Читать книгу Royal Blood - Rona Sharon - Страница 12

He that is warned afore is noght bygiled.

—J. Arderne: Treatises of Fistula

The bells rang the new hour in. Queen Katherine, having performed her duty as hostess, rose gracefully, bade the assemblage a blessed night, and retired with her Spanish ladies. In her wake, space was cleared for dancing, the musicians struck up a passamezzo, and bowls brimming with coins, cards, and dice were brought to the tables for those more inclined toward gambling.

An hour to midnight, Renée fidgeted. No word from Rougé. Mayhap she had pushed him too far, or he was unsuccessful in securing her audience with the Cardinal of York. She was not used to having to rely on other people in her little schemes—and she hated it!—and this was not some petty ploy to help her sire destroy dispatches from a Spanish spial guised as an ambassador or glean gossip from the King of Naples’s mistress or steal the battle notes of the Great Captain Gonzalo de Córdoba or counterfeit the seal of the Lord Bishop of Tournai or any of the trifling assignments she had carried out for the Father of the People of France. The King of England was about to be assassinated—and she had to steal the Lord Chancellor of England’s talisman.

How would she accomplish that? Merciful Jesu, protect me, Holy Lady, precipitate my cause. She murmured a few Aves, kneading the rosary beads stashed in her purse.

As the candles guttered and the shadows lengthened, she grew exceedingly anxious. If only her friend the Lady Mary were here to cheer her, distract her, squeeze her hand…Unfortunately His Grace of Suffolk had sent word that his best horse had thrown a shoe and that he and his new wife would be spending the night in the city and would arrive on the morrow. And where was the dratted Rougé? Relocating himself to Norfolk’s demesne on the Strand? Hateful cretin. She had bested him today, a fact the marquis was unlikely to forgive or forget. If—Jesu forefend!—she failed in her mission, or if King Francis and Cardinal Medici grew tired of waiting for their prize, they would unleash their malcontent raptor on her, and then may God have mercy on her soul!

With the candles burning low, the hour felt ripe for cavorting, the forthcoming great romp creating a lascivious anticipatory ambiance. King Henry’s decorous court was transforming into the rowdy brothel Buckingham had disparaged. The English, Renée mused, were worse than the unblushing French who made a national sport of indulging in carnal love. King Francis was wont to send for several women at a time and oftentimes invite his male companions to partake of the dalliance. The French were captivated by all things beautiful. Love was so esteemed among them that girls became the erotic fancies of noblewomen and boys of noblemen. Promiscuity was rife, but they depleted themselves privily and did not burst at the seams with distasteful ribaldry as the English did. Here riot and rumpus reigned. Like naughty children, they drank too much, groped, and importuned. The ladies kissed men, allowed themselves to be indecently mauled, roared with laughter, told lewd jests, diced and cussed like stable hands, frolicked boisterously, and taunted the men to catch them as they danced and gamboled around the softly lit chamber.

Renée, disgusted with the activity, broke her abstemious regime and reached for her full cup of hippocras. The warm, sweetly spiced wine soothed her high-strung nerves and aching wits.

A coterie of the queen’s lingering gaggle, maids of honor, dropped on the bench beside her. They were agog about the novelty Sir William Cornish, the chief adviser of court entertainments, devised, a thing not seen in England afore. “Disguised after the manner of Italy!” tweeted Lady Dacre.

“Appareled in garments of silk with gold, with visors and caps of gold,” peeped Lady Percy.

“The gentlemen will bear torches and will issue a warlike proclamation….”

“We shall make a stand, and then the victors will desire the defeated to dance….”

“I know the fashion of it,” muttered some matron. “It is a thing most unseemly.”

Renée’s gaze slid yet again to the far corner of the chamber and locked with the turquoise eyes that had been watching her all evening. The fair stranger’s identity remained a mystery, but the edge of the table seat was a testament unto itself. He was a nobody.

He smiled at her, as if saying: Whether you like it or not, you and I are secret partners now, silent coconspirators, custodians of a great secret.

“Who is that man staring at you?”

Renée found Lady Anne Hastings—whom she had taken pains to befriend this afternoon—at her elbow, her breath sour, her eyes overly bright, her bounteous cleavage bereft of tuckers. Renée could not fault her for overindulging. Were she in Anne’s tight shoes, ordered to lure the King of England to his death, she would be drinking herself into a stupor.

Anne leaned her heavy bosom into Renée’s shoulder, her eyes to the front. “He stares at us. Should we put on a spectacle for his benefit? I daresay he should be able to handle the two of us together, a golden-maned stallion like that. Come, let us walk arm in arm, see if he follows.” Taking her arm, Anne squired Renée around the room. “Oh, look. Our admirer comes our way.”

Renée was unsure whose admirer he was, if at all, and, as she had not yet fathomed him, it was imperative to keep him away from Anne. She steered her cloying companion in the direction of the most hectic gaming table. Anne needed to renew her acquaintance with King Henry for Buckingham’s plot to succeed.

“He is stalking us, methinks,” Anne updated excitedly. “Such a fine specimen of virility.”

“He is pleasant to look at, I suppose,” Renée acceded without looking at the man.

“Pleasant! Show me a woman who will say nay to a little dalliance with that and I will show you a ninny. Would you say he is as tall as our king?”

Renée cut her eyes to him fleetingly. “Taller.” She instantly regretted her answer; Anne did not need encouragements in that direction tonight. “Mayhap not, definitely not as hefty.” It was the truth. King Henry’s fondness for feasting was manifesting, whereas the golden stranger was a towering artwork of brawn…. Holy Anne! She should not be admiring men while her true love wasted away in a cage. “I find him bland and uninspiring,” she muttered meanly. The uninspiring stuff that immortalized artists like Raphael, her conscience scoffed.

