Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  “Ahhh…,” breathed Gracen, wrapping her arms around the man who kissed and licked her breasts, pushed out of her tight vest. She bit his earlobe.

  “You make me wild,” he said.

  They kissed, tongues entangling, mouths ravenous. She kissed until she wanted to scream, then pushed him away, and he staggered back, almost falling into the large sultan’s head he’d taken off.

  “Go away now.” She was cold, turning and pushing her breasts back into the vest, leaning over as if she were alone. He wiped a hand over his face, picked up the head of his costume.

  “Wait,” she commanded. There was a pier glass on the wall. She stood before it. “Come stand here behind me.”

  He did so, dared to drop a kiss on her shoulder, but she tossed her head. “Now go away.”

  He left the chamber. She found her mask on the floor, retied it, went to the alcove’s opening, and looked out, feeling powerful, unsettled, ripe for danger. She loved this feeling, knowing a man desired her, knowing she could make him beg, could issue a command and he would obey. She loved that she’d made him forsake his vows to his wife and to his lover. She felt ruthless, like the tigers in the king’s menagerie. She could claw open hearts, lick the blood, not blink an eye.

  “AREN’T YOU GOING to dance with me?”

  Frances, the Duchess of Richmond, looked lovely as Artemis, sister to the Greek sun god Apollo. The costume allowed her several simple drapes of fabric that showed off her willowy figure.

  King Charles bowed. “Of course I am. Later tonight.”

  “You’re flirting with the French chit.”

  “She isn’t a chit. She’s your age.”

  Frances was two and twenty, had been at this court since she was fifteen. “Ah, ancient, then. She’s very pretty.”

  “Indeed she is. How does your husband?”

  “Very well. Have I thanked you for sending him to Denmark?”

  The king laughed, took her hand, kissed it before walking away.

  “FOLLOW ME.”

  Lord Knollys took Dorothy by the hand and led her through a hall and then to the stairs that led to the upper gallery. He pushed open a door, and they were in a chamber with chairs and tables, a retiring room for the king. “Begone,” he said to a dozing page. “Wait.” He found a coin, gave it to the boy. “Stand outside the door and give warning.”

  Dorothy helped him take off the sultan’s head, turned around so that he could untie her mask. They leaned into each other, and she twisted her head back to kiss him, his hands on her breasts, touching them, stroking the tips. She’d meant to be colder tonight, to behave, but she’d had too much wine, and wine made her think too much, and this, his hands, his kisses, was what she wished.

  There was a table; she sat upon it, facing him, pulling up her skirts to bunch around her—she shuddered at the feel of the wood against her bare skin, at the feel of his hands, already on her legs, bare above her garters, bare to her waist. He knew exactly how to touch her. She moaned into his mouth, touched him. He was ready. A part of her watched as she undid the buttons and guided him, both of them breathless with the haste, the suddenness, the feel of her hand on him.

  “Ahhh,” breathed Dorothy. I’m liquid fire, she thought. She bit her lip and felt the cold wood of the table upon which she sat, the cold only adding to the heat of what they were doing. She must remind him to pull out in time, but for now she clawed at the table and leaned forward to bite his neck. He raised his head, and they looked at each other, their faces slack, their mouths longing to touch. There would be no later for them this night, when she might lie in his arms and pretend that such was hers forever, only this snatched moment, which in its very desperation made the pleasure unbearable. She tried not to moan. Music was playing outside the door, couples dancing far off in the center of the hall. And then here it was, everything she’d ever wanted, and she clawed his back and whispered his name.

  “MIGHT, ER…I call, er…upon, er…you tomorrow?”

  To tease her father, Alice danced with poor Lord Mulgrave. It had taken all his bumbling courage to blurt the sentence he just had. She knew it, and she didn’t care.

  “Perhaps.”

  The Duke of Balmoral had not graced the fete with his presence.

