Astounded that anyone in Paris should send her a message, Arabella broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. As her eyes flew over the words, she felt relief pouring through her.
Madame. It has come to my attention that another victim of Henry Tudor’s rapacious greed has found her way to Paris. I would be honored if you would be my guest at a small fete that the king is giving on Midsummer’s Eve at the Hotel de Valois. My coach will call for you at four.
The missive was signed, Anthony Varden.
“Who is it from?” FitzWalter demanded.
“Lord Varden,” Arabella replied. No further explanation was necessary, as FitzWalter knew who Anthony Varden was. “He is sending his coach for me on Midsummer’s Eve. We are to attend a fete given by the king.”
FitzWalter nodded and returned to polishing his sword, but Lona began to fuss.
“That’s but three days away, my lady! How am I to alter one of those gowns that the queen brought for you in that time?”
“Lona.” Arabella spoke a gentle warning.
Lona looked to where Avice was sweeping the salon and shrugged. “She don’t know what I’m saying, my lady, when I speak English. Why, my French is far better. I don’t think she speaks half a dozen words of English, and no surely ain’t one of them. The slut has bedded four of the men already, and has her eye on Fergus MacMichael, but if she makes an attempt in that direction, I’ll scratch her wicked eyes out!”
Arabella laughed, but FitzWalter cautioned, “Never assume anything, lass. Besides, what if someone were listening at the door who could understand you? They’d wonder why our queen was kind to our lady under the circumstances. In future be more careful, daughter.”
“The queen was kind because she felt guilty,” Lona said sharply, “and well she should! I’ll be more careful in the future though, Da.”
On Midsummer’s Eve Arabella was ready when Lord Varden’s coach called for her. The queen might have been charitable, but she had chosen the gowns she gave Arabella well, with an eye for the most flattering colors. Arabella suspected that the gowns had come from the queen’s own wardrobe, for although Elizabeth of York’s hair was darker, she was also a blonde. She was taller, however, and so the hems of the garments had been raised, and she was slightly stockier than Arabella, though not as ample in the bosom. Clever Lona had recut the bodice using the excess material from the skirts.
Arabella’s gown was of sky-blue silk, having a bare shoulder and a low neckline, with tight-fitting sleeves ending at the wrist. The overgown was a brocade shot through with a pale gold metallic thread, almost the same color as Arabella’s hair. A gilt leather girdle encircled her hips. From it hung a silver-gilt tussoire that helped to hold up the skirt which had an underskirt of ivory brocade embroidered with gold and small seed pearls. A long train lined in ivory satin added an elegant touch. Her shoes matched her gown, and her jewelry was spare. She wore a simple gilt chain about her neck, from which hung a pear-shaped pearl drop. On her hands she had only her signet ring.
Lona handed her a pair of ivory kidskin gloves embroidered with seed pearls, and a drawstring bag of blue silk containing a pomander even as an elegantly attired gentleman entered the hallway.
“Lady Grey. I am Anthony Varden. Welcome to Paris!” He bowed politely, but the smile he gave her was dazzling.
Arabella was astounded, though she hid her surprise well. That this man should be Henry Tudor’s friend stunned her. Unlike the king, who was a somber man, Anthony Varden was obviously a gentleman who enjoyed life to its fullest, a fact that amazed Arabella, considering Lord Varden’s physical appearance. Though the nobleman had the face of an angel, he was small of stature—no taller than Arabella herself—and one of his shoulders was just slightly higher than the other. Remembering her manners, she curtsied.
“Merci, my lord. I am indeed grateful for your kindness.”
He offered her his arm. “Then, madame, let us depart, for Midsummer’s Eve is upon us and the festivities will soon begin. All of Paris will be celebrating, and it will be hard to get our carriage through the streets as it is.”
Once inside the coach and safely under way, Anthony Varden turned to Arabella, saying, “It is safe to speak here, Lady Grey. My servants are English and loyal beyond all to king and country.” He assessed her frankly. “God’s bones, I can see why Henry sent you. You are ravishing, madame, and will surely lure several big fish into your nets for us.”