“Bland!” Anne let out a throaty chuckle. “I should very much like to blend with that.”

Renée decided to shift their conversation to a more conducive lane. “Who is the pretty lady putting her talons in the king?”

“Elizabeth—Bessie—Blount,” Anne replied scathingly. “She certainly has him by the dice.”

They stopped outside the ring of courtiers to watch the lady in question kiss the royal dice for luck. Not for the first time Renée wondered why queens were determined to be foolish. Her sister Claude was one example, but she had a dissolute swine for a husband and had to vie for his attention with Francis’s recreant lady sister and a long procession of mistresses. Queen Katherine was married to a man who seemed to bear her affection as well as respect, and yet in her way she was alienating him. On second thought, Renée might also look the other way if married to such a man. How weary she was of self-absorbed, tyrannical epicures. She hated court life and longed for the peaceful simplicity of the country, married to a quiet man, whose greatest ambition was to create beauty, not accumulate castles. Yet she was not so naïve as to imagine that without the benefit of wealth and rank there could be freedom. As Duchess of Brittany she would attain the most liberty a woman could hope for. She would bear the rood of no one, save a remote king.

“Sister, come make a stand with me against great Midas here!” a man called with false levity from inside the girdle of courtiers besieging the king’s gaming table. “Beauteous sister, I bid you come quick to my rescue! My losses are piling, and I have no Fortuna in my corner.”

A surprisingly good ploy on Buckingham’s part, Renée granted. Mistress Blount might very well lose her office of dice kisser. Sensing Anne’s hesitation, Renée nudged her into the bevy of gallants, all deep in their cups and reeling with exuberance.

A jolly drunkard blocked their path. “Hark! Plato and Socrates walk into a tavern—”

“Aw, we have heard that one,” someone exclaimed. “Refresh your arsenal, dear Compton, for your jokes are getting on in years!”

“And with the ladies!” Compton grabbed Anne by the waist to his friends’ roaring delight. “Hullo, my darling lady! Kiss me quick, for you have been much missed.”

“Take your greedy paws off me, you swine-drunk fool! You may put Plato and Socrates in a tavern, but you shan’t put me.” The newly pious Anne shoved him away, and he fell straight into the arms of his amused mates, who heaved him to an upright albeit wobbly posture.

“Stung by a honeybee!” Compton slurred jovially as he staggered before Anne.

“You unhappy honey bag!” someone jeered, eliciting guffaws among the tomboys.

“Lady Anne, your lord brother pleads for your lucky touch. Pray do not keep him waiting,” a baritone voice called from the center of the hive. All at once, the swarm of courtiers parted like the Red Sea before Moses, creating a human corridor to the table. Clutching Renée’s wrist—for courage—Anne came to stand beside Buckingham. The king lifted sparkling blue eyes and with the voice that had just spoken, exclaimed, “Lady Anne, we bid you welcome! My court has been disgarnished for lack of your beauty. And, my Lady Renée, bon soir!”

Renée sank into a supple curtsey beside Anne, sensing dozens of eyes perusing her with avid curiosity. She did not appreciate the sudden attention and so kept her eyes downcast.

“Your Grace is most kind,” Anne murmured, her hand dampening around Renée’s wrist.

From beneath her eyelashes, Renée saw the king take Anne’s measures. “Come, Anne,” he cajoled, “kiss my dice for luck. His Grace your brother may enjoy Mistress Blount’s services.”

Ribald laughter rippled, accompanied by unsubtle remarks when Mistress Blount refused to relinquish her post. “Have I not served His Grace well? Fortune favors him tonight.”

All held their breaths, waiting to see who would prevail—the old mistress or the new one.

“Your Grace’s dice seem well kissed,” Anne remarked cattily, her resentful gaze bouncing between the king and Bessie, who stood her ground with daggers in her eyes.

The king smiled. Like all men, Renée thought, he enjoyed being fought over. He opened his mouth to speak. Buckingham cut him off. “Do as His Majesty says, Anne,” he snapped tersely.

King Henry lost his cheer. Buckingham was a fool, Renée decided. Henry wasn’t. The king contemplated the duke, then settled his gaze on Anne. “Well kissed though my dice may be, as king, I require a dutiful kiss from a Stafford set of lips.” A direct hit. Buckingham reddened.

There were sharp intakes of breath among the spectators. Renée stifled her shocked laughter. No wonder Buckingham felt rabid. More than desiring obedience, King Henry wished to humble the arrogant duke. She waited for Anne’s rejoinder, knowing what hers would be. Anne giggled. “Jesu, spare me of this plight! To please my beloved king, I must neglect my beloved brother!”

Renée groaned inwardly. The pie-goose! Lacking the wit to appreciate the fine subtleties of this treacherous game and the skill to play it withal, poor Anne had stupidly taken the king’s words at face value and opened herself to attack. Someone was sure to pounce on her answer.

“Verily a plight that bears a weighty and serious brow,” observed a gentleman at the table. Renée narrowed her eyes on the dark-haired lord. Earl Surrey, Norfolk’s son. “The question that needs must be answered is whom my Lady Hastings loves more—her brother…or her king?”

Murmurs then silence gripped the air as the courtiers waited to hear how Anne would extract herself from this self-inflicted bind. Buckingham’s hard gaze locked with Surrey’s.

