Dark Angels (52 page)

Gracen raised her skirts and was off. Renée ran after her, as much to escape Richard’s frowns as anything else. King Charles winked to his guards, tipped his hat to the queen, met Richard’s eyes coolly, and set off down the hall.

Richard and the queen stood a moment in silent discomfort. Richard’s heart was raging. “I know a way,” he said, “that might get us there first. Shall we do it?”

His was not the only heart raging. “Why ever not?”

“We’d have to run.”

“Then run, captain of my guard.”

“Give me your hand, Your Majesty.”

They ran toward the back stairs that would take them to the first floor sooner, where the maids of honor’s apartments were. Henri Ange stepped out of the deep shadow made by a corner and followed them, until he saw guards standing in a first-floor hallway. Then he faded back into a shadow, like one himself.

“B
UT WHERE HAVE
you been?” Alice asked Gracen and Renée when they entered the bedchamber to sleep.

“To a boring supper.” Yawning, Gracen untied her cloak, stepped out of her shoes, sat down, and untied her garters, rolling her stockings down a white leg. “They do say the way Arabella Churchill caught York’s eye was by falling off a horse and lying there with her legs showing. It must be true, because her face is nothing to brag of.”

She tossed her stockings at her servant, held her bare leg out at an angle like a dancer, and considered it. “I, on the other hand, have handsome legs and a handsome face, if I do say so myself.”

“Still up? It’s very late.” Renée kissed Alice, sat down, pulled up her skirts, and allowed a servant—she had been given a servant by the king—to take off her shoes, untie garters, roll down stockings.

She likes being waited upon, thought Alice, watching her. He’s winning her. “Who was at the supper?”

“The Duke and Duchess of York, Lord and Lady Arlington, Their Majesties.” Gracen stood close to the fire, shivering, as her servant unhooked the back of a tight vest. She stepped out of her skirts to stand only in her chemise, a soft gown of finest lawn, with intricate lace at its sleeves and neck. The chemises were sewn by nuns in Portugal, one of the gifts Queen Catherine gave her maids of honor. The nuns made them for no one but the queen.

“Why weren’t all of us included?”

“I have no idea. I’m sleepwalking right now. Watch me sleepwalk to bed.”

“Renée, why weren’t the rest of us included?”

“I’m very sleepy. Come to bed.”

“Where’s Barbara? Gracen, was Barbara there?”

“She was not.”

Alice caught Renée by the hand. “Tell me the truth. Was Barbara there?”

“Yes.”

From one of the beds, Gracen gave a sigh. Alice went to the fire and stared into it, her mind busy. The queen wouldn’t exclude her from a supper, invite Gracen and Renée and leave her behind…unless she’d been asked to by the one person whose every command she obeyed. But why would His Majesty exclude her? And where was Barbara? This could not be allowed—a maid of honor gone all through the night yet again. It was permitted only when it was His Majesty. Tomorrow, she would inform the queen. It was clear Brownie was going to say nothing. It was, therefore, her duty to speak, for Barbara’s sake, for her reputation. She shrugged off her fur-lined cloak and slipped into bed beside Renée, who was already sleeping.

Barbara no longer slept in the same bed with her. She slept with Gracen and Luce. Not a young woman said a word at the change of sleeping arrangements—Barbara had just climbed into the other bed, and Renée had moved into Alice’s. No one spoke, and Alice had felt how they were all waiting for her to say something, yet she’d been silent, too. Just rolled over onto her side as if it were all perfect. But her anger was huge. And under it was even larger hurt, even though she was at fault. And now she and Barbara weren’t speaking to each other at all. Everything was strained and awful, and Alice didn’t explode but acted as cold as winter ice from the river outside this palace whenever Barbara was near, all the while with a growing ache in her chest and throat. Sadness, anger, regret, vengeance, all churned around in her. It was almost unendurable.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Alice curtsied to the queen.

“Your Majesty wished to see me.”

Queen Catherine took a deep breath. In the chamber beyond, Edward was feeding the canaries, who flew about their cages in excitement, shrilling at him. The sound was comforting. Familiar. All the queen’s life there had been chambers with cages of birds in them. Training for me, she thought, startling herself. Standing beside the queen, Dorothy twisted the end of the handkerchief she held. “Come and sit at the feet, Verney. There.” Queen Catherine took one of Alice’s hands in hers and began to pat it. “How long is it that we have know another?”

“Since you came from Portugal.”

“You are a small sister to me than a servant. When I first come, hardness, difficulty there is, and you make to smile. You say I have learn English. You and Barbara talk with me. I have shy, have afraid to make the mistake, and you say I talk with you and Barbara without afraidness, you are nothings, maids of honor, you say. You play the tricks upon his whore that have me to laugh so hard.”

“No one knows who plays—played—those tricks, Majesty.”

Queen Catherine continued on around her objection. “I have watch this the small sister become young woman, clever, lovely, and so determine.”

“Too determined,” muttered Dorothy.

Queen Catherine and Alice glanced over at her.

“Pray forgive me. My mind was wandering.”

“You have care for me, for Mrs. Brownwell, for Barbara, for Caro—” Alice jerked, but Queen Catherine went on. “For Caro. Yes, Caro, who do what she do, but is love by you for long time before. You love very hard, my dear. Maybe too hard, yes? Those we love do not do as we wish, and if we truly love, we must have allow it. Love is the bird she fly or land as she please. One cannot will it. You listen in this, yes? I have some experience of it.”