Had it been another man, another time or place, Arabella might have been offended. Instead she laughed weakly. “I think the king mad to have sent me here,” she answered Lord Varden. “I have spent most of my life away from cities and courts; and I am no wanton to lure a man.”
Looking even more closely at her, Anthony Varden could see that she was telling the truth. Damn Hal for a fool, he thought, but they would all simply have to make the best of the matter. “I would not want a woman of experience in this matter, Lady Grey,” he told her gently. “It is your naiveté that is so alluring. As for the rest, I will guide you. You need fear nothing, for I am your friend and will not desert you.”
“I am not even certain what I am to do, or how I am to act,” Arabella admitted nervously. “I am really a country mouse, my lord.”
He smiled. A warm smile that reached all the way to his gray eyes. “Did you not spend some time at the Scots court, my dear?”
“Aye, my lord, I did. My husband was half brother to his majesty, King James III, and is uncle to the current king,” she told him, not certain how much he knew of her background. “My former husband,” she quickly amended. “We did not, however, spend a great deal of time at court, for Tavis loves his home at Dunmor.”
“The French court,” said Lord Varden, “is a sophisticated court, but despite the sophistication, human nature is the same the world over, I have found. Familiarize yourself with its charming, dangerous, and jaded inhabitants. In particular I would have you be aware of Adrian Morlaix, the Duc de Lambour. He is close with both the Beaujeu faction at court and the young king himself. ‘Tis a rare feat balancing between those two. He is privy, I suspect, to certain information that would be of use to King Henry.”
“How will I know him, my lord?”
“He will seek you out sooner than later, my dear, for the Duc de Lambour is a great connoisseur of beautiful women. As you are new to court, and beautiful, you will be eagerly sought out by the gentlemen. I would suggest you be chaste with them all. Most will eventually fall away, but Adrian Morlaix will not. The challenge your virtue presents will prove totally irresistible to him.”
“And shall I eventually succumb to him, my lord?” Arabella said softly. For some reason she felt close to tears.
Anthony Varden could see the moisture shining in her eyes, and he again silently damned his Tudor friend. “That must be your choice, and yours alone, Arabella Grey. It very well may be that you can play the game and win it without surrendering your chastity. But highborn women who take lovers are never ostracized here, so if it must come to that, you need not distress yourself unnecessarily. Besides, a woman as beautiful as yourself surely cannot live without love. To entrap the Duc de Lambour in Cupid’s snare would make you a succès fou, my dear, I assure you.”
“Does he not like women, then? Is he married?” Arabella inquired curiously.
Anthony Varden laughed. “Oh, Adrian Morlaix likes women very much, I assure you, and aye, he has a wife. A mousey little thing of a surprisingly robust nature, who dutifully presents him with a child every other year. He keeps her away from the court, although I did see her once several years ago, when they first wed. She and their children live in a large chateau in Normandy which the duc visits, but only often enough to get another child on her. Adrian stays with the court most of the time, acquiring and discarding mistresses with shameful rapidity.”
“He sounds a most dreadful man,” Arabella said.
“But he is not,” Lord Varden assured her. “He is charming, witty, and surprisingly kind
, but he does bore easily.”
“And yet yon expect me to intrigue him so that he will bare his innermost thoughts to me? My lord, I fear we are all doomed to disappointment, for if the elegant and sophisticated beauties of the French court cannot hold the Duc de Lambour’s interest, how on earth do you think I can?”
“My dear madame,” her companion said, “have you no serious idea as to your beauty, and how that beauty can be used to ensorcel a man?” He chuckled. “If you are truly innocent of the wiles you may employ, I shall advise you. Simply, but sweetly, refuse all offers of a licentious nature until he sincerely begs. Be exactly what you are, and you will, I promise you, succeed beyond our wildest dreams.”
The carriage was drawing to a stop.
“You will not leave me?” Arabella felt a trifle panicky.
“I will be at your side the entire evening, my dear, although I imagine my behavior will disappoint the many who will see and covet you. I shall make it clear, however, from the start that we are not lovers, although I regret the fact. I am simply a sympathetic countryman.”
