Читать книгу Royal Blood - Rona Sharon - Страница 10

Hidden hostilities are more to be feared than open ones.

—Cicero: In Verrem II

Renée flounced upstairs in a mad dash. She had heard enough; she dared not risk exposure. Reaching ground level, she stomped her feet to dispose of dirt pellets, dusted her person of spiderwebs, and walked briskly toward the royal chambers, where she could disappear in the throng. The Duke of Buckinghamshire—descendent of King Edward III, King Henry’s heir presumptive, the lord high steward of England, the premier and wealthiest peer in the realm, richer than King Henry, holder of seats in twelve counties, and allied by blood and marriage to the oldest echelons of the nobility—planned to assassinate the King of England. Was that good or bad for her?

There were no rights and wrongs in politics, her royal sire would say, only implications. One had to analyze the situation from every angle, take into consideration the players, bear in mind one’s objectives, and astutely determine how best to manipulate the events to suit one’s purpose.

The king lived, the king died: which occurrence benefitted her the most?

If King Henry lived, naught would differ; expect perhaps the future of the house of Stafford. If King Henry died, Cardinal Wolsey would lose his buckler; Edward Stafford, the third Duke of Buckingham, would seize the crown. Buckingham was the leader of the disaffected nobles, a faction composed of Wolsey’s victims—nobles of the highest, longest, and proudest pedigrees who had lost time-honored positions and the king’s favor because of the up-and-rising son of an Ipswich butcher. Ergo, Buckingham’s first order of the day as king would be to depose the reviled lord chancellor. Two boars in one valley. But he was unaware of the card of ten Wolsey had up his sleeve, a card he would not hesitate to use should his royal master die. It was this card Renée was after.

Hitherto, her scheming had come to naught. Cardinal Wolsey had abjured her presentation to Their Majesties; the banquet he had planned in honor of the king and the Knights of the Garter in the gardens of his new palace of Hampton Court had been postponed. Her quiver of tricks and plots was empty. Should Buckingham assassinate the king, the cardinal would have no choice but to play his trump card, and all future occasions for snatching it would be lost to her. Unless…

Unless she struck at the opportune moment—the occasion of misrule! What better time than when news of the king’s murder reached the cardinal? Mayhem, fear, lawless confusion…

Hence, King Henry VIII must die.

Renée stopped in her peregrinations, unmindful of the perspiring bodies occluding the royal gallery. The last of her suspicions regarding the role she was destined to play in this treacherous game were dashed. Her puppeteers, King Francis and Cardinal Medici, had not been looking to retain the services of a spy or a thief or an assassin or a sophisticated harlot—they required all!

People had secrets. Knowledge was power. One person’s rise meant another’s downfall. At court one either lived on her wits or perished by stupidity. It was that simple. And as it turned out, her impulse had been correct. She had followed the king’s former mistress to a meeting with the third most powerful man in England to discuss the king’s assassination.

By whatever means, had been Cardinal Medici’s valediction before she boarded his ship, the luxurious caravel now docking at Gravesend. They had not chosen her by a roll of the dice. King Francis, believing her to be the reincarnation of his perfidious predecessor—a master at the art of high confidence—had handpicked her to suit Cardinal Medici’s needs. They accoutred her with trappings befitting her station, supplementing her already handsome wardrobe with extravagant jewels and gowns, assigned her a platoon of highly trained soldiers, signed all the documents she required, and attached her the marquis of her choice. In truth, she was on her own: an instrument masquerading as a princess on a peace mission, her position at court unspecified, even her sullied reputation a conducive factor in establishing her credibility as a featherheaded girl, one who had destroyed her chances of becoming queen somewhere by dallying with a nobody. No one would suspect her of possessing the guile necessary to aid the assassination of a king. Truth be told, she doubted she possessed it herself. But facilitate this assassination she must. So how did one assist conspirators without joining their ranks? By subtly removing obstacles from their path.

The duke’s plan was elementary yet efficient. Anne might need prodding. Who was the fair man? Whom was he spying for? He had seen her. He had her life in his hands. As she had his.

“Froward Renée, the royal French whore,” a man said behind her. “I wager you that in a fortnight the queen’s new maid of honor shall become the king’s well-ridden lady-in-waiting.”

