The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  Suppressing a shiver, Allegra hurried toward the chapel. The flagstones vibrated beneath her slippers, the swelling strains of the hymn rumbling from the organ like an earthquake. Outside, the Yeoman Guards with their raised pikes eyed her as they guarded the king within.

  Allegra paused to check her reflection in the leaded glass casement, sober and stately in midnight-blue velvet, her overskirt drawn back to display the luster of cream brocade beneath. Baroque pearls…the jewels of sorrow and misfortune…gleamed on her fingers.

  Of course, the Devil’s Mistress must be à la mode. Don Maximo funded her wardrobe with a lavish hand. Today she would pass muster—a trifle pale with violet shadows beneath her eyes, but her mask of cool indifference fixed in place.

  When she slipped into the chapel, the deep shadows beneath the choir loft enveloped her, fragrant with incense and evergreen. A blaze of gold and crimson drew her eyes to the altar. Ahead rose a wall of well-dressed backs, a few curious faces turning to mark her arrival. She glided to the side aisle, her trained footfalls silent against the flagstones.

  As she swept past the Lady Chapel, a ringed hand snaked out to snare her arm.

  Pivoting to see past her Spanish hood, Allegra glimpsed a corpulent figure in a cardinal’s scarlet robes. With the light behind him, his features were indistinct beneath his tall hat—Cardinal Wolsey perhaps, the king’s chancellor. Though as Anne Boleyn rose, Wolsey had fallen from favor and was now rarely seen at court.

  Still, the king’s chancellor had never before sought her out. Curious, she let him draw her into the alcove. The flickering illumination spilled over a moon-shaped face, shiny with perspiration, beady brown eyes glittering amid folds of flesh.

  Not Cardinal Wolsey after all. Nay, far from it.

  For a sickening moment, Allegra feared she was falling, the confining walls blurring around her. Santa Maria, why had she not asked the name of the cardinal sent to rule on the king’s marriage?

  Gasping, she tore her arm free. Her hand darted to clutch the stiletto strapped to her thigh. God, if only she dared use it. If ever a man deserved killing—

  “Buon giorno, Contessa Grimaldi,” Lorenzo Campeggio said, his fat face wreathed in an avuncular smile. “What an…unexpected pleasure…to find you here in England.”

  “You have fallen behind the times, Your Eminence. I no longer claim a title.” Though her stomach lurched, by some miracle her voice was unaffected. “Although God in Heaven knows I earned it, after six years of Hell in Casimiro’s bed.”

  The cardinal beamed as though she uttered a witticism. “I heard rumors, of course, that you’d fled here to escape the charges leveled against you in Genoa. A woman must flee far indeed, one supposes, to escape justice for murdering her husband.”

  Her heart gave a sickened thump to hear the horrifying charge named anew. “I was found innocent! The charges against me were dropped.”

  Though prolonging an encounter with Lorenzo Campeggio was the last thing she desired, prudence drove her into the alcove. She must lure him away from the curious courtiers in the Royal Chapel. The pew before the Virgin’s statue stood empty and she made for it, past the curtain-shrouded confessional.

  “You call yourself innocent?” Following as avidly as a smitten suitor, the cardinal chuckled. “I think you forget, Contessa, that only the murder charge was dropped. The Church’s charge of witchcraft stands uncontested. How I’ve prayed you would return so we might continue your…confession.”

  “I grieve to disappoint you.” Allegra was trembling so badly she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. A memory reared up before her—the dank cell where they’d kept her chained to the wall like a lunatic. The cardinal’s quiet laughter mingling with her screams while his lackeys put her to the question.

  Afraid her legs would buckle, she sank to her knees on the prie-dieu.

  Campeggio remained standing, his button eyes fixed on her. “Ah, but God is generous to bring you back within my orbit. Tell me, do you still bear the marks of my questioner’s…attentions? Does not your Spanish lover mind the scars?”

  Allegra gripped the antique cross at her throat. This monster did not destroy me three years ago, and I’ll withstand him now—for my sisters’ sake. God love her, if she burned for a witch, there would be no saving them.

  “I treasure my scars,” she said low, “as badges of courage. They remind me that I yet live.”

