Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  Sir Thomas Verney drew dark brows together in a frown; Barbara made a noise. She didn’t thrive where there were quarrels, and when Alice and her father were together, there were often quarrels. One hung over them now. “Do excuse me,” she said. “I know you have so much to speak of.” She fled.

  “Was there any talk of an arrangement, a…well, let’s just say a treaty? You’re a clever girl, Alice. It would be secret, of course, not bandied about, but you hear things, notice things,” said Sir Thomas.

  “If it were secret, I would be out of bounds to speak of it—”

  “Don’t play games, Alice.” Her father was harsh. “One hears gossip. Monsieur, for instance, was said to be furious that he was not included on this journey.”

  “Monsieur, Father, is furious if his coat doesn’t fit him in the way he thinks it ought. He has only two moods, sulks or fury. What are you on the hunt for?”

  He tapped his nose. “I smell a rat covered in French perfume. I cannot help but wonder if this familial visit doesn’t cover some state business between King Charles and King Louis. It doesn’t, does it?”

  Alice shrugged indifferently. Her father swelled again, and this time it was not because he was pleased. “You were rude to Mistress Saylor.”

  “Accept my apologies for interrupting your ridiculous flirting, which is of course far more important than anything I might have to say—”

  There was a soft, interrupting cough from above. Alice turned, saw Edward on an upper step. She hurried to him.

  “Balmoral is ill,” Edward whispered.

  “What do you mean, ill?” Alice whispered back, very fierce. “How ill?”

  “I don’t know. He remained in London, at Whitehall. And Mistress Howard is walking on the roof with that Frenchman you don’t like.”

  “Edward, you surpass my expectations. Find me in the morning, and I’ll give you three coins instead of one.” She turned back to her father. Light from flambeaux that were anchored to the stone walls of the great open stairwell flickered over his face. Its play of shadow seemed to show his vanity, his ambition, his twisting and turning from one great man to the next to further himself. Nothing changes. She must tread skillfully, now. She walked downward to him. “Did you know His Grace Balmoral was ill?”

  “I don’t think it serious.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  “No.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “If I wished. Something’s afoot.” Sir Thomas looked about discontentedly. “I tell you I smell it. Are you certain there’s nothing you’ve seen, nothing you’ve heard, about an agreement, a contract, between the kings?”

  “I know nothing, but I am concerned.” She paused, careful now, uncertain how much to say. Since King Charles had been crowned ten years ago, her father had remained just on the edge of the great men who advised him, one of their minions. He wanted in on the circle of influence. The wanting made him dangerous. “Are you or are you not still allied with Buckingham?”

  A shadow passing over his face told her much. “I’m his man. Who questions my loyalty?”

  “No one, Father.” She had only thirteen days in England and was uncertain whom to trust. How did she begin to explain the atmosphere of Princesse Henriette’s unhappy household, the hostility, the war that was being waged between the princess and her husband and his absent lover? She’d thought Monmouth would aid her in this. To be forced to trust her father made her wary, more anxious than she already was. “Will you tell the Duke of Buckingham for me that I have some frets for Her Highness? Perhaps he might allow me to speak with him before I return?”

  “Tell me your frets.”

  “I’m too tired this night, Father, but I will, I promise, first thing in the morning. We’ll breakfast together. That will be delightful, won’t it. Now you tell me why you have allowed this John Sidney to court Barbara.”

  “What are you talking about? She’s a ward of the court, Alice, not my responsibility.”

  “I expect you to look after her. You promised me you would.”

  “Sweet Jesus, I do! She receives a handsome little sum of pin money from me once a quarter. Why? Not because I owe it, but because you asked it. What have you against John Sidney? He seems a good man, comes from a good family.”

  “He’s a nobody. She can do better than him. I intend to see she does.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “You have not been home six hours, and you have a plan? I’ve had too much wine, and I can’t listen to plots tonight.”

