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“I felt the need for some fresh air. But I am returning to my warm apartment now.”
“Allow me to escort you back to the palace, then.”
Marguerite could think of no graceful way to decline his company, so she merely nodded and turned on the pathway. Pierre fell into step beside her, the hem of his black robes whispering over the swept gravel.
“I understand from the bishop that you are to join our voyage to England,” he said tonelessly.
Alors, but news did travel fast! Marguerite herself had only just learned of her assignment, and here this glorified clerk already knew.
What else did he know?
“Indeed I am. The Comtesse de Calonne requires a companion, and I am honoured that my services have been requested.”
“You are very brave then, mademoiselle. They say the English Court is coarse and dirty.”
“I have certainly heard of worse.”
“Have you?”
“Oui. The Turks, for one. And the Russians. I have heard that the Muscovites grow their beards so very long, and so tangled and matted, that rats live in the hair with their human owners none the wiser.”
Father Pierre frowned doubtfully. “Truly?”
Marguerite shrugged. “So I have heard. I have seldom met a Russian myself, except for the ambassadors who sometimes visit Paris. Their fur robes are antique, but their grooming is fine.” And there was one, who had no beard at all, but hair as golden and soft as a summer’s day. One who always popped into her mind at the most inconvenient moments. “Surely the English cannot be as crude as rats in beards. I am certain our weeks there will be most pleasant.”
“Nevertheless, we will be in a foreign Court, with ways we may not always understand. I hope that you will feel free to come to me for any—counsel you might require, Mademoiselle Dumas.”
Counsel? As if she would ever need advice from him! Marguerite curtsied politely and said, “It is a comfort to know there is always a French priest ready to hear my confession if needs be. Good day, Father Pierre.”
“Good day, mademoiselle.”
She left him at the foot of the grand staircase, now a bare expanse of marble waiting to be refurbished, reborn. As she made her way up, dodging workmen and stone dust, she could feel the priest’s cold stare on her back.
Tiens! Marguerite rolled her eyes in exasperation. Would she have to avoid that strange man the whole time they were in England, in addition to all her other duties? It was sure to be a most challenging few weeks indeed.
Chapter Two
The sea was calm at last, after cold storms that had lengthened what should have been a short voyage into one that seemed endless. Today, though, the sun struggled to break through the thick banks of grey clouds, casting a strange amber glow over the sky, over the choppy, pearly waves. The air was chilly, humid, smelling of rain, but blessedly none yet fell. Hopefully it would hold off until they made landfall.
Nicolai Ostrovsky leaned his elbows on the ship’s railing, staring out over the vast water. Soon they would land at Dover, and have to make good time if they were to arrive at Greenwich before the French. It would be a hard push, with women and servants and baggage, yet it had to be done.
Nicolai laughed at his own foolishness for setting out on this task in the first place. It was folly indeed to travel across the continent, when wise people were tucked up by their firesides to wait for spring! Friendship got him into trouble wherever he went.
He reached inside his quilted russet doublet and drew out the letter from his friend Marc Velazquez, which had arrived most inopportunely when Nicolai had just settled down for a peaceful winter of wine and beautiful women in a small town in the Italian Alps. He had just finished an onerous task, one that nearly cost him his life—again. Surely he deserved a few months of ease and pleasure!
Then the messenger knocked on his door, that door he thought so well hidden from the outside world.
“I cannot trust anyone but you, my friend, with such a task,” the letter read, the black ink words now stained and mottled with salt sea spray. “My mother has recently left her retirement at the Convent of St Theresa and remarried. Her husband, the Duke de Bernaldez, has been sent to join a mission to England with the new ambassador Diego de Mendoza, who is his kinsman. Their errand is very delicate, as the French are trying to negotiate a new treaty with King Henry, and they must be defeated at all costs—according to my new stepfather.
“My mother insists on joining him in England, and I worry greatly about how she will fare there. She is so very gentle, and her years in the convent since my father died have not prepared her for a royal Court. I must beg that you accompany her, and look to her welfare, as I must stay close to Venice at this time. Julietta will give birth to our first child any day now.
“My friend, I know this is a great deal to ask, but I trust no one as I do you. I will be deeply in your debt, even more so than I already am.”
