Suzanne Robinson (4 page)

He’d found it was an instrument much desired at the
French court by women, and ofttimes by men, as well. Yet each woman who succumbed transformed herself in his mind into a tool much like himself, though none were aware of his thoughts on the matter. So, as the new year progressed, he conceived of a desire for something more. What this might be, he couldn’t guess. He knew a discontent that burned in his chest, a heavy molten chain surrounding his heart.

He looked at the bed, but Claude was still sleeping. Soon, perhaps in a few days, he would lead her into conversations she would consider gossip. The gossip would eventually light upon Charles de Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, uncle to Mary, Queen of Scots. His friend Christian de Rivers, and Cecil, Queen Elizabeth’s chief minister, discounted the cardinal’s ability to make mischief in England. Blade knew better. The cardinal’s spies infested every court in Europe, and in spite of being occupied with persecuting French Protestants and scheming to control the French boy king, he hadn’t given up on putting his niece on the throne of England.

Neither Christian nor Cecil understood Charles de Guise. Blade had understood him ever since he’d watched the man laugh at the antics of a Protestant heretic dancing on the charred stump of a leg in the flames that burned him alive. The cardinal at once combined bigotry, blind faith, a love of great art, and unmatched desire for power. Elizabeth counted upon the cardinal’s desire to wrest power from Catherine de Medici, the queen mother, and the religious wars of France to keep the de Guises from meddling in English affairs.

Blade knew that few temptations would be more irresistible to the cardinal than seeing one of his lineage rule both Scotland and England. And he had trained his niece to believe the crown of England to be rightfully hers as the niece of Henry VIII. Lately the cardinal had entertained many English visitors at a banquet given for Elizabeth’s ambassador. Whenever the cardinal sought out English company, Blade grew wary.
The covers on the bed stirred, and Claude’s blond head poked out from under them. “Nicholas?”

“I am coming.”

He slipped beneath the sheets. Claude threw an arm across his chest and shoved him into the pillows. Her hands kneaded the muscles of his arms and pressed into the flesh of his buttocks. He resisted the urge to thrust her hands away and was relieved when she left off exploring his body, climbed on top of him, crossed her arms on his chest, and grinned at him.

“I am well content with my wager. I’ve taken you from Louise St. Michel and given myself more pleasure than I thought possible. The vicomte will be furious.” Claude giggled.

Blade shoved her off his body and began to free himself of the tangle of covers. With a cry of protest, Claude grabbed him and pulled him back beneath her.

“What ails you?” she asked.

“I dislike being treated like an amusing trinket you hang from your girdle and display to your friends.”

“Oh, poor sweet infant, I’ve touched your pride. Does it not flatter you that so many compete for your favors? The vicomte would give a purse of gold to be here.”

Blade scowled at her. “I trust you haven’t invited him.”

“Of course not.”

“Nor anyone else.”

“Non
. I’ve no desire to share, but you know the court. Even the cardinal made a jest about my penchant for you.”

Blade went still. “And what does he know of it? We have never met.”

“La, he and I had a great quarrel but a fortnight ago. He dared to leave my bed to write letters.” Claude slapped Blade’s chest. “To write letters! I told him he hadn’t worked hard enough if he could still pick up a
quill. He fell into a rage. His face turned crimson and he sputtered like an overheated pudding.”

“I don’t believe you. The cardinal? God’s breath, Claude, you try to make yourself important by claiming a powerful man as your lover.” Blade cast a sideways glance at the woman.

“I do not,” Claude said. “He is my lover.”

“Sacré Dieu
, I think not.”

Claude sat up and glared at him. “He is. You may ask the vicomte or St. André, or your stupid St Michel.”

“That I won’t do,” Blade said. “I do not ask people about the lovers of a cardinal.”

“Very well. I can prove it another way. I saw the letter he was writing.”

Stretching his arms wide and yawning, Blade shook his head. “You could make up any fantasy you wished and claim you saw it in a letter.”

“Non
, this letter was too odd. Its very strangeness will be my proof, for it spoke of times long past, and events of no importance to France.”

“Let us send for something to eat.” Blade sat up and scooted toward the edge of the bed.

Claude captured him in her arms from behind. “You’ll have no food until you admit I am beautiful enough to snare the Cardinal of Lorraine.”

“Let go,” Blade said. He groaned when Claude boxed him lightly on the ear. “Very well, tell me of this wondrous letter. Mayhap I will believe you.”

“Oh, it was most strange. The cardinal was writing to someone about the old English king, Henry VIII. He told someone to inquire about Henry’s second queen. What was her name? Anne? He told someone to find out about Anne and an old lover, who was also named Henry. Imagine, the great Cardinal of Lorraine bothering to find out whether some dead queen had a lover.”

Blade said nothing. He allowed Claude to pull him
back down on the mattress. She smacked kisses all over his face and chest.

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

“I asked if you believed me.”

“Oh, I suppose I must. The story is too unimportant and passing odd. I’m sure you wouldn’t make up so unlikely a tale.”

Claude continued babbling about how she would preen herself before the vicomte and enjoy her victory.

Never had Blade been forced to play his part so carefully as in the hours and days that followed. To leave beforetimes would arouse Claude’s ire. He didn’t think her clever enough to suspect his reason for wishing to be gone, but he couldn’t risk arousing the curiosity of the cardinal, who no doubt watched Claude’s doings as he did nearly everyone else’s.