Renée moved away. The day before she had heard a knight in the Duke of Norfolk’s retinue say to his mate: “If I had a drop of French blood in my body, I’d cut myself open to get rid of it, but I would not mind invading this morsel of France.” And his pewfellow had replied: “Were I you, Devereaux, I’d ride the spirited French mare all the way to a double dukedom.”

The gossip had arrived in England before she had, and true to the old adage, rumor gathered strength as it went. They thought her a wild piece, a wanton slut, and were speculating on the value of her dowry in gold, land, and demesnes. The men ogled her covetously. The ladies were gracious to her face and buzzed behind her back. Queen Katherine welcomed her with courteous wariness, as the Spanish distrusted all things French. King Henry was impassively hospitable; he weighed her in his male balance and decided to pass. Which suited her fine. She had no intention of entangling herself with another king. The only person she might partly confide in was due to arrive today: her bosom friend, the Lady Mary, the new Duchess of Suffolk.

Renée halted outside the king’s watching chamber, locally christened as the Guard Room. Sir Henry Marney, Vice Chamberlain of England and Captain of the Guard, was conversing with the officer in charge. “Keep good watch on the king’s grace and mind foreign fellows.”

The officer, a handsome colossus with a carrot mane and alert green eyes—Renée suspected all the yeomen responsible for safeguarding the king at all times were chosen for their height and pleasing countenances—nodded and resumed his perambulation among his subordinates.

She peeked inside the chamber. King Henry, immured in gaudy opulence and presiding over a busy swarm of ambitious sycophants, was joshing with his favorite gallants, receiving the out-of-town knights coming to attend the chapter, gulping wine, and polishing off a fruit platter. She spotted a pair of conspicuously scarlet ecclesiastical robes. Two cardinals? One was the supreme Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. Who was the other? Cardinal Campeggio? Still in London?

His Excellency the French ambassador, Monsieur Pierre-François le Marquis de Rougé, was conferring with the septuagenarian Duke of Norfolk, His Grace’s son, Earl of Surrey, and the rude, Gallophobic Sir Devereaux of the duke’s retinue. As she observed them, reading Rougé’s lips and disliking what she fathomed, the Duke of Buckingham bawled past her toward the king, a score of dashing, scabbard-rattling noble retainers forming his wake. Scornful of Wolsey’s ostentation, the duke was flamboyance personified in gilt crimson, with the heavy gold chains of his lineage and offices slung across his shoulders. She saw heads turning, men bowing, the king scowling. The duke flourished a pompous bow that smacked of malicious condescension and launched into an exchange with his soon-to-be slain sovereign. Was he already picturing himself on the throne?

Renée, stanching a sneer, delayed the jaunty page carrying in another fruit platter. “Robin.”

He glanced aside. His eyes lit up. “My lady.”

She was grooming the bright youth, a son of an officer of the guard, to be her eyes and ears in this morass of a court. She gestured for him to come away and whispered, “Pray, the French ambassador standing with His Grace of Norfolk, tell him I would speak with him privily.”

“Right fast, my lady. Hmm…” He looked down, color spreading from high cheekbones to a downy chin. “Nan, my sweeting, she prized the silk scarf and consented to go walking with me.”

Smiling, Renée magicked a gold angel. “Squire Nan to a clean cookshop in the city, feed her hen pastries and mead, buy her a sugared animal and a nosegay. On the way back, you shall have a kiss, I trow.” As his arms were burdened with a chased silver platter heaped with apples, pears, damsons, cherries, plums, apricots, strawberries, and the oranges she had brought from France as a gift for Their Majesties, she slipped the coin into his sleeve with a wink. “Bonne chance!”

Robin beamed. “Thank you, my lady.” He headed toward the doors, halted, rearranged his grip, and tossed her a perfect purple plum beneath the grinning eyes of the hulking sentries.