  “No plots, Father. This is a serious matter. I have thought everything over carefully, and I—”

  He interrupted. “I’m well aware it’s past time we married you. I haven’t been sitting here picking lint from my navel while you’ve been in France, my girl. I’ve got my eye on the young Earl of Mulgrave for you. Quiet, I know, but you more than make up for that. The family is willing—”

  “Father, I have every intention of marrying His Grace the Duke of Balmoral.”

  Sir Thomas, never at a loss for words, went silent, staring at this only child of his.

  “I’ve been writing to him.”

  “Writing—God’s eyes, poppet! When did this begin?”

  “He wrote not long after I left to see if I was settled in, if I was sick for home, asking if there was anything further he could do, and I answered, and he replied, and we’ve been corresponding—”

  “He is as old as the hills, Alice. Older. You’d be a widow before the wedding oaths were done.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve made up my mind.”

  “It can’t be done, pet. He’s been a widower for over twenty years, and you’re not the first to have set her cap at him. You’re too young to know—”

  “It has Princesse Henriette’s blessing.”

  “Madame? You’ve managed to obtain Madame’s interest?” Sweet Jesus, thought Sir Thomas, almost in a panic. There were things Alice didn’t know, plots begun in her absence, cabals broken and reformed, Balmoral and he not the cautious allies they’d been when Alice was engaged to his nephew and heir.

  “She said she’d speak to King Charles—”

  “Alice Margaret Constance Verney, I insist—No. I demand that you not go rushing into this. I am your father, and I—”

  “Should be very pleased and do everything in your power to help me.”

  He stopped himself from saying what he really thought, smiled heartily, falsely, at her, his charm heavy and practiced but charming nonetheless. “We won’t quarrel on our first evening. We’ll talk again tomorrow before I’ve had my first glass.”

  She knew when to quit. Her courtier’s instincts were every bit as good as his. “I leave you to your flirting, Father.”

  He caught her arm as she turned from him to walk up the stairs. “Tell me true, poppet, does King Louis of France really keep both the old and new mistress by his side?”

  “True as rain.”

  “Is the new one as beautiful as they say?”

  “She glitters like gold, Father.” Golden hair, golden laugh, golden charm, but, unlike her predecessor, no golden heart.

  “Like gold,” repeated Sir Thomas, pleased with this gossip. He kept his arm on hers, his eyes still on her face. For a moment, two pairs of dark eyes under dark brows reflected back the image of the other, and there was affection and wariness in each set. They loved each other, had been together through lack and disgrace and exile to reach the pinnacle of this day, but neither trusted the other, he because he could do no differently, and Alice because at the age of six she’d stopped being stupid about him.

  ATOP THE ROOF of the keep, Gracen prattled away, certain of her charm, certain she had d’Effiat’s interest—being a maid of honor was no small thing—asking him question after question about King Louis of France, about his new mistress, the gossip of the moment in most courts.

  “I’ve heard she was friends first with La Vallière? Is that true?
” she said, her eyes shining with curiosity. This betrayal between friends had been much discussed among the maids of honor. The old mistress had unwittingly introduced her successor. Wasn’t that always the way? Every one of them knew the story of the shy, gentle little maid of honor named Louise de la Vallière who had stolen the tender young heart of the king of France when he was only three and twenty. It had been the scandal of Europe, and he’d loved her purely for a long time. But now that was ended. Someone more glittering, higher born, had taken her place, and that, too, was the scandal of Europe.

  Beuvron translated. D’Effiat looked Gracen up one side and down the other. The wind whipped her hair out of its pins and pulled at the skirts of her gown, so that her shape was there to be seen. She was a beauty. “Insipid,” he said to Beuvron. “I’m bored. Make my excuses.” He walked away, not bothering to bow a good-bye.

  Amazed, Gracen stared after him. “I don’t understand.”

  “He remembered something he must do. He makes his apologies and says he will talk with you tomorrow or the next day.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I assure you it’s true. Let me escort you back inside. The wind is becoming fierce.”

