Читать книгу Royal Blood - Rona Sharon - Страница 11

They come to see, they come to be seen themselves.

—Ovid: Ars Amatoria

The opening feast of the annual festivities of the Order of the Garter was held with the great pomp and splendor King Henry was fabled for. The king’s presence chamber, illuminated by a wealth of beeswax candles set in antique-style candelabras, wall brackets, and table candlesticks, was sumptuously ornamented with dewlaps of red buckram embroidered with Tudor roses and Spanish pomegranates spilling from the ceiling; its walls were richly hung with tapestries depicting knights, dragons, and ladies in grand scenes of chivalry and courtly love.

The long trestle tables, perpendicular to the high table reserved for Their Majesties and their entourage, were bedecked with Paris napery, herbs and flowers, lustrous plates, trenchers, bowls, spoons, goblets polished to a shine, manchet loaves wrapped in embroidered napkins, and gem-encrusted candlesticks. The air was spiced with fragrant aromas. A corpse of musicians fanfared the assembly to supper with a medley of notes played on flutes, trumpets, shawms, and tabors.

As the royal procession had yet to appear, the clinquant theater known as the court streamed into the hall in its finery. Most were men, but there were women interspersed among them as they clustered in select hives, speaking sotto voce and scrutinizing the rival camps. None of them paid attention to Michael as he sauntered inside, looking for the two conspirators and the mysterious spy, and in their indifference to anonymous and therefore insignificant life-forms such as him, they labored under the misconception that he must also be deaf and blind. They were mistaken.

Michael observed and listened with the alacrity of a predator on the hunt, catching snippets of intrigue, gossip, and flirtation unwittingly yet generously dispensed. He learned that the man to put one’s purse on in the jousting tournament was last year’s champion, the Undefeated Baron Monteagle; Dom Leonardo Spinelli, the papal nuncio, had lost a game of tennez to his friend and host, His Grace of Norfolk; His Grace of Buckingham had railed and misused himself in words with Cardinal Wolsey in the privy council and had been fomenting sedition against the lord chancellor ever since; Queen Katherine had remonstrated stridently with the king over the lewd theme of the midnight masque, but the king had stood pat, and well he ought to have, for the queen, should she care to preserve her dignity, would do well to avoid public rows in the future.

The last piquant crumb to fall into his ear as he prowled King Henry’s ambry of information concerned a recently arrived French princess. Young blades wishing to rise high in the world discussed the value of her dowry in jewels, plate, demesnes, and farming land, hailing her a prize worthy of a prince. Ribalds keen on disporting themselves praised her beauty and wagered on the odds of bedding her. A corpulent dame, gossiping with her matronly friends, was making a star chamber case against the French princess’s pernicious influence: “Now we are all French in eating, drinking, and apparel, and our young men, these fashion-mongers who attend so much on the new form, are all pardonnez-moi, bons and mais oui, French in vices and brags, afflicted with these strange flies, as if they can no longer sit at ease on the old bench. Fah!”

The courtiers, he noted, were somewhat licentious in their disposition: ladies kissed men on the lips in greeting, laughed at bawdy jokes, and tippled aplenty. A merry court, indeed.

Evidently the path from dismal obscurity to infamy or glory ran through this crowd. Michael frowned. For the nonce he was a nameless arriviste, skirting the fringes of society, but soon, once he foiled the attempt on the king’s life with swiftness and élan, he would strike them with awe.

A troop of ushers sporting green badges of the household staff came to herd the courtiers to their designated seats, allotted according to rank, family connections, and closeness to the throne. Michael found himself standing like a maypole, or rather a clod-pole, amid the fast-manned seats and glaringly being ignored. His gaze found Walter, the popinjay who had plowed into him in the yard. Brother and sister were sitting high up the middle table. As he scrutinized the fair pair, Michael’s gaze collided with Walter’s, who smiled maliciously and offered a mock salute.

Around them, all the seats were occupied and gusty with conversation. Feeling and looking like the gawky village idiot no one wanted at his table, Michael turned his back to the peacockish jackslave. He was confronted with the nasty Riggs, who condescended to crank a slight bow.

“Good-den. Master Devereaux, am I correct? How may I serve Your Worship?”

Michael choked down his fury and humiliation to rasp, “Pray point out my seat, good man, ere I commandeer the throne and explain to His Majesty that you seated me there.”

