The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (16 page)

‘Bugger the play!’ snapped Clermont.
 
‘I want the insolent cow dismissed.’

There was a sudden, deathly hush during which Athenais stood very still, trying not to show that her heart was thudding against her ribs and her stomach a mass of painful knots.
 
For a lot longer than she thought necessary, Manager Laroque communed silently with the ceiling.
 
Then, expelling a long breath, he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Arnaud.
 
No.’

For a moment, none of his listeners could believe they had heard him correctly.
 
Clermont’s jaw dropped and Athenais groped her way feebly into the nearest chair.
 
Finally, in something less than his usual rounded tones, Clermont said, ‘What?
 
What
did you say?’

‘I said no,’ responded the manager, still calmly but with utter finality. ‘I can’t dismiss Mademoiselle de Galzain merely because you and she have quarrelled.
 
Particularly when, as I understand it, she has a certain amount of right on her side.’

Athenais’s breath leaked away.

Clermont, on the other hand, demanded glacially, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Simply that I don’t expect a player of your stature and experience to take his personal feelings on to the stage at all – and particularly not before an audience.
 
Consequently, I have some sympathy with Mademoiselle’s anger, if not her method of expressing it.’
 
Laroque paused and spread expressive hands.
 
‘As Antoine has said, there is fault on both sides.
 
So I suggest that the two of you agree to put the episode behind you and forget that it ever happened.’

‘Impossible!’ declared Clermont.

Athenais re-inflated her lungs and stood up.

‘Why?
 
Come on, Arnaud.
 
I’ll kiss and make up if you will.’

‘And stab me in the back later on, no doubt,’ he retorted.
 
The burning gaze encompassed Froissart.
 
‘Antoine – I appeal to you.
 
After what she said to me – and you heard it all – I can’t possibly work with the little bitch.
 
Nor do I intend to try.’

Froissart contemplated his finger-nails, saying nothing and there was another long, airless silence before, finally, Manager Laroque came to his feet.

‘I’m truly sorry you feel that way, Arnaud – and can only hope that you’ll change your mind when you’ve had time to consider the matter,’ he said clearly.
 
And, looking straight into the actor’s florid countenance, added gently, ‘It goes without saying that I would be desolate to lose you.’

This time the silence was of epic proportions.
 
Athenais, a sudden flush mantling her cheek, kept her mouth tightly shut and left Clermont to voice her own thought.

‘Do you mean to say,’ he asked gratingly, ‘that you are choosing this – this
doxy
in preference to myself?’

‘Only if you force me to it,’ replied Laroque. ‘I don’t deny that you are valuable, Arnaud. But I have felt for some time that your ego is stifling the company … and I’m getting a little tired of your whims.
 
In short, you are becoming exceedingly difficult to work with.’

Athenais folded her arms to stop herself applauding.

Clermont opened and closed his mouth rather in the manner of a cod.
 
Then, apparently unable to think of a suitable reply, he spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door with an almighty crash.

Athenais and Froissart winced. Laroque sighed and said, ‘God.
 
How predictable.’

Drawing a steadying breath, Athenais said, ‘Monsieur, I don’t know what to say except thank you – and I promise I’ll work till I drop rather than let you down.’

‘You’d better,
ma fille
– because, if I’m any judge, Clermont is already on his way to offer his services to Floridor at the Bourgogne.’
 
Laroque walked to the door and then, turning, added, ‘As for your gratitude, it would be better addressed to Antoine, here.
 
If he hadn’t convinced me that your recent success isn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan, I might have felt inclined to hold on to Clermont.
 
Pain in the arse though he is.’
 
On which note, he was gone.

Athenais curbed a faintly hysterical giggle and launched into a passionate expression of gratitude – only to realise that Froissart wasn’t listening.

‘
Merde!
’ he muttered bitterly. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to go on myself tonight.’

*
 
*
 
*

Word of Laroque’s stand and Froissart’s part in it went round the company like wild-fire and earned the assistant-manager a resounding cheer from which only Marie d’Amboise remained aloof.
 
A faint, sardonic smile touched Froissart’s mouth and then disappeared as he instructed Etienne Lepreux to take the role of Rodrigue during the rehearsal.
 
He said nothing, however, to suggest that the part was to be permanently re-cast and Etienne wisely asked no questions, merely setting to work with renewed zest.
 