  And Richard was in the garden with Renée, no doubt kissing her passionately. And Barbara and John Sidney were nowhere to be seen. And the woman who raised her goblet in a toast earlier was Caro. She hadn’t tried to approach Alice, and for some reason that bothered Alice more than an approach might have. And Colefax had danced with her twice, making compliments that should have pleased her vanity but made her feel guilty and ruthless. And not knowing, she’d danced once with wild Lord Rochester, who was very drunk, who waited until the very end to tell her he wanted to touch her breasts and something else much more intimate, only the word he’d used was obscene.

  She let go of Mulgrave’s hand, wondering when the queen would call the maids to leave.

  “A dance, mademoiselle?” someone asked.

  She waved good-bye to Lord Mulgrave, examined the man who’d just spoken. He was dressed as a playing card, the jack of spades, and she didn’t know who he was, and it didn’t matter if he danced well. They danced in silence, which suited Alice, who gave herself over completely to the turns and circles and promenades, her hand resting lightly atop his. It was divine to move in silence, to give herself to the music and steps, to close herself off from the world of choices and betrayals and guilt. The dance ended, she knelt in a curtsy, her head bowed, her chest rising and falling as she caught back her breath. Her leg was aching. Really, it was painful.

  “Magnificent, as always. I bid you good-bye, but not adieu.”

  This time he spoke in French.

  Her head jerked up, and she stood clumsily. He was walking away, the face of the big playing card on his back mocking her. Henri. It was Henri Ange! She ran after him, ignoring the pain in her leg, calling his name, managing to grasp the edge of the card. He stopped, throwing her off balance. He pulled her to him, kissed her hard on the mouth, and at the same time caught her leg with his foot, so that when he let her go, she fell backward, her treacherous high heels slipping out from under her. She landed hard on her backside, her breath leaving her in a surprised sound.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, Alice Verney. For shame.”

  His English was the accent of the streets outside this palace. Even as people were rushing forward to help her, laughing—this was a court that lived off gossip, and arrogant Alice Verney’s drunkenness would be chewed over tonight and tomorrow—he slipped away. When she was standing, rubbing her elbows, he was nowhere to be seen. All around her, people were pulling off masks, and some of the men, their heavy, long French periwigs, too.

  “Disgraceful. I’m going to speak to your father. Really, you know better.” An austere and frowning shepherdess glowered at her.

  “I’m not drunk, Aunt Brey.”

  “Dorothy Brownwell does not oversee you maids the way she ought. In my day, the maids would have been in their chambers hours ago.”

  Someone was tugging on her gown. Gracen. “The queen’s retiring. And Luce is quite drunk. You’re going to have to help me walk her out.”

  Alice looked in every direction. There were bare faces everywhere now. He was gone. What could she do? Nothing. It was deliberate. The dance. The kiss. The push. A kind of dare. She walked away from her aunt’s sour face, walked by the Duke of Buckingham, sitting sprawled in a chair, looking weary and drunken.

  He was a playing card too, the king of spades, but she didn’t think about it.

  CHAPTER 24

  Queen Catherine placed the last patch pulled from her face into its silver box, accepted the damp cloth her tirewoman gave her, and rubbed her face. A somber, birdlike woman looked back at her from the mirror propped upon her dressing table, no red bows and rouge to give her charm anymore. All around her was the litter of her position, India embroidered cloth sheathing this table, the t
able itself a welter of silver or jade boxes, crystal and gold candlesticks, silver brushes, silver hand mirrors, ivory combs, French powders, Spanish rouges, silver or wood ormolu trays, the jewels she’d worn tonight tossed aside like nothing.

  So, she thought—her thoughts, as always clear, unlike the mangled mess of her English—he has fallen in love again, this time with Renée de Keroualle. I hate her. It isn’t her fault. Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren queen…Enemies striking out, wishing to frighten, to crush her. The months of it were weighing on her. His pleasures. He must have them…. They were stronger than any tie of loyalty or affection. A taster…The Duke of Balmoral set a taster in her household. All the royal households, he soothed. Poison…Her old nurse whispered it was the fashion in France to poison those who’d become a bother, useless, as she was, the queen who seldom conceived, could not carry to term. They hissed at her. They tittered at her. Thank the Mother of Jesus for the king’s kindness tonight. They would like for her to die. She was nothing to them. Worse than useless. The one thing a princess, a queen, must do, she could not. Would they lock her away? Would he divorce her? Commit a crime against all that was holy for the kingdom’s sake? What would she do if she were divorced? Insist, like another queen of long ago, that it wasn’t legal and beat sad wings against the bars of disgrace, banishment from court, while the king went, as this long-ago king had done, on his merry way, to another wife?