Muttering, “Aye, great one!” under his breath, the sergeant led him to the last pair of vacant seats at the end of one of the rear tables, closest to the entry and farthest from the throne.

A seat to suit his quarters, Michael fumed inwardly, and slid onto the edge of the bench. A murmur, a snicker, and the odd sensation of having eyes upon him sped his gaze back to Walter in time to catch the conspiratorial nod bestowed on the sergeant. Michael gnashed his teeth, pretending not to have noticed. The venal Riggs was in league with the popinjay to play him for a fool. What a foul prank, billeting him in the dungeon of the undercroft and seating him at the foot of the banquet! An act of retaliation was in order, but he would have to become acquainted with the lay of the land first in order to come up with a foully contrived prank of his own by way of reprisal. For the nonce, he would have to sit at the edge and sleep in a warren.

“Hark, Stanley, Baron Monteagle! Be this not your place of last year?”

Michael saw a corpulent fellow cackling complacently with his close neighbors at the high end of the opposite table.

“Hark, Lovell! Be that not tomorrow’s carcass all fattened up for its slaughter at the lists?”

Michael’s head swerved in the opposite direction to find a bearded, burly fellow standing two paces inside the door, affecting a fearsome glower to disguise his discomfiture—albeit his riposte did earn him several sympathetic laughs—at finding his seat of last year usurped by this Lovell fellow. Michael was aware that the last vacant seat was the one beside his, but Stanley, awkwardly scanning the better tables for a place to sit, failed to spot it as he kept looking farther up, all the way to the great salt, cursing his gaucherie under his breath.

Commiserating, Michael called out to the man discreetly, “Sir, would this be your place?”

Stanley eyed the vacant spot with disdain, then with a disgruntled snort swaggered over, sat down, and stared morosely at the empty goblet set before him. As if on cue, an army of servitors stepped forth, brandishing flagons overflowing with wine, and filled everyone’s cup to the rim.

“Do you also make food appear on plates?” Michael chuckled, reaching for his wine goblet.

Stanley’s paw fastened around Michael’s forearm. “We wait for the king’s pleasure, codling. What hoa! What have you there?”

“A hand?” Michael suggested wryly, though he knew what had captured the man’s eye: the gules peeking from under his sleeve, painted on his wrist in the shape of three red roundels and a red band that circled his wrist like a bracelet.

“Nay, your markings. What are they?”

“A birthmark,” Michael hedged.

Astute eyes alight with humor met his. “Bless the fathers whose sons are born bearing their arms on the skin, and may Our Lord pity their adulterous wives and indiscreet mistresses.”

“I surrender to your logic.” Michael grinned. “In truth, I was marked upon birth.”

“Why?” The bearded lord scowled in bewilderment.

“To keep me from getting lost, I imagine.”

“Did you make a habit of getting lost?”

“I was found.” Michael flashed him a sphinxlike smile.

“Why keep painting your skin, then?”

“The markings do not wash off.”

Bushy brown eyebrows snapped together. “You do wash, do you not, as all good knights do, once a year to please the ladies?”

“I endeavor to.” Michael laughed, recalling his testiness as a boy when the Earl of Tyrone’s emphatic intolerance of rancid smells, above all in humans, sent him a-bathing daily before bed. He explained, “The dye was pricked into my skin with a needle. Hence, ’tis called pricking.”

“Bless my black heart! And here I thought pricking meant something else entirely.” A wink and a thick elbow in the ribs gave Michael a fair idea of what his neighbor referred to.

“It is an ancient Pict practice,” Michael elaborated. “Old King Harold of Wessex had two on his chest, which ultimately served in identifying his mutilated body at the Battle of Hastings.”

“You come prepared for the joust, I see. But harken, you may yet live, my prickled friend.” Stanley guffawed at his own gibe. “Now tell me, was it painful?”

“Not as much as taking a Norman arrow in the eye, methinks.”

Stanley chuckled. “I take it you are with the Devereaux brood, eh?”

Michael’s startled gaze locked with Stanley’s. “You know my name.”

“I know your arms.” Stanley indicated the mark on Michael’s wrist.

With a negligent shrug, Michael replied, “I am a stray Devereaux.”

