The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’” A bloody froth stained Fausto’s teeth. “Why didn’t you let me slay her?”

  “She’s a defenseless woman, you wretch.” Joscelin’s features tightened with disgust. “Have you no shred of honor?”

  “Dios! She’s beguiled you.” Fausto laughed, and bright blood tinged his lips. “You Lutheran fool. What do you see in her, besides beauty? Do you see the blade in her hand, the victim writhing on the floor at her feet? Wake up, signor! She’s a trained assassin, hired to kill your sister.”

  “Damn it, man, what are you saying?”

  She closed her eyes and stood exposed, the ugly truth laid bare.

  “Curse you, priest, for a filthy liar!” Joscelin said. “Curse you for soiling a lady with your foul tongue.”

  Yet his eyes searched her—crouched before him like a cornered animal, the stiletto gleaming in her fist. Gripped by a sinking sense of futility, she stared back at him, his trust in ruins at her feet.

  “Why, Allegra?” Uncertainty flickered in his features. “Will you not deny this slander?”

  She drew a shaking breath to summon the falsehoods that spilled from her lips as easily as prayer. But the words died unspoken. The tingling charge of battle had seeped away, leaving her spent and shaking.

  Numbly, she turned away from the dying priest. Halfway to the door, a white-faced Don Maximo was crawling across the floor toward freedom.

  Yet she could not force her trembling legs into motion. What did Maximo Montoya matter to her now? Far more important, central to her existence, was the man who knelt on the ground before her, open and unguarded as a child, while his shining illusions died between them.

  A bloody hand fumbled to grasp her skirts. Beyond question, Fausto Mephisto was dying. Blood bubbled on his lips as he gasped for air.

  “Curse you, woman, for the spawn of devils.” Scarlet spilled down his chin. “You’ll burn in Hell for your sins, I swear it!”

  “Enough of that.” Joscelin scrubbed a rough hand over his face, as if to scrub away the sight before him. “Zut, we must find a physician and the Knight Marshal.”

  But the priest drew his last rattling breath, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, as if he searched in vain for Heaven.

  “Ah, he’s dead, the poor devil,” Joscelin sighed. “Dead cursing in a black rage, and unconfessed. May God have mercy on his soul.”

  Allegra fumbled to sheathe her stiletto. With a muttered oath, he reached her in four swift strides and pulled her into his arms.

  “For the love of Heaven, Allegra! You’re bleeding—”

  “It’s nothing.” She allowed herself one blessed moment to lean into his strength. The familiar spice of pine and citrus revived her, as she turned her face into his muscled shoulder. Though her injured arm dangled at her side, the balm of his concern enveloped her like a warm bath.

  “Here, give me a moment.” He set her gently aside, and tore a strip from Fausto’s hassock. She stood in a daze, dull waves of pain pounding through her, while he wrapped the bandage over her injury and knotted it in place.

  “Voila, the bleeding has stopped.” He studied his handiwork. “That should hold until a proper physician can tend you.”

  But Don Maximo needed a physician far more than she. Urgency flared as she pivoted toward the door. Already, the don had vanished—but, in his condition, he could not have gone far.

  Prodding her frozen limbs into motion, she stumbled to the door. Up and down the corridor, in the smoky flare of torches, she saw no one. In the distance rose the muted roar of revelry from the banquet hall.

  Probably the don would survive the poison, even without her tending. She had been so careful of the dose, and he had drunk almost none of it. Yet he must surely be weakened, even if he survived, and unable to pursue her immediately. She had little taste for hunting him through the corridors and relying on her stiletto to finish him. Would she butcher the man like a harvest pig, and see the last flicker of faith die in Joscelin’s eyes?

  Nay, she had seen enough death that night. She must turn her thoughts to escape, and swiftly. As to where she would go—to the Tower of London, or to Pontefract Castle in the cold-blasted north—that was no question at all. She need only consider which source of information she trusted.