Nicolai refolded the letter, staring again at the cold, grey expanse of sea. How could he refuse? The claims of friendship and the protection of a gentle lady were his two greatest weaknesses. So, he had written back to Marc, stating that he expected this new baby to be named Nicholas if a boy, Nicola if a girl, and set out to meet Dona Elena Maria Velazquez, the new Duchess de Bernaldez.
And he found that his friend quite underestimated his mother. Yes, she was sweet and lovely, but the convent had not softened her core of iron. Her current mission was to see Nicolai wed to one of her ladies by the end of their time in England, and she was most determined. His protests that he led an aimless, mercenary life, most unsuited to fine ladies, made not a whit of difference.
“A good wife would settle you, Nicolai, make a home for you, as Julietta has for my son,” she said. “Do you not desire a family?”
Fortunately, he was saved from her matchmaking by a round of seasickness that overcame Dona Elena and many of her ladies. He did not have time to fend her off and plan for their troubled mission in England!
Ostensibly, he was meant to be a sort of Master of the Revels to the Spanish party, devising entertainments to impress the English Court and the French, to show off Spanish wealth, piety and strength in the face of all their challenges. His years as a travelling player and acrobat would stand him in good stead in such a task, and in his less obvious assignments as well. Not only was he to protect Dona Elena and her new husband, he was to keep an eye out for the interests of the Tsar of Russia. Tsar Vasily III had seen much success in his new trading schemes with the East, and now thought to expand westward as well.
Tricky, indeed, to balance France, Spain, England, Venice, Russia on an acrobat’s tightrope. And a far cry from the pleasurable winter he had once envisioned! But it was blood-stirring, as well. Masqueing was his life’s work, and there was none better at it than he was. This English meeting was a challenge greater than any he had faced in a long time, and he was ready for it. And, if he had his way, it would be his last dangerous mission, as well.
Nicolai reached for the sheath at his waist and drew out a dagger, balancing it on his gloved palm. The emerald in the hilt gleamed in the pale light, glinting with a silent threat—a promise—that had yet to be answered.
He tossed it lightly into the air, catching it so he could see the tiny lily etched into the finely honed steel. He carried the dagger everywhere, a reminder that once he had met the notorious Emerald Lily, the shadowy French assassin feared throughout Europe. Met her—and bested her, though more by luck than any great skill on his part.
He never spoke of that strange night in a Venetian brothel to anyone, not even Marc and Julietta. For one thing, except for this dagger, he could not be sure it was not a dream. For another, he could never convey the power those eyes, as green as this emerald, held over him, from the first moment he glimpsed them through the smoke and haze of that whorehouse’s common room.
She was beautiful, truly, like an angel or a fairy with that silvery hair, yet her allure that night was far more than mere loveliness. A thousand women possessed that. It was those eyes. So hard, so cold, yet with a spark underneath that could not be extinguished.
It was foolish of him to leave her alive, to show a mercy that was so unlike him, and that she would never have shown him. The Emerald Lily was rumoured to be ruthless, and she would not take well to being made a fool of. She would come after him again one day, probably when he least expected it.
Perhaps that was what made him leave her there, trussed up on the rumpled bed. The knowledge—or was it hope?—that they would one day meet again. She would want her dagger back, after all.
The trouble was, another meeting would surely leave one or both of them mouldering in the grave.
Nicolai tossed the blade in the air again, catching it with a light twirl of his fingertips. Until that fateful day, he had more to worry about than beautiful, green-eyed killers.
And his chief worry was coming toward him right now.
Dona Elena appeared on deck, followed by two of her ladies who had recovered from their mal de mer. She certainly seemed the pious Spanish matron, her coffee-brown hair, only lightly streaked with silver, smoothed back beneath a pearl-edged, veiled cap, garnet-crusted cross clasped around her throat. A black cloak covered her dark red gown, shielding her from the salty wind, and her gloved hands held a gilt-edged prayer book. But her soft brown eyes were full of determination.
Her son, Marc, surely got that from her. The Velazquez family always got their own way.
“Ah, Nicolai, there you are!” she said, joining him at the rail. “The captain says we will without doubt make land today.”
Nicolai gestured toward the horizon, where towering, stark white cliffs were just peeking through the mist. “At any moment, Dona Elena.”
“Thanks be to God.” She quickly crossed herself. “This voyage has not been enjoyable.”
“It is seldom a good idea to set out in the middle of winter.”