“Then we shall have to bring you back into the Devereaux fold, runt.”

“Your pardon, I neglected to properly introduce myself. Michael Devereaux is my name. I come to represent the Earl of Tyrone in the tournaments with the honor and flair befitting his august house. You are the Undefeated Baron Monteagle everyone is betting his purse on, eh?”

“Ah, the pleasure of notoriety! But you are wide of the mark, m’boy. I am Baron Monteagle to my tenants, Edward to my lady mother, Ned to my beauteous future bride, whoever the good Lord should deem her be, and Stanley to my mates, even the prickled ones.”

Michael shook the proffered paw. “Undefeated, I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

“A fine device you have there, my spruce friend”—Stanley indicated the rampant bloodred eagle of rubies stamped in the scabbard of Michael’s eating knife—“the lord of which this court has oft extolled but never entertained. You serve him? Why has he not come in the flesh?”

“The king’s business keeps my lord in Ireland. I am here on his behalf, an ambassador.”

“An ambassador, not a knight?”

“Alack, no.” Michael grinned sheepishly, then sobered. “Not yet, anyhow.”

“Not a knight? A strapping runt such as you? Saints, you are twice my inches, Devereaux! I was rather anticipating aggrandizing my reputation at your expense.”

Michael appraised his newfound friend. Although Stanley was a good deal shorter in height, the muscled, barrel chest rivaled that of an ox. “I do intend to compete, under my lord’s arms. So you see”—he gave a fulsome smile—“you may yet trounce me with a glad heart, and may the mud of your glory stick to my breastplate.”

Chortling ebulliently, Stanley slapped Michael’s shoulder fondly. “Save your glib tongue for the ladies, codling. Your poetry shan’t sweeten me up for our engagement in the lists.”

“It was worth a try.” Michael’s grin turned lopsided.

Stanley studied him soberly. “I suggest you bank that high-resolved gleam in your eye, runt, lest you tempt the hardy dogs of the jousts to shiver their lances on you.”

“Would a bloodless, meek mien make me less of an appetizer? I am thinking not. They will know me for the unfledged challenger that I am, whether I cower or strut.”

“True, but your inevitable defeat will hurt less if you prudently dampen your ardor.”

“A goodly advice, I am sure.”

“Aw, that wasn’t a nettle! Hark, you did me a good turn beckoning me hither. I shall repay the courtesy. Two years I am undefeated. My Lord Lovell over there, all high-proud and merry”—his glower indicated the man who had baited him—“comes last at the tournament and reaches higher each year. The reason is…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Our king is a passionate jouster and despises defeat above all things. Hence, this time next year, the Undefeated shall be known as the Once Defeated and dining at the king’s table. Savvy?”

“A shrewd strategy and very politick.” Michael appreciated the hard-earned advice for what it was: his first significant lesson in court politics. “I thank you. I shall not forget your counsel.”

An usher appeared in the doorway, thumping a gilded staff on the rushes-strewn floor and heralding at the top of his lungs, “His Royal Majesty, Henry Tudor, by the grace of God, King of England and France, Protector of the Faith, Defender of the Realm, and Lord of Ireland!”

The result was a thunder of wooden legs scraping the flagstones as everyone pushed to their feet and plunged into deep bows and curtsies.

King Henry VIII, magnificently dressed in gilt-embossed imperial purple with a heavy gold chain twinkling with gems slung across his wide shoulders and a crown set atop his reddish gold head, entered the great hall with his regal-looking, matronly Spanish queen on his arm.

“—and Her Royal Majesty, Queen Katherine of England!” the usher finished.

Leading a solemn procession of lords and ladies, splendidly clothed and lustrously jeweled, followed by pursuivants, pages, and footboys, the royal couple made its way to the high table.

Michael went stock-still as he recognized the treasonous Lord Ned walking behind the king, paired with a churchman in rich scarlet robes—doubtless the illustrious Cardinal Wolsey—and looking none too pleased. The Lady Anne his sister appeared in the queen’s train, her curvaceous assets alluringly displayed in a red gown, and gliding next to her was the mysterious spy.

