“And that bothers you, suddenly? You gained more out of that than I did.” Garnesche paused, but hearing no response from the Frenchman, continued on. “It was Buckingham who was pushing the hardest for an alliance between England and the Emperor Charles. It didn’t take much prodding to make Henry think the two were in league together to take the crown away from him.”
Elizabeth’s mind flashed back to the year before, when the shocking news of the English nobleman’s execution had swept across Europe. It had been the talk of every court in Christendom when the English king had imprisoned the mighty Duke of Buckingham on the charge of plotting to take his crown by force. Henry, lacking a legitimate heir, was acutely sensitive to any hint of revolt against his right to wear the crown. She recalled hearing the details from the endless stream of diplomats passing through her father’s house: the accusations, the questionable witnesses, the trial by his peers, the finding of guilt despite his proclamations of loyalty. She recalled most clearly the talk of Buckingham’s grisly execution. And now she knew what was behind it all. Now she knew who had caused it to come about.
“How you must have smiled to see Buckingham’s neck go under the executioner’s ax.”
“His conviction for treason set back the alliance between England and the Holy Roman Empire two years, Constable. It was what you and your king wanted, and it was what you got. Why, even now the Emperor Charles must tread lightly with Henry. And it is due to me.”
“Yes. It was due to you.” The Lord Constable’s stony gaze was unwavering. “But we have watched how your friendship has recently blossomed once again with the English king, and it makes us lose confidence in your willingness to deal with us. In so many words, there are some among us who don’t trust you.”
“Don’t generalize, you coward. What you mean is that you don’t trust me!” Garnesche snapped. Elizabeth watched as he drew himself up to his full height. “You and I both know, you are the only one who knows of my dealings on your behalf.”
“I don’t have to trust you. I employ you and I pay you to do our bidding.” The Lord Constable’s voice was cold, his tone bordering on disdain.
Garnesche paused, silently considering the other’s words.
Elizabeth stood as still as a statue, all her own problems now totally forgotten. From what she could gather, Sir Peter Garnesche’s employment by the French government was no short-term affair. Though she certainly had no love for England or its king, this was treachery of the vilest kind.
“I’ve told you that the king is going directly to Calais to meet with the Emperor Charles. Of what happened earlier, I can’t say. But if you wish to see your precious treaties with England honored, then you had better move quickly and keep that alliance from happening.”
“What do you expect me to do, attack your king?” the Lord Constable snapped. “I know you are low, but I tell you, we will not dishonor ourselves by killing anyone under a flag of truce. Even if he is the King of England.”
“This is all a farce.” Garnesche took a step back. “Constable, I grow sick of you and your whining demands. I tell you what must be done, but do you ever do it? Nay, you lack the stomach for real action. Barbaric. Inhumane. Low. That’s all I ever hear. Frenchman, you are a spineless coward.”
“You are just a dog biting the hand that feeds him.” The French nobleman stepped closer to the English knight and lifted his fist. “You are forcing me to put you in your place, and I, too, am growing tired of this game. Don’t forget what happened to Buckingham. Treason. It cost him his head. The same could happen to you. But where the charge against him was false, yours will be well deserved.”
“No one can bear witness to such an accusation. No one knows—”
“No one, but me, traitor. And that’s enough.”
“Henry won’t believe you.”
“Fool, you have forgotten my connections.”
Garnesche’s hand came up so quickly that the Constable was lifted off the ground as the knight’s viselike grip closed over his windpipe. The abrupt gurgling sound that the Frenchman emitted was quickly lost in his thrashing struggle for release.
Grasping his foe’s wrist with one hand, he struck at the Englishman’s face with the other. A cut opened on the bridge of Sir Peter’s nose, and the Lord Constable struck at it again and again.
But the knight was not to be undone, and Elizabeth watched in horror as Garnesche slid his dagger easily from its sheath and drove the point upward into the bowels of the struggling Frenchman.
Unable to cry out, the Lord Constable writhed in silent agony as the knight twisted the blade about, tearing the life from the nobleman.