  “Alas that your mother does not.” The stink of incense and stale sweat leaked from his robes to turn her stomach. “Ilaria Borgia, renowned perfumer and the celebrated beauty of Venice, burned at the stake for witchcraft. You sold your body in matrimony to Conte Grimaldi in a feeble attempt to save her life, did you not?”

  “It was his fault she was arrested in the first place! Casimiro was her only accuser, and even under torture she never confessed.” Allegra clamped down on her anguish, so she would not dissolve into screaming grief. The words dropped leaden from her lips. “Besides, as you well know, Casimiro recanted the accusation.”

  The cardinal pounced on that. “Si, he recanted and married the witch’s daughter, which led many men to question whether you’d bewitched him yourself. You sacrificed yourself to save your mother…and the Church burned her anyway.”

  She bowed her forehead against steepled hands. A tidal wave of guilt and self-condemnation threatened to capsize her.

  My fault she’s dead. Allegra should have yielded, given the proud conte what he wanted when he propositioned a naïve thirteen-year-old child. If only she had not stupidly shown disdain and tossed his salacious offer back in his face, her mother would still be alive, and her sisters would be safe.

  She shook her head to banish the useless refrain, worn thin with nine years of ceaseless repetition, of what she should have done. “I am certain Your Eminence did not undertake the long journey from Rome merely to resurrect the atrocities a few hateful old men committed in God’s name. You have come to try the king’s marriage.”

  Campeggio looked disappointed by her recovery. “Si, si. Since I understand you now serve Spain, the legitimacy of Queen Katherine’s marriage must interest you greatly.”

  Despite Allegra’s pity for the aging queen, Spain could sink into the sea and drown for all she cared. But let the cardinal think Spain had purchased her loyalty, as they all did—all save Don Maximo, who was far too canny to believe any pretense at conversion she might undertake.

  Perhaps she could learn the pope’s intent, precious information that could placate the don for last night’s failure, of which Maximo was certain to hear.

  She forced down her loathing. “I am interested to see how far the Boleyns’ ambition will carry them, like everyone else in Europe. I understand you have already met a Boleyn or two, during your Channel crossing.”

  “The Spanish Ambassador is well informed.” He watched for her reaction, but she was careful to give nothing away. “Si, one of them was waiting for me to board ship at Calais…one of their French kinsmen, a Sir Joscelin Boleyn.”

  Him. Allegra hid her start of recognition by adjusting her brocade cuff, but she tingled with disconcerting interest. Don’t be a fool. Turn it to your advantage.

  “It would be to France’s benefit, of course, to supplant Spain’s alliance with the English.” She glanced up beneath her lashes, applying every iota of steel she possessed to turn her feminine wiles on this ogre, who gloried in her mother’s fall and would have burned her too if he could. “I suppose the French King seeks to influence the verdict, perhaps even to purchase a favorable outcome?”

  “Chissa, signora—perhaps.” The cardinal’s tone was neutral, but she glimpsed the smug gleam of complacency. He lacked her skill at deception. “While I would like to oblige you and provide some tidbit of intelligence to feed the Spanish Ambassador, I cannot betray the pope’s confidence.”

  You already have. But she concealed her triumph, sinking into a curtsey just brief enough to slight him. “In that case I shall return to th
e queen and hope to see little of you.”

  In his eagerness to dismay her, Campeggio let slip another hint. “His Holiness has instructed me to be most…thorough. Indeed, we may find ourselves thrown together here for some time.”

  Then Maximo had intuited correctly. While the pope remained imprisoned by Charles of Spain, his cardinal would delay judgment as long as possible.

  “The English King is an eager suitor,” she said, “who needs an heir his Spanish Queen cannot provide. You will find him intolerant of delay.”

  “Yet the pope is not minded to rush to judgment. I will not be hastened through this matter—especially now, when our…common business beckons.”

  “We have no business in common, Your Eminence. Henry has greater matters on his mind these days than burning an innocent foreigner for an old unproven charge.”

  “We shall see.” Campeggio smiled.

  Allegra inclined her head in cool dismissal, hiding the fear beating in her frantic heart. She regained the Royal Chapel with a sweeping sense of relief.

  Yet she could not escape the certainty that Campeggio would do his best to resurrect the charge of witchcraft against her. Doubly dangerous, he would have ready access to Henry Tudor, the amorous king who would do anything to solicit Rome’s support for his divorce.

