Dark Angels (33 page)

“Then she didn’t tell you?”

“Not precisely, but anyone can see she’s uncomfortable and doesn’t know what to do. It’s horrible, Father. You have to stop it.”

“I’ll certainly speak with the king.”

“Will you? Oh, thank you, Father.”

“Where are you off to? Aren’t you going to stay?”

“Oh, no. Barbara is waiting for me in the hall. We have to get back to court. We’re going to the theater this afternoon with the queen.”

“What’s playing?”

“The Conquest of Granada.”

“That’s right, Nellie dances again. I completely forgot. I may join you, poppet.”

“Come and play basset with us later if you do.”

“Play’s too timid at the queen’s. I like my cards fast and dangerous. There’s a letter for you. Ask Perryman on the way out.”

“Who’s Perryman?”

“My new footman. A treasure.”

She left in her usual whirl, and Sir Thomas stood looking at the fire. A coward I am, he thought. Sooner or later, Alice will have to know. He’d take later. He always did. And he had promised nothing, really—simply to speak with the king. He hadn’t said about what. He smiled, pleased to put off reckoning for a time, comfortable with his treachery.

In the hall, Alice said to Barbara, “It’s done.”

“As easily as that?”

Alice linked her arm in Barbara’s. “I almost think he doesn’t care for her as I thought he did. A coach for us—what’s your name?”

“Perryman.”

“Perryman, if you please.”

“Aye, ma’am, and while you wait, I’m heating some bricks for your feet, and I gave a letter for you to your maidservant.”

Poll held it out.

It was from Beuvron, Alice saw. Wanting money, most likely. She’d read it later.

A
T THE THEATER,
courtiers and Londoners filled the main chamber. Word of Nell Gwynn’s return to the stage was the topic of court and London, and everyone was excited to see a new play by John Dryden, the poet laureate.

“There you are,” said Gracen to them. “I’ve saved a place by me.”

Alice and Barbara curtsied to Queen Catherine and then sat down. They were in a special section reserved for the queen—only those she invited might sit there. In the pit, directly in front of the stage, were scores of young men from both court and the city, who openly ogled the maids of honor. The young women were used to it; it came with being a maid of honor, and those of maids who were older, like Barbara and Alice, paid no attention anymore. The men in the pit—from merchants to courtiers—stared at Renée today; she was new to them. The bolder of them pointed at her openly as they talked. It was the gauntlet every lovely woman of court ran. Some thrived. Some wilted.

Alice leaned over to whisper to Renée, “I’ve spoken to Father about the king’s attentions.”

“He’ll hate me,” Renée whispered back. “He’ll dismiss me from court.”

“He seldom dismisses anyone for anything. Don’t fret so.”

“I don’t want to make His Majesty angry.”

“He won’t be angry. Look, there’s Lieutenant Saylor.”

From the pit, Richard bowed.

“Why is everyone staring at me?” asked Renée.

“Because you’re lovely. Never mind it.”

Kit grabbed Alice’s arm hard. “It’s the Duchess of Cleveland. She’s coming over to us.”

“She’s not.”

But there she was, larger than life in all things, advancing toward the queen’s stall like a languid lioness. The men in the pit watched her, elbowed one another so that none should miss her. She drew eyes. She always had.

Barbara Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland, was still magnificent in a court that liked its beauties barely grown. At an age when women at court retired to their country estates to rear children and left their husbands back in Whitehall to drink themselves to death, there was no retiring for this woman. She no longer held King Charles in the palm of her hand—or, as the wits would say, in another place—but she did hold his regard as mother of four of his children. In her heyday, she’d blatantly made Queen Catherine’s life miserable. In the firmament of court, she remained one of the stars. Tall, full figured, she held her head the way a queen of wild savages might.

“A word with you, Verney.” She made a slight, cold curtsy to Queen Catherine. “Majesty, might I steal your little Verney for a moment?”

“Only a moment.”

“Of course,” said Cleveland, as if she’d ever obeyed this little Portuguese, a waif to her Amazon.

Alice meekly followed the duchess to the stall that was hers. Cleveland could have sent a footman or page to fetch her; this drama boded no good. Dread began to fill her. This woman had helped to bring down the cleverest of the king’s councillors simply because her cousin Buckingham asked her to. She was so openly jubilant at his downfall that the councillor had said to her, “Pray remember, madam, if you live, you will grow old.”

“Alone at last,” Cleveland said, shutting the gate behind them and sitting down, but not inviting Alice to, only turning large, dark, contemptuous eyes on her. She let a silence build. When at last she did speak, every word was a lash.

“You know, for quite a while, I just couldn’t fathom it. Who would play such tricks on me? Who would dare? For years, I’ve wondered. I didn’t really note that they stopped while you were in France and began again with Madame’s visit. But my confusion has lifted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re clever, Verney, I give you that. Not many could fool me for as long as you have. But, come, no more insincerity between us. The game is up. I have you, fair and square. And there must be justice, there must be retribution. A little bird tells me you’ve picked the Duke of Balmoral to conquer. You do aim high.”

“That’s not true.”

“Good, because I’m going to make certain that it doesn’t happen. I’ll see you married to an idiot first, but Lord Mulgrave’s an idiot, isn’t he? Better yet, not married at all. You’ll die on the vine, Verney, wither like an old gourd. And I shall laugh and laugh as I watch it.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Can and will. Who am I not related to in this court? Who doesn’t owe me a favor in one form or another?”

