Royal Blood. Rona SharonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I thank Your Grace.” Walter sauntered in, his muscles taut with exuberance over what he was about to relay. After squiring Lieutenant Armado Baglioni of Princess Renée’s bodyguard in the Southwark stews all night, he returned to his chambers, washed off the stank of whores, stale ale, and contact with rank persons, dressed, and hurried to report. Awake since yesterday, he felt more alive than he had in a long time. “I have tidings Your Grace will find interesting, I trow.”
“Sit with us.” The duke indicated the X chair facing the cushioned settle before the fireplace.
“Your Grace, although I have yet to fathom the great secret concealed behind the evidence I have uncovered, I believe I have touched upon a vein in Cardinal Wolsey’s schemes.”
The ancient duke’s left eye twitched—a good sign. “Go on.”
Walter described how he had approached the officer in charge of safeguarding the princess and lured him to a night of revelry in the stews, how he had poured ale down Armado’s gorge and encouraged him to lose money playing with false dice, and how he had returned him safe and sound to the palace. “He wears a pendant round his neck,” he went on with barely contained glee. “A gold cross over black, with a Latin motto that says ‘Soldiers in Service of God.’”
“Same as the insignia of Cardinal Campeggio’s bodyguard,” remarked Surrey.
“Precisely!” Walter exclaimed. “Very peculiar, methinks. The princess’s guards are liveried in the blue colors of France with the golden fleur-de-lis. Also peculiar, as one would expect her bodyguard to display the field of ermine over white, the badge of the duchy of Brittany.”
“This is perfectly understandable, considering she is come on a peace mission. Her embassy, headed by the French ambassador, the Marquis of Rougé, represents France.”
“Why the gold cross over black, then? Soldiers of God, a secret papal army none has heard of arrives with an Italian cardinal calling for a crusade while at the same time a French princess on a dubious peace mission is bucklered by the same army, only in disguise.”
“I wonder if Rougé knows aught about it,” murmured the duke.
“We must determine how Wolsey fits into this fretwork of spies,” Surrey told his sire.
“Shall I continue entertaining the dice-happy lieutenant?” Walter asked. He felt ebullient. Here he was, conspiring with the powerful Howards, sharing confidences.
“Bring me his pendant,” the duke ordered. He stared at his son.
Surrey rose. “I am to hunt with the king this morning. Join me, Sir Walter.”
Walter leaped to his feet. Hunting with the king! “Thank you, my lord. Your Grace.”
7
For I felt myself drawn from my own image
And into a solitary wandering stag
From wood to wood quickly I am transformed
And still I flee the belling of my hounds.
—Petrarch: Poem XXIII
King Henry’s hunting party, led by a pack of boisterous hounds, galloped across sprawling hills of green and through woods of beech in a triumph of bursting virility and equine muscle. The hunt had begun at daybreak, before the king rose. The Greenwich Park huntsmen had chosen a specific deer and positioned themselves with teams of dogs in a few strategic places around the hunting area. When the king’s party arrived, the hart was roused and the chase began.
Horns blared ahead, informing the main hunting party of the progress of the deer. Glowing with the exuberance of the sport, King Henry brought his party to a standstill at the top of a knoll overlooking the lush hunting ground and shielded his eyes against the gray-white morning sun.
Michael, sluggish and brain-numb, drew rein alongside Stanley. The hounds, fresh and alert after a good night’s sleep in the royal kennels, surrounded him thereupon, barking alarum like sergeants-at-arms berating a slothful straggler, drooling rosaries, and affrighting the horses.
The king, the archers of the royal bodyguard, and the noble huntsmen drew back to calm their jittery coursers. Michael flushed to the roots of his hair. He was isolated by the snarling dogs and the hound-boys striving to gentle them, aware of the derogatory glowers lobbed his way. Mortified, he brandished his hand swiftly like a sword over the hostile bloodhounds. “Sede!”
Astonishingly the fearsome dogs slumped on their haunches, yapping like penitent puppies, heads bowed meekly. Mentally wiping his brow, Michael nodded at the awestruck king and his men and stirred Archangel to Stanley’s side, as a boy seeking refuge in his mum’s kirtle.
“Well done, runt!” Stanley laughed heartily. “Next you shall teach the monstrous beasts how to tumble, dance, and balance cups on their brown noses. Ho there, my minion.” He soothed his agitated horse as it shied away from Michael. “You do not care for hulking Irish trolls, do you? They have a penchant for inhabiting foul underground places, under bridges, under the palace…”
“Ha-ha. How did you know where to find me? I have yet to understand the geography of the depressing burrows, myself.”
“I asked.” Stanley kept soothing his restless mount. “Herne is a splendid hunter. Harry sits his brother, Hermes. The surest way to please our king is to give him a fine courser.” Or falcons, Michael added silently. Stanley smiled at him. “So…did you lose a wager or something?”
“No,” Michael growled; he was tired, irritable, and in no mood to be gulled.
Stanley could not help himself. “Then how come you are sleeping with the rodents?”
“Forsooth, I got it already. I should have bribed the confounded usher for better lodging. But how the deuce was I supposed to know the man was peddling when he insisted the best quarters have all been snatched by the early arrivance?”
“Hmm.” Stanley scratched his beard gravely. “The bones to the latecomer, eh? I reckon His Grace of Suffolk who arrived early this morn with his wife the Lady Mary, our king’s lady sister and the Dowager Queen of France, will be bedded down with the horses tonight.” A grin broke out on his face. “Aw, do not give me that look! I shall burst into tears. Speaking to you this morn is like bearbaiting.”
“So don’t bait.” Michael, his sleep-deprived brain lagging behind the conversation, recalled the illuminating advice dispensed to him last night, courtesy of Princess Renée de Valois. “Yes, well, I’m seeing Earl Worcester, one of the White Sticks, later today to discuss this business of my lodging. By dusk, I will have relocated to a softer, more salubrious bed, be at rest as to that.”
“Ho-hoa! The youngling learns! Methinks a clever bird has been singing in your ear. Which one? The robin redbreast or the lily bluebird?”
“Bluebird.” Blue-blooded, blue-eyed, blue-blazoned. She was never speaking to him again. She had wanted to dance with him, protect him, give him the kiss of peace, and he had spurned her—to be a plaguey hero! So he had frustrated the plot, confiscated the duke’s dagger, but there were no laurels for this victor. None knew of his triumph, except Princess Renée. Blockhead.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
“Not why, at whom, myself. I am daft.”
“Oh no.” Stanley scowled. “I would not slobber after her, runt. Waste of time, bad business. Her king won’t thank you. Nor will ours. She is a pretty painting to be admired from afar.”
Michael felt something akin to unfledged contrariness well up in him. He felt querulous. He wanted to inform Stanley, growlingly, that he didn’t give a toss who had sired her, that her being predestined to be sold at market like a broodmare to the highest bidding prince did not mean the lady knew not her mind and had no say in her choice of companions. She liked him. She was drawn to him. He knew it. He had sensed it the night before when he kissed