A clever trap, Renée acceded; the sort her father would delight in setting. A fool will fall, a wise man will keep the fool down and fell more fools with him, had been his motto. Certes, Buckingham could rescue Anne graciously, but his pride impeded him from admitting to coming second to Henry Tudor in anything, even if just for show. As for Henry, the alert glint in his eye attested to his disapproval of Surrey’s ugly maneuver. Nevertheless, he was interested in hearing Anne’s response—and in Buckingham’s reaction to it.

Anne, bewildered by the strange undercurrents, dreaded opening her beak, her apprehensive gaze darting between the men at the table. Renée took pity on her and whispered a reply in her ear. She felt Anne squeeze her wrist in thanks before plastering a smile on her face and saying, “I love my brother as I love myself, but I would lay my life for my king, and there is your answer, my lord.” She leaned over to rake the royal dice, presenting King Henry with an alluring view of her magnificent udders, pressed the dice to her wide lips, and then offered them back to the king with a curtsey. Pleased with her answer, King Henry shot the dice across the board and won. The spectators applauded.

“Our adored king is most fortunate to claim the love of a lucky lady, in dice as well as in her choice of friends.” Surrey’s gaze veered from Anne to Renée. Black eyes assessed her with cold deliberation. Thomas Howard was Rougé’s English counterpart in looks and years, but she had a feeling he was colder and more dangerous for the backing of a powerful duke as his sire. Foiling his trap, whereby attracting his notice and enmity, had been unwise, or mayhap not. Anne was in the king’s good graces once again and well on her way to becoming his partner for the masque.

Renée eased her wrist out of Anne’s clasp and let the courtiers pushing to stand in the royal radiance spew her out. She refused to feel guilt or remorse over what she had helped precipitate. King Henry was no innocent. He ordered people’s deaths; he lived in luxury at the expense of his poor, plague-ridden subjects; he was spoiled, vainglorious, and adulterous. He was king. Perhaps he did not deserve to die tonight, but such was reality. It was him or her.

She searched the room for Rougé. Her gaze collided with turquoise eyes. The fair stranger. As evidenced by his pleased expression, he had been watching her, waiting for her to notice him again. Leaning against the wall beside a bearded fellow, he pinioned her with a stare so direct her belly fluttered. There was no putting off this confrontation. She had to know who he was, what he was after, and whom he served. She started toward him at an easy pace, skirting the dancers. Anticipation lit his bright eyes; white teeth flashed in a smile between tanned cheeks. He pushed away from the wall. Of a sudden a man blocked her view of him. She stiffened. Norfolk’s man!

“Sir Walter Devereaux, madame. At your service.” The intruder bowed. “I have decided to be overbold and present myself as your most enchanted admirer, yours to command in all things.”

Renée eyed him disdainfully. Gallophobic churl! Did Norfolk put him up to wooing her or was he serving his own interests? “Sir Walter.” She bobbed politely and made to sidestep him.

Again the irksome importuner stepped into her path. “My lady, would you do me the honors of standing up with me at the midnight masque?”

She smiled coldly. “Sir, I challenge you to recognize me masked. Au revoir!”

He shifted again. “You shall discover, madame, that I rise most potently to every challenge.”

Did he, now? The insolent knave! “And you shall discover, sir, that I snip overreaching vines like…that!” She snapped her fingers, making him flinch. With a smile and a flounce of skirts, she moved past him without breaking into a run and rammed into another obstacle: hard, large, and tall. She would have toppled back if strong hands hadn’t caught her arms and set her aright.

The hands let go of her. “Your pardon, my lady.”

Renée looked up into luminous eyes, reminiscent of the Mediterranean Sea, set in a striking, suntanned face. She lost her power of speech. He smelled wonderfully, Castilian soap, a whiff of bergamot musk, body heat. A patch of burnished skin on the side of his neck betwixt his white lawn collar and the silken filaments of gold hair enticed her eyes. She imagined pressing her lips there, learning the texture of—Jesu, mercy! What was the matter with her?

The spellbinder’s features furrowed with concern. “Mayhap you should sit. You look faint.” Gallantly he conducted her to a bench and knelt before her, handing her a cup of perry.

She accepted the drink, lowering her gaze lest he read her mind. “I thank you, sir.”

“Was that man troubling you?”

“No more than others.” Feeling sufficiently restored, she looked at him. “Who are you?”

He straightened and bowed with a hand across his heart. “Michael Devereaux, enchanté.”

“Another Devereaux?” She noted the likeness, but Michael was…She sipped her pear cider.

His expression shuttered. “I am unfamiliar with others who lay claim to my surname.”

Renée ventured a direct look at him. “Why have you been staring at me?” It was a probe.

A soft smile curled his lips. “Two reasons. I daresay you can guess them, madame.”

It pleased her that he found her appealing. “What was your business in the undercroft?”

Her straightforwardness wrenched an embarrassed laugh from him. “May I?” At her nod, he eased himself down on the bench. His eyes glittered as he gauged her humor. “Quid pro quo?”

“Tit for tat,” she consented with a smilet, and realized to her shame that she was flirting.

“I was given lodging there and was looking for the stair to the upper level. Now you.”

“Lodging in the undercroft? Surely not!” She wrinkled her nose in distaste, taking in his fine apparel, which lacked the exuberance of the courtly male fashion and yet exuded sophistication.

A vulnerable look came at her, swiftly banked—and she knew. “Your first visit to court? Did the usher swear all the better lodgings were taken and the inns overcrowded?”

“You have divined it, my lady.”