Then she saw him—the fair stranger from the undercroft—forging through the multitudes that packed the gallery in hopes of gaining admittance to the presence. He was singularly tall, golden, and beautiful, a magnificent Nordic tangling with bronzed skin. Turquoise eyes studded strong, clean features, absorbing everything, missing nothing. His leonine mane, unfashionably long, brushed broad shoulders draped with a gold collar. His attire was sober, immaculate, and of the finest quality: snowy sleeves burst out of gilt-trimmed slashes in an inky velvet doublet with matching hose; the cut of the raiment molding a strapping, athletic frame. He stood out among the hectic brocades of the rich merchants and the somber apparels of the aldermen, guildsmen, and lawyers milling about. Instinctively she knew he was not from around here. Who was he?

He perceived her, the sudden intensity of his gaze a shock. He changed direction. Instead of heading toward the watched over entrance to the guard room, he approached her.

The Marquis of Rougé stepped between them. “You summoned me.”

“Where may we speak without interruption?” She put the plum in her purse.

“In the closet outside the chapel.” Rougé took her elbow and steered her away.

Sashaying alongside the marquis, Renée glanced past her shoulder. The stranger remained outside the guard room, watching her. With a rakish grin, he inclined his head in greeting.

They would talk, soon, she decided, with a little tremor of excitement in her belly.

Rougé squired her into an antechamber adjoining the royal chapel. Redolent of frankincense and myrrh, aglow with beeswax candles, the room was furnished with a prie-dieu, stools, ornate silver reliquaries, paned cupboards displaying chryselephantine prayer books, crucifixes, jeweled chalices, and a precious collection of sacred relics. A snap of the marquis’s fingers dismissed the priest standing by to shrive sinners. The marquis closed the door and leaned back against it.

Renée had his undivided attention. One of the reasons she had specifically begged Rougé for an escort was his fluency in Breton French, an argot few could follow. Privacy was preferable, though, for what she had to say. “Who is the second cardinal, the graybeard?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Lorenzo Cardinal Campeggio. Aught else?”

Renée scrutinized his dark eyes. A man of two score years, Pierre-François de Rougé was of medium build, raven-haired, with silver streaks at his temples, had an aristocratic beaked nose, and was considered a handsome man. He was a widower, much sought after by the ladies of their court, particularly the widows looking to net a second husband. He was a capable military leader, a rich landholder, an expert courtier, and unscrupulously driven by self-interest. He enjoyed the hunt, kept several mistresses, lived in splendor, and considered it his rightful due. Curiously, he was not loved by his kings, something that rankled with him, and although he possessed a nose for peril and a talent for survival, ambition girdled his intelligence, making him predictable and safe.

Renée knew he disliked her, distrusted her, and resented her for holding the leading rein of this expedition. He was conscripted into her service, compelled to jump at her beck and call and do her bidding without questioning her decisions. Mostly he begrudged her for being entrusted with a secret office he knew naught about. “I am no more an ambassador of peace than you are a companion to the queen,” he had told her upon their departure, an admonition she had ignored.

His looks and bearing reminded her of a raptor. Hence, she must play the falconer. Already he was blindfolded with a hood and wearing her bells, and she possessed the silk jesses to tether him to her sleeve. That was the reason she had chosen the marquis. “Tell me about him.”

“Campeggio? Nearly half a century old and more virtuous than an ugly virgin. What do you want with him? Do not tell me they sent you to seduce him.”

This was going to be a long conversation. She sighed. “Pray, answer the question.”

“There is not much to tell. He came to preach for another crusade against the Turks, hoping to stir the old flame in the young lion’s heart. A mendicant beggar, like the rest of his ilk.”

“Where does he lodge?”

“At York Place, Cardinal Wolsey’s palace in the city.”

York Place! Blessed Lady, finally she was getting somewhere!

“Eh bien, now that we are on the subject, I suppose I ought to inform you that I am moving out of the Greyhound Inn and into His Grace of Norfolk’s house on the Strand, should you have need of me…. His Grace invited me to be his houseguest, and I graciously accepted.”

You sybaritic fool. He would use you. “I need you at court. The inn is in close proximity to the palace. The Strand is a good hour away by boat, depending on the weather. We are not here to play at tennez. If you must try out Norfolk’s new court, I suggest you visit, not move in.”