Everyone else eyed Athenais with perplexity verging on wary respect.

By the time the rehearsal was over and Athenais was alone with Pauline Fleury, perplexity had somehow been transformed into speculation and then into fast-moving rumour.

‘What?’ gasped Athenais, when Pauline told her. ‘They think I’m
what?
’

‘Sleeping with Froissart.
 
After what just happened, what did you expect them to think?
 
You know they haven’t much imagination.’

Athenais gave a gurgle of laughter.

‘Or too much.
 
I never heard anything so silly.
 
Everyone knows Froissart’s never looked at another woman since he married Amalie.
 
And if he hears anyone saying he has, he’s likely to murder them.’

‘So Marie d’Amboise had better watch her step,’ grinned Pauline.
 
Then, thoughtfully, ‘Your stock has risen significantly today.
 
Clermont may not come back – and Laroque can’t afford to lose you as well.
 
So now would be a good time to ask for an increase in pay.’

For a moment, Athenais was tempted.
 
Then, shaking her head, she said, ‘I can’t.
 
He’s done enough for me already. I can’t ask for money as well.’

Pauline stared at her acidulously.

‘Then you’re an idiot.
 
How often do you suppose a chance like this comes along?’

‘Not very often.
 
But I owe Froissart --’

‘You owe him your best on stage.
 
You owe yourself some half-decent lodgings. My God, Athenais – if you don’t look out for yourself in this world, no one else will.’

‘I know.
 
And I know you mean well and are probably right.
 
But I won’t do it.’

‘Very noble!
 
But you’d be better saving your principles till you can afford them.’

‘It’s not principle.
 
It’s more than that.’
 
Athenais paused and added wryly, ‘I expected to be thrown out on my ear today, Pauline – and all because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut with a conceited old bugger who everyone knows is past it.
 
But it’s taught me a lesson.
 
I’m never going to risk being dismissed again – not for anything.
 
Because I know I couldn’t bear it.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

Four days later, in a dingy attic overlooking a crumbling courtyard behind the Bastille, Major Langley stared across at Colonel Peverell and said gently, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong … but with scarcely a
sou
between us, the rent unpaid for three weeks, our credit utterly exhausted and nothing left worth selling – it appears that our situation is becoming the tiniest bit precarious.’

Idly casting dice, right hand against left, Ashley said absently, ‘Just a touch, yes.’

‘I’m so glad you agree.
 
I wouldn’t wish to be unnecessarily alarmist.
 
It’s just that my stomach is beginning to think my throat’s been cut.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘Quite.
 
So unless Jem finds a rich pocket to pick --’

‘He’d better not,’ said Ashley.

Francis sighed.
 
The remark had been flippant.
 
He was perfectly well-aware that Jem’s inexpert attempts at dipping had threatened to land him behind bars and caused the Colonel to threaten that Mr Barker could either desist or face a future without a certain vital piece of his anatomy.

‘No,’ said Francis mildly. ‘I suppose he hadn’t.
 
So it appears that we’re left with only one option. Who do we know who can lend us some money?’

‘You tell me.
 
No one I know has got any money.’

This, also, was all-too-depressingly true.
 
The entire court-in-exile was living hand-to-mouth in an ever-deepening quagmire of debt.
 
Even the King, dwelling infelicitously with his mother in the draughty, unheated rooms of the Louvre, seldom had more than a couple of
livres
in his pocket.
 
The meagre pension granted to him by the French crown rarely amounted to much by the time Henrietta Maria had extracted the exact cost of every crumb he ate; and, since Cond
é
’s advance had caused the French royal family to retreat to St. Germain, it had ceased completely.
 
As for his supporters, some were lucky enough to occasionally receive funds from their relatives in England.
 
Others – like Francis, whose family had gone into exile ahead of him or Ashley, whose brother had embraced the winning side – had nothing but their wits.

Major Langley examined the threadbare cuff of his coat. Time was when he’d believed it was better to starve than be shabby … but Colchester and the six months it had taken Ashley and himself to reach Paris had changed all that.

At Colchester, he’d joked about eating turnips until the turnips were gone and the joke with them.
 
Later, his insides heaving with revulsion, he’d watched hollow-eyed men killing dogs and cats to feed themselves and their starving families.
 