  Still moving slowly, like a woman in a dream, she closed the door and barred it, as she ought to have done before. When she returned to the still blood-soaked figure, Joscelin knelt over him, folding the corpse’s hands over his breast, arranging the limbs in some semblance of dignity.

  Another death laid to my account. A strangled sound escaped her lips, and Joscelin looked up. She could not meet his gaze, and the certain condemnation she would find there. So she made her words distant and kept her eyes on the door.

  “I can hardly find the words to thank you, signor. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

  His brow furrowed as he looked around them, at the sea of shattered glass near her feet, at the blood-smeared floor and the dead man who lay there.

  As silence stretched between them, she tried for a wry smile, but thought the effect must be ghastly. “I doubt this scene was what you intended, when you came thundering down the road to find me.”

  “I meant to find you, whatever else happened. I didn’t even stop to eat.” Emotion scraped his voice raw. “Your sleeping potion, your dead-of-night departure—and that infernal letter! Mon Dieu, how could you think I’d let you walk away?”

  “Far better for you if you did,” she whispered, heart sinking, knowing her effort to protect him had failed. “I’m certain you want an explanation. But I have minutes, at best, before Don Maximo raises the alarm.”

  “Be certain I intend to hear the whole wretched tale.” Grim-faced, he rose before her and gripped her uninjured arm. “But now…after this…the puzzle of your behavior begins to fall into place, oui? Tell me the truth, Allegra—did you scheme to murder my sister?”

  “Nay, I never meant for her to die! Believe that, if you believe nothing else.” Trapped and miserable, she stared up at him. “I can’t blame you for doubting me.”

  “But the don—you poisoned him, if his condition when I arrived and that spilled wine are any evidence.”

  “I poisoned him to save your sister,” she said in despair, seeing his stark disbelief. “And to save mine! With careful treatment, that potion should not kill him.”

  “Merde, Allegra! You live under the man’s protection, housed and clothed and fed by his generosity—and you use his trust to poison him?” Disgusted, he released her, as though her touch soiled him. His recoil pierced her like an arrow through the heart. “How can you expect me to believe you now?”

  Too late for that, far too late to hope for forgiveness.

  “Aye, I could have killed the don.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but it trembled. “Though I live beneath his so-called protection, I am not his mistress, and never was. ’Twas my disguise and protection at court—meant only to explain my presence.”

  “For what purpose?” Relentless, he towered over her.

  Now her resolve faltered. Wrapping her arms around herself, she glanced aside. “I…I am what the priest told you.”

  “Attendez! I can’t believe this calumny.”

  “You had better believe it, Joscelin, for it’s why I came to England. I would never have killed your sister—you must believe that. At worst, I would have given her something to sicken her, to warn her—”

  “No.” His jaw clenched. “I won’t listen to some muddled confession, spilled in haste over this poor wretch’s cooling body.”

  Wildly she stared back at him, aware of the minutes slipping away. “Then what would you have me do? I can’t linger here, Joscelin, for a leisurely discussion!”

  “So you mean to flee, as a felon flees from justice.” He turned inscrutable, his eyes shuttered. “Where did you intend to go?”

  She hesitated, gripped by the habitual need for caution. She trusted h
im, if she trusted any man living. God save her, she owed him an answer.

  “I must flee to London, if I can elude Don Maximo.” An outcome that became less likely with every moment she lingered. “Afterward, I’ll sail for Venice, if I can, and never return to this accursed place. Will you…will you allow me to do that?”

  Did he care for her welfare, at least a little?

  For a span of heartbeats he stared back at her, assessing. Then, with a muttered oath, he pulled her into his arms. Mindful of her injured shoulder, he squeezed her against his broad chest. She closed her eyes and sank into his strength, inhaled the bracing scent of citrus and evergreen that clung to his garments.

  “Damn it to Hell,” he said, against her hair. “Whoever you are, whatever you’ve done—I can’t allow you to ride out of my life without knowing the rest. Give me a moment to think what to do.”

  “I don’t have a moment.” She clutched his jerkin, the steady thunder of his heartbeat in her ear. “If you intend to let me go, I must leave now.”