Rougé gawked. “How did you know?” Little witch, he mouthed silently. He set his jaw and launched a sortie. “What need have you of me? To serve as your handmaiden? Have you been to the Greyhound? Stuffed with ink-bespotted Italian gossips who cluck and cackle about their dukes’ illustrious courts from dawn to dusk and rouse the household ten times a-night for more tapers and more wine and more food. I am sick of that place!”

“Be reasonable, Rougé. Why do you suppose all the ambassadors reside there? They wish to be at the heart of things, to hear what their colleagues may have heard that they did not. Norfolk will wine and dine you, lull you into confidences, and bleed you for promises. Do you not see his intent? He despises Wolsey and seeks to establish personal relations with King Francis.”

“Your point, madame?”

“Why alienate the Lord Chancellor of England?” Cretin. She wondered what impaired his judgment, which was usually sound. His injured pride or promises from Norfolk? “So long as we labor in our king’s business, it would be impolitic to establish close friendships with personages of this court. You would be wise to refrain from associating yourself with Wolsey’s enemies.”

He leaned forward, gripped her wrist, and jerked her up against him. “Impudent brat! Do not presume to lecture me on court politics!” His eyes fell on her modest cleavage. “Why are we in England? Whose bed are you ordered to crawl into?”

“Unhand me, monsieur,” she said flintily. “Lest you should like to be relieved of your post.”

His black eyes glinted murderously. Undaunted, she lifted a hand to the pendant suspended from a collar of gold cockleshells sprawled over his shoulders. It depicted St. Michael slaying the Serpent. “Must I remind you whose collar you are wearing, Pierre?” she inquired softly.

He put his chin on his chest to see which of his chains she laid claim to. At first he looked relieved that she had not chosen the one displaying the arms of his house, for she could argue a maternal birthright to his bequest, but when her implication hit him, his eyes narrowed into vindictive slits. The pendant clasped in her hand portrayed the illustrious Ordre de Saint-Michel, created by King Louis XI, the Spider King, as the highest chivalric order of France, to mark an allegiance between the dukes of Brittany, Berry, and Orléans, the three potentates of the time. Significant though the alliance had been, it was her noble sire, the onetime Duke of Orléans and then King Louis XII, who unified the French dominions under his house, his rule, his banner.

“If you recognize the value and weight of this badge, which I admit was bestowed on me by the king your father, then you must also know that the three dozen knights of the Order of St. Michael are amongst the strongest nobles in France and are strictly in the king’s power.”

“Yes, that is true. But the lucrative iron mine you operate in the Loire in Brittany, whereon you rely heavily for your proceeds, is in my power.”

“The devil!” he snarled, disbelieving.

“I had it shut down until I return to France successful in my peace mission.”

His eyes turned into black cartwheels. “You lie!”

“I have a copy of His Majesty’s writ in my apartment. Would you like to view it with your own eyes or employ what precious time we have in ensuring your solvency?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw; his expression was one of impotent rage. She read the struggle in his eyes as he questioned her sincerity and fretted over which cataclysm she might deliver next if he should be so disrespectful as to demand to see this proof. “What do you require of me?”

Renée was calm. Her fears were many and varied, but the marquis was not one of them. “To begin with, I require you unhand me.” Instantly he let go. “Now.” She affected a charming smile. “The Cardinal of York, I would meet him. It should be an informal audience and—”

“Is that where the wind blows?” Rougé scoffed. “To ply state secrets, send a royal whore.”

She slapped him, catching him unawares.

“Madame, you try my patience,” he rasped with barely leashed fury. As he stared at her, his spleen abated. He smirked. “Usually when a woman hits a man, she is asking to be bedded. Is that what you want from me? A quick tumble on the prie-dieu?”

“Rude, violent, and blasphemous withal. No, I thank you. I do not care for a tumble. I want you to arrange an audience for me with the Lord Chancellor. Are you capable of accomplishing this great feat?” As she studied his face, it occurred to her he might be in need of a carrot. “Yes, I did take certain precautions to guarantee your goodwill, knowing you are not the sort of man who would gladly accept a woman’s lordship, but I specifically begged you for this peace mission.”

He looked stunned—again. “You asked for me specifically?”

“Do not be shocked, monsieur. We are alike in many ways, though you have much to learn.”