And gradually, as day succeeded day, he had faced the ultimate horror. He’d learned that when your stomach was cleaving to your backbone, nothing existed in your head except a primitive urge to survive. And that was when Francis had looked deep inside himself for the first time and recognised something cataclysmic.
 
All his life he’d believed that birth and privilege were an automatic passport to principle and the finer feelings generally unknown amongst the lower orders.
 
Now he knew that, in extreme circumstances, the differences boiled down to little more than a smattering of education and the quality of one’s coat.

Nothing, of course, could ever be quite that bad again.
 
The months on the road with Ashley – taking work where they could find it, eating labourers’ fare and sleeping, more often than not, in stable-lofts – had left callouses on his hands, not his soul.
 
He already knew he was no better than the man hoeing the furrow to his right … so he had nothing left to lose.

Without looking up, he said, ‘All right.
 
If you have an alternative suggestion, I’d be happy to hear it.’

Colonel Peverell leaned back and crossed one booted leg over the other.

‘We could follow the Duke of York’s example and enlist under Marshal Turenne.’

‘
You
could,’ retorted Francis. ‘
I’m
likely to be shot for desertion.’

‘Unlikely.
 
It’s been five years since you … discharged yourself from French service.
 
Use a false name and no one will know you.’

‘You’ll excuse me if I prefer not to take the risk.’

‘Oh well.
 
If you’re determined to be cautious …’ shrugged Ashley.
 
And recommenced his pointless dice-game.

Francis stared irritably through the dirty window and down into the courtyard below.
 
Like a good many others, he’d been sold to the French army after Naseby.
 
It had been the Parliament’s way, at that time, of disposing of Royalist soldiers who would otherwise have to be fed and housed in prison. At the first opportunity and without a single qualm, Francis had deserted and returned to England.
 
Many of the others, he was fairly sure, had chosen to stay and forge a career.
 
So it was all very well for Ashley to say no one would know him.
 
The way his luck had been running recently, Francis felt there was a good chance he’d be recognised before he’d got both feet through the barrack door.

This problem aside, something would have to be done – and fast.
 
Quite apart from the daily question of how to afford a meal, he and Ashley were beginning to get on each other’s nerves.
 
Francis was quite prepared to accept that there was fault on both sides.
 
They were, after all, very different.
 
But in the weeks since their arrival in Paris, Ashley had changed considerably.
 
In Scotland, at Worcester and throughout their subsequent travels, he’d been possessed of the kind of energy and ability to plan that left lesser men dizzy.
 
Now he was gradually becoming so damned lethargic that Francis was often surprised he bothered to get out of bed.
 
His only interest appeared to be indulging in numerous cold-blooded flirtations just to see what havoc he could wreak.
 
And worst of all, his sense of humour was vanishing beneath a layer of moody impatience.

The culprit was inactivity.
 
Unemployment plainly didn’t suit Ashley and he was reacting badly to it.
 
Left to his own devices, Francis was happy to cruise the book-stalls, gorging himself on plays and poetry he couldn’t afford to buy or spend an hour or two trying to win the price of a meal at cards or dice.
 
Ashley simply mouldered.

Down in the square, a shabby sedan chair carried by two brawny youths came to a halt beneath their window.
 
Francis eyed it with vague interest.
 
People who lived in this district couldn’t afford hired conveyances and rarely had visitors who could.
 
Then the door of the chair opened and a woman stepped out.
 
She gave her red taffeta skirts a deft shake and glanced disparagingly up at the house.

‘Oh Lord.
 
Now
what?’ breathed Francis.
 

Ashley looked up.
 
‘What is it?’

‘Joy over-bounding,’ came the bitter reply.
 
‘The answer to one problem, perhaps … but the beginning of a hundred others.
 
In short, it’s my sister.’

‘Ah.’
 
Colonel Peverell placed the dice neatly side by side and surveyed Francis thoughtfully.
 
He had known that the Major’s mother hovered on the periphery of the widowed Queen’s circle, while his father dithered around Sir Edward Hyde … and also that there was a sister somewhere … but he’d never met any of them.
 
He also suspected that, if the rarity with which they were mentioned was anything to go by, Francis saw precious little of them himself.
 
Knowing what it was to be distanced from one’s family, Ashley did not find this particularly odd.
 
