The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  And if the effort means burning, it will be no more than I deserve. Though she would do what she could to hasten her passing, if God allowed her time for it.

  “The don compelled you to stay with him, for your family’s sake.” His arms tightened around her.

  “I could have escaped him, Joscelin—he was right about that. I could have bargained with the Spanish myself. Santo Spirito, I spent years attending the queen, and she’s Charles of Spain’s own kin. Often, Don Maximo was not even present.” She drew an unsteady breath. “Nay, he was right about me. I endured that Hell solely because I believed I deserved no better.” Nor do I.

  “But that’s nonsense, sweetheart,” he said, this good man whose presence blessed her. “You aren’t to blame for what befell your family. You can blame Casimiro Grimaldi for most of it, oui? And blame Maximo for the rest.”

  “I do blame Casimiro, may he burn in Hell.” She gripped the tarnished smoothness of her mother’s cross. “Just as I blame myself. How can you absolve me—you, who despise what I am?”

  She felt the ripple of awareness sweep through him, saw the chasm of their differences yawn between them. Wasn’t this for the best? He would resume his life, hitched to his sister’s rising star. For her part, she was unlikely to survive so long.

  “Allegra.” His chest rose as he heaved a sigh. “I don’t despise you, even after that Devil’s bargain you struck with my father. You acted to protect your family, and that’s a loyalty I understand very well. Certainement, I—I can’t condone your methods—”

  “Let’s not hide behind euphemism. I’m a hired assassin, the worst kind of killer. The kind who skulks in the shadows and strikes from hiding, giving the victim no chance at defense. You’re a knight, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. By your very nature, you must loathe what I am. Can you deny it?”

  His troubled silence was all the answer she required. Although she’d already known she disgusted him—for he was no more skilled at deception than before—a scalding rush of pain surged through her. What purpose could it serve to discuss it? He would help her tonight, for his honor’s sake. And then, they would part forever.

  She summoned all her resolve. “Darkness falls early this time of year. We should finalize our plans and prepare to leave. However this night ends, I doubt we’ll return here.”

  For a long moment, he said nothing, clearly unwilling to let the matter drop.

  “There’s no time for this, Joscelin.” Briskly she rolled away, blinking back the sting of tears before he could see them. Sitting on the pallet, she busied herself with her garments.

  “Zut! We’re bloody well going to find the time, when this business is finished.” He pushed out a harsh breath and fumbled with his codpiece. “Say we do manage to succeed in this mad venture. Where do you plan to go?”

  “My family won’t be safe anywhere on English shores.” She had already planned for this, and she swallowed down the ache of parting. “I’ll pawn my jewels and book passage for them on the first ship out—anywhere but Spain.”

  “What happens then?” He belted on his sword.

  “Eventually, they’ll return to La Serenissima—to Venice, our home, the Serene Republic.” She waited for the familiar buoyant lift that thoughts of home inspired, but her spirits were too heavy. “My father has a villa there, with vineyards and orchards, on the Brenta beyond the city. Spain has few allies in Venice, but my father has friends in the Senate. And the Doge owes him a favor, from before… I’m certain we’ll be safe.”

  “It seems you’ve thought of everything.” Avoiding her gaze, he tossed her sheathed stiletto onto the pallet. “Do you plan to continue your—profession?”

  “You know that I will not.” Pretend for him, now, that all will be well. Hastily, she began to dress. “I have sworn to renounce it, as I told you before. I’ll be neither a courtesan nor a killer.” In all likelihood, I’ll be dead. “While my father manages the villa, I—I plan to reopen our perfume shop.”

  “You paint a pleasing portrait.” He regarded her warily, but now it was she who refused to meet his gaze. “Are you certain such a quiet living will satisfy you?”

  “Do you think I’m aching for another wealthy admirer? I have suffered enough of those for ten lifetimes, I assure you.” Bitterly, Allegra flung back her hair. Gesù, how I must repulse him. “I want nothing more than to find peace, freed from court intrigues and the desires of men.”

