by Karleen Koen
And so, one more time, Alice told of it, biting her tongue on the suspicions that filled her, thinking as she spoke how she no longer knew this court. The players had changed positions, and she must maneuver carefully, but it had come to her last night that there was one in this court to trust, whose decency she knew firsthand. She was aware, now, in a way she never had been before, of the treachery that lay beneath the surface of things.
KING CHARLES TOOK a long and furious walk in St. James’s Park with his dogs. The lines on his face were marked deeper, his eyes dark wells. He conferred with his council, went to a play, and allowed his lord chamberlain to set up the meetings for formal condolences from various ambassadors and courtiers, everyone warned to keep their condolences as brief as possible. The court packed to leave for summer palaces, Hampton Court and Greenwich, already talking about the horse races that would be held in Newmarket in July. It buzzed that because of the death the tide had swung to the Dutch, that King Charles was going to further alliances in that direction—there was already in place a treaty with them that had stopped King Louis in his land grab for the Spanish Netherlands. Of course, there were also two wars between the Dutch and English in the last ten years, but His Majesty was going to declare war on France, it was all but agreed.
“IT’S WHAT I think wise,” Sir Thomas said to Alice, who’d found a window seat in which to begin composition of the letter to the Duke of Balmoral that told all, or nearly all, of what she knew. “King Louis won’t stop with the Spanish Netherlands. He’s a threat to us all.”
“And you’ll lead the way to give King Charles all the coin and men he needs for such a fight?”
“All?” He smiled, truly amused. “There’d have to be some bargaining done between His Majesty and us, wouldn’t you think, poppet, tit for tat, so to speak.”
“Depend on it, Father, if you think that, so does the king.”
CHAPTER 11
July
The body of Princesse Henriette lay in state in Paris at the Cathedral of Saint Denis all the month of July, the vigil around the sarcophagus kept by Monsieur’s guards in their handsome uniforms, the light of a hundred candles, and monks chanting masses for the dead. Her funeral was to take place in August, and word was, neither the king of England nor his brother nor his cousin Rupert nor his illegitimate but best beloved son, Monmouth, would attend. As that news ricocheted through royal courts from Sweden to Spain, something else dropped into the mix. England would be represented—not by Lord Arlington or Lord Shaftesbury or the Duke of Lauderdale or the Duke of Balmoral, all august members of his council—but by the Duke of Buckingham, apparently most august of them all.
IN ENGLAND, JULY was a crimson month, pimpernels, roses, currants, strawberries in the gardens, cherries in the orchards, robins with crimson breasts singing in the green trees. In the fields, laborers began to scythe rye and barley, wheat and hops, and to wash sheep for shearing, herding them into rivers and streams to clean their fleece before it was cut from their bodies and spun into wool cloth. It was the month the king traveled up-country to the village of Newmarket to enjoy a week or more of horse racing under serene blue skies.
On the outskirts of the village of Newmarket, Alice, Gracen, and Barbara, all good horsewomen, kept their restless, prancing horses in order. The queen’s carriage followed. The maids of honor—of which Alice was not yet one—wore matching gowns and hats with large brims to protect a lady’s complexion, which must be as fashionably pale as possible. King Charles waited in the village, where the races were held and where the actress who was his mistress had a house he’d given her.
“You were groaning,” said Gracen. “That same silly nightmare.” Gracen and Barbara were talking about their dreams of the last night. Barbara had slipped back not only into her position of maid of honor, but also into her close friendship with Gracen, which was fine, but when had Gracen and Barbara become such friends that Gracen knew about Barbara’s nightmare? thought Alice.
“Hello, you two,” she said. “You’re going to help me with my plan, yes?”
“At your service,” said Gracen.
“I hope you don’t hurt yourself,” said Barbara.
“If she falls on her head, she’ll be fine.”
Barbara gave a soft laugh.
Alice turned her horse abruptly, galloped to the queen’s carriage, and leaned down to the window opening. “Are you comfortable, ma’am? It’s a wonderful day.”
“It is, my Verney. It’s good to leave Whitehall.” The queen spoke with a Portuguese accent. “Is” became “ezz,” and “yes” became “jess.”
