Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
returned with the items Renée had requested. She offered the sergeant a cup of wine, dropped clean strips of linen on the little table beside him, and set a kettle of water on the trivet in the fire. With another harrumph directed at the soldier, she cleaned Renée’s blood-smeared silver dirk and returned it to her mistress. “His blood will ruin your gown. I will bandage him.”
“Thank you, Adele.” Renée got up and moved to sit on the settle by the sergeant.
“We must speak in confidence,” he said, eying Adele with misgiving.
“Bah!” said Adele.
Renée smiled. Since the fiasco in France, her old nurse refused to leave her mistress alone in the company of men. “Whatever you wish to discuss, Sergeant, you may do so in front of Adele.”
“As you wish, madame.” He saw her slide the thin silver dirk back inside her sleeve. “It is a clever little blade, easily concealed and wielded, as you have demonstrated. Ouch!” He flinched when Adele ripped open his hose and dabbed a wad of linen soaked in green ointment at the cut.
“The watercress will purify the proud flesh,” Adele muttered in Breton.
Renée translated the phrase to the sergeant. “Madame,” he said tentatively. “We are here to serve, protect, and abet you. We are bound by a sacred oath to accomplish this mission. It is our duty as well as a privilege. I understand my Lord Cardinal explained about our specialty.”
“Yes, Cardinal Medici told me all about you. You are deletoris.”
He nodded. “Perhaps Lieutenant Armado wanted to make a point tonight, with the exercise.”
“What point might that be, that you can make sport of me in the middle of night, Sergeant?”
“No, madame. The point is that we are yours. We belong to you. We do what you say. We are your loyal bloodhounds. You give an order, and we jump. No questions, only obedience.”
Renée gave an unnerved laugh. How slavish he sounded. Her thought must have showed, for he said, “We are well trained and educated. We hail from good families in Italy. We take pride in our office. We are soldiers in service of God. Employ us. That is what we are here for.”
Not common men-at-arms. She took a life-threatening gamble. “Cardinal Campeggio is in London. Did you know? Rougé informs me the good cardinal is calling for a crusade.”
“No, madame. He safeguards the Ancient. Although he was the one who convinced the pope to appoint Wolsey papal legate, Campeggio does not trust his ambitious English colleague and remains in London to keep an eye on him at York Place, Cardinal Wolsey’s palace upriver. He rarely comes to court and always travels with his deletoris.”
Jesu mercy, she was a fool! What had she thought to accomplish by abetting Buckingham tonight? Supposing he had killed the king, what would she have done? Hailed a barge to York Place in the dead of night? Infiltrated the Lord Chancellor of England’s bulwarked palace? Rummaged around for the Ancient? Thank God the plan had failed. Now that she thought upon it, Anne had done her a good service. She burned with curiosity to know what had transpired. Had Buckingham slain the wrong man? Forewarned is forearmed, Michael Devereaux had whispered.
He was not dead. Somehow he had thwarted the duke. He might not be well informed in the ways of the world, but he was clever. He had played into Anne’s trap with all the innocence of a lamb, knowing precisely what he was about. He would not have let Anne lure out anyone else.
Now she must pray His Grace of Buckinghamshire would try again—and she would be ready next time. “Why do you serve Medici instead of Campeggio?”
“A long-standing political feud between Lieutenant Armado and Captain Luzio in charge of Campeggio’s deletoris. We broke from them. We serve the next pope, madame. We serve you.”
She decided to trust him. “Sergeant, send your best man to masquerade as a servant at York Place. We need to know the precise whereabouts of the Ancient. Is it interred in the undercroft? Is it locked away in the treasury chamber? Is it under the cardinal’s bed? Under his hat?”
“Yes, madame!” Sergeant Francesco stood, his thigh poulticed, his expression laying bare his dedication. “I shall undertake this assignment myself and inform Lieutenant Armado.”
His gusto was infectious. “Proceed with due caution, for I imagine this Captain Luzio cannot know you are in London, and with all speed, Sergeant. The opportune moment is ripening.”
Fever hailed the dawn. His skin afire, his throat parched, his head hammering mercilessly, Michael tumbled out of Anne’s bed and grabbed his sporran. The bottle inside it was empty. He cursed in Gaelic. He had drained it before the masque. How would he make it to the undercroft?
His condition was deteriorating. Most of the time, he felt strong and invigorated, but at dawn he was nothing, a slave to the dragon’s blood….
With immense effort, he pulled on his hose, boots, shirt, and doublet, strapped on his sword belt, and with a backward glance at the naked woman passed out amid tangled linen staggered for the door. Outside in the passageway the nightwatchmen were fast asleep, some on their feet, others sprawled on steps. Feeling faint, Michael negotiated the dim palace corridors with his eyes half closed, his skin dripping sweat, his heart galloping like a stampede of wild boar.
All of a sudden his hackles rose. Someone was following him. Was it the duke? He felt too ill to defend himself but drew his sword nonetheless and investigated the shadows.
Something stirred behind him. Michael span on his heel and squinted against the first sunray piercing the lozenges. Whoever had been stalking him was gone, wafted away. He swiped a hand over his damp face, gasping for air. Was he sickly delusional or had the danger been real?
Drawing on his last drop of strength, he trudged to the undercroft, swaying against the walls, panting. He nearly tumbled down the stone steps. Most of the torches had stubbed out. Dimness reigned, yet he kept on moving, navigating by instinct, by memory. He gave a hoarse shout of relief upon sighting the door to his lair. With shaky hands, he unlocked it and pushed inside. He dropped to his knees before the iron casket. Inserting the tiny key took an eternity. Finally the lid was open. He grabbed a bottle, unstoppered it, and swilled it to the dregs. Bliss.
Michael locked the casket, shoved it aside, and fell back on the truckle bed. He managed to pull off one boot and felt the brew’s potent kick lull him to sleep….
The door banged open against the wall, and a jovial voice exclaimed, “Rise and shine!”
Oh no. Michael groaned. He had forgotten to lock the door. “Go away…” he pleaded.
“A new day has dawned! The king would have a shot at a stag, and we go with him!”
“Methinks not…” Michael murmured, willing Stanley’s noxiously jolly voice to fade away.
“How swiftly is duty forsaken when Hypnos and Morpheus beckon….” Without warning, a pail of ice water hit Michael’s face, shocking him into wakefulness.
Sputtering, he pulled off his second boot and flung it at Stanley. “Verily you are a fellow of wild and eccentric habits. Do you drown all your adversaries?”
The boot ricocheted back at him. “The hunt is up, the morn is bright and gay!” Stanley sang in his deep voice. “The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green! Comb your fair locks and look hearty, for there be no place for a shag-haired scruff at the king’s hunting party!”
Michael squinted at the bearded man grinning at him. “Hunting? Let it be a shooting from a standing, or better yet, dispatch me now and be done. You are no friend of mine, Stanley.”
“How misguided you are, runt. You shan’t find a better companion at court. Now up, my somnolent friend. Time to show the King of England what Irish-bred upstarts are made of.”
“I give Your Grace and Your Lordship good morrow.”