  She hurled the last words like weapons. Judging by the shuttered expression that gripped him, her blade had found its target.

  “May you find everything you’re hoping for, signora.” Roughly, he slung his cloak around his shoulders. “And a long happy life with it.”

  Regret and sorrow swamped her as she stared at his broad back. Yet surely this distance between them was for the best. They would say their farewells before tonight’s bleak business. Where she was going, he could not follow.

  “Since you won’t be shaken off,” she said, “we’d better decide how to spirit you into the Tower. I believe I have a notion how to do it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Mon Dieu, this is madness! A thousand things can go wrong.” Joscelin spoke too low to be overheard by the old man who poled their wherry through the night-black Thames. Against the inky heavens, torchlight flared above the Tower of London, where the ancient prison loomed over the embankment.

  “Too late now to change our course.” Allegra worked to project confidence she didn’t feel. No way to go but forward now, to meet my fate.

  She wanted to cross herself against the superstitious dread that swelled like the rising tide. But she dared not move and risk disturbing the hempen rope wound loosely around her wrists—binding her hands, to the casual eye, like any doomed prisoner whose journey ended at this terrible place. Already, the portcullis of the Traitor’s Gate clenched its rusted teeth before them. Her stomach heaved at the stench of rotted heads mounted on the pikes.

  “Gesù pity them,” she whispered. She’d breathed the stink of corruption for weeks after Casimiro’s death, when the inquisitors had her in their dungeon. Shuddering, she forced the memories away. Whatever happened tonight, she would not be taken prisoner. Before that time came, she would make them kill her—or do the deed herself.

  There was irony enough in her fate to choke her. How Don Maximo would laugh when he heard.

  Despite the fee they’d paid him, the wherryman muttered and spat as he poled them to the gate, angling against the current. The prow scraped against the portcullis, and the shriek of wood on metal sent chills racing down her spine. On the heights, a helmed guard peered down at them.

  “Move along down there,” he called, “or state your business.”

  Joscelin stood and braced his foot against the gunwale. He gripped his sword with an air of command. “Raise the portcullis, my good man. I have in my custody an accused witch from the king’s court, bound for trial and sentencing.”

  “What, a witch?” The sentry stared at Allegra as she huddled in the prow, her hood and mantle concealing her. “Ain’t heard nothing of this, and I don’t know who you are neither.”

  “Good God, man! Is this how you treat your betters? I’m Sir Joscelin Boleyn, Gentleman Pensioner to the king.” His voice rang out, and Allegra closed her eyes and prayed. “I’m son to the Earl of Wiltshire—and brother to Mistress Anne Boleyn. You’ve heard of her, perhaps.”

  Despite their desperate straits, she bowed her head to hide a grim smile. Who would have known the man could dissemble so well? Perhaps he’d learned from her.

  “Boleyn, is it?” Awareness invaded the sentry’s voice. “I’ll, ah, have to summon the Lord Constable. He’ll need to arrange her keep and speak with you direct, milord. There’s warrants and such for taking charge of a prisoner, to do it all legal-like.”

  “By all means,” Joscelin said. “But raise the gate first, man. The wherryman can’t hold here all night, and he’s no more eager than I to linger in this foul stench—in a witch’s compa
ny.”

  That much was likely true, she thought, as the wherryman scowled at her. No doubt Joscelin still suspected she was a witch himself.

  “How do I know you’re who you say?” Suspicion darkened the sentry’s voice. “If I bother the Lord Constable at his supper, and this is some kind of prank…”

  Joscelin puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. “I have the king’s own warrant, ordering this woman’s arrest.”

  In the poor light, he withdrew a scroll and brandished it, the king’s seal and ribbons dangling. In truth, the parchment was nothing more than the order for Belhaven, with approval to draw from royal credit to arrange the king’s love-nest.

  But even if the sentry could read—which she doubted—he stood too far above them to discern the script.

  “All right then,” the guard grunted. Her breath hissed out in relief. “Though on your head be it, milord, if the Constable don’t thank you. Interrupting his supper with his guest, you are.”

