His father uttered precisely the words Joscelin had wanted to hear, absolving him of any need to concern himself with Allegra Grimaldi. Why, then, did he feel no sense of relief, of having unburdened himself? Perversely, he found himself wanting to argue. He’d seen no firsthand evidence of any crime, but merely repeated hearsay. The lady herself had professed innocence.
Mon Dieu, he knew the extent of the Church’s corruption. Indulgences sold to unrepentant sinners for a profit, illegitimate Medicis elected pope, ordained clergymen who kept lovers and children as open secrets, priests who grew fat on revenues from duties they did not discharge. If it served the cardinal’s agenda to cry witch at a foreign woman with little influence and few friends at court, what difference should it make to him?
Knotting his jaw, Joscelin mustered the words that would wash his hands of the Devil’s Mistress.
Instead, he said gruffly, “It would be wise to keep an eye on her. Her interest in Anne, the king’s attention—and now this business with the cardinal. Certainement, she warrants watching.”
“No doubt.” Thomas Boleyn studied him. “Are you volunteering for the task?”
“No!” Appalled, he thrust to his feet, boot-heels ringing as he paced the chamber. “How can you ask—you of all men, who know my views on witchery?”
“Your mother died of the sweating sickness, Joscelin, may God assoil her soul. No practical man would believe otherwise, though many a man cries ‘witch’ when it’s convenient.” His father paused. “Still, you may be right. It behooves us to keep a closer eye on the Spanish Ambassador’s mistress.”
Pausing at the window, Joscelin frowned over the bustling kitchen courtyard. Loaded wains stuffed with poultry, fish and produce creaked through the gate on their way to the Boiling House, the Fish Court or the kitchens. No small task, though it must be a simpler life than mine.
Really, what did he expect his father to say, when his son came running with wild tales of witchcraft and murder and poisoned cups? Zut, did he want a legitimate reason to get close to her? Was that the real motive that propelled him to lay the matter of the Devil’s Mistress at his father’s feet?
Clearing his throat, Joscelin swung around. “I’m afraid I did nothing to hide my suspicions. She’ll mind her step before me now.”
“Nonetheless, you’ll manage her, won’t you?” Rochford murmured. “You’ve served our cause well, and I’ve no doubt that will continue. I’ve promised, haven’t I, to bring you to Henry’s attention? I plan to obtain a post for you as Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and show the king firsthand how clever and resourceful a man is my son.”
Joscelin barely contained a grimace of distaste. Oh, he was no fool. He knew serving the king in his chambers was a plum post any man would leap at. But he’d always been happier out-of-doors—hunting, riding, fighting with the French in Italy. He’d spent a lifetime curbing his earthy farm-bred ways, stifling every frank word that sprang to his lips, tucking himself into the puffed and slashed monstrosities that were de rigueur court attire, bowing and scraping before this ambassador or that.
All done to please his father. To prove himself worthy—bastard though he was—of bearing the Boleyn name.
Now, dutifully, he said, “I would welcome such a chance.”
“Of course you would.” Lord Rochford smiled. “You’re my son, aren’t you? Your achievements have proven that, no matter which side of the blanket you were born on. But never fear. I’ll see you rise, and in turn you’ll help the rest of us. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?”
Joscelin was forced to agree that, indeed, it was. The way of the world I aspire to live in, damn it. I made my choice when I committed to the Boleyn cause—and now I must live with it.
“Well then, that’s settled.” His father reached for his dispatches. “You’ll mind the Grimaldi woman for us, sniff out her intentions. By God, if she is trying to poison Anne, and you catch her doing it, Henry’ll make your fortune for it.”
That was what he’d always wanted, Joscelin reminded himself. Too bad the thought of earning it by betraying a woman to her death made him nauseous. Though Allegra Grimaldi would deserve it, wouldn’t she, if she tried to poison his sister?
Aware of his father’s curious gaze, Joscelin strode for the door, trying to outpace his reservations.