They were off to visit the Duke of Balmoral, who had an estate near Newmarket. Alice was along as an invited guest of the queen and at the express request of Balmoral. She kept her horse trotting by the carriage, her glance going now and then not to the fine day, the sun shining, the cloudless sky, the trees around them full and green, but to the two riding ahead, Gracen and Barbara, whose familiarity bothered her. She had not realized in Dover what friends they had become. Barbara could have more than one friend. She had more than one friend. Saying that to herself made her feel she had herself in command, and she flicked her riding crop against her horse’s haunch and rode back toward them.
“—one’s heart has its own path, and I think I should listen. It’s God speaking,” Barbara was saying.
“It could be the devil,” answered Gracen.
“What could be the devil?” asked Alice.
“Barbara has a softness for John Sidney,” Gracen said even as Barbara spoke over her:
“Don’t tell—”
“Don’t tell me what?”
“Oh, she thinks you’ll disapprove and lecture her and tell her what to do,” said Gracen.
“I do disapprove. He has no resources but must live on his wits.”
“I have no resources,” said Barbara.
“Which means you must marry wisely,” said Alice.
“Is the heart never wise?”
“Not that I can see.”
“She wants to flirt with Mister Sidney,” said Gracen. “Whatever can a little flirtation matter? Practice for greater things, I say.”
“Flirt with whomever you please, just don’t do anything hasty. My aunt says passion is fleeting, unseemly. It flames high, dies cold, and the embers leave heartbreak—”
“You were hot for Colefax,” Gracen pointed out.
I could slap her, thought Alice. “I was, and you see where it got me.”
“You’re a court favorite.”
“That has nothing to do with Colefax.”
“It has everything. If he hadn’t gotten Caro with child, you’d have never gone to France. If you hadn’t gone to France, you wouldn’t have come back so fashionable and full of fun things to do, everyone wondering who is going to snatch you up in marriage and shaking their heads over Colefax’s mistake. So maybe Barbara’s little flirt will lead her to great things—Oh look, there are the entrance gates ahead. All right, Alice, let’s begin your game. Last one there is the last one married.”
With a flick of her riding crop, Gracen was off, Barbara following. Alice deftly turned her horse in a couple of circles before riding after them, thinking, So, Gracen defended Barbara now. That had always been Alice’s task.
The Duke of Balmoral stood waiting on the top step of the house. In the courtyard, Alice raced through the gates, then pulled too hard on her horse’s reins, and, startled at such treatment, her horse reared. She took a breath and let herself slip off—but her trick didn’t go as planned. She hit the ground with a jolt and lay stunned. Gracen screamed, Barbara leaped off her horse and came running as the queen’s carriage rumbled into the courtyard.
Queen Catherine stepped out of the carriage; her page Edward ran ahead to Alice.
“Alice, please open your eyes,” he said.
“Say something, Mistress Verney, at once.”
At the command in that voice, she opened her eyes to look up, dazed, at the Duk
e of Balmoral. “My horse, someone please see to my horse,” she said.
“Spoken like a true horsewoman,” said Balmoral, and he smiled.
Alice closed her eyes again, allowed herself to be picked up and carried into the house, upstairs to a bedchamber, people bustling all about, Edward holding her hand, the duke walking behind with the queen.
“What hurts you?” Balmoral questioned once she was laid down in a bed.
“My leg.” And badly.
“We’ll send for a physician.”
“One is with us.” Queen Catherine sat on the bed, took Alice’s hand, and held it as a housekeeper bustled to put her leg on a pillow. “Edward, fetch him. I pray you have not the leg broken, Verney.” The queen’s English was lilting and prettily said but fractured.
“Your Majesty,” said Balmoral, “let us leave Mistress Verney to rest. I’ve refreshments prepared for you.” He led her away.