  After an interminable delay, a torch bobbed into view behind the portcullis. It lit the enclosed staircase—glistening with filth—that plunged like an esophagus into the bowels of the gaol. Chains rattled as the grille scraped up, until the Traitor’s Gate yawned before them. Reluctantly the wherryman poled them into the cavern, and the skiff rasped against stone.

  “Out you come, then,” the sentry said. “I’ve sent for the Constable.”

  Heart pounding like a drum, Allegra struggled to master the waves of terror sweeping through her as she climbed out, with hands bound before her. In all likelihood, her own head would soon adorn these walls—a grisly memento of the king’s justice.

  Clearly sensing her fear, Joscelin slid a hand beneath her elbow and squeezed. His support gave her strength, and fresh determination eddied through her. Her fate was unimportant, so long as her loved ones were saved. At least she did not need to feign trepidation when the wherryman shoved off.

  The man lost no time in propelling his small craft beneath the portcullis into the river beyond. Down the grate rattled, black teeth biting into the water with a splash that echoed on the walls. Her only escape route had just closed behind her.

  Locked up in a dungeon again, God save me. So long as it isn’t burning—surely I can bear anything else, even torture.

  Violently she shivered as Joscelin ushered her to the stairs. The guard stood before them, barring the way.

  “Here now—you’ll have to wait here for milord.”

  “See here, my man.” Affronted, Joscelin drew to his full height and stared down at the fellow. “It’s cold as the Devil’s breath in this hole. The reek is like to bring my supper back up! You’ll show us some civilized chamber to wait in—or my sister will ensure the king hears how we were treated.” He paused. “That would be unfortunate, oui?”

  Clearly the prospect struck the fear of God in the guard, who trotted hastily before them up the stair. Allegra climbed after him on shaking legs, the cold knifing straight through her gray damask skirts. She must present herself as a lady of some stature, since a Boleyn had troubled to bring her, and she’d slit the skirt to hide her stiletto. That, too, she could turn on herself if she must. Better a good clean death than torture, or the fire.

  The guard led them into the courtyard. By the torchlight that bloomed on the crenellations overhead, she assessed the Tower Green. Here, under the frowning battlements, the scaffolds were erected for condemned traitors—those whose pedigree excused them from a public execution before the screaming masses at Tyburn. Here, if Henry Tudor showed clemency, the condemned enjoyed a more dignified death by the headsman’s axe.

  Of course, a condemned witch would feed the flames. Santa Maria, the cardinal had threatened her with burning often enough. The prospect should have lost its power to terrify her. Still, goose bumps sheeted over her skin as she huddled in her mantle.

  Feeling Joscelin’s concerned gaze, she struggled to order her thoughts. They could not hope to act in the open, with sentries prowling the heights above. Across the courtyard, candles glowed behind a row of stained-glass windows—the Chapel of St. Peter Ad Vincula. Appropriately named for a prisoner’s place of worship: St. Peter In Chains.

  “My lords,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “may I await the Lord Constable in the chapel? I would pray for God’s mercy.”

  Caught perhaps by her accent, the guard studied her closely. She stared back at him, let him see the quaking terror she could not contain. And, sure as next day’s sunrise, her accursed beauty worked its spell.

  “Well, it ain’t the usual,” he muttered, looking around to see who was nearby. “But if milord Boleyn will take responsibility, I’m not one to keep a lady from her prayers.”

  Meekly she sank in a curtsey, grateful for these last few moments of comfort. As the sentry led the way, she glanced at Joscelin. His bearded face was dark with misgiving, and he avoided her gaze. Of course, she realized with a pang, she’d just shown evidence of the Devil’s favor—her own brand of witchcraft.

  As she’d hoped, the narrow chapel stood vacant at this hour. A row of candles before the altar barely lit the ranks of empty pews. The stink of incense lodged in her dry throat and made her cough. What she would give for a cup of wine, to bolster her courage…

  Of course, the sentry came in with them. Ignoring him, she knelt at the prie-dieu and bowed her head to murmur a subdued paternoster. Gesù, even the fire—even that I can bear, if I must. Just let me free them.