“Renée.” She offered her hand. As warm lips lightly touched her knuckles, startling pleasure blazed through her. She retrieved her seared limb. “You sleep there, with the wine and the rats?”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “I have not yet had the pleasure. I arrived today.”

Renée read discomfiture in his eyes. Clearly someone had practiced on him, and he had not the savoir faire to rectify the situation. What an ignoramus he was, a boy in a man’s body. How he would suffer at this court. Then again, the wounded cub one petted yesterday might turn into a mastiff and bite one’s hand tomorrow. Notwithstanding his ingenuousness, she sensed strength and secrets. He had the appearance of a warrior angel, St. Michael slaying the Serpent. Her mind spun mischief. “I owe you a tat. I suggest you have a word with one of the White Sticks, the six officers of the court,” she explained, ticking them off her fingers. “The lord steward, the lord chamberlain, the master of the horse, the vice chamberlain, the comptroller, and the treasurer. You may recognize them by the gold collars with the SS links, their badges of portcullises and roses, and their wands of office. They administer the palace. All requires their seal of approval. Whoever assigned you the inadequate quarters answers to one of them.”

“Whom do you recommend I speak to?”

“Without doubt Earl Worcester, the lord chamberlain. The old bibber has had a run of bad luck at the gaming tables. I imagine he should appreciate a discreet contribution to his private treasury. A liberal sum will purchase a scolding and penalty for the usher who wronged you.”

“Earl Worcester,” he repeated, committing the name to memory.

“In future do not hesitate to press coins into hands. Greed makes the world go round. All is purchasable at court: a higher seat, a softer bed, a bowl of fruit…” A wealth of information.

A dazzling smile broke out on his tanned face, transforming him from handsome to gorgeous. “I am much obliged to you, madame. In truth, I had not thought…You must think me a noddy.”

In truth, she did not like the direction of her thoughts. “Are we even?”

“Hardly. You are a princess, and I…your grateful student.” He inclined his golden head. He was a gentleman, Renée realized. He knew she had tricked him with her answer and let it slide.

“There you are!” Anne materialized before them.

Michael shot to his feet and offered Anne a fluid bow. “My lady.”

“Why did you leave the gaming table?” Renée demanded to know.

“Everyone is gone to dress for the masque.” Her eyes devouring, Anne offered Michael her hand. “Good evening, sir. I do not believe I have seen you at court before.”

“It is my first pilgrimage, my lady.” He kissed her plump chilblained fingers.

She smiled provocatively. “Your first time…Are you prepared to lose your innocence?”

Renée felt nauseated. Michael chuckled. “Most heartily, beauteous lady.”

“Anne.” She glided closer to him, keeping her hand in his. “Who might you be, Viking?”

“Michael Devereaux, at your service.” He honored her with a courteous tilt of his head.

“Are you come to plunder and ravish, Viking, or to joust and make merry?”

“I am come to do all four, madame.”

Renée watched the interlude with grim annoyance. The horrid flirt had destroyed any chance of gleaning information from the man and was neglecting to do her part in her brother’s plot. She stood. “Shall we go dress for the masque?”

“Anon, friend.” Anne dismissed her as if Renée was a pesky fly and ran her fingertips over the sporran attached to Michael Devereaux’s sword belt. “It seems I was mistaken. You are a Celtic warrior, not a Viking.”

He laughed. “Mayhap a bit of both, a Norse-Gael.”

Her fingertips continued playing with his sporran. “What do you carry inside your pouch?”

“Magic potions, my Lady Anne, to bespell the delightful ladies of the court and make them fall violently in love with me.”

An inch to the left and Anne would be caressing the magic scepter, Renée fumed, disgusted with Anne’s wanton, sabotaging flightiness. “Pray excuse us,” she told Michael. “We would not want the battle to begin without us.” She linked her arm with Anne’s and dragged her away.

Armed with flowers, fruit, and sweets, Templar knights and Saracen ladies blasted at each other across the chamber, their ebullient laughter drowning out the accompanying music. Their identities effectively concealed with half masks and cowls, some of the participants, ladies and knights alike, jumped on the tables and were slinging their ammunition with ribald accuracy.

Renée could not recall laughing as heartily or indulging in such frivolity. For a few precious moments her worries dissolved, banished by mirth and mayhem. Regrettably the combatants ran out of sugared darts all too soon. The king’s fool, presiding over the romp as Lord of Misrule, pronounced the ladies victors. With shrieks and bounds the Saracen sirens herded the vanquished Templar army to the center of the hall and ordered them to line up for a volta.

Sobering, Renée sought the king and Anne among the disguised. Anne’s curvaceous figure was identifiable, but there were several knights who matched the king’s physique. As the ladies chose partners, she saw Anne move toward one of the king’s look-alikes. Was he the king? He was too lean, too tall…Oh no! The pie-goose would ruin everything! Certes that was what Anne wanted, to hoodwink her brother with impunity. Would you say he is as tall as our king? How could Renée have thought Anne a want-wit? She was the witless one. She should have read the signs—the interest, the aggressive flirting—and realized Anne was netting a scapegoat. After the deed was done and the victim was unmasked, Buckingham would be hard put to accuse Anne of trickery.

Disregarding the rules of decorum, Renée hurled herself at Anne’s chosen dance partner. There was no mistaking his identity when eyes the color of the sea in Marseille touched hers. Then the heavy-lidded eyes slid toward Anne. No! Choose me, Renée implored silently, and in an act of despair took her boldness to a new zenith. She stepped closer to him and gripped his hand.