  Soon the don would compel her to make another attempt against Anne Boleyn, and Allegra must ensure again that Mistress Anne survived it.

  She could not afford another misstep, no matter how slight. Her old enemy the cardinal would be watching her. If even a whisper of poison were attached to Allegra’s name, he would ensure she burned for it.

  Sir Joscelin Boleyn crouched riveted in the confessional, concealed by the velvet curtain, as the cardinal’s footfalls faded. From the Boleyn pew, he’d glimpsed Allegra Grimaldi slip into the chapel—the Devil’s Mistress, the very woman who’d consumed his thoughts and kept him tossing half the night. The elegant sweep of her gown on the flagstones had drawn him after her like the Devil’s net.

  Anyway, he’d needed a respite from the Mass. Par Dieu, Martin Luther spoke plain good sense when he condemned this superstitious nonsense, as if a man’s soul required it to commune with God.

  Then he heard the cardinal speak. On impulse, Joscelin had slipped into the confessional, though he disliked the subterfuge. The liquid murmur of Allegra’s voice and the musky scent of jasmine held him rigid, the blood heating in his veins.

  Honor demanded he reveal his presence rather than eavesdrop on a private exchange. Certainement, he meant to do so, before the cardinal’s casual reference to Casimiro Grimaldi’s murder bolted his feet to the floor. For the life of him, shameful though it was, Joscelin could not reveal himself then, but strained to hear every word.

  Arrested for murdering her own husband, and running from the charge of witchery. An honest man’s scorn for such goings-on warred with his natural skepticism.

  Tragic enough that many an innocent woman burned for witchcraft—charges that were often naught but baseless slander. But Joscelin had learned to his grief that the power of malice could not be easily dismissed.

  Allegra Grimaldi’s mother may have been falsely accused, but Joscelin’s own mother had been on the other side: the victim, cursed by a jealous rival. Amelie Sancerre had laughed it off, with the cheerful common sense of a farmer’s daughter. A day later she was dead, felled by a wasting fever, an evil wish taken form.

  He should be thankful for this glimpse of Allegra Grimaldi’s dark history, thankful to learn how she’d earned her infamy. No doubt he would shake off this odd compulsion to pursue her.

  The Spanish Ambassador’s mistress, alleged murderer of her own husband, a witch’s daughter and an accused witch herself—four excellent reasons to have nothing to do with her. Any one of them should suffice to dispel her enchantment.

  Fired by fresh purpose, Joscelin thrust to his feet and pushed the curtain aside. Turning his back on the Mass, he strode from the chapel.

  Joscelin found Thomas Boleyn, Lord Rochford, working in his privy chamber, reviewing the diplomatic dispatches Joscelin had brought from Paris. After one shrewd look at his son’s face, Rochford dismissed his clerk with a command for privacy.

  “Well, my son,” his father said dryly when they were alone, slipping into their customary French. “I cannot credit how you managed to weather the French court wearing your thoughts on your face in such a fashion. You shall have to manage better if you’re to succeed here. You’d do well to emulate Anne, or myself.”

  Recalling his sister’s shameless conduct, Joscelin barely contained a grimace of distaste. “I strive to emulate you in everything I do, mon père.”

  Seating himself, he studied the older man behind his writing table. As always, Lord Rochford presented an image of dignity and tasteful prosperity. His padded doublet was costly but subdued, his silver hair and whiskers cropped and barbered in the new style, his green eyes sharp with intellect. He was everything Joscelin aspired to be: worldly, well-respected, a prosperous landowner and a man of substance, who had found his place and fulfilled his purpose. A canny diplomat and trusted right hand of his king.

  “You’ve done well enough so far.” Thomas Boleyn nodded. “Your praises sung by your Sorbonne tutors, knighted for bravery, an acknowledged hero on the battlefield, with the makings of a careful diplomat. Though I worry about that old-fashioned sense of honor.” He smiled without humor. “Must be the Sancerre in you, for surely no Boleyn gave you that trait.”

  Uncomfortable, Joscelin shifted in his chair. At times his father’s machinations skirted disconcertingly near the edge of honor. But the thought felt disloyal, and he dutifully strove to bury it.