Elizabeth took a step back as she watched the final twitching moments of the most powerful counselor in France. The bile climbed into her throat as she espied the cruel, maniacal grin that crept across Sir Peter Garnesche’s dark and bloodied face. He was mad. Truly mad.
Stepping back again, Elizabeth looked about her in the darkness. She had to get help. As she began to push through the undergrowth, the dragging hem of the kilt caught on the splintered branch of a fallen tree. She could see the giant murderer through the foliage, glancing about him as he lowered the Lord Constable’s corpse to the ground. Panic struck at her heart as he wiped the blood from his flashing blade on the velvet cloak of the dead man. What if he came her way? What if he found her here?
Yanking at the kilt, Elizabeth stumbled backward as the cloth gave way with a loud ripping tear. Garnesche’s head whipped around as she sat motionless and silent amid the soft green ferns. But she didn’t sit for long.
The knight took a step in her direction, and Elizabeth was off through the woods, scrambling on all fours through the undergrowth. Bramble bushes and young saplings slapped at her face as she struggled to her feet. Throwing wild glances over her shoulder, she ran frantically through the dark glade. Flashes of light from a dying moon mixed in swirling confusion with the dark of the passing trees. Chaos had taken over her world, and Elizabeth felt her energy slipping away. Valiantly, she fought hard to keep down the sobs she felt rising in her chest. They were robbing her of her power to run. But on she ran anyway.
She could hear nothing from behind her over the sound of her own pulse, pounding thunderously in her head. Then, as she turned to look for her pursuer, Elizabeth suddenly found herself tumbling in air, only to land with a sickening thud in the soft earth at the bottom of a diverted streambed.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breath. She was lying facedown in the blackness of the hollow. Short, velvety leaves were brushing against her face, and her eyes were gradually focusing on the spears of dark grass that rose up and limited her field of vision. One ear was pressed to the ground, and she thought she could hear the dull thumps of receding footsteps. But, convinced briefly that she was in the last moments of life, she thought it probably the sound of her own failing heart.
She couldn’t die. Images of her two sisters flickered in her brain. What would happen to them? With a massive effort, Elizabeth tried to take a breath. Painfully, the air pushed into her lungs as she rolled slightly to one side. Her left arm, she realized, was stretched out above her head. It was numb, though she only knew it when the dull pins-and-needles feeling started to creep into the limb, spreading gradually and more sharply from her shoulder to her fingers. Pulling herself slowly to a sitting position, Elizabeth lay her head on her upraised knees and attempted to take deeper and deeper breaths. Slowly, her senses returned to her, and only the throbbing in her shoulder remained. Flexing her arm, she knew nothing was broken, but she felt as if she’d been kicked by a mule.
Then she looked about her. The wooded glade was eerily silent and dark as death. She thought briefly of the Lord Constable. Of Garnesche. Her panic had disappeared, but a cold fear remained in the pit of her stomach. Pushing herself to her feet, she cocked an ear in the direction she thought she’d come, but there was no sound. Carefully, Elizabeth clambered to the top of the embankment and quietly pushed through the
shrubs until abruptly she found herself standing on the worn path between the French and English encampments.
A young pageboy eyed Elizabeth curiously as he passed. The sky to the east was just taking on the deep, purplish blue that preceded dawn, and the air had the sharp tang of an early summer morn. Elizabeth looked up and down the path. A few late revelers were wandering along, and she stood a moment, undecided as to which way to go. Finally she made up her mind and started hurriedly down the path, looking over her shoulder at the graying canopies of the morning camp.
But she’d only taken a few steps when she slammed into the human wall that blocked her way.
Peter Garnesche stood before her.
Chapter 6
Elizabeth recoiled in shock. Her breath caught in her chest.
Peter Garnesche silently watched the battered woman before him. He reached out and took a hold of her chin. Despite her flinching response, he turned it to the light of the nearby torch. Elizabeth Boleyn’s face was covered with blood. From the gash on her cheek that still oozed, he was certain her injury was recent. Looking down at her garment, a menacing sneer crept over the man’s face.