  They walked in silence to a corner tower. Inside it, Gracen went to a window where there was enough light from the flambeaux that she could see her reflection in it. She began to fool with her hair, working it back into its pins. “He thought me dull. I’m not dull, you know, far from it.”

  Beuvron sighed. What was it about d’Effiat that attracted women? Did they think they could warm his heart? He hadn’t one, not for women. “He does you a kindness,” he said. “I’d leave him be.” And then, because her face was becoming mutinous, because she looked ready to argue, he, too, left her on her own, alone in the tower, thinking that perhaps rudeness was kindness, after all, with this one.

  “DID YOU QUARREL?” Barbara asked as Alice sat beside her at the table, reached for a goblet of wine, and drained it.

  “Not really.” Her mind looped over and around her conversation with her father. Why was he not pleased that she’d set her mind on Balmoral? He’d been so pleased before, when she was to marry Balmoral’s heir. She’d expected excitement and a full falling-in with her plan. With their two heads plotting, Balmoral had no chance of escape. She was both surprised by and suspicious of his lack of enthusiasm.

  A familiar voice caught her attention. She glanced toward the bend in the banquet table, to the king’s mistress, the notorious, the brazen, the brash Duchess of Cleveland. Alice hated her, hated her rudeness, her temper, her vanity, but most particularly her behavior to the queen. She called her “the great cow.” The only thing cowlike about her were her big eyes. She wasn’t placid, didn’t chew her cud, wouldn’t be put out to pasture. The great cow had thrown back her head to laugh, and like her life, the laugh was big and bold, not to be missed. Her jewels were large, as glittering as Princesse Henriette’s and certainly Queen Catherine’s. She hung over one side of King Charles’s shoulders, an intimate and revealing gesture telling anyone who wished to see of her significance. King Charles stroked one of her creamy white arms absently as he talked with his sister.

  “The great cow still reigns, I see,” Alice commented.

  “Perhaps not.”

  Alice pounced on Barbara’s words. This was news indeed. “What? Tell me everything.”

  “King Charles didn’t accept her last child as his, and”—Barbara drew closer, looked around to make certain no one was listening—“word is she is moving out of Whitehall.”

  “Well, well, well.” There just might be justice in the world after all.

  “Caro wrote you a letter,” said Barbara. “I have it—”

  “No, Ra. I’m sorry her child is dead, but I can’t forgive her.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  She wouldn’t quarrel with Barbara, not on this first night. She couldn’t face the muddle that was her feelings for Caro. She’d rather celebrate the news the king’s favorite mistress might be ending her rule. “Listen,” she said. They could just hear the voice of someone singing. It came from an adjoining chamber.

  Can you make me a cambric shirt,

  Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

  Without any seam or needlework?

  And you shall be a true lover of mine.

  “Does the great cow still have the habit of kicking off her shoes?” Alice asked.

  “Why?” Both dread and excitement were in Barbara’s voice. “What are you going to do?”

  “Avenge. I know she’s been mean to the queen while I’ve been gone.”

  “You’re going to steal her shoes? Alice, you’ve had too much wine!”

  “I’ve had only just enough…. What shall we wager that they are kicked off and under the table? I desire a good old-fashioned fit of rage from her. Let the French see her at her finest.”

  “She’ll suspect!” They were standing up now, whispering furiously.

  “Why?”

  “After all this time, for the pranks to begin again—”

  “She won’t make the connection. I swear it! Go and engage her in conversation.”

  “She likes me not. She won’t—Alice!” Barbara’s whispers were like a goose hissing. “You’re not to do this!” But she was smiling, and there was a light in her eyes that egged Alice on. They walked together, arm in arm, innocent and charming, toward where the royal family was sitting. Barbara began to giggle. She always did before the crime.

  “Do it,” Alice hissed.

  Barbara moved gracefully, humbly, drawing eyes with her beauty, toward the woman who had been mistress to King Charles for over ten years.

  “My earring,” Alice said to no one in particular, touching her ear.