Michael’s hand was large, gentle, and very warm. Transfixing her with the force of his gaze, he opened her palm to his kiss. Heat filled her belly, swirling, tumbling, doing strange things to her mind and body. Then, wordlessly, apologetically, he let go of her hand and took Anne’s. No! Renée was in turmoil. She could not allow this to happen. She gripped his arm, rose on tiptoe, and whispered harshly in his ear, “Do not dance with her, you fool! He will kill you!”

“I know,” he murmured, clouding her with his heady scent. He craned his head until their lips nearly touched. Her heart pounded. There was steel in his eyes. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

Renée stumbled back in shock. He was rescuing the king. He was using Buckingham’s trap to ensnare the traitor—and there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.

The musicians struck up a volta. A Templar knight whisked her to the dance. She performed the sinkapace perfunctorily, right, left, right, left, all the while chasing Anne and her partner with damning eyes. Her perfect opportunity was lost. She would have to start scheming afresh.

A murrain on them both!

On the fifth count, all the knights grabbed hold of their female partners’ hip with one hand and the hard waistline edge of their busk with the other, closing the position for the spring, and Renée, feeling numb with defeat, put her hand on her partner’s shoulder and presented him with her masked profile, as was the rule of the dance. The step before the leap was the most sensual of the volta, when words of love and desire were whispered. She felt her partner’s humid breath on her temple, his lips almost touching; then he boosted her into the air and held her up with his hands, his thigh under her thighs. She stared down at him as he turned and slid her along the length of his body to the floor, and knew who he was: Sir Walter Devereaux, Norfolk’s man.

Feminine laughter rang hard by, Bessie Blount delighting in her chosen dance partner, a tall, robust knight with broad shoulders and an authoritarian posture—King Henry.

The dancing continued with no end in sight. Tired and dismayed, barely able to stand on her aching feet, Renée saw no point in her waiting for the unmasking. Hence, when the dance ended, she thanked her partner and turned away from him, but his arm insinuated itself around her waist and drew her back up against his chest. “You owe me a kiss of peace,” he murmured in her ear.

“Let go of me, sir.”

“And let us part as enemies? I think not.”

She saw a couple sneak out of the chamber—Anne and Michael—and felt the familiar tug of curiosity propelling her after them, but her dance partner was holding her put. Better this way, she thought. I cannot be caught lurking. As the couple vanished, so did her last drop of strength. Oh, it would have been so easy, if the fools had not decided to extemporize. She turned around in a swish of skirts and glared up at Sir Walter. “Make it brief.” Or you shall live to regret it.

A gleam entered his brown eyes. Oh, he most definitely had plans for her. “Aye, madame.” Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up and touched his lips to hers. His kiss was adequately civil. “Do remember what I said, Princess. I am yours to command in all things.”

With a humphy toss of her head, Renée took her leave of him and strode out of the room.

“Come away!” Anne dragged Michael by the hand along the dim hallway. He followed her tamely, aware that they were being followed. The bay behind the Venus tapestry, the Duke of Buckingham had said. When they reached it, Anne snatched back the arras and dragged him into the snug dark recess with her. Facing him, she curled her free hand around his covered nape and pulled his mouth down on hers. Their visorlike masks compressed as their kiss grew hotter, but he dared not unmask, not before his would-be assassin made his attempt. The assailant was close. Any moment now a blade would plunge into his back from behind the tapestry; that was the plan.

Abruptly Anne tore her mouth away. There was an edge of panic in her voice. “Leave!” she blurted urgently. “I beg you. Leave now!”

Michael went still. She had set him up and was now alerting him to the danger. Her change of heart surprised him—but did not elate him half as much as the French princess’s forewarning. She, too, had realized Anne’s ploy and tried to talk him out of his heroic undertaking. For a brief moment he had been violently tempted to forget the plot and choose Renée instead. Ultimately his brain had made the selection, as Lord Tyrone was wont to say: “Dare to be wise and leave the rest to the gods.” Yes, he was very wise. Disgustingly sensible. He deserved a trophy.

“Hush.” Michael put a finger to Anne’s lips when she grew hysterical, imploring him to flee. He sensed the assassin creeping closer to the tapestry. Excited and tense, the man—the duke—reeked of sweat. Michael heard his heavy breathing. He waited, keeping Anne’s back to the wall inside the recess, his back exposed to the arras. The duke could not suspect his sister of betraying him. Michael needed to react to something—a noise, a movement—rather than anticipate the assault. His senses signaled that the duke was directly behind him. Tension sizzled through his taut body. He heard the soft rasp of a dagger sliding from its sheath…. He stepped out swiftly.

The masked assailant jolted and thrust. Steel flashed against Michael’s abdomen. He caught the wrist wielding the blade and knocked the hand against his knee. As the dagger clanked to the floor, he grabbed the duke by the throat and sent him crashing against the opposite wall.

The guised Duke of Buckingham sank to the floor with grunts and invectives. Michael was already towering over him, the dagger in his hand. In the dying light of the gallery’s cressets, his form loomed as a sinister hulking shadow. “Go off! Or I will hack you, my word upon’t.”

Groaning with pain, the duke looked up at him. “Who the pox are you?”

“Your worst incubus, if you do not remove yourself hence.” He watched the duke push to his feet awkwardly and stumble out of sight. He sheathed the duke’s dagger in his sword belt and returned to the dark alcove behind the wall-hanging. He found Anne juddering as a terrified rabbit caught in a huntsman’s snare.

“Wh-what happened?” she asked in distress.

“A drunkard slinked behind me and tried to cut my purse. I chased him off.”

“Th-that’s all?” She tilted her head back, the white of her eyes visible in the shadows.

“Not a drop of blood was shed tonight. Be at ease, sweet Saracen.”

Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, plunging her tongue into his mouth and rubbing her body against him. Her hand found his codpiece and kneaded him artfully. “Take me, take me,” she implored, yanking her sleeve down to bare a generous white globe. She put his hand on her breast and wiggled her thighs against his groins. The lady was afire!

Her breast felt deliciously heavy and ripe. Not one to disappoint a lady in distress, especially one who had spent three years in pious chastity, Michael ran his thumb over the firm nipple. She cried out for more. His semiaroused cod grew taut and aching for fulfillment. Bowing his head to suck the hard nipple into his mouth, he grabbed fistfuls of her multilayered gown with both hands and bared her legs up to her waist. Her gasps and wiggles encouraged him to do his worst. He probed between her thighs to find the lips of her sex slick with her lust. Stroking her with one hand, he unlaced the points of his codpiece with the other. He was stiff as a pole. “Cling to my neck,” he instructed. He hoisted her plump thighs, which instantly parted wide to accommodate him, and thrust into her, pressing her back to the wall. She smelled of civet and too much wine. She locked her legs around his waist as he pounded into her, working his cod into her moist depths with swift, forceful lunges. The air in the recess grew muggy with their labored breaths.

Their joining was rough and urgent, pure lust, naught more, and Anne seemed to relish their shameless savagery. As she bounced in a frenzied rhythm, her hips gyrating with increasing urgency, her mewing took on a higher pitch. Sweat coated his skin as he fought the inexorable urge to blow. She was hot and wet, and he was primed to take his pleasure. He shoved himself into her harder, faster, on the edge of endurance. He felt her tighten into a fist around him; then with a shrill cry she clenched spasmodically, her body shuddering on a wave of rapture. With a low growl, he surrendered to the roaring tension shooting up his spine, finding his release at last.

Renée strode rapidly to her apartment. She had failed, but what could she have done? The big ape was not to be swayed. And Anne—that qualmish trollop!—she outfoxed her. God’s pity! Aware of the two armed guards shadowing her, Renée quickened her step. They were her guards, but she was not used to being watched over all the time. It was unsettling rather than comforting.

Two more Valois guards waited outside her palace apartment. Sentries. By King Francis’s fiat, the bodyguard was to escort her everywhere, safeguard her residence, and assist her in all of her endeavors. They flung open the door to let her in. She bade all four a good night and entered her apartment. The privy chamber was disconcertingly gloomy, the fire on the hearth reduced to glowing embers. “Adele?” she called, bolting the door.

Out of the darkness a pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind, one swooped across her mouth as the other pinned her to a hard body. She could not move. She could not scream.

Michael eased Anne to her feet and laced his codpiece. She put her breast inside her bodice, pulled up her sleeve, and shook out the folds of her gown. “I have not been with a man in over three years,” she whispered. “I enjoyed you very much.”

“I enjoyed you.” He smiled, noting that he and Anne had shed their masks. “Had we a bed, I would indulge further.” The very idea of returning to sleep in the undercroft dismayed him.

“I have a great bed and an absent husband….”

Michael grinned. “If this is an invitation, I heartily accept.” He cupped her waist and melded their bodies together. “Though I warn you, you shan’t get much sleep with me in your bed.”

She gave a breathy laugh, a trifle jaded, but he did not mind. She took his hand. “Come, my young Norse-Gael warrior. Let us establish the extent of your vigor.” She led him outside the alcove, her wary gaze scanning the hallway for people. There was no one in sight. Laughter rang from the royal apartment, mingling with music notes. The revelry would continue till dawn.

As if on muted accord, they traversed the passageways at a fast pace, watchful for passersby, disinclined to be seen together. So long as Buckingham never discovered the identity of the man Anne “mistook” for King Henry, the duke would not be able to retaliate against Michael or Anne.

A pair of nightwatchmen guarded the entrance to the wing where the king housed his noble guests. One of the guards turned his head in Michael and Anne’s direction. Perdition! Michael cursed, realizing they had left the half masks in the alcove. He pulled her into his embrace and dragged her aside to lean against the shadowed wall, the sconce of which had been snuffed out.

“Wait here,” he whispered, and tore back up the passageways. He collected the masks from the floor of the alcove and returned to her side within moments. His cowl had slipped off his head. He tied on his satin visor, pulled the cowl back up, and tugged it low over his eyes.

“Do you suppose he saw our faces?” Anne inquired worriedly.

“Let us proceed. The longer we delay, the more he is likely to remember us.” Wrapping an arm about her and stooping to disguise his true height, he let her conduct him to her chamber.

Renée swallowed her panic, reached inside her inner sleeve, and gripped the hidden hilt of a tiny dirk. She slid it out smoothly, then stabbed the thigh pressed to hers. Her attacker cursed and released her. Her heart thudding, she unbolted the door, shouting for the guards. They burst in but instead of pouncing on her assailant stood gaping at his obscure form.

“Well done, madame,” the interloper rasped, pressing a hand to his thigh.

Renée staggered back. “Sergeant Francesco! What are you at, sir? Who did you think I was? Jesu, you are bleeding! Where is Adele? She will dress your wound. Adele!”

Her tiring woman stepped out of the bedchamber, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. “He can clean his own muck,” she muttered in thick Breton dialect, a mixture of Gaelic and French.

Renée’s gaze bounced between Adele, the sergeant, and the guards. “What goes on here?”

“He”—Adele gestured at Sergeant Francesco—“thought it wise to put your new training to the test. He bade me douse the fire and stay out of sight in the bedchamber.”

