Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
him to come away and whispered, “Pray, the French ambassador standing with His Grace of Norfolk, tell him I would speak with him privily.”
“Right fast, my lady. Hmm…” He looked down, color spreading from high cheekbones to a downy chin. “Nan, my sweeting, she prized the silk scarf and consented to go walking with me.”
Smiling, Renée magicked a gold angel. “Squire Nan to a clean cookshop in the city, feed her hen pastries and mead, buy her a sugared animal and a nosegay. On the way back, you shall have a kiss, I trow.” As his arms were burdened with a chased silver platter heaped with apples, pears, damsons, cherries, plums, apricots, strawberries, and the oranges she had brought from France as a gift for Their Majesties, she slipped the coin into his sleeve with a wink. “Bonne chance!”
Robin beamed. “Thank you, my lady.” He headed toward the doors, halted, rearranged his grip, and tossed her a perfect purple plum beneath the grinning eyes of the hulking sentries.
Then she saw him—the fair stranger from the undercroft—forging through the multitudes that packed the gallery in hopes of gaining admittance to the presence. He was singularly tall, golden, and beautiful, a magnificent Nordic tangling with bronzed skin. Turquoise eyes studded strong, clean features, absorbing everything, missing nothing. His leonine mane, unfashionably long, brushed broad shoulders draped with a gold collar. His attire was sober, immaculate, and of the finest quality: snowy sleeves burst out of gilt-trimmed slashes in an inky velvet doublet with matching hose; the cut of the raiment molding a strapping, athletic frame. He stood out among the hectic brocades of the rich merchants and the somber apparels of the aldermen, guildsmen, and lawyers milling about. Instinctively she knew he was not from around here. Who was he?
He perceived her, the sudden intensity of his gaze a shock. He changed direction. Instead of heading toward the watched over entrance to the guard room, he approached her.
The Marquis of Rougé stepped between them. “You summoned me.”
“Where may we speak without interruption?” She put the plum in her purse.
“In the closet outside the chapel.” Rougé took her elbow and steered her away.
Sashaying alongside the marquis, Renée glanced past her shoulder. The stranger remained outside the guard room, watching her. With a rakish grin, he inclined his head in greeting.
They would talk, soon, she decided, with a little tremor of excitement in her belly.
Rougé squired her into an antechamber adjoining the royal chapel. Redolent of frankincense and myrrh, aglow with beeswax candles, the room was furnished with a prie-dieu, stools, ornate silver reliquaries, paned cupboards displaying chryselephantine prayer books, crucifixes, jeweled chalices, and a precious collection of sacred relics. A snap of the marquis’s fingers dismissed the priest standing by to shrive sinners. The marquis closed the door and leaned back against it.
Renée had his undivided attention. One of the reasons she had specifically begged Rougé for an escort was his fluency in Breton French, an argot few could follow. Privacy was preferable, though, for what she had to say. “Who is the second cardinal, the graybeard?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Lorenzo Cardinal Campeggio. Aught else?”
Renée scrutinized his dark eyes. A man of two score years, Pierre-François de Rougé was of medium build, raven-haired, with silver streaks at his temples, had an aristocratic beaked nose, and was considered a handsome man. He was a widower, much sought after by the ladies of their court, particularly the widows looking to net a second husband. He was a capable military leader, a rich landholder, an expert courtier, and unscrupulously driven by self-interest. He enjoyed the hunt, kept several mistresses, lived in splendor, and considered it his rightful due. Curiously, he was not loved by his kings, something that rankled with him, and although he possessed a nose for peril and a talent for survival, ambition girdled his intelligence, making him predictable and safe.
Renée knew he disliked her, distrusted her, and resented her for holding the leading rein of this expedition. He was conscripted into her service, compelled to jump at her beck and call and do her bidding without questioning her decisions. Mostly he begrudged her for being entrusted with a secret office he knew naught about. “I am no more an ambassador of peace than you are a companion to the queen,” he had told her upon their departure, an admonition she had ignored.
His looks and bearing reminded her of a raptor. Hence, she must play the falconer. Already he was blindfolded with a hood and wearing her bells, and she possessed the silk jesses to tether him to her sleeve. That was the reason she had chosen the marquis. “Tell me about him.”
“Campeggio? Nearly half a century old and more virtuous than an ugly virgin. What do you want with him? Do not tell me they sent you to seduce him.”
This was going to be a long conversation. She sighed. “Pray, answer the question.”
“There is not much to tell. He came to preach for another crusade against the Turks, hoping to stir the old flame in the young lion’s heart. A mendicant beggar, like the rest of his ilk.”
“Where does he lodge?”
“At York Place, Cardinal Wolsey’s palace in the city.”
York Place! Blessed Lady, finally she was getting somewhere!
“Eh bien, now that we are on the subject, I suppose I ought to inform you that I am moving out of the Greyhound Inn and into His Grace of Norfolk’s house on the Strand, should you have need of me…. His Grace invited me to be his houseguest, and I graciously accepted.”
You sybaritic fool. He would use you. “I need you at court. The inn is in close proximity to the palace. The Strand is a good hour away by boat, depending on the weather. We are not here to play at tennez. If you must try out Norfolk’s new court, I suggest you visit, not move in.”
Rougé gawked. “How did you know?” Little witch, he mouthed silently. He set his jaw and launched a sortie. “What need have you of me? To serve as your handmaiden? Have you been to the Greyhound? Stuffed with ink-bespotted Italian gossips who cluck and cackle about their dukes’ illustrious courts from dawn to dusk and rouse the household ten times a-night for more tapers and more wine and more food. I am sick of that place!”
“Be reasonable, Rougé. Why do you suppose all the ambassadors reside there? They wish to be at the heart of things, to hear what their colleagues may have heard that they did not. Norfolk will wine and dine you, lull you into confidences, and bleed you for promises. Do you not see his intent? He despises Wolsey and seeks to establish personal relations with King Francis.”
“Your point, madame?”
“Why alienate the Lord Chancellor of England?” Cretin. She wondered what impaired his judgment, which was usually sound. His injured pride or promises from Norfolk? “So long as we labor in our king’s business, it would be impolitic to establish close friendships with personages of this court. You would be wise to refrain from associating yourself with Wolsey’s enemies.”
He leaned forward, gripped her wrist, and jerked her up against him. “Impudent brat! Do not presume to lecture me on court politics!” His eyes fell on her modest cleavage. “Why are we in England? Whose bed are you ordered to crawl into?”
“Unhand me, monsieur,” she said flintily. “Lest you should like to be relieved of your post.”
His black eyes glinted murderously. Undaunted, she lifted a hand to the pendant suspended from a collar of gold cockleshells sprawled over his shoulders. It depicted St. Michael slaying the Serpent. “Must I remind you whose collar you are wearing, Pierre?” she inquired softly.
He put his chin on his chest to see which of his chains she laid claim to. At first he looked relieved that she had not chosen the one displaying the arms of his house, for she could argue a maternal birthright to his bequest, but when her implication hit him, his eyes narrowed into vindictive slits. The pendant clasped in her hand portrayed the illustrious Ordre de Saint-Michel, created by King Louis XI, the Spider King,