Ninth of that name, King of England and Scotland, to whom we here owe our loyalty.”
“Not of the King’s party?” I got the question in bare moments before James Stuart spoke, catching him out of the corner of my eye opening his mouth. “Are you not Henry’s counsellor, Milord Secretary?”
“The young King has, as is natural, preferred the young men of his own party.” Cecil spoke deliberately to Saburo, as if the Nihonese man had asked the question. “It is possible we should debate various matters with the King of Japan. There may well be war with
A number of things came together in my mind, and sufficiently added themselves to her absence from the Tower. “Mistress Lanier told you that, milord.”
Still playing Fludd’s game for him, it seems.
Cecil looked up at me. I guessed him shaken by the events of the last week. He gave himself away as feeling irritated at having to speak with the Duc de Sully’s spy again.
“I cannot understand you, Master Rochefort. The Lanier woman’s evidence confirms all you have told me about a conspiracy to kill King James. She claims Master Fludd to be the chief mover.”
Ah, does she, indeed? Attempting to ride two horses together: that is rarely wise.
“Have you arrested him?” I put in.
“Doctor Fludd is not in London, it appears.”
Does he
know
this? Or….
I did not look at Dariole. I knew what she thought.
Even Milord Cecil is not infallible
.
Mr Secretary Cecil sat back in his chair, his white face paler in the bright room. Ill-tempered, he snapped, “You appear with this nonsensical player-king—”
Saburo lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Cecil. “Send your men out. Will discuss matters of confidence.”
“And your men, will they also withdraw?”
“They don’t speak English,” Saburo said—even-toned, I noted, as he lied himself black in the face. “Send away men, Seso-sama.”
Cecil hesitated a long moment. He lifted a hand, finally, signalling his two men to leave. Both burly men glanced at each other. The Secretary snapped, “Go!”
A longer moment of hesitation passed, on their parts; both then crossed the room and left. The carved oak door banged shut behind them.
Those are Henry’s men,
I thought. Cecil isn’t trusted. Now there is a matter of interest.
Cecil spoke before Saburo could.
“Hear me, Master Ambassador. The evidence of a foreigner from the Japans, a French spy, and a woman playwright, will not suffice to prove conspiracy by an honest English Prince.”
In the sunlit room, with the noise of the distant crowd coming in through the glass windows, and the smell of fresh paint apparent from somewhere in the house, I set myself at attention, and looked down at the small, hunched man in his funereal black.
“It might serve to convict Master Fludd,” I said. “And that, besides ridding your lordship of a dangerous traitor, would have the advantage of putting you into the new King Henry’s good graces.”
Cecil looked flinty at me. “I am not of the war party. The Prince’s fledgling court was always composed of men opposed to myself and the late King. He has my lord of Northumberland and Sir Walter released from the Tower:
there
is his government.”