  Barbara Bragge had entered the bedchamber, was waiting permission to approach. Barbara was one of her favorites, and she turned in her chair to nod her head, watching as she walked forward. Something about her has grown older, thought Queen Catherine. Is she in love? She ran her eyes over Barbara’s lovely face. Sweet, steadfast, slow to anger. Will I lose you soon to that young man you seem to adore? Barbara knelt before her. Yes, I think so.

  Barbara raised her eyes. They were glowing with a light that seemed to come from far, far within. The queen saw it and reached out to touch Barbara’s cheek fondly.

  “This night I have been given two of my dearest wishes—” Barbara’s voice broke, but she continued on. “My friend John Sidney wishes to study the true faith. May I ask Father Huddleston to appoint someone to him?”

  “But that makes delightful! I have overjoy! Father Huddleston studies with Mister Sidney, I command. And I am godmother when he is baptized. It is honor.”

  Barbara seized the queen’s hand and kissed it. “You’re so kind.”

  Queen Catherine had been happy, too, this particular way, once upon a time. The memory of it was treasure to her; she was as tender of it as she would have been a living child. “So? And when are there marriage?”

  Barbara blushed and didn’t answer.

  “A dower I give.”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Nonsense. Go, now. They burn hazelnuts. You put your John Sidney in the fire.”

  She turned back to her mirror. Ten years ago she’d been one and twenty, like Barbara. Princesses weren’t promised happiness, were they? How good to know it did exist. She would dower Barbara Bragge £2,000.

  THE FIRE IN their antechamber was roaring. It was tradition; no fire might go out this night, or evil things might enter through the chimney. Alice washed her face with a cloth. The other maids were in their nightgowns, sitting before the fire, waiting for her, huddled in their warmest cloaks, ones lined with wool or velvet or, if you were Alice Verney, softest, warmest beaver’s pelt brought over in a ship from the Colonies across the sea. Alice dried her face on another cloth, stepped back into the cloak Poll held, pulled it around her. Last All Hallows’ she’d been in France, Princesse Henriette alive. Now she was home, and they would do the old ways tonight, just as they always used to do, and tonight she’d danced with an evil spirit who threatened the queen.

  Alice looked about her, thinking about the spirits said to be roaming outside the windows. Did Princesse Henriette’s spirit rest, or did she walk the corridors of Saint Cloud demanding revenge? Was she in a place of purgatory, or had she ascended to heaven? Luce was retching in a chamber pot over in a corner, her servant holding back her hair. The baby of them, Kit, was already in bed, asleep. They’d only just managed to unfasten and unpin her gown and take the ribbons from her hair before she closed her eyes and went to sleep. Alice had been that way at fifteen, too, awake one moment, romping like a wild thing, asleep on her feet the next. Barbara wasn’t here. Where was she?

  “By earth, by air, by water, by fire, this circle is cast,” she said. The words were Poll’s, from her mother’s mother. So was the ritual they would do this night. All Hallows’ was one of the best nights for divining sweethearts.

  “You sound like the magician tonight,” said Gracen.

  “He was good, wasn’t he,” said Dorothy. “He took two coins from behind my ear.”

  “Are we ready?” Alice took the basket of hazelnuts from Poll, held it before each young woman, and they took hazelnuts into their hands.

  “One for you, and one—or two or three—for a sweetheart,” Alice reminded.

  “Tell me again,” said Renée.