Renée leveled a glare at him. “Is this true, Sergeant? Did you ambush me on purpose?”

“Your pardon. I followed Lieutenant Armado’s orders. He thought it prudent to practice.”

Incredulity rounded her eyes. “At this hour of the night?”

“It is our responsibility to ensure you are well trained, which you are.”

“Where is Lieutenant Armado?” When he did not volunteer an answer, she looked at the bloodstained silver dirk clutched in her fist. Her heart was still in palpitations, but her hand was steady as a rock. “Do sit down by the fire, Sergeant. I will tend to your wound. Your men may return to their post or…to bed.” She had no idea what their routine was. She did not know all of their names yet. She only knew that when they were not stalking her, they were staying in one of the inns at the wharf. “Adele, fetch me clean wads of linen, hot water, and wine, if you please.”

Snorting her displeasure, Adele turned on her heel and stalked back into the bedchamber.

“Pray forgive my assault and allow me to commend you on a most competent retaliation.” The sergeant limped to the fireplace, threw a few logs in, sending sparks swirling up the flue, and sat on the long cushioned settle in front of the hearth. He was wiry and agile, stalwart, too.

Renée was fond of him. She sat on a stool to examine the cut she had inflicted on his thigh.

“The gash is not deep,” he reassured her. “My costume’s thick leather hose was designed to protect the muscle from a deep stabbing, and your dirk is quite small.”

“Lieutenant Armado gave the dirk to me when we trained in France.”

Adele returned with the items Renée had requested. She offered the sergeant a cup of wine, dropped clean strips of linen on the little table beside him, and set a kettle of water on the trivet in the fire. With another harrumph directed at the soldier, she cleaned Renée’s blood-smeared silver dirk and returned it to her mistress. “His blood will ruin your gown. I will bandage him.”

“Thank you, Adele.” Renée got up and moved to sit on the settle by the sergeant.

“We must speak in confidence,” he said, eying Adele with misgiving.

“Bah!” said Adele.

Renée smiled. Since the fiasco in France, her old nurse refused to leave her mistress alone in the company of men. “Whatever you wish to discuss, Sergeant, you may do so in front of Adele.”

“As you wish, madame.” He saw her slide the thin silver dirk back inside her sleeve. “It is a clever little blade, easily concealed and wielded, as you have demonstrated. Ouch!” He flinched when Adele ripped open his hose and dabbed a wad of linen soaked in green ointment at the cut.

“The watercress will purify the proud flesh,” Adele muttered in Breton.

Renée translated the phrase to the sergeant. “Madame,” he said tentatively. “We are here to serve, protect, and abet you. We are bound by a sacred oath to accomplish this mission. It is our duty as well as a privilege. I understand my Lord Cardinal explained about our specialty.”

“Yes, Cardinal Medici told me all about you. You are deletoris.”

He nodded. “Perhaps Lieutenant Armado wanted to make a point tonight, with the exercise.”

“What point might that be, that you can make sport of me in the middle of night, Sergeant?”

“No, madame. The point is that we are yours. We belong to you. We do what you say. We are your loyal bloodhounds. You give an order, and we jump. No questions, only obedience.”

Renée gave an unnerved laugh. How slavish he sounded. Her thought must have showed, for he said, “We are well trained and educated. We hail from good families in Italy. We take pride in our office. We are soldiers in service of God. Employ us. That is what we are here for.”

Not common men-at-arms. She took a life-threatening gamble. “Cardinal Campeggio is in London. Did you know? Rougé informs me the good cardinal is calling for a crusade.”

“No, madame. He safeguards the Ancient. Although he was the one who convinced the pope to appoint Wolsey papal legate, Campeggio does not trust his ambitious English colleague and remains in London to keep an eye on him at York Place, Cardinal Wolsey’s palace upriver. He rarely comes to court and always travels with his deletoris.”

Jesu mercy, she was a fool! What had she thought to accomplish by abetting Buckingham tonight? Supposing he had killed the king, what would she have done? Hailed a barge to York Place in the dead of night? Infiltrated the Lord Chancellor of England’s bulwarked palace? Rummaged around for the Ancient? Thank God the plan had failed. Now that she thought upon it, Anne had done her a good service. She burned with curiosity to know what had transpired. Had Buckingham slain the wrong man? Forewarned is forearmed, Michael Devereaux had whispered.

He was not dead. Somehow he had thwarted the duke. He might not be well informed in the ways of the world, but he was clever. He had played into Anne’s trap with all the innocence of a lamb, knowing precisely what he was about. He would not have let Anne lure out anyone else.

Now she must pray His Grace of Buckinghamshire would try again—and she would be ready next time. “Why do you serve Medici instead of Campeggio?”

“A long-standing political feud between Lieutenant Armado and Captain Luzio in charge of Campeggio’s deletoris. We broke from them. We serve the next pope, madame. We serve you.”

She decided to trust him. “Sergeant, send your best man to masquerade as a servant at York Place. We need to know the precise whereabouts of the Ancient. Is it interred in the undercroft? Is it locked away in the treasury chamber? Is it under the cardinal’s bed? Under his hat?”

“Yes, madame!” Sergeant Francesco stood, his thigh poulticed, his expression laying bare his dedication. “I shall undertake this assignment myself and inform Lieutenant Armado.”

His gusto was infectious. “Proceed with due caution, for I imagine this Captain Luzio cannot know you are in London, and with all speed, Sergeant. The opportune moment is ripening.”

Fever hailed the dawn. His skin afire, his throat parched, his head hammering mercilessly, Michael tumbled out of Anne’s bed and grabbed his sporran. The bottle inside it was empty. He cursed in Gaelic. He had drained it before the masque. How would he make it to the undercroft?

