Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Stanley clammed up, refusing to say more.
“Or a what?” Michael dogged, inordinately curious. “A jade?”
“Aw, who needs the poxed French when England bestows us with flirt-gills to spare?”
Renée de Valois did not look poxed. Still, Michael’s mind was not on flirting. His crackpot plan to cozen up to Ned and get him pickled before midnight was unfeasible, ludicrous, and very dangerous, insomuch that it might turn the most puissant duke of the realm into a mortal enemy. He needed a new plan to obstruct the assassination plot, but his mind drew a blank. Two women, a former royal mistress and a French princess with murky concerns, and a formidable duke with an eye on the throne—what to do? As he chewed the cud of that, he wondered if he were mad to wade into this quagmire, but was he not already up to his neck in it? The little spy had seen him.
Their Majesties took their state at the great salt, then the prominent lords and ladies in their train. Obligingly, Stanley ran his memory along the faces filing onto the dais, as a pious widow going over her rosary beads, throwing in morsels and tidbits of gossip to spice up the litany.
King Henry, on his feet behind the middle of the high table, above the salt, his face visible to the whole view of the chamber, smiled broadly and raised his goblet, commanding silence. “Our noble friends! We welcome you to our annual meeting of our Most Noble Order of the Garter!”
A great cheer went up.
“In honor of St. George, the patron saint of England and of our Most Noble Order, we shall feast, joust, dance, and disport ourselves abundantly! We shall hunt and rejoice and make merry! But tonight”—he paused for effect—“we shall be even merrier!” Beaming at his enthusiastic audience, the king exclaimed, “Let us drink to St. George!”
Everyone hoisted sloshing goblets high in the air. “St. George!” And a deep draught later, a second toast ensued, everyone shouting, “The king!”
6
He that is warned afore is noght bygiled.
—J. Arderne: Treatises of Fistula
The bells rang the new hour in. Queen Katherine, having performed her duty as hostess, rose gracefully, bade the assemblage a blessed night, and retired with her Spanish ladies. In her wake, space was cleared for dancing, the musicians struck up a passamezzo, and bowls brimming with coins, cards, and dice were brought to the tables for those more inclined toward gambling.
An hour to midnight, Renée fidgeted. No word from Rougé. Mayhap she had pushed him too far, or he was unsuccessful in securing her audience with the Cardinal of York. She was not used to having to rely on other people in her little schemes—and she hated it!—and this was not some petty ploy to help her sire destroy dispatches from a Spanish spial guised as an ambassador or glean gossip from the King of Naples’s mistress or steal the battle notes of the Great Captain Gonzalo de Córdoba or counterfeit the seal of the Lord Bishop of Tournai or any of the trifling assignments she had carried out for the Father of the People of France. The King of England was about to be assassinated—and she had to steal the Lord Chancellor of England’s talisman.
How would she accomplish that? Merciful Jesu, protect me, Holy Lady, precipitate my cause. She murmured a few Aves, kneading the rosary beads stashed in her purse.
As the candles guttered and the shadows lengthened, she grew exceedingly anxious. If only her friend the Lady Mary were here to cheer her, distract her, squeeze her hand…Unfortunately His Grace of Suffolk had sent word that his best horse had thrown a shoe and that he and his new wife would be spending the night in the city and would arrive on the morrow. And where was the dratted Rougé? Relocating himself to Norfolk’s demesne on the Strand? Hateful cretin. She had bested him today, a fact the marquis was unlikely to forgive or forget. If—Jesu forefend!—she failed in her mission, or if King Francis and Cardinal Medici grew tired of waiting for their prize, they would unleash their malcontent raptor on her, and then may God have mercy on her soul!
With the candles burning low, the hour felt ripe for cavorting, the forthcoming great romp creating a lascivious anticipatory ambiance. King Henry’s decorous court was transforming into the rowdy brothel Buckingham had disparaged. The English, Renée mused, were worse than the unblushing French who made a national sport of indulging in carnal love. King Francis was wont to send for several women at a time and oftentimes invite his male companions to partake of the dalliance. The French were captivated by all things beautiful. Love was so esteemed among them that girls became the erotic fancies of noblewomen and boys of noblemen. Promiscuity was rife, but they depleted themselves privily and did not burst at the seams with distasteful ribaldry as the English did. Here riot and rumpus reigned. Like naughty children, they drank too much, groped, and importuned. The ladies kissed men, allowed themselves to be indecently mauled, roared with laughter, told lewd jests, diced and cussed like stable hands, frolicked boisterously, and taunted the men to catch them as they danced and gamboled around the softly lit chamber.
Renée, disgusted with the activity, broke her abstemious regime and reached for her full cup of hippocras. The warm, sweetly spiced wine soothed her high-strung nerves and aching wits.
A coterie of the queen’s lingering gaggle, maids of honor, dropped on the bench beside her. They were agog about the novelty Sir William Cornish, the chief adviser of court entertainments, devised, a thing not seen in England afore. “Disguised after the manner of Italy!” tweeted Lady Dacre.
“Appareled in garments of silk with gold, with visors and caps of gold,” peeped Lady Percy.
“The gentlemen will bear torches and will issue a warlike proclamation….”
“We shall make a stand, and then the victors will desire the defeated to dance….”
“I know the fashion of it,” muttered some matron. “It is a thing most unseemly.”
Renée’s gaze slid yet again to the far corner of the chamber and locked with the turquoise eyes that had been watching her all evening. The fair stranger’s identity remained a mystery, but the edge of the table seat was a testament unto itself. He was a nobody.
He smiled at her, as if saying: Whether you like it or not, you and I are secret partners now, silent coconspirators, custodians of a great secret.
“Who is that man staring at you?”
Renée found Lady Anne Hastings—whom she had taken pains to befriend this afternoon—at her elbow, her breath sour, her eyes overly bright, her bounteous cleavage bereft of tuckers. Renée could not fault her for overindulging. Were she in Anne’s tight shoes, ordered to lure the King of England to his death, she would be drinking herself into a stupor.
Anne leaned her heavy bosom into Renée’s shoulder, her eyes to the front. “He stares at us. Should we put on a spectacle for his benefit? I daresay he should be able to handle the two of us together, a golden-maned stallion like that. Come, let us walk arm in arm, see if he follows.” Taking her arm, Anne squired Renée around the room. “Oh, look. Our admirer comes our way.”
Renée was unsure whose admirer he was, if at all, and, as she had not yet fathomed him, it was imperative to keep him away from Anne. She steered her cloying companion in the direction of the most hectic gaming table. Anne needed to renew her acquaintance with King Henry for Buckingham’s plot to succeed.
“He is stalking us, methinks,” Anne updated excitedly. “Such a fine specimen of virility.”
“He is pleasant to look at, I suppose,” Renée acceded without looking at the man.
“Pleasant! Show me a woman who will say nay to a little dalliance with that and I will show you a ninny. Would you say he is as tall as our king?”
Renée cut her eyes to him fleetingly. “Taller.” She instantly regretted her answer; Anne did not need encouragements in that direction tonight. “Mayhap not, definitely not as hefty.” It was the truth. King Henry’s fondness for feasting was manifesting, whereas the golden stranger was a towering artwork of brawn…. Holy Anne!