“I’ll do your bidding as well as I may, mon père. Anyway, it’s no great sacrifice keeping company with a woman who looks like she does. I’ll stay closer to her than her own shadow.”
“Just so,” Lord Rochford called after him. “But not close enough for Maximo Montoya to call you out for it.”
Chapter Four
The Christmas court made a deceptively pretty picture skating on the river. The courtiers were rosy with calculated cheer, their retainers armed with smiles sharp as rapiers. Silver bells chimed like breaking glass through air spiked with cold.
Allegra should have stayed behind with neglected Queen Katherine and a dutiful remnant of the dwindling Spanish suite. But the thought of another day spent cooped up in the queen’s sad chambers depressed her spirits.
Besides, Don Maximo meant her to court Boleyn favor.
So she skidded across the ice, whalebone skates bound to her slippers, and exchanged artless quips with the Boleyn sycophants. She laughed at their jokes, met wit for wit, pretended not to see the avid speculation lurking in their smiles. They must wonder if she’d perceived that the Spanish sun was setting and sought a new protector. Or else they wondered if Maximo had finally tired of her and found a new mistress.
Don Maximo was a fool if he thought a few Christmas revels would convince anyone of her defection. But then, he was never that.
In truth, she need convince them of nothing—only accustom them to her nearness, so none would remark her presence when the time came to act.
She’d braced for another interrogation from Sir Joscelin, the only man at court who seemed to think her more than she appeared. His apparent absence from this outing concerned her. He ought to be attending sister Anne as she glided along, striking in crimson velvet lined with ermine, her low seductive laughter turning heads across the ice.
Nor was Sir Joscelin attending the king. Henry Tudor was flushed and laughing as he led a thrashing queue of men in a sliding race—which, of course, he won. Even as he basked in a shower of accolades, the king was turning, seeking the approbation of the only courtier who mattered. But gay Anne was skating away, arm-in-arm with Sir Thomas Wyatt—apparently ignorant of Henry’s triumph.
Allegra recognized this show of indifference for the clever tactic it was. Alas for smitten Henry, who swallowed the bait whole, jealousy darkening his sunny smile. Scowling, he swung away, eyes snapping as they sliced across Allegra—and lingered.
“Ho there, Madame le Serpent!” the king called. Her heart plummeted to her skates. Somehow he’d identified the masked lady from last night. “How did you like the race?”
Rallying, she slid one skate behind her in a curtsey. Her elusiveness had drawn him last night—she knew that now. To throw him off today, she fell back on flattery and called out words to cozen his ego.
“Excellently well, sire, and the competition most keen. I could not be certain until the very last moment of Your Majesty’s outcome.”
Placated, he nodded and turned away, his good humor apparently restored. And—lo and behold!—Mistress Anne had circled the ice and swept across his line of vision, drawing him after. The lady tilted her dark head to accept his acclaim, with a smile that glittered like an executioner’s blade.
Shivering, Allegra felt the English cold nipping at her cheeks, biting into her fingers and toes. Never in her childhood home, beloved Venice by the sea, had winter cut into tender flesh so deeply.
Morose, she brushed snowflakes from her cream velvet skirts—another indulgence from Maximo—and struck out for open ice.
When the river curved, she slowed, concealed by the gray trees that crouched around the shore. The constant tension of
cunning eased from her shoulders. Now she savored the rare perfume of liberty, the hiss of her blades cutting ice. If only she could glide all the way to the sea, take ship for anywhere, assume some other name—until the wretched tangle of her life as Spain’s deadly instrument fell away.
But that could never be, unless she abandoned her family to Don Maximo’s tender mercies.
At last she spied a fallen log, where she sat and unbound her skates. Then she lifted her face to the light—not the warm saffron kiss of the Italian sun, that mother’s caress for which she never ceased yearning. But better, at least, than the gloomy reek of the Tudor palace.
The snap of a breaking twig brought her upright, hand darting to her stiletto. Holding the blade against her skirts, she turned casually to look.