  “Merde, let me think! If I ever hope to make sense of this muddle, I’ll have to ride with you.”

  “But you can’t!” She pulled away. “The don will see me condemned for attempted murder, and you for killing the priest. There’s a law here in England, called the Verge of the Court, and we’ve both violated it by drawing steel in the king’s household, even in self-defense. Your only hope is to reach Henry’s ear before Maximo does. At least, with your connections, that should not be too difficult.”

  “My connections.” He paced before the window. “Zut! I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in Belhaven, preparing for the king’s visit. If my father gets wind of this—I must speak to him at once.”

  Aye, he should think of his own protection, for Maximo would do anything to bring him down now. Reluctantly, she forced the words out.

  “You must remain here, Joscelin, and look to your own safety. You don’t even know why Maximo hates you! His brother was the Spanish knight—”

  “Not now, for the love of Christ.” He unlatched the window and swung it open to peer out. A swirl of snow gusted over him, and he closed the window with a curse. “Damn this English weather! But perhaps it will prove useful.”

  He strode to the door and pressed his ear against it. When he turned back, his bearded features were set with determination. “Gather whatever you need—a warm cloak and boots, whatever coin or jewels you have. I’ll take you to the stables. But you’ll wait for me there, and swear it, or by Christ I’ll not let you out of my sight.”

  Disciplining her mind, she focused on the immediate question. “Most of the court is at Westminster, including the king and queen. If I agree to wait—and mind you, I haven’t promised—what can you hope to accomplish?”

  “The porter told me my father has returned.” His jaw knotted with resolve. “Before I dump this mess in his lap, I must speak to him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Joscelin encountered no one as he hurried through the corridors, slipping through the moonlight when the torches guttered out. No doubt the servants were lax, well-warmed by holiday ale, with the king gone from court. All the same, he found the heavy hush unnerving. Somewhere, Don Maximo must be swearing vengeance against his so-called mistress—the siren who’d sung him to ruin on the rocks of her cunning.

  When he thought of Allegra, tension knotted his shoulders. He’d ushered her past the Sergeant Porter at the gates, but it was painfully obvious she required no assistance from him. As he watched her slender form vanish in the snow, he’d barely restrained himself from swinging onto his own tired horse and thundering after her.

  He was an honest fool, and she was too clever at deceit. Likely she’d make him a jesting-stock again, laughing at his gullibility as she vanished like a ghost in the darkness.

  Well, let her laugh. Let her deploy her legions of lies to mislead him. At least he would speak his mind, purge his soul of the outraged betrayal that churned through him, before he left her to her fate.

  She would have poisoned his own sister. Under English law, the king would have her head. If they condemned her for witchcraft or heresy, she would burn for it. Joscelin now possessed a mountain of evidence against her, including her own confession—everything he needed to make Thomas Boleyn proud of his bastard son. Yet his gut heaved with loathing at the thought of using it.

  Still, he must discharge his business, this interview whose prospect he did not savor. Now the Boleyn apartments rose before him, dark and silent. Zut, what would he do if his father wasn’t here?

  Cursing under his breath, he unsheathed his dagger and hammered with the hilt.

  After a lifetime, he heard his father’s body-servant mumbling complaints as he unbolted the door. Sheathing his dagger, Joscelin shoved the door open and pushed past the disheveled old man.

  “My apologies for waking you, Piers, but I must see my father—it’s urgent. Is he here?”

  “He’s in his bed and needs his sleep, my lord. At his age, with these new duties the king has given him—”

  “Merci.” Impatient, Joscelin plowed past, knowing from experience that the faithful retainer would ramble on forever if allowed. “I’ll take the responsibility for waking him—never fear, you shan’t be blamed for it. Bolt the door behind me, and let no one else enter, even if they tell you the castle’s burning down.”

  When the man turned grumbling to obey, Joscelin snatched the lighted candle and strode across the echoing darkness of the receiving room. Around him, monstrous shadows shifted and crouched behind the furnishings. Apprehension gnawed at his belly as he slipped into his father’s privy chamber.