Dainty and petite, her head held regally high, she shimmered in a low-cut, waist-tight, pearl-dripping gown of nacre satin that set off her alabaster skin. Her ebony tresses, partially veiled by a stylish jeweled hood, glistened under the cresset lights. She floated swanlike among the geese in the queen’s train like an otherworldly sylph in a dark wood. When her thick-lashed, purplish blue gaze cut to him unexpectedly, Michael felt a kick in his gut. She was exquisite.

His neighbor’s wry observation anchored him in reality. “The vision you are hard ogling is Princess Renée de Valois of France, Duchess of Brittany and Chartres. Best couch your lance at the red-blooded prizes of this court. That one is much too lofty and blue for your blood.”

A sweeping glance about him confirmed that Michael was not the only one agape; Renée de Valois looked so pearly pink white and deliciously pretty that every man in the chamber was stripping her bare. So this was the notorious princess of France. A delicate creature with a rapier for a tongue. He would have been hard put to believe it had he not caught her spying fearlessly in the cellar. She intrigued him, and she aroused him. Then the crux of the matter dawned on him: the French were now apprised of the conspiracy. Which way would the notorious weathervanes intervene, if at all? He was in need of information, and Stanley seemed as good a fount as any. Fixing his gaze on Anne, he affected a lecherous smile that Stanley, in his predilection for using bawdy tourney language, would describe as codding, and said, “Who is yonder poppy?”

“My Lady Anne Hastings, His Grace of Buckingham’s lady sister.”

Of course—Lord Ned was the Duke of Buckingham! His father, Harry Stafford, the second Duke of Buckingham, had backed Richard of Gloucester to the throne and then rebelled against him, thus opening the road to Henry Tudor, the late king. Jupiter’s thunder, how had he missed that? Maybe because his mind had been soused with lavender and ambergris….

“The Lady Anne,” Stanley gossiped, “is newly restored from dieting on piety at St. Mary’s and with any luck all the lustier for her three years’ deprivation. By comparison I hear the French princess is flint-hearted as her royal sire, the not-so-much-lamented King Louis the Twelfth, and the scourge of princes. Her affianced have all fled the snare, some by dying, others by running.”

Michael was hard put to accept Stanley’s word on this matter but kept the observation to himself. “King Louis’s daughter?” A veritable princess of the blood, her kind was usually kept under lock and key until a connubial alliance was contracted with an heir to some throne.

“Aye. The king her father coaxed the pope to grant him a dispensation to put aside his first wife and then browbeat the lady’s mother, then the Duchess of Brittany in her own right, into accepting his troth, just so he could add Brittany to his dominions. Queen Claude of France is my Lady Renée’s sister, a docile creature, mind you. Certes, at that slippery court, a lady may either become a biddable crone or a—” Stanley clammed up, refusing to say more.

“Or a what?” Michael dogged, inordinately curious. “A jade?”

“Aw, who needs the poxed French when England bestows us with flirt-gills to spare?”

Renée de Valois did not look poxed. Still, Michael’s mind was not on flirting. His crackpot plan to cozen up to Ned and get him pickled before midnight was unfeasible, ludicrous, and very dangerous, insomuch that it might turn the most puissant duke of the realm into a mortal enemy. He needed a new plan to obstruct the assassination plot, but his mind drew a blank. Two women, a former royal mistress and a French princess with murky concerns, and a formidable duke with an eye on the throne—what to do? As he chewed the cud of that, he wondered if he were mad to wade into this quagmire, but was he not already up to his neck in it? The little spy had seen him.

Their Majesties took their state at the great salt, then the prominent lords and ladies in their train. Obligingly, Stanley ran his memory along the faces filing onto the dais, as a pious widow going over her rosary beads, throwing in morsels and tidbits of gossip to spice up the litany.

King Henry, on his feet behind the middle of the high table, above the salt, his face visible to the whole view of the chamber, smiled broadly and raised his goblet, commanding silence. “Our noble friends! We welcome you to our annual meeting of our Most Noble Order of the Garter!”

A great cheer went up.

“In honor of St. George, the patron saint of England and of our Most Noble Order, we shall feast, joust, dance, and disport ourselves abundantly! We shall hunt and rejoice and make merry! But tonight”—he paused for effect—“we shall be even merrier!” Beaming at his enthusiastic audience, the king exclaimed, “Let us drink to St. George!”

Everyone hoisted sloshing goblets high in the air. “St. George!” And a deep draught later, a second toast ensued, everyone shouting, “The king!”