There, barely six strides away—close enough to leap for her throat—stood a lean gray wolf. Its fur was matted with brambles, ribs standing out from hunger, a lather of white foam dripping from the slavering jaws. Her chest tightened with alarm, pulse thudding thinly in her ears.
A mad wolf.
The beast would take her head off if it leapt. If the creature managed even to scratch her skin with those infected teeth, her death would be certain and slow. She eased to her feet, barely daring to breathe. Even that careful movement brought the wolf to full alert, crouching and baring its fangs.
“Gesù pity me,” she whispered.
After all her cunning and forced intrigues, six years of hammering blows when Casimiro flew into his rages, after her arrest when it all went wrong, her inquisition and all the rest, would she now be undone by a rabid beast?
The stiletto was not meant to be thrown, but she’d learned to do it. Cautiously she reversed the blade, never breaking the wolf’s reddened stare.
The moment bound them together, predator to prey—for like the creature itself, she was both. Aye, she saw her death in those mad eyes, as she’d seen it in Casimiro, when he came for her at the end. So she would throw, and pray that her cast flew true.
If not, then she was in God’s hands. And He rarely stirred Himself to help her.
A low metallic hum sounded behind her. Air blurred at the edge of her vision, and a steel bolt pierced the wolf’s eye. A runnel of crimson splashed against the snow as the beast buckled and fell.
Allegra spun around, floundering in her skirts, to find Sir Joscelin Boleyn gripping the crossbow that had saved her life. Crackling with leashed violence, his broad-shouldered frame stood stamped against the ice, booted legs braced apart. A scarlet doublet blazed beneath his swirling cloak, like the wolf’s red blood against the snow.
Sun-fired hair tumbled around his shoulders, fierce and free as the wolf he’d slain. In his wind-burned features, his bottle-green eyes were transparent as glass.
Allegra released an unsteady breath as a tremor of reaction swept through her. Still, he sprang to assist her, one strong arm closing around her waist. His crisp clean scent spiced the air: mint and citrus, cut with bracing pine.
“Steady, signora, I have you,” he said. “You are safe with me.”
If only that could be true. His words unleashed an ache of longing that stirred her to full alert. Gathering her wits, she slipped the stiletto into its hidden sheath. For a single moment of weakness, she leaned into his strength.
“Here, sit down.” His large hand closed gently beneath her elbow, urging her away from the wolf.
“No.” She straightened her shoulders and composed her face. “I am perfectly well.”
Yet her chilled body yearned toward his heavy cloak, lined with fur and warmed by his heat. She, who despised a man’s touch, felt a strange and dangerous longing to fall into the strong arms of this one.
Your fear has made you mad. He’s a Boleyn, and a man—an enemy twice over.
“Santa Maria! Why are you here, Sir Joscelin Boleyn?” She slipped out of reach. “You range far from court, though it seems I’ve cause to be grateful.”
He stared at her with furrowed brow, as if she spoke a language he didn’t know. As if he struggled to see the shadow of truth through her dazzling deceptions.
“I was following you, signora. It’s unwise to stray so far from the others.”
Of course, she did not imagine his motives were benign. Nay, he followed her from suspicion—though for certain, he needn’t have rescued her. Did he seek to place her in his debt? To make her trust him?
He read her poorly indeed if he fancied that.
“I hardly know how to thank you.” She bent to gather her skates. “Except to heed your warning and return swiftly to the party.”
“I’ll escort you.” His eyes creased with unexpected humor. “So long as you spare me the need to skid along beside you on those runners! Yet another English skill I’ve yet to acquire.”
Strangely appealing, the thought of his stalwart company. No doubt she was still shaken by the wolf. Sternly she ordered her mind, weighing opportunities and risks. Him, too, she must throw off the scent.
She sank into a curtsey and yielded her skates. He hooked them around the crossbow, slung it over his shoulder with the ease of a man who knew his weapon. His firm hand braced her elbow to assist her through the drifts.
Corpus Christi, the size of him, filling those unfashionable garments with raw strength. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and she was judged tall for a woman. He strode across the ice with the rangy tread of a man in his element, comfortable in his own skin—standing between her and all the mad wolves of the world.