Alice opened the door of the stall. The play was beginning, the actress Nellie Gwynn taking her place on the stage for the prologue. Alice turned back to the duchess. “Once you might have done so. Not anymore, I think. When I’m a duchess, I’ll see you banished from court.” She didn’t know why she said the words. She’d gone stark, raving mad, most likely, saying anything to push past the feeling of having been crushed. King Charles had arrived, and in the noise and confusion around that, she slipped into the queen’s stall and sat down, breathing hard. It was an effort even to find breath. Dread filled her.

“What did she say?” hissed Barbara.

“She’s on to us over the trick we pulled last week.”

Barbara gasped and fell back as if shot in her chair.

“It’s me she suspects. Don’t fret. I won’t admit a thing, and I won’t give you away. You know you can trust that.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have done this last one. I knew it!”

“Hush.”

A tear rolled out of Alice’s eye. In the dark, she found Barbara’s hand and held tight. The prologue had begun, but her pulse was beating so, she couldn’t hear it. The laughter in the pit told her the play was starting well. Nellie, dressed as a French courtier—it was a trick of clever managers to have the actress wear breeches so that their legs might be shown—gave Dryden’s apologies for the play, as well as the great moral ideas the play would touch on. In addition to tight breeches and the laces and ribbons of a court fop, she wore a huge hat; it was so big that if she leaned to one side, she could touch the ground with it. She leaned to one side and touched the ground. Men in the pit began to applaud.

Not only did she mock the dress of the Frenchmen who’d come in the summer with Princesse Henriette, she mocked the style of the other company of actors, who used outlandish costumes to draw laughter. King Charles could be seen pointing a finger at his brother, who sponsored the other playing company. Nellie, actress to her core, began to play the part even more broadly, hilariously burlesquing a courtier full of himself. She threw the hat on the stage and danced around it. The audience clapped. King Charles stood and tossed her his hat, which she put on her head and wore to finish the prologue before tossing it back to him and bowing like the most graceful of courtiers. Cheers and whistles followed her exit. This was to be a tragedy, but Dryden was not above beginning with a broad laugh.

Alice could barely take in the tragic plot set in Spain, with star-crossed lovers, Queen Almahide played by Nell, popular, handsome Charles Hart as the warrior Almanzor, who loved her. There was a temptress and a jealous husband. There was a conversion to Christianity, wonderful scenery that transported the audience into another world, songs that were faintly erotic or political. A little actress was emoting. Fletcher, sitting behind Alice, pinched her on the shoulder.

“That’s the actress who has Dryden,” he whispered, “breaking up another happy home.” Boos and applause erupted at certain lines:

See what the many-headed beast demands—

Cursed is that king, whose honour’s in their hands.

In senates, either they too slowly grant,

Or saucily refuse to aid my want:

And, when their thrift has ruin’d me in war,

They call their insolence my want of care.

Prince Rupert, who was sitting on the stage, as was the fashion, stood and called out just as if he were one of the actors, “Andrew Marvell, Thomas Verney, Rob Howard, do you hear?” He wasn’t bothered in the least that he was interrupting the play, nor were the actors, used to this and more from their audience. The day would be a good one if there wasn’t a fistfight in the pit.

Alice saw her father sink down where he was sitting, put his hat over his face. She turned around to Fletcher. “I don’t understand.”

“The loss of the last Dutch war,” Fletcher whispered. “It’s felt it was because the Commons wouldn’t grant enough funds for a proper fight, but when it was lost, they went on a hunt to blame the council.”

So, she thought, putting together other pieces of gossip she’d heard this last month, that the king and his Parliament were more and more at loggerheads. My father is in it, thought Alice, and behind him is Buckingham. He was behind much, it seemed: Monmouth’s pride, York’s retreat, the divorce. A dangerous man. The play continued, treason, revolt, near suicide, death of an evil king, and finally, with that, it was over. Applause swept the chamber. The audience began to depart or leap up on the stage to join the actors as they undressed behind the scenery.

Alice glanced toward the Duchess of Cleveland, who blew her a kiss. She was no longer so frightened—she’d come up with a plan while watching the play.

Stagehands came out to douse the candles at the foot of the stage. Since the king was still in the theater, they left those in the chandeliers burning and sat on the edge of the stage to wait. King Charles opened the gate of Queen Catherine’s stall. A smile lit her face as he sat beside her in his lazy, easy way. “Did you enjoy the play?” he asked.

“Most thrilling.”

“And you,” he said, turning to the maids of honor, waiting for him to notice them.

“Oh, yes!”

King Charles switched to French. “And you, Mademoiselle de Keroualle, it wasn’t too savage for you, the prologue? She did make most cruel fun of your countrymen. Perhaps it is a good thing that your English is, for the moment, weak.”

“It was very well done. And no, I did not understand, but everyone seemed most amused, and she who played the queen was most graceful.” Renée spoke slowly, some of her words in French, some in English; she was improving each day, thanks to Richard.

“Everyone in the pit was admiring you tonight. You grace our court.”

Renée didn’t answer.

Queen Catherine stepped into the uncomfortable little silence with her own hazardous English. “Come you will to my apartments tonight, sir. I would have most honor. My brother he sends a new lute and the Madeira to drink.”