  Behind her, the rumble of Joscelin’s voice engaged the guard. His stalwart presence steadied her nerves. Perhaps he’d deal her the coup de grâce himself, rather than let her feed the flames.

  The minutes crawled past until, at last, the door creaked open. The hurried tread of footsteps echoed against the walls. Allegra kept her face down, concealed by her hood, fearful the Lord Constable would recognize the familiar stamp of his other foreign guests in her face.

  “By the Rood, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” Lord Kingston’s deep voice rang with displeasure. “I’m entertaining an important guest. And I’ve received no orders from the King’s Majesty regarding a suspect witch, nor any other lady.”

  That answered one question. It meant Don Maximo had not accused her to the king, but played his own deep game.

  “I can explain the matter,” Joscelin said. “The issue is rather sensitive, I’m afraid, as we’re dealing with a foreign lady of some stature at court. The king wishes it handled most discreetly. Your man here…”

  She knotted her fingers and prayed she would not waver. Finally, impatient, Lord Kingston ordered his man to wait outside. While this occurred, she slid a glance behind her and saw Joscelin slip into place between the Constable and the door.

  Scowling, Lord Kingston strode forward to get a look at her. The light did not flatter his blockish figure, stern as a fortress, and did little to soften the thin mouth pinched in displeasure. A spill of breadcrumbs dotted his rich doublet, evidence of his disrupted meal.

  Meeting those beady eyes, she knew she would find no mercy there. The thought of her aging father and sisters under this man’s unpitying jurisdiction made her shudder.

  “Well, sir, I am waiting.” His sharp gaze darted over her kneeling form. “A witch, is she?”

  Allegra climbed to her feet and swallowed in a futile bid to moisten her dry mouth. “I am unjustly accused, my lord, on the basis of my family connections. I have kin who reside in your keeping—Alessandro Borgia, and my twin sisters.”

  “Every prisoner here claims to be unjustly accused, madam.” Still, recognition flickered in the Constable’s gaze. He knew what she meant, and his reaction confirmed that, indeed, they were here.

  The Constable’s eyes narrowed as his brain churned along. “Forsooth, you have the look of a Borgia. Curious though, isn’t it, that the king sends you here tonight?”

  She hesitated, sudden doubt shafting through her.

  While she searched his face for clues, Joscelin came up behind the Con
stable. “Should I take it, Lord Kingston, that you still have the Venetians in your keeping? His Majesty wished me to make certain of that.”

  “Of course I have them—for the moment.” Frowning, Lord Kingston swung around to address him, putting his back to Allegra. “The King’s Majesty sent you to oversee that business, did he?”

  Here was her moment, then, and no turning back. The cold dew of sweat broke out against her skin as she gripped her stiletto and slipped up behind her target.

  Joscelin never wavered, though his shoulders knotted with tension. Perhaps he doubted her even now, though she’d promised not to kill the man.

  “What business are you speaking of, Lord Kingston?” he asked.

  “What else? They’re to be transported—these Venetians,” the Constable said, disdainful. “A Spanish ship is waiting for them in the Pale. They sail with the tide.”

  A pang of alarm shafted through her. Could it be true? Had she betrayed herself too soon, given something away to Maximo’s perceptive eyes? Or had he hatched some new ploy, even before she poisoned him? For even the don could not conjure a seagoing vessel and crew from thin air.

  If this gaoler spoke the truth, they’d arrived barely in time—and might already be too late. If a Spanish delegation came for them now, all her plans were undone. Santa Maria, she could delay no longer!

  Gliding into place behind him, she slipped a hand around Lord Kingston’s beefy throat. Honed by years of practice, her blade snugged up beneath his jowls.

  “Do not call for help, signor,” she whispered, “or I’ll butcher you like a pig.”

  “What the Devil?” The man stiffened beneath her knife. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Be at ease, monsieur.” Deftly, Joscelin disarmed him. “We mean you no harm. An hour’s restraint on your part, and we’re gone, with you none the worse for our visit.”