Alone, Alice moved herself to the edge of the bed, gingerly, carefully, stood, putting her weight on her good leg. Then she tried to walk to the window. It hurt horribly, but she could do it. Thank goodness the filly hadn’t stepped on her. She sat in the window seat made of warm, almost golden oak. It’s begun, it’s begun, it’s begun, she sang silently. He wished to talk with her about the letter she’d sent. She wished to empty her heart of its suspicions to the one person she could trust, and in the doing so, courtship might begin. A shame she would miss the meal and talk and walk in the gardens. But she wouldn’t be able to go on to Newmarket with the others, either, would she? She smiled. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
IN THE LATE afternoon, a butterfly sunned itself on the opened windowsill of the bedchamber. Her leg wrapped tightly with cloth from knee to ankle, Alice lay still as Queen Catherine, Dorothy Brownwell, the mother of the maids, the queen’s physician, and Balmoral discussed her.
“It’s a bad sprain,” said the queen’s physician.
“She must stay here. I insist,” Balmoral said.
“It was an awful fall,” said Dorothy, her mouth trembling at the very memory of it. She looked ready to weep. Everyone loved Brownie, as the girls called her; she was kind and disorganized and incapable of running a firm household, which made all the maids of honor quite happy. Before Alice had left for France, she’d been running the maids as much as Brownie. “I thought my heart would stop,” she said to Alice.
“She cannot ride a horse. You haven’t room in your coach, Your Majesty. Mine has a broken wheel but will be up tomorrow. She’s to stay here, and I will send her to you tomorrow. Nothing could be simpler.” Balmoral spoke with such authority that everyone was silenced.
Queen Catherine leaned over. Warm brown eyes met snappish dark ones. “You rest, Verney. I send the maidservant to you attend, and I tell your papa.”
“I am so dismayed to be of such trouble,” Alice said happily.
Queen Catherine smiled. At first glance, she failed in beauty in any number of ways. She wasn’t fashionably pale; her nose wasn’t small; her mouth wasn’t well shaped. At best, her stature was childish, slight, whip thin; she could be as darting and nervous as a bird. But her smile was fresh, pure, kind, like her heart.
Dorothy leaned over and kissed Alice; then the maids of honor came in to say good-bye. “Might Mistress Bragge stay with me?” Alice asked the queen.
“Mistress Bragge and I are to sing for the king tonight,” Gracen said quickly.
“You and Mistress Wells sing,” said Queen Catherine. “Bragge stays to see for Verney.”
Alice had Barbara help her to the window to see the good-byes. In the forecourt, the duke helped the queen into the carriage. I’ve done it, she thought. She turned to Barbara. “Let’s leave this bedchamber. If I lean on you and you walk slowly, I can hop.”
A hall led to a grand sweep of stairway. They began a halting descent. Balmoral, walking into his great vestibule, looked up. “Whatever are you doing out of bed, Mistress Verney?”
“I will die of boredom in that bedchamber, Your Grace. Mistress Bragge is helping me to the gardens. I know you must have charming gardens.”
“I do.” Balmoral walked up the stairs. “There’s a rolling chair somewhere about for when I have the gout. We’ll find it.” He offered his arm to Barbara. “Mistress…?”
“Bragge.”
“Come with me to command it found. Mistress Verney, you sit here on the stairs while I send for a footman to carry you. I want that leg healed so I may have the pleasure of watching you dance again.”
THE ROLLING CHAIR was found, and Alice was rolled into the gardens, a footman pushing her, Balmoral and Barbara walking ahead, as he gave them a tour. There was something she’d never seen before, a maze, a labyrinth of concentric circles, made by turf grown thick as carpet and cut short to form circles within circles within circles. Dirt paths intersected every so often to bring he who walked the maze ever closer to the center.
“I’m told it was created by monks.” Balmoral gestured back toward the house. “This was an abbey before Great Harry had them destroyed. Look at the end wall there, and you see where once a great stained-glass window was. It’s said you must walk this maze on your knees, praying, and the guidance you need will come to you by the time you reach the center.”
“Have you done it?” asked Alice.
“I have.”
“And did you get your answer?”
“I did.” He smiled, wrinkles seaming his face into a hundred furrows. “That’s why King Charles sits upon the throne.”