The coach came to a full stop and a footman leapt down to open the door and hand them both out. About them were other carriages and a swirl of elegantly-garbed people within the courtyard of the Hotel de Valois, which was built about a quadrangle, one end of which opened onto the street, and the other end of which opened into a garden. Lord Varden offered Arabella his arm, and they began to thread their way through the crowd. He nodded and bowed as they went to many of their fellow guests, whose eyes widened with speculation at the beautiful woman on his arm.
“There is the regent, the Duchesse de Bourbon,” he murmured low to Arabella, tilting his head just slightly to his left. “Be brave, my dear, for I am about to introduce you.” He stopped before the duchesse and swept her a bow as Arabella curtsied low. “Bonjour to you, madame la duchesse,” Lord Varden said. “May I present my fellow countrywoman and fellow exile, Lady Arabella Grey?”
“You have left England of your own free will, madame?” the regent inquired.
“I have left England because that miser who calls himself our king has robbed me of my small property, madame la duchesse, and all because I am a woman. He said a mere female could not hold a small keep, and so he stole it from me,” Arabella said, her voice bitter.
“And he did not give you another property of the same value in return, madame? Why is this?” Anne of Beaujeu demanded.
“Non, madame la duchesse,” Arabella said, “he gave me nothing in return, for my family, all of whom are dead but for me, were related to our late King Richard.”
“Ahhhhh,” the Duchesse de Bourbon replied understandingly. “‘Tis the way of kings, I fear, ma chere madame, to wreak their vengeance upon the families of their rivals, but this English king of yours shows a lack of chivalry to disenfranchise a helpless woman with no man to defend her. I wish you better fortune here in France.” The regent turned away from them to greet others, and dismissed, they strolled about the gardens.
“She is no beauty,” Arabella remarked of Anne of Beaujeu, “but she is most elegant.”
“She favors her mother more than her father,” Lord Varden said, “but she does have the Valois nose and thick neck. Fortunately, she possesses her mother’s sense of style. Charlotte of Savoy was a great lover of luxury and had an excellent eye for fashion.”
“What is King Charles like?” Arabella looked about her for someone who might be France’s king.
Lord Varden chuckled. “Charles? Look, my dear, over there. The lad with the flaming red head. That is the king.”
“That puny, ill-made boy!” Arabella was astounded, for there was nothing royal about France’s king at all. He was short, and yet his legs were too long and spindly-shanked for his torso. His head was far too large for his body, and the globular eyes that stared out at the world were just a trifle nearsighted, giving him the vague appearance of someone who was not particularly bright. He had a large and long hooked nose which came near to touching his upper lip, lips that were thick and wide. His round chin was pierced by a deep cleft. “God’s bones, sir, tell me that this king has something to recommend him, for he is surely the ugliest man I have ever seen!” Arabella whispered.
“He has little to recommend him,” Anthony Varden said, restraining the laughter, which threatened to well up and burst forth. Lady Grey was most outspoken. “The king is of a nervous temperament. He is hasty and headstrong as well, yet he is a strangely affable young man for it all, my dear, but look! There is the Duc de Lambour just entering the garden. We must contrive to reach the king’s presence at almost the same time, that he may get his first look at you,” Lord Varden said, suddenly serious.
Arabella turned and her heart beat just a little faster with her nervousness. The gentleman coming through the stone archway from the courtyard was tall and extremely well-favored. He was garbed entirely in crimson, a color that well suited his fair skin and dark hair. He was the height of elegance with his doublet embroidered richly in gold threads, small pearls, and black jets. One leg of his hose was solid red, but the other was striped in black and gold. There were large pearl buttons decorating his sleeves. His girdle was of delicate gold links, and from it hung a pouch called an escarcelle, which Arabella knew would contain a knife and a spoon. About his neck he wore a heavier gold chain with a circular pendant upon which was engraved a coat-of-arms, and upon each of his fingers the Duc de Lambour wore a ring. His hair was cut short and close in front of the ears. He was clean-shaven.
Arabella was not even aware as she stared at the duc that Lord Varden was propelling her inexorably toward the King. She almost started visibly when she heard him say, “Your majesty, I would present a fellow exile, my countrywoman, Lady Arabella Grey.”