His condition was deteriorating. Most of the time, he felt strong and invigorated, but at dawn he was nothing, a slave to the dragon’s blood….

With immense effort, he pulled on his hose, boots, shirt, and doublet, strapped on his sword belt, and with a backward glance at the naked woman passed out amid tangled linen staggered for the door. Outside in the passageway the nightwatchmen were fast asleep, some on their feet, others sprawled on steps. Feeling faint, Michael negotiated the dim palace corridors with his eyes half closed, his skin dripping sweat, his heart galloping like a stampede of wild boar.

All of a sudden his hackles rose. Someone was following him. Was it the duke? He felt too ill to defend himself but drew his sword nonetheless and investigated the shadows.

Something stirred behind him. Michael span on his heel and squinted against the first sunray piercing the lozenges. Whoever had been stalking him was gone, wafted away. He swiped a hand over his damp face, gasping for air. Was he sickly delusional or had the danger been real?

Drawing on his last drop of strength, he trudged to the undercroft, swaying against the walls, panting. He nearly tumbled down the stone steps. Most of the torches had stubbed out. Dimness reigned, yet he kept on moving, navigating by instinct, by memory. He gave a hoarse shout of relief upon sighting the door to his lair. With shaky hands, he unlocked it and pushed inside. He dropped to his knees before the iron casket. Inserting the tiny key took an eternity. Finally the lid was open. He grabbed a bottle, unstoppered it, and swilled it to the dregs. Bliss.

Michael locked the casket, shoved it aside, and fell back on the truckle bed. He managed to pull off one boot and felt the brew’s potent kick lull him to sleep….

The door banged open against the wall, and a jovial voice exclaimed, “Rise and shine!”

Oh no. Michael groaned. He had forgotten to lock the door. “Go away…” he pleaded.

“A new day has dawned! The king would have a shot at a stag, and we go with him!”

“Methinks not…” Michael murmured, willing Stanley’s noxiously jolly voice to fade away.

“How swiftly is duty forsaken when Hypnos and Morpheus beckon….” Without warning, a pail of ice water hit Michael’s face, shocking him into wakefulness.

Sputtering, he pulled off his second boot and flung it at Stanley. “Verily you are a fellow of wild and eccentric habits. Do you drown all your adversaries?”

The boot ricocheted back at him. “The hunt is up, the morn is bright and gay!” Stanley sang in his deep voice. “The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green! Comb your fair locks and look hearty, for there be no place for a shag-haired scruff at the king’s hunting party!”

Michael squinted at the bearded man grinning at him. “Hunting? Let it be a shooting from a standing, or better yet, dispatch me now and be done. You are no friend of mine, Stanley.”

“How misguided you are, runt. You shan’t find a better companion at court. Now up, my somnolent friend. Time to show the King of England what Irish-bred upstarts are made of.”

“I give Your Grace and Your Lordship good morrow.”

“Ah, Sir Walter.” As the hour was early, the Duke of Norfolk welcomed him in a housecoat and a homely biggen. His son Surrey was splendidly dressed for the hunt. “Some mead?”

“I thank Your Grace.” Walter sauntered in, his muscles taut with exuberance over what he was about to relay. After squiring Lieutenant Armado Baglioni of Princess Renée’s bodyguard in the Southwark stews all night, he returned to his chambers, washed off the stank of whores, stale ale, and contact with rank persons, dressed, and hurried to report. Awake since yesterday, he felt more alive than he had in a long time. “I have tidings Your Grace will find interesting, I trow.”

“Sit with us.” The duke indicated the X chair facing the cushioned settle before the fireplace.

“Your Grace, although I have yet to fathom the great secret concealed behind the evidence I have uncovered, I believe I have touched upon a vein in Cardinal Wolsey’s schemes.”

The ancient duke’s left eye twitched—a good sign. “Go on.”

Walter described how he had approached the officer in charge of safeguarding the princess and lured him to a night of revelry in the stews, how he had poured ale down Armado’s gorge and encouraged him to lose money playing with false dice, and how he had returned him safe and sound to the palace. “He wears a pendant round his neck,” he went on with barely contained glee. “A gold cross over black, with a Latin motto that says ‘Soldiers in Service of God.’”

“Same as the insignia of Cardinal Campeggio’s bodyguard,” remarked Surrey.

“Precisely!” Walter exclaimed. “Very peculiar, methinks. The princess’s guards are liveried in the blue colors of France with the golden fleur-de-lis. Also peculiar, as one would expect her bodyguard to display the field of ermine over white, the badge of the duchy of Brittany.”

“This is perfectly understandable, considering she is come on a peace mission. Her embassy, headed by the French ambassador, the Marquis of Rougé, represents France.”

“Why the gold cross over black, then? Soldiers of God, a secret papal army none has heard of arrives with an Italian cardinal calling for a crusade while at the same time a French princess on a dubious peace mission is bucklered by the same army, only in disguise.”

“I wonder if Rougé knows aught about it,” murmured the duke.

“We must determine how Wolsey fits into this fretwork of spies,” Surrey told his sire.

“Shall I continue entertaining the dice-happy lieutenant?” Walter asked. He felt ebullient. Here he was, conspiring with the powerful Howards, sharing confidences.

“Bring me his pendant,” the duke ordered. He stared at his son.

Surrey rose. “I am to hunt with the king this morning. Join me, Sir Walter.”

Walter leaped to his feet. Hunting with the king! “Thank you, my lord. Your Grace.”