“I’ll have to remember to congratulate the Scot.” Garnesche let his hand drop. “He is a better man than I thought.”
Elizabeth tried not to look back at him or at his attire. In her mind’s eye she could still see the Lord Constable’s blood spilling darkly on the ground. She was sure the man’s doublet must be spattered with it. She wondered if the hand that a moment ago held her chin was stained red as well. The smell of death suddenly permeated the air.
“I like this,” the man continued. “Humility at last from the biggest prude in Europe. I never imagined that you liked it rough.”
Elizabeth took a small, hesitant step back. Another group of drunken soldiers was approaching them, working their way back to their camp. Suddenly it occurred to her that the English knight had not connected her with the crime he’d committed moments earlier. She took another half step back, but Garnesche’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the tartan, checking her retreat.
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold in her veins, and the young woman glanced quickly and cautiously at the man’s face. His eyes were not on her. Even though it looked as though he were conversing with her, his gaze was searching the faces of those passing by. But the men passing hardly gave them a second glance, and Garnesche looked back down at her, a foul gleam in his eye. Her blood ran colder yet.
“This is getting better and better.” He smirked, pulling Elizabeth roughly to his chest. “Who would have thought that I could take a lesson from the Scot?”
Elizabeth turned her face at once as the man’s foul mouth tried to close on hers. Instead of a taste of her lips, Garneshe’s mouth roughly descended on her open cut. She cried out in pain. “Let me go,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“Where, my pretty?” His hands roughly grabbed at her breast through the baggy shirt. “We’re just getting started.”
Elizabeth struggled to get out of the man’s grasp. “I’m...I’m his leftover, damn it. You don’t want me.”
Garnesche pushed her roughly against a nearby tree and moved after her. “Oh, I do want you, you arrogant bitch. In fact, I’ve always wanted to feel you writhe beneath me. I just can’t see why I’ve waited so long.”
“He’ll kill you.” Elizabeth moved swiftly to the side and escaped the madman’s clutching grip. Turning quickly, she now had the path to her back. But she knew her speed was nothing compared to the English knight’s. “I belong to Ambrose Macpherson. I slept with him. I’m his. Do you hear me?” She retreated as she spoke, but the man continued to follow. “He’ll kill you if you touch me.”
“That is, if he is alive after I’m done with him,” the French voice growled.
The sound of the man behind her jerked Elizabeth around. The Duc de Bourbon stood a step away, his eyes blazing with anger.
Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks. She’d never been happier seeing anyone in her whole life than at this moment. But the young nobleman’s grim expression stopped her from showing any sign of it.
“How interesting.” Peter Garnesche moved in behind her. “So much chivalry over a fallen maid.”
Elizabeth stepped aside as the Englishman put a hand on his great sword. She was relieved to see five of Bourbon’s men appear suddenly behind the young man. For one thing, the duc de Bourbon never traveled alone, Elizabeth knew that from the past encounters. She remembered someone once telling her that a number of husbands had hired a band of fighters and put a prize on the handsome nobleman’s head. It was about that time that the duc had started traveling with an entourage.
“She left the Scot’s bed. I’m next in line.” Garnesche leered in Elizabeth’s direction. “When I’m finished with her, I’ll send her to you. But I can promise you that it won’t be for quite some time.”
Elizabeth started to back away in small steps from the group and in the direction of the French quarter.
Bourbon ignored the Englishman altogether.
“You look a bloody mess, Elizabeth,” he said. Pain showed in the Frenchman’s handsome face. “Was I too gentle? Is this what you were after? A brute? Someone who would abuse you?”
Elizabeth shook with anger, pain, fear. How could she explain? She was alone. No one believed her, nor trusted her. She could tell Bourbon of what the Englishman had done, about the Lord Constable’s body, but even the six of them might prove no match for this giant and whatever soldiers he could call for. If they failed to take the knight, he would know it was she who had witnessed the crime and heard the discussion of his treachery. But it was not only her own life that she feared for now. It was Mary’s and young Anne’s. Both would be prey for this vindictive madman.