His complexion crimsoned. Heretofore he had considered her a confounded nuisance and an awkward diplomatic embassy. Now he viewed her differently, as if a blindfold were ripped from his eyes. Respect mingled with resentment. Thin lips stretched over even teeth in a vulpine smile. “Allow me to recant and rephrase. To ply state secrets, send a royal sword—sharp, beautiful, and lethal. Congratulations, madame. I am duly impressed. I did not think our king was blessed in his relations, but of course you are the king your father’s daughter.” He took her gloved hand and kissed its back. “I bow to you in all matters on this embassy. As for the Cardinal of York…”

“I should like to meet the cardinal and convey our king’s personal message to him.”

His expression hardened. “What message?”

She smiled, thinking of silk jesses. “The secret behind this peace mission, the true reason.”

“Tell me,” he begged in a whisper, his face and body taut with curiosity.

“King Francis”—she tormented him with her slowness—“is of a mind to bring France and England into peaceful unity by uniting his sister-by-marriage with an eligible English husband.”

“You?”

She could see the wheels turning in his head. Ah, ambition, she thought. How obvious he was. “Surely the good cardinal should have several candidates in mind, a young English duke, or son of a duke…. I am well dowered.” She shrugged dismissively, easing open her trap.

“We came to find you a husband.” Rougé looked bewildered, calmed, interested. “But your presence is not required. It may take months to sift the candidates for the office, then months of negotiations, then the signing of the indentures, the contracts…”

“They say Wolsey is a fisher of men. He would think it an inordinate stroke of luck that the French should come to him with the business.” That Renée had no intention of following through with this farce was of no import. She required entry into York Place. Haste-posthaste. She laid a hand on the marquis’s silken sleeve. “Please, arrange it. I should very much like to visit with the cardinal at York Place—today, tonight, as soon as possible!”

Rougé stared at her hand. “I shall see what I can do.”

Sir Walter, having tailed the French spies to the chapel doors, returned to the hectic gallery, wherefrom he had a vantage point of the chapel closet and of the entrance to the king’s watching chamber. The richest woman in Christendom, Norfolk said. Daughter to the late King of France, sister-in-law to the present king, a duchess of two duchies, deflowered but not devoured.

Norfolk, a taciturn man, never gossiped unless it served his purposes. Therefore, Walter deciphered, his duke expected him to act upon the information in a way that would benefit his benefactor. The game Walter intended to play with the precious princess would be well worth the candle. Insinuating himself into her good books—and with any luck her bed—would repair his family’s fortune. A predacious grin curled his lips. Pursuing her would hardly be a distasteful task. Notwithstanding her reputedly barbed tongue, Froward Renée was a tasty little treasure.

An officer of the Valois guard entered his vision. The man halted to survey the gallery, his breath coming swiftly. If he had to hazard a guess, Walter would say the princess had given her bodyguard the slip. With an amicable grin, Walter strolled up to the officer and said in French, “You shall find your royal charge at chapel, conferring with the French ambassador.”

“I thank you, sir.” There was a thick Italian accent to the officer’s French. “Madame has no care for her safety and evades me to my great distress.”

“Perhaps if you gave her the occasional slip, she would grow to appreciate your bucklering,” Walter offered affably. He extended his hand. “Sir Walter Devereaux.”

The officer shook it heartily. “Lieutenant Armado Baglioni.”

“Baglioni? I know a baron by the name of Malatesta Baglioni, the lord of Spello.”

A smile expanded on Armado’s face. “Malatesta is my brother! You met?”

“Five years hence, when I fought in the League of Cambrai in Italy. Your much esteemed lord brother and I shared a few cups and a few whores.” He refrained from mentioning that he had served as a man-at-arms, a poor mercenary, who could scarce afford his own armor. A brilliant idea struck him. He grinned in a man-to-man rapport. “How should you like to share a tankard of bad ale and a pair of liced but not poxed whores at the stews after midnight?”

Armado looked delighted. “Con piacere! I thank you for the invitation!”

“Splendid! I shall wait for you at the palace landing. Ah, there comes your princess.” Walter touched his forehead and paced off before she glimpsed him. One at a time…