Elena sighed. “Especially for someone as accustomed to the comforts of land as me! I know Marc would have preferred I stay at home in Madrid and wait for Carlos to return, yet he does not understand. He and his wife are always together now, but it has been a long time since I enjoyed the pleasures of marriage.” She frowned, and Nicolai knew all too well what was coming. “The comforts of a home, Nicolai, are inestimable. If you only knew the great benefits…”
By the time he had fended her off, and sent her and her ladies below decks to finish their packing, the ship had drawn closer to the rocky shore, those cliffs looming like a stark white welcome.
The rough sea voyage was ending at last, yet Nicolai feared his travails were only just beginning.
Chapter Three
Marguerite sat bundled in her cloak at the back of the barge as they made their way along the Thames, her sable-edged hood eased back so she could observe the scenery as it glided past. The English were so proud of their little river, lined with the estates of their nobles! Their escorts, a brace of Henry’s courtiers sent to guide them to Greenwich, gestured toward stone towers and brick halls, declaring them the abodes of the Carews, the Howards, the Poles.
Marguerite sniffed. If they could only see the vast, fairy-tale spires of the châteaux along the Loire! They would not be so quick with their boasts then, these swaggering English boys.
She had to admit, though, they were handsome enough. Rumour said that Henry enjoyed being surrounded by young people, full of energy and fun and high spirits, and their escorts seemed to confirm that. Tall, strong men, bright-eyed, lavishly dressed—if not as stylish as Frenchmen, of course. Quick with a jest as well as a boast, and with a keen eye for a pretty face. Each of them had already bowed before her, and she was one of the least of the French party.
Still pretending to study the river, she actually watched them from the corner of her eye, those exuberant young men. If they were full of guile and trickery, as all men were, they hid it well. There was no hint of suspicion on their handsome faces, no flicker of deception in their laughing voices.
Her task here was either going to be easier than she expected, or far harder.
“Have you even been to England before, Mademoiselle Dumas?”
She turned to see that one of the English courtiers, the raven-haired Roger Tilney, had sat down beside her on the narrow bench.
She smiled at him. “Never. I have been to Italy, but not your England. It is fascinating.”
“Wait until we arrive at Greenwich, mademoiselle. The king has prepared a great surprise there, and there will be many entertainments every day from dawn until midnight.”
Marguerite laughed. “Many entertainments? And here I thought you men had most important business to see to!”
“One cannot work all the time, especially with such welcome distractions in sight.”
He leaned closer, and she found Englishmen did not smell like the French, either. His cologne was spicy rather than flowery, overlaying the crisp cold of the day, the scent of wool and leather.
Hmm. Surely this Master Tilney was correct—one could not work all the time.
Yet that was exactly what she had to do. Work all the time. For it was in the instant she let her guard down that all went awry. The Russian had taught her that.
“I do love to dance,” she said. “Will there be time for such frivolous pastimes?”
Tilney laughed, and she felt the swift, warm press of his hand on her arm through her thick cloak. “Dancing is one of King Henry’s greatest delights.”
“I am glad to hear it. A Court that does not dance or make merry music could be called…”
“Spanish, mayhap?”
They chuckled together at the naughty little dig. As Marguerite pressed her hand to her lips to hide her giggles, she noticed Father Pierre watching her, a frown on his pale, thin face.
She turned resolutely away from him, determined that his stares would not distract her today.
“I do hear that the Spanish care little for such worldly pursuits,” she murmured. “But is your own queen not Spanish? What does she think of dancing?”
Tilney shrugged. “Queen Katherine is usually of good cheer. She is most indulgent, and famous for her serene smile and even temper. She may no longer dance herself, but she is a gracious hostess.” “Usually?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he smiled, and gestured to the bank of the river. “See there, mademoiselle. Your first glimpse of the palace of Greenwich.”
Marguerite leaned to the side, watching closely as the barge slowed on its approach. Greenwich was not pale and graceful, as François’s plans for Fontainebleau were. It obviously did not intend to convey a deceptive delicacy. It was long and low, and pretended to nothing but what it was—a strong palace, a home yet also the receptacle of power.
The pitched roof was as grey as the sky above, blending with the wispy smoke that curled from its many chimneys, but the walls were faced in red brick in the old Burgundian style.
There was no moat or fortifications; that would have been too old-fashioned even for the English. Instead, narrow windows, glinting like a thousand watchful eyes, stared out over the river.