  Alice repeated the instructions in French. “You hold it against your heart, think of your beloved—or admirers—then put it on the grate with your own. If it cracks open, he’s untrue. If it pops out, he won’t marry you. If it burns beside yours, you’ll wed and live in peace. If it begins to blaze and burn, he adores you.”

  All became laughter and talk and teasing, as one after another they attempted to place hazelnuts on the hot grate without burning their fingers. Then came the anxious watching and waiting as the fire crackled and whispered, and then screams and questions as hazelnuts began to crack open, or blaze, or pop completely out of the fire, or burn quietly. A hazelnut flew off the grate and into the fire.

  “That’s yours, Brownie!”

  “I didn’t do one!”

  “Yes, you did. I saw you!”

  “Renée, one is blazing, and one popped out. Which one is Lieutenant Saylor? And who is the other?”

  “Alice, both of yours are blazing! Who are they? Colefax and Mulgrave?”

  “Gracen, Gracen, look! Yours just popped!”

  Gracen grabbed the offending hazelnut and threw it into the fire, where it blazed up and then exploded. “Pooh.”

  Gracen sat down by Barbara, who’d just joined them, still in her costume. “Come with me tomorrow to see Ashmole,” Barbara said very quickly, very quietly, so that Alice might not hear.

  There was more laughing and teasing, and then the basket was passed again for another turn. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Alice always told them. Barbara let the basket pass her by. Beside her, Gracen dug through the remaining hazelnuts.

  “He’s going to be faithful this time.”

  “Are our games too silly for you these days?” Alice asked Barbara. How mocking my voice sounds, she thought. What did Barbara and Gracen whisper about? I’m a jealous witch, thought Alice, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “I saw Caro toast you tonight,” Barbara answered.

  Everyone became silent.

  “Ah, but you didn’t see me acknowledge it, did you?”

  “Alice, why don’t you forgive her?”

  Dorothy stood up, clapped her hands together. “Time for bed, everyone.” She shooed the young women off right and left, then picked up the basket of hazelnuts. But Alice and Barbara didn’t move.

  “She betrayed me. I don’t forget betrayals.”

  “She was with child. He had his part, yet you danced with him tonight. Why is hers so wrong and his forgiven?”

  “It isn’t forgiven. I do it—” Alice stopped. She did it to hurt Caro, to show her she could take Colefax back if she wished, and to show the court the same. Not a pretty mix. “Friends don’t betray friends,” she finished.

  Later, in bed, Alice lay on her back, unable to sleep, a knot in her heart. Barbara lay with her back to her. And Alice couldn’t bring herself to say words that would mend over their quarrel.

&nb
sp; Over in another bed, Gracen snuggled against a sleepy Kit. “I saw my beloved’s face in the mirror,” Gracen whispered.

  It was an old custom, to go alone to a looking glass, eat an apple before it, and comb your hair. The face of your future husband might be seen, looking over your shoulder. “Let’s play, Kit. Put your hand there, and I’ll put my hand here.”

  “I don’t want to. They’ll hear us.”

  Gracen put her lips on Kit’s neck. “No, they won’t. We won’t make a sound.” But later she had to cover Kit’s mouth with her own to stop her moaning.

  CHAPTER 25

  All Saints’ Day

  November 1

  Balmoral stood with his back to Richard, staring out at St. James’s Park. “You’ve been to every alehouse and tavern?”

  “Every one between London Bridge and Whitehall. I thought I would go to those around the palace today, and across the river tomorrow.”

  “Good. Someone will inform. It’s the way of the world.”

  Richard cleared his throat. “If I may, Your Grace, why do we not raise a hue and cry, have it known from every pulpit that the queen’s life is in danger, describe Ange to the public?”

  “This is a matter of great sensitivity. It is not to be bandied about on every corner of London or, indeed, every corner of Whitehall. There are larger fish to catch than Ange. I am placing you directly into the queen’s household. You will be captain of her bodyguard.”

  Richard was silent. The promotion was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, he became a captain, with greater pay and rank, with an officer’s place in the cavalry. On the other, the queen’s bodyguard hadn’t the respect of the Life Guards. And the queen herself was not in favor at the moment.