  On the threshold he stopped, staring at the bed’s great bulk rearing like a leviathan in the dark, curtains drawn against the cold. Wasn’t this why he’d come, forcing his way inside, disrupting his father’s well-earned rest—to hear Lord Rochford deny what he’d done?

  How long before the Knight Marshal was summoned to deal with the dead priest in the Spaniard’s chamber? With every minute Joscelin lingered, the threat of discovery grew more acute. With every breath, Allegra’s fleet mare opened more distance between herself and Richmond. But he could not charge blindly after her, without hearing the truth from his father.

  In the candle’s wavering light, a hand parted the bed curtains. Despite the late hour, Lord Rochford’s voice rang with command. “Who’s there? Declare yourself.”

  “Pardonnez. It’s Joscelin.” He stood the candle on the bedside table.

  “Joscelin? What the Devil are you doing here?” Thrusting the curtains aside, Rochford swung his legs around and sat up. Despite his linen nightshirt and sleep-tousled hair, his green eyes were keen as rapiers, slicing over Joscelin’s travel-grimed cloak.

  “What is it?” his father said, in rapid French. “Has something happened to Anne?”

  Of course Anne would be his greatest concern. Not from any tender sentiment toward his sharp-tongued daughter, but because the Boleyn fortunes were hitched to her rising star. Joscelin grimaced with a bitterness that surprised him.

  “I haven’t seen her, mon père. I’ve just arrived from Belhaven. Mary is still there, preparing for the king’s arrival, but—”

  “If your task isn’t finished, then why did you return?” Lord Rochford searched his features. “Henry will not—Christ! Is that blood on your cloak?”

  “Oui, but it isn’t mine.” Briefly Joscelin was warmed by his father’s concern. Despite his son’s illegitimacy and grinding poverty, Rochford had given him a chance, spent the coin of Boleyn influence to find him a place. Surely Mary was mistaken, and Allegra had misunderstood. To think his father would—

  “Do I want to know whose blood it is?” Arching a brow, Rochford reached for his chamber robe.

  Joscelin shifted his weight uneasily. “Before I reply, mon père…will you answer a question for me?”

  “If I may,” his father murmured, belting his robe—an old man’s comfortable garment,
lined in sheep’s wool. Beneath it, Lord Thomas’s hardened body was growing thin and frail. Unbidden, the blasphemous thought arose: a lifetime of ambition and greed had taken its toll.

  Joscelin struggled to subdue these guilty thoughts. “This business with Contessa Grimaldi. You asked me to learn her purpose, find out her intentions for Anne…”

  “That is what I asked, and what you agreed to do. You brought the matter to me for advice, if memory serves?”

  “Certainement, I brought it. And the lady’s actions are not without blemish, but…” Joscelin knotted his fists and took the plunge. “What would you say if I told you I’m not certain she’s guilty?”

  “You’re not certain of her guilt.” Lord Rochford pursed his lips—the only indication that the question gave him pause. “Would you say you’re certain of her innocence?”

  Joscelin hesitated. Surely Allegra Grimaldi could not be called innocent. Given what she’d confessed, he could call her many things, but never blameless.

  “I can’t swear to her innocence,” he muttered, and felt that he’d betrayed her.

  “I see.” Rising, his father glanced toward the receiving room, then prudently closed the door. “In that case, I would say we can’t afford to make a costly error. We should leave this messy business to the king’s questioners.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Joscelin went cold to his marrow. “She has broken off with the Spanish—I can swear to that much! How can we turn her in? Henry will send her to the block—or, worse, the pyre.”

  “If he does, why should that matter to us?”

  His father’s indifference struck Joscelin like a blow, though part of him wondered why he was astonished. Hadn’t he always known, deep down, that Thomas Boleyn would do anything to feed his ambitions? Joscelin had worked toward the same end, not for power—that meant nothing to him—but solely to prove his worth. He had willfully blinded himself to the truth, and the sting of disillusionment bit deep.