Fortunately, she had the presence of mind to curtsy low, even as the king said in a beautiful voice that was totally at odds with his undistinguished person, “We welcome you to France, madame.” A large hand reached out to tip her face up to his. “Why, Anthony, she is as fair as I am ugly,” the king noted with a wry laugh. He turned to the Duc de Lambour. “Is she not exquisite, Adrian? Even you who collect beautiful women like butterflies must admit that she is outstandingly beautiful.”
Arabella blushed prettily, to the king’s delight. “And modest as well, this petite rose d’Anglaise. How charming to find a woman who can yet blush at a compliment here in my court. Well, Adrian, what do you think of her?”
He had azure-blue eyes, Arabella realized, as the Duc de Lambour looked directly at her. Beautiful light blue eyes the color of a summer’s sky. She blushed again at his frank scrutiny.
“A rare beauty indeed, my liege,” Adrian Morlaix said quietly.
“You must beware of this rogue, madame,” the king playfully warned her. “He is a seducer of beautiful women.”
“Only beautiful ones, my liege?” Arabella said, and the king laughed heartily.
“She has thorns, this petite rose d’Anglaise!” He almost sounded as if he approved.
“Do not all women have thorns, my liege?” the duc drawled lazily, but he was unable to conceal the flicker of interest in his eyes as he gazed anew upon Arabella. “You are married, madame?”
“I was, once, monseigneur,” she answered him, not feeling it necessary to explain further. He would assume, of course, that she was not a virgin, and therefore, fair game.
“Be warned, my lord duc,” Anthony Varden said, but half in jest. “Lady Grey is not only my countrywoman, but my distant kinswoman, which is why she came to me for succor. You will have to seek elsewhere for this evening’s seduction.”
“Dearest Tony,” Arabella returned, her hand upon Lord Varden’s arm in familiar fashion, “do not fret yourself. I have, in my time, protected my virtue on any number of occasions from ‘gentlemen’ such as my lord duc. I did not waste my time at King James’ court like so many of those Scotswomen who are far too loose with their morals to please me. I am sure that my lord duc recognizes a virtu
ous woman when he sees one.”
“Are you without passion then, madame?” the duc asked her.
Once again Arabella flushed. “My lord!” she said, sounding shocked by his unspoken suggestions.
The Duc de Lambour laughed, however. “No,” he said, “you are not without passion, madame. I can see that.”
“Adrian,” the king smiled at his friend, “you are incorrigible. My confessor says that your company imperils my soul.”
“My liege, I should remove myself from your presence altogether if I ever believed that I was truly a danger to you,” the duc said. “Besides, your majesty’s example of fidelity to your affianced, the Lady Margaret of Austria, is an example to us all.”
“Not to you, mon ami!” the king chuckled, and then he turned again to Arabella and Lord Varden. “May you be happy in France, madame,” he said by way of dismissal, and they moved off back into the crowd of guests. When they were out of hearing, the king said, “The way your eyes follow her, Adrian, I can see Madame Grey is of interest to you.”
“Do you think she is really virtuous, my liege, or is it a pose?” the duc wondered aloud. “Either way, aye, I am intrigued. However long it takes, I will make the beauteous petite rose d’Anglaise, as you call her, mine. Certainly such a lovely widow will be in need of comforting sooner or later.”
“She is not a widow,” the king said softly.
“What!”
“Adrian, you of all people know there is little I do not know about what goes on in my kingdom. They called my father the ‘Spider King,’ and I am first and foremost the Spider’s son, although I would hope I had more charm and a kinder heart than Louis XI. It pleases me to allow my sister and her husband to rule for me at this moment, for they do what I would do, and soon enough I must take up the responsibilities that are mine. For now, however, I am content, but I am also well-informed. Madame Grey divorced her husband, a Scots earl, in an effort to regain her English properties for their child. When the Tudor king refused to return those properties, the lady fled to France, leaving her child behind in the king’s care as she could no longer support the child herself. Her husband, I am told, will not have her back now, and as the infant in question is a daughter, it does not matter to him. Fortunately, King Henry’s queen is of a charitable nature and accepted the little girl into the royal nurseries.
The Spitfire Page 41