They walked on. There was a long, smooth lawn cut into squares, gravel paths making their borders. There was a walled orchard, trees espaliered onto the wall as well as standing in neat rows, apples visible among the leaves, baby apples, not yet ripe. It would take the hotter month of August to perfect them. There was an herb garden and a kitchen garden, heads of lettuce unfurled in the sun, beans wrapping tendrils around reed support poles. At the wall that separated his woods from the house, small, quaint garden houses, a single high-ceilinged chamber in them, had been built into the wall’s corner ends, so that one might spend the day there, reading, or supping, or dreaming.
“This is delightful,” said Alice, who made the footman carry her inside. There were arched openings on every side of the garden house, and the interior had been painted with trees and birds and flowers.
“I never come here,” Balmoral said.
Back at the house, on a square of lawn, servants brought out chairs and a rug, and there was a footstool for Alice to prop her foot upon. Barbara sat on the rug, tucking in her skirts, leaning against Alice’s chair. The sun was soft on them, the sky blue. Birds sang as if summoned to choir.
“What you must see, Your Grace,” said Alice, “is Versailles, and all King Louis is doing there. Acres of land are becoming his park and walking gardens. His orangery is finished, a huge hothouse for hundreds of trees, and its roof is the terrace for the first floor of the palace. Great steps connect them on the outside. There are fountains and statues to be found everywhere. There is to be one of Apollo rising in his chariot, the heads and shoulders of his horses just out of the water. It will go in a huge circular fountain. The sketches for it are quite magnificent. I saw them at Madame’s.” She looked around. “You might, if you desired, put in such a fountain, if you took down your garden wall.” She pointed, and Balmoral rose and walked to the edge of a garden wall to see.
“So I might,” he said. “The trick would be living to see it finished.”
The sun moved into twilight, and a servant appeared to tell them a supper was ready.
“Your Grace, might we have supper here?” His gardens were lovely in this long July twilight. The beautiful thing about summer was that the sun hung in the sky for hours at this time of evening, so there was this long, pleasant lingering time.
Balmoral smiled. “I will go inside and arrange it at once.”
Alone with Barbara, Alice leaned forward. “It hurts me that you will talk of John Sidney to Gracen and
not to me.”
“Let’s not talk of it now.”
Servants were carrying out tables, and on the tables they were placing heavy silver candelabra. One of the servants, a tall man with a saber scar along the side of his face, kept glancing at Alice as he lit candles, but she didn’t notice. Barbara rose.
“Where are you going?” Alice asked her.
“My head aches. I thought I’d lie down.”
“Oh, Ra. Stay here, please. I don’t want you to go. Supper will be no fun without your presence.” Never before had she had to beg for Barbara’s company, and the newness of it was sharply painful, but then Balmoral was with them, and there was wine to drink if they wished it, though Balmoral refused any, and it seemed he had a musician under his roof, and the man came to softly play a guitar, and the duke’s majordomo was brought forward to be introduced to them, one Will Riggs, a tall man with an old saber scar that ran along one side of his face into his hair, dressed not in livery, as was the fashion, but in plain clothes, as were the rest of the servants. Livery on servants was the newest, smartest fashion from France. The duke didn’t follow fashion, it seemed.
“The Prince de Condé has a fine orchestra. He takes a portion of them even to the battlefield to entertain him in his tent. He says it soothes him and makes his mind clearer,” Alice happened to say.
Balmoral leaned forward, his eyes sharp with interest. “He does, does he?”
And Alice thought, Of course, he’s a soldier. Where is my mind? He is the captain general of His Majesty’s army. It was he who negotiated with our exiled king to bring him back. Balmoral was a kingmaker.
“Have you met this Louvois?” he asked. Louvois was King Louis’s minister of war.
“I can tell you only gossip.”
“Tell it to me, then.”
“Well, there is rivalry between him and Monsieur Colbert. Each wishes to be of the most use to the king. Louvois does not forget that it is his father who gave Colbert the opportunity to rise, and Colbert has risen high enough that he does not wish to be reminded of such. Louvois, who is the king’s age, mocks Colbert.” She almost said “who is older” but managed to swallow the words.