“It is very pretty,” she said. “A fit setting for revels, I would say.”
“It is built around three courtyards,” Tilney said. “Perfect for games of bowls. And there are tennis courts and tiltyards.”
Marguerite laughed. “It does sound a merry place. Dancing, bowls, tennis…”
“Ah, mademoiselle, I fear you will think us nothing but frivolous! Look you there, the Church of the Observant Friars of St Francis. The queen is their patron, and they are always there to remind us of a higher purpose.”
“And to immediately take your confession when needed?”
“That, too.” Tilney was summoned to join the English courtiers as the barge docked, and Marguerite went to see if Claudine, the Comtesse de Calonne, required her assistance. The young comtesse was enceinte, and the voyage was not a comfortable one for her. She bore it all well enough, her face so pale that her golden freckles stood out in stark relief, but she spent most of her time with eyes tightly shut, listening to one of her ladies read poetry aloud while another massaged her temples with lavender oil. She did not often need—or want—Marguerite’s assistance.
The rumours of her handsome husband’s many infidelities could not help her temper, either. The comte and comtesse were cousins, married very young, but it was said Claudine cared more for her husband than he did for her.
“We have arrived, madame la Comtesse,” Marguerite said, kneeling beside Claudine to help her gather her gloves and smooth her cloak and headdress. “Soon you will be tucked up in your own feather bed, with a warm fire and a cup of spiced wine.”
Claudine smiled tightly. “Or more likely pressed into a cold room with ten other people and only ale to drink! These English—pah. They do not understand true hospitality.”
“Then we must teach them, madame!” Marguerite nodded to one of Claudine’s maids, and between them they helped her to her feet so she could join her husband in disembarking. “We will set a fine French example.”
“At least they sent a cardinal to greet us,” Claudine said, gesturing to the man in scarlet who awaited them, surrounded by so many attendants in black he seemed enmeshed in a flock of crows. “Not some mere clerk.”
“I am sure King Henry has a better sense of protocol than all that,” Marguerite replied, examining the man. It had to be Wolsey himself—the dangerous, all-powerful Wolsey—for he had the wide girth and long, bumpy nose of his portraits.
She had heard tell that the great Cardinal, Archbishop of York, the one man Henry relied on above all others, wore a hair shirt beneath his opulent scarlet velvets and satins. And Marguerite could well believe it, to judge by his pinched, grey face. He did not look like a well man. Still, she would not like to cross swords with him. It was fortunate he promoted the French treaty so assiduously.
Marguerite fell into step behind Claudine as they all left the barge and the play commenced at last.
Claudine’s fears proved to be unfounded, for she was given an apartment to herself, albeit a rather small one almost beneath the eaves of the palace. Marguerite had an even tinier room tucked behind, a closet with scarcely space for a bed and clothes chest, and one tiny window set high in the wall. But the insignificant space was perfect for her needs—private, quiet, and, as the page told her, near a hidden staircase that led to the jakes and then out to the gardens.
Ideal for secret errands.
Left to her own devices while Claudine rested before the evening’s festivities, Marguerite set about unpacking her travelling cases. All the velvet gowns and silk sleeves, the quilted satin petticoats and jewelled headdresses, were shaken, smoothed and tucked with lavender into the chest. The high-heeled brocade shoes and embroidered stockings, her small jewel case and fitted box of toilette items, were arrayed on top.
Once the case was emptied of its fine, feminine cargo, Marguerite lifted out the false bottom. There, carefully swathed in cotton batting, were her daggers and her sword.
The blades were made to her own specifications in the king’s own forge, smaller and lighter to fit her size and strength, perfectly balanced, delicate as a dancer, strong as marble.
Holding her sword outstretched, she took up a fighting stance and thrust once, twice at the air. The steel sang in the cold breeze, a quick, fatal whine, then perfect silence. It was truly a thing of beauty.
Smiling, she tucked it safely away, where it could rest until needed. She took up one of the daggers, a thin blade that appeared almost as dainty, and useless, as a lady’s eating knife. But it was designed to slip quickly, neatly, between a man’s ribs, leaving only a fatal drop of blood behind.
The hilt was set with tiny rubies, winking in the hazy light like serpent’s eyes. For a moment, she remembered her old blade, her favourite, with its rare emerald.