Yet still the silver B glinted at his throat, reminding her what he was. The Boleyns were famous for unswerving loyalty to kin, and this half-French mongrel would be no different than the rest. So she must seize her moment, learn his weakness, plan her campaign around it.
“Did you bring your wife to court, signor?”
A muscle flexed against his jaw, though he spoke amiably enough.
“Zut! No wife to bring, which suits my father all to the good. He’ll make me a proper marriage, so he threatens, to some English heiress.”
“Why, how can you lack a wife, at your age?” she teased. “Though I daresay the ladies will be glad of it.”
Sir Joscelin laughed shortly. She slid a glance at his profile, all jutting nose and copper hair streaming in the wind, and saw he was not mirthful.
“I was betrothed once, to a vintner’s daughter,” he said curtly, not looking at her. “That was long ago, when I was heir to my grand-père’s lands in Provence.”
“And so?” She kept her tone idle. “Did the lady change her mind?”
“My grand-père sired a legitimate Sancerre, and I lost my French inheritance. The lady found a better match…one who offered the wealth and security I could not.”
Wounded pride was stamped on his features. Santa Maria, the man left himself open. Did he trust so easily? Or did he merely choose not to deceive?
“That must have been difficult,” she murmured. “Did you love her?”
Ah, he did. She discerned it in his tightened grip. He’d loved this faithless and foolish girl, whoever she was. Yet the girl had quit him when his fortunes failed.
“Love.” He grimaced. “Love is a maid’s folly. Though I was young and green enough to fancy I did love her—and that she returned the sentiment.”
“Then she was a very great fool,” she said softly.
Though whether she played him like a lute or genuinely ached for his broken heart, Allegra cared not to ponder.
“This is the way of the world.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “Mon Dieu, I was a fool myself. Over time, I learned to be grateful for the lesson.”
Aye, he’d learned, but did not like it. A courtier’s cynicism sat awkwardly on those broad shoulders. Was this why she felt so oddly at ease in his presence?
Perhaps he suspected her curiosity, because he fixed her with a hard challenging gaze. “And what of you, Contessa? What became of your Italian count?”
He caught her flat-footed, turned her questions
against her with a quickness of wit that reminded her to be wary. Open-faced he might be, but the man was keen enough. She wondered how much of her history he knew. For she felt an unsettling reluctance to lie to him.
Better to seed the story with truth, and lie only from necessity.
“I do not speak often of my husband. I suppose you know the Grimaldis are merchant princes from Genoa?”
“I know they’re financiers to kings. Rich as Midas, so I’ve heard.”
“And lethal as a nest of scorpions,” she whispered. “Every one of them hates the next. The conte’s brother, Innocenzo…” Gesù, how many years since she’d spoken that name? “He envied Casimiro his title…his estates…his wife.”
The words dried in her throat as bitter memories flooded through her. Innocenzo, trained for a bishop but never ordained—how the Devil must have laughed when the old contessa named him.
How many times had Allegra turned aside his overtures, eluded his ploys for a private encounter, contrived to have him sent away? She’d feared Casimiro’s jealousy would kill them both. Was it any wonder she’d learned to curse her beauty, which never brought her anything but catastrophe and grief?
“Forgive me, signora.” Joscelin squeezed her arm gently. “I never meant to cause you sorrow.”
“Indeed, nor did you. This is naught but common knowledge.” She forced a laugh, thin and mirthless. “You shall hear it from others soon enough.”
Sooner rather than later, now that the cardinal has come.
“All the same.” He met her gaze, his voice low and intent. “You needn’t tell me, if it troubles you.”
She stared up at him, amazed to see that he meant it. For she had walked so long among the shifting sands of deception that the solid ground of one man’s integrity staggered her.
She stared over the snow-blanketed landscape and struggled to shore up her defenses. Ahead, the faint cries of revelry pierced the air, sharp as spears. She’d only moments to finish her tale—however much she cared to tell him.
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