  At those words, Richard, who was pouring wine for the king, turned. Alice bent down. No one was paying any attention. All were intent on their talk, on watching the dancing. She was under the skirted tables in a flash, trying not to laugh as she snatched exquisite shoes—soft white kid with embroidery—then out again in nothing flat and walking away. She left the chamber, holding the shoes into her skirts, ran down the wide stone stairs of the entrance, out into the night, toward a fountain near the kitchen. She dropped the shoes in. If the great cow danced again tonight, it would be in stocking feet. Alice would return later, fill the shoes with dung, and leave them before the lady’s doorstep.

  Inside the keep, biting her lip, Barbara waited breathless at the top of the stairs.

  “In the fountain,” Alice said. “They needed a wetting.”

  Barbara’s trill of laughter attracted the attention of Fletcher, the queen’s dancing master, as he whirled by. He was in his element, had stopped at every plate to visit or flirt, was like a bee moving gossip from one guest to the next.

  “What are you two up to?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve swallowed candles, your eyes are shining so. Tell me at once.”

  “Nothing,” replied Alice. “Let’s go hear the singing.”

  Without another word, she and Barbara and Fletcher walked through the crowd into the chamber, where a soldier, a trooper, stood at one of the room’s long ends, singing. Sitting on chairs and cushions and footstools in the light of dozens of candles, people were clustered close to listen. Most of the maids of honor were here, and therefore so were many of the men they attracted. It was that witching time of evening, the wolves and jackals among the court out, circling, manners dulled by drink, no statesmanship and certainly no wives to keep them from the magic maidens, they whom everyone adored, the maids of honor. We thrive on their notice, don’t we? thought Alice, aware of the pride she felt to be one. We bridle if we obtain it. We’re ready to dance with disgrace for a glance, sighs, love letters, promises, all ours for who we are. It was heady stuff to be the maid of the moment, to be the subject of ballad, song, poem, play—not to mention someone’s passion—few could withstand all the glory it brought. Some survived, flew like swallows to greater heights. Othe
rs fell, crushed by seduction and disgrace and a court as fickle as it was fun.

  Monmouth was here, as was his wife, both surrounded by admirers, sycophants, and the ambitious. People were as respectful to him as if he were a crown prince. Maids of honor sent glances and little smiles his way. Alice wondered how much beyond their friendship was changed. Queen Catherine sat with a few of her household. Barbara went to the queen, settled in beside her, nesting like a sweet mourning dove.

  “And where are you going?” Fletcher asked Alice when she didn’t follow Barbara.

  “There.”

  “I’m coming with you, then.”

  Alice and Fletcher walked straight over to Colefax.

  Leaning with a shoulder against a wall, he straightened at the sight of them, his face changing, his eyes lighting with welcome and more.

  “I’ve heard your uncle is ill,” she said. No greeting. No polite talk. It was emotional to speak with him, more emotional than she had imagined; her heart was pounding in her ears.

  “It’s nothing serious, just a recurring vexation.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. You’ll give him my regards, tell him I asked of him, please?”

  “I will.”

  “I’m sorry for the death of your son.” It might have been our son, Cole, she thought, and her heart ached, and she clutched Fletcher’s arm, glad he was there because she didn’t know what she might have done otherwise.

  “My uncle said I treated you abominably. I have no excuse for what I did, but many regrets.”

  Yes, Balmoral was the sensible one among them, mending scandal, demanding honor, sending Alice away. Best, he said. “How is your wife?”

  It was as if she’d dashed cold water on him. His face closed. Poor Caro, thought Alice. She turned on her heel and went to sit at the feet of Queen Catherine. The maids of honor were whispering among themselves, her little scene with Colefax witnessed, her old scandal in mind and, if not known or forgotten, retold now, revived. Left almost at the altar. Poor Alice Verney. Am I glad your son died? thought Alice, meeting Cole’s eyes a moment across the space that separated them. No. Am I glad now not to be your wife?