  “I fear I showed little honor today.” Best to sidestep the delicate issue of Boleyn honor. Lord Rochford was a busy man, and would not long indulge in a sentimental exchange. “I overheard…no, I eavesdropped on an exchange between Cardinal Campeggio and—the Spanish Ambassador’s mistress.”

  He forced the words through a stubborn reluctance. Reminded himself what she was, the proud and desperate beauty he’d confronted last night, who looked sick to her stomach when he spoke her lover’s name.

  “Ah yes, the Grimaldi woman.” Keen interest gleamed in his father’s eyes. “George mentioned your…encounter with her at the masque. He said you’d made a fool of yourself. Says you’re infatuated with her.”

  Joscelin struggled to blunt the familiar stab of anger. “George can always be relied on to carry tales.”

  “Well, he feels threatened by you.” Rochford shrugged. “You’re the elder son, with all your accomplishments.”

  “I’m the bastard son,” Joscelin pointed out, gripping his chair to hold himself in it, “while he is your legitimate heir. If anything, it’s I who should feel threatened.”

  “Well, you know better than to indulge in pointless dramatics. You were speaking of the cardinal and Allegra Grimaldi?”

  “Oui.” Firmly, Joscelin quashed his reluctance to repeat the damning exchange. He summarized what he’d heard, his concerns for Anne’s safety, his speculations regarding Allegra. The signora had been quick to destroy any shred of evidence when she dropped that cup—too quick and too polished, which only sharpened his suspicions.

  When he’d finished, Thomas Boleyn remained silent, his features inscrutable, sipping his morning ale. At last, he retrained his thoughtful gaze on Joscelin.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, though I will say this for her—she does not carry on like some men’s mistresses. Indeed, she bears herself decorous as any English matron. No drunkenness or lewd behavior, and faultless in her attendance on the queen. However, I can’t think our prim and pious Katherine is overly fond of her.”

  “Mary says Don Maximo has fought three duels over her.” Still too curious, damn it, about that enigmatic beauty with her shadowed smile.

  “So it’s rumored.” Rochford frowned. “Though I never saw any of the luckless bastards sniffing ’round her skirts.
No doubt Montoya is possessive—you’ve only to see how he looks at her. But I’ve always thought he fabricated the insults as a pretense, to get rid of men whose presence he found inconvenient.”

  “So he’s handy with a blade?” Joscelin asked casually.

  “Oh, devilish so! Indeed, I’ve never known him to be defeated.”

  “All men can be defeated, mon père, no matter how well they wield a blade.”

  So Allegra Grimaldi carried the weight of three men’s deaths on her conscience, even if she’d done naught to lure them. Of course, with her looks and the sultry aura of sensuality that clung to her like the scent of night-blooming jasmine, she’d need do little more than breathe to lure a man.

  “She’s well educated, I’m told,” his father mused, “though the title’s not worth much, even if she did marry a Grimaldi from Genoa. A proper English countess would outrank her any day.”

  Something in his own words seemed to amuse Lord Rochford, who paused to savor them, a small smile hovering about his lips.

  “She doesn’t claim the title,” Joscelin said. “Apparently, however he died, there was no love lost for her husband.”

  “What do you expect? The Spanish hold Genoa now, don’t they? No surprise she’d ally herself with them after her husband’s demise. Like most cats, this one has apparently learned the trick of landing on her feet.”

  Joscelin recalled the desperation that had flickered behind her sculpted features, the way she’d turned inward when Don Maximo’s pet priest called her to heel. God-a-mercy, was he going to sympathize with her—the woman who’d probably tried to poison his sister? No doubt the lady deserved her fate, whatever it was.

  “So she’s a spy for the Spanish.” Lord Rochford sipped his ale. “This colorful history puts her at our mercy, doesn’t it? Henry loathes a witch and a husband-killer as much as the next God-fearing man.”

  Hearing the ugly words, Joscelin gripped his sword by reflex.

  “What bothers you?” Rochford glanced down at his son’s clenched fist. “If she becomes troublesome—if, say, the king’s interest in her proves more than a passing fancy—we simply ensure our good cardinal drops a word in the royal ear. You’ve done well, my son, to bring this to my attention.”