“So you have nothing to say?” Bourbon’s accusing voice cut in on Elizabeth’s thoughts. “Will you just stand there and admit that you’ve been nothing more than a common whore?”
Elizabeth looked from one hardened face to the next. The Englishman stood a step away from the duc. The same distance he’d stood from the Lord Constable before cutting him down.
She took one last look at the duc. Her throat was tight as she straightened before his angry glare. “You are nothing to me. Do you understand? I don’t have to explain a thing to you. Just leave me be.” Elizabeth turned and ran. Ran as fast and as far as her tired legs could take her.
The Franciscan friar Father Matthew shook out the straw from his gray habit and rubbed his face to make sure he was awake. This is unbelievable, he thought, as Elizabeth ceased speaking. He must still be dreaming.
Beneath the loft where he sat, the horses crowded into the shed were shuffling hungrily. Unfolding his long, lanky frame, the friar tried to ignore the rumbling in his own empty stomach and concentrate on the story he’d just been told. This poor child needed his help, and he knew he’d be needing all his faculties to help her. He looked tenderly at Elizabeth’s troubled and battered face. Washing the dried blood had not improved the looks of things. He cringed to think that she might need a needle to close the gash on her cheek. She would be scarred for life. Friar Matthew had known this generous young woman for a long time. Why, he still had the leftover gold from the ring she’d given him in the pouch bumping gently against his thigh.
Beatings, a father prostituting his own daughters, treason, murder. It was too unbelievable. He’d helped his flock in the area outside Paris with many problems in his many years as a priest—the hungry farmer who poached the king’s deer to feed his family; the apprentice boy who got the landlord’s willing daughter with child; the girl caught learning to read against her father’s wishes; and, a thousand other matters—but never had he been called on to deal with issues of this enormity, of this magnitude. Silently sending a prayer heavenward, he took a deep breath and let out a sigh.
“First, my child, we must decide if you are in any immediate danger.” He sat down again on the straw. “Is there anything that you left be
hind that could lead the Englishman to you?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, Friar.” Gravely, Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Nothing that has to do with the murder.”
“Thank God for that much, anyway.”
“We have to let someone know about the Lord Constable,” Elizabeth whispered as she stood and moved to the shuttered loft window. An odd breeze had picked up outside, rattling the wooden shutter. “We must expose Sir Peter as the murderer.”
“I don’t see how we can. At least not right now. That would certainly be the end of your life.” Father Matthew paused and then blurted out his concerns. “It is not just Garnesche that you will need to watch out for. Think of all his friends and allies in the English court. They will readily believe him when he says you are accusing him falsely. And then you’ll be their target. You—and your family—will be the enemy. We must consider the risk to your sisters.”
Surprised, Elizabeth turned toward the friar. Looking at the man’s somber expression, she had to agree. Who was she, after all? She was more a member of the French court than the English. Born of an unwed French mother, raised so far from London. Everything Friar Matthew had said was true. Who would listen to her? Who would protect them? She couldn’t trust even her own father. “I could send a message about the murder. No one ever need know whom it came from.”
The priest shook his head in disagreement. “You don’t know much about the king’s justice, my child. The Lord Constable’s death will undoubtedly be blamed on some passing beggar. Anything you say will be ignored right now because King Francis does not want war with England. So no Frenchman would dare accuse an Englishman of the murder of the Lord Constable without absolute proof.”
Elizabeth returned to where the friar sat. “How can we let an innocent man’s death go unavenged?”
Friar Matthew moved quietly, taking hold of her hand and nodding toward the Golden Vale.
“Out that window ten thousand wealthy men and women are sleeping comfortably in tents made of cloth of gold. But look beyond the vale, as I know you have, and you can see a million peasants and villagers living in the squalor of poverty. You’re safe here, right now because no one even imagines that any noblewoman would dirty her shoes in the muck of this stable.”
Heart of Gold Page 6