“Charity suffereth long, and is kind,” Dorothy interrupted, spouting like a plump parson. “Charity envieth not. Charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave unseemly. Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” Dorothy paused, at memory’s end, while Alice stared at her in amazement.

Queen Catherine took Alice by the chin and gently swung her face back to her own. “I have news to tell with you, delightful news. It make us happy. The friend marries, oldest, most true, last night.”

“No—”

“Yes. And I want that you have happy for her. It is will of God that women leave parents—and friends—to cling unto husbands.”

“She wouldn’t do that without telling me, she wouldn’t—”

“She would if you behaved—”

Queen Catherine silenced Dorothy with a flick of her eyes. “I want that you to hear from me.” She leaned forward and kissed Alice on the cheek. “That is from Mrs. Sidney.”

Alice put a hand to her cheek as if a hornet had stung it. She stood. Out in the withdrawing chamber, the canaries were singing with all their hearts, an aria, an opera of birdsong. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. She turned and fled the chamber.

“What she do?”

“The Lord above only knows,” Dorothy answered.

“See to her.”

“Of course.”

Queen Catherine watched Dorothy as she curtsied. Dorothy needed seeing after herself. The queen sighed and walked to a window to look outside. Winter was here. Dark by afternoon. Sleet, snow, ice, cold corridors, cold beds. Queen Elizabeth’s Ascension Day had seen rioting of apprentices against lacemakers in Pudding Lane, saying they were all French, all Catholic. It was a slur at her, the Catholic queen—St. Catherine was the patron saint of lacemakers. St. Catherine’s Day was tomorrow, her saint’s day…Kit be nimble, Kit be quick, Kit jump over the candlestick. Everything changes. He laughed last night when Gracen told him his queen was first come, laughed and kissed her. But he also kissed Gracen and Renée, Renée lingeringly, daring Captain Saylor to say a word. If he did not divorce her, she still had to endure his public wooing. The birds in their cages sang and sang. She tilted her head to listen to them. Sweet friends. How did they warble so with a cage around them? Didn’t their wings feel the urge to fly unfettered in vast sweeps of sky? Why did they not hold back their song instead of trilling with a keenness that pierced the heart? Some deep wisdom there, but she didn’t feel wise. She felt old and tired and useless and abandoned. She put her forehead against a cold pane of glass. Everything changes and nothing does.

A
LICE RAN TO
the queen’s guardroom. “Captain Saylor!”

One of the lieutenants said to her, “Is there trouble?”

“No. I have a message for him from the queen.”

“Try the stables,” said the sergeant.

R
ICHARD WAS BRUSHING
one side of Pharaoh, Walter the other. In the cold, their breath made little puffs of steam. Richard’s groom, Effriam, raked fresh hay into place on the floor. “Is it your child?” Richard asked.

Walter stood on tiptoe to look at him, but Richard was bent down, brushing a leg. “It ain’t, but Nan is my friend.”

“How do you know her?”

“She and her sisters clean the chambers, wash the sheets and covers.”

“How are you going to explain your absence today?”

“I told Madame Neddie you’d sent for me.”

“That does my reputation no end of good.”

“I told her there ain’t nothing like that between us. That I remind you of a brother who died.”

“And she believed that?”

“As long as there’s coin, she don’t care.”

“We’re paying for every stroke of that brush on Pharaoh,” Effriam said.

“And if I don’t give you coin?”

“They’ll beat me.” Walter said it with no pity for himself, nothing but fact, as if he were perfectly willing to be beaten if Richard didn’t wish to give him a coin. Richard had not slept well last night, that lingering kiss King Charles had given Renée playing over and over in his mind.

“I could be a groom, couldn’t I? If you was to teach me, I could be one.”

Richard slapped his horse on the shoulder. “What do you say, boy? Could Walter be a groom?”

The horse nudged Richard with his nose, snorted loudly, and shook his head. Richard laughed. “Go get some apples and bribe him for a better answer.”

Richard watched as Walter fed the horse bits of dried apple. He was very thin, at that leggy stage that was the cusp of leaving boyhood, yet still a boy, not near a man.

“What about Italian?” Walter said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Could that man speak Italian?”

Something in Richard stilled. “He might. Tell me more.”

“Madame Neddie has a friend. She says he speaks Italian to her. He says it’s Gibberish. I don’t know Gibberish from Italian. Where is Gibberish? In the Indies?”

“In China,” answered Effriam.

“He’s thin, like you said. Dark hair.”

“Interesting. Let’s saddle Pharaoh and ride him back to Madame Neddie’s.”

“I could eat first.”

There wasn’t pleading in his voice, but something quiet, beyond begging.

“The boy’s hungry,” said Effriam.

“Richard, I have to speak with you.” It was Alice, her dark furred hood making a halo around her face.

“Not now. I have business to attend to. Walter, put a blanket on his back, else the saddle will give him sores.” But then Richard had second thoughts. “Is it Mistress de Keroualle?”

“No. When may we speak together?”

“This afternoon.”

“I’ll wait for you in the Stone Gallery.”

“Who is she?” Walter asked when Alice had gone.

“A friend.”

“A mai of honor,” said Effriam. “Too high for you to be gawking at.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Is she?” Richard said absently.