Thus it was a fortnight before he could take his leave of the garrulous Claude and ride back to Paris at an unhurried pace. Once safely behind the high gates of his town house, he summoned René, who was unpacking.

Settling in a chair, Blade propped his booted feet on a table and winced at the ache of muscles strained from long days in the saddle. When René entered his chamber, Blade had his eyes closed against the glare from a window.

“Mon seigneur.”

Blade opened his eyes and beckoned, and René went to kneel beside his chair.

“We leave for Calais tonight,” Blade murmured. “Ready my traveling clothes and food—nothing else I want to be in London as soon as possible. Give out that I’ve decided to spend the winter in the country.”

“But we’ve only just—”

Blade stared at René.

“Oui
, I will attend to it. I know that look.”

Less than a week later, Blade had slipped into a river boat at the London docks on his way to the queen’s
palace of Whitehall. By the time he reached the palace the sun was setting. Instead of going to the palace gates, he went to a nearby tavern after dispatching René with a message. He then climbed the stairs to a rented chamber and fell into bed. He was asleep in less than a minute.

At the first word Blade grasped the dagger he’d placed beneath his pillow and sprang at the singer. The invader was sitting beside him, and didn’t move when the tip of the dagger met the flesh at his throat.

“As bloodthirsty as of old, marchpane.”

“Christian, you sodding whoreson.”

Christian de Rivers laughed, snatched the dagger, and threw it at the door. It hit the wood and quivered, its tip embedded in the panel.

“Years at the French court and you still sound like a doxy’s brat.”

“Only in your presence.” Blade rubbed his eyes and yawned “René found you. What o’clock is it?”

“Past midnight, and the queen is furious that you sent no word of your coming.”

“There was no time. I gained some news that couldn’t be set to paper or trusted to a messenger.” Blade looked at the door. “René guards without?”

“Yes. Now, what has sent you flying out of that nest of civilized murderers, my comfit?”

“Anne Boleyn.”

“A dead queen?”

“The queen’s mother.”

Christian rose, picked up an iron poker, and stirred the dying embers in the fireplace opposite the bed. “What have France and Anne Boleyn in common?”

“The Cardinal of Lorraine.”

Blade took satisfaction in having startled his mentor.
There had been few times he’d been able to accomplish such a feat.

“Out with it, marchpane. You’ve had your amusement.”

“The cardinal has taken a sudden interest in the affair of Anne Boleyn and Lord Henry Percy, who was heir to the Earl of Northumberland.”

Christian tossed the poker aside “Why?”

“I can but guess.”

“Do so.”

“I believe the cardinal seeks to find proof that Anne Boleyn and Henry Percy were married.” Blade swung his legs off the bed and worked his shoulders free of kinks.

“Cardinal Wolsey broke up the match,” Christian said. “Vows of betrothal were exchanged, but no consummation took place … Ah.”

“Yes, what if there was a consummation?”

“Then the church would consider a marriage to have taken place, and any other marriage thereafter would have been null. And—”

“And thus Henry VIII’s marriage to Anne would be invalid in the eyes of Protestant and Catholic alike, and our queen would be the illegitimate issue of a royal liaison.”

Christian approached him and leaned on the bedpost. Blade sank back on the bed and covered his eyes with the back of his arm.

“The Catholics consider Mary Stewart the rightful queen,” Blade said, “and if our Bess is proved a bastard, many will clamor for Mary in her place. If the de Guises are concerning themselves with the marriage of Anne Boleyn and old King Harry, there can be but one reason. It is part of a greater plan—one involving Mary Stewart and the northern English Catholics. But how they will find proof of this consummation I don’t know.”

“Let me think.”

Christian rested his forehead against the bedpost. Blade had almost fallen asleep again when he felt Christian’s weight on the bed. He looked at the older man, and was surprised to see him staring at the bare wall by the door in horror.

“We could have civil war.”

“I know,” Blade said. “For the past five years I’ve watched France travel that road. At Vassy the Duc de Guise and his men slaughtered Protestants for singing too loudly. They raped girls and then hung them from the roofs of buildings for target practice.”

“God, Blade, we’ve just rid ourselves of that wretched Mary Tudor.”

“So you see why I made haste to come to you.”

“Yes, marchpane.” Christian smiled at him. “I am well recompensed for my tutelage.”

“Can you search the court records, and those of Cardinal Wolsey? There must be something written upon the matter. We have to find out what the de Guises are about.”

“I’ll begin tomorrow.”

“And while you’re at work, I shall visit your lovely wife and she will feed me. I haven’t seen Nora in more than a year.”

“Don’t get too fat, marchpane, for I’ve a feeling you’re going to be back on your horse soon, despite this foul new year’s clime.”

“Me?”

“Don’t look at me with such offense. You brought this plague to my doorstep, and you’ll damned well see to the curing of it.”

Northern England
January 1565

Oriel’s attention had strayed to a passage from Aristotle’s
Politics
that waited for her in Uncle Thomas’s library. It spoke about all persons alike sharing in government, and if Aunt Faith or cousin George knew what it said, they would have burned all the Greek books. Aunt Faith and cousin George didn’t like strange ideas.