A Sinful Alliance. Amanda McCabe
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words were brief. The king’s kinsman, the Comte de Calonne, was to be part of the delegation, along with his wife Claudine. Marguerite was ostensibly to serve as companion to Claudine, to accompany her when she called on Queen Katherine and attended banquets and tournaments.
But Marguerite knew well what was not written there. At those banquets, she was to flirt with the English courtiers when they were in their cups, draw secrets from them they were not even aware they were sharing. To watch the queen and the Spanish ambassador. To watch King Henry, and make sure the notoriously changeable monarch did not waver. To watch this Anne Boleyn, see if she had real influence, if she could be turned to the French cause.
And, if anyone stood in France’s path, she was to remove them. Quickly and neatly.
It was surely the most important task she had ever received, a test of all her skills. The culmination of all she had learned. If she did well, if the treaty was safely signed and the betrothal of Princess Mary and the Duc d’Orléans sealed, she would be handsomely rewarded. Perhaps she would even be given leave to travel, to seek out the one man who had ever defeated her and thus finally have her revenge.
The Russian. Nicolai Ostrovsky.
The soft crackle of a footstep on the pathway behind her startled her, and she spun around, her knees bending and hands forward in a defensive position.
It was Pierre LeBeque, a young priest in the employ of Bishop Grammont. His eyes narrowed when she turned on him, and he fell back a step, watching her warily.
Marguerite dropped her hands to her sides, but still stood poised to dash away if need be. She did not often see Father Pierre, for he was usually scurrying about the Court on errands for the bishop, but when she did encounter him she didn’t care for the sensations he evoked. That prickling feeling at the back of her neck that so often warned her of “danger.”
What danger a solemn young priest, tall but as thin as a blade of grass, could hold she was not sure. He seemed to bear nothing but dutiful piety on his bony shoulders. Yet he always watched her so closely, and not as others did, in admiration and awe of her beauty—it was as if he was trying to see all her secrets.
And she well knew how often appearances were deceiving.
“Father Pierre,” she said calmly, drawing her borrowed cloak closer around her. “What brings you out on such a chilly day?”
He did not smile, just stared solemnly. His face, white as the frost, was set in stony lines too old for his youthful years. “I am carrying a message to the king from Bishop Grammont, mademoiselle.”
“Indeed? Such industrious loyalty you possess, coming out on such a day, when everyone else is tucked up by their fires.”
“You are not,” he pointed out.
“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