And because, unlike Francis, he never indulged in idle curiosity, he neither speculated on the possible causes of the estrangement nor enquired into them.

Even now, with the mysterious sister apparently on her way up the stairs to their door, he merely rose and said, ‘I’ll go, if you prefer it.’

Francis turned, his expression smooth and brittle as glass.

‘No.
 
Stay, by all means.
 
She must want something or she wouldn’t be here - so with any luck, she’ll pay for our supper.
 
And you never know, you may like her.
 
I did myself, once.’

There being no obvious reply to this, Ashley sat down and maintained a discreet silence.

‘Very wise,’ drawled Francis.
 
‘Life can be tricky, can’t it?
 
How much better if, like a play, there were a script for it.’
 
He moved to the door and the sound of approaching footsteps outside it.
 
‘Act One, Scene One.
 
The curtain rises on a sparsely-furnished garret.
 
Down-stage left, Colonel Discretion; up-stage right, Sir Threadbare Pride; enter Lady Wanton Coldheart.’
 
And he threw open the door.

Taken by surprise, her hand poised to knock, Celia started violently and forgot to smile.

‘For heaven’s sake, Francis!’ she said crossly. ‘You nearly gave me an apoplexy.’

Francis’s expression did not flicker by so much as a hair’s breadth.
 
Closing the door behind her, he said, ‘Good afternoon, Celia.
 
I am delighted to see you, too.’

Rising from his seat, Ashley instantly recognised the dark beauty he’d met at the Marais with One-Eyed Will and thought,
Hell’s teeth.
 
So that’s it
.

Irritated but determined not to show it, Celia smiled at her brother and tilted her cheek to be kissed.
 
Then, when he awarded her no more than a cursory bow, she twined a cajoling hand through his arm and said, ‘Don’t be horrid.
 
I know you don’t approve of me – but you must still love me a little bit.’

‘Must I?’

‘Of course.
 
I’m your sister.’

‘So you are.’
 
Disengaging himself in one fluid movement, Francis gestured towards Ashley and said, ‘You will perceive that we’re not alone.
 
Allow me to present my friend, Colonel Peverell.
 
Ashley … my sister, Celia Maxwell.’

According Ashley the briefest of curtsies and scarcely looking at him, Celia rounded on Francis, saying, ‘Don’t call me that!
 
I’m Celia Verney now.’

Dark brows rose over mocking sapphire eyes.

‘Oh?
 
He’s married you, then?’

‘Not yet.
 
But he will.
 
And sooner than you think.’

‘Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath.’
 
Then, as she would have spoken, ‘Celia.
 
This bone of contention is already so well-picked as to make further exploration totally pointless, don’t you think?
 
And I’m sure Ashley has no desire to watch us quarrelling.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Ashley lightly. ‘Quarrel away.
 
I’m going out.’

Celia looked at him properly for the first time, a faint frown marking her brow.
 
She said slowly, ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?
 
At … at the theatre, I think?’

Damn
.
 
He’d been hoping she might not remember.
 
Summoning a smile, he said, ‘Indeed we did.
 
Did you think I’d forgotten?’

Celia always responded well to male charm and good looks.
 
Dimpling, she said flirtatiously, ‘How would I know, sir?
 
I’m sure you can’t recall every female face you see.’

‘Not all.
 
Only the pretty ones.’

It wasn’t entirely untrue, he thought.
 
Although a little too plump for his personal taste, the glossy dark curls, long-lashed blue eyes and pouting mouth combined to make her a remarkably lovely woman.
 
She was probably about thirty; ripe, luscious and wholly enticing.
 
The sort few men would resist if she chose to crook her finger.

From across the room, Francis said, ‘Dear me.
 
How very intriguing.
 
The two of you are already acquainted, then?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ returned Ashley, mindful of the obvious pitfalls.
 
‘And at the time we met, I had no idea that Mistress … Verney … was your sister.’

‘No,’ agreed Francis dryly. ‘You wouldn’t have.
 
Do I take it that you also had the pleasure of meeting dear Hugo?’

‘Yes he did,’ snapped Celia.
 
‘And there’s no need to be sarcastic.
 
Hugo loves me.’

‘So,’ responded Francis, ‘did Eden.’

An odd expression crossed the beautiful face and, instead of answering back, Celia said, ‘Actually, it was Eden I wanted to talk to you about.’