A Sinful Alliance. Amanda McCabe
Читать онлайн книгу.
Mademoiselle Dumas?”
She turned to see that one of the English courtiers, the raven-haired Roger Tilney, had sat down beside her on the narrow bench.
She smiled at him. “Never. I have been to Italy, but not your England. It is fascinating.”
“Wait until we arrive at Greenwich, mademoiselle. The king has prepared a great surprise there, and there will be many entertainments every day from dawn until midnight.”
Marguerite laughed. “Many entertainments? And here I thought you men had most important business to see to!”
“One cannot work all the time, especially with such welcome distractions in sight.”
He leaned closer, and she found Englishmen did not smell like the French, either. His cologne was spicy rather than flowery, overlaying the crisp cold of the day, the scent of wool and leather.
Hmm. Surely this Master Tilney was correct—one could not work all the time.
Yet that was exactly what she had to do. Work all the time. For it was in the instant she let her guard down that all went awry. The Russian had taught her that.
“I do love to dance,” she said. “Will there be time for such frivolous pastimes?”
Tilney laughed, and she felt the swift, warm press of his hand on her arm through her thick cloak. “Dancing is one of King Henry’s greatest delights.”
“I am glad to hear it. A Court that does not dance or make merry music could be called…”
“Spanish, mayhap?”
They chuckled together at the naughty little dig. As Marguerite pressed her hand to her lips to hide her giggles, she noticed Father Pierre watching her, a frown on his pale, thin face.
She turned resolutely away from him, determined that his stares would not distract her today.
“I do hear that the Spanish care little for such worldly pursuits,” she murmured. “But is your own queen not Spanish? What does she think of dancing?”
Tilney shrugged. “Queen Katherine is usually of good cheer. She is most indulgent, and famous for her serene smile and even temper. She may no longer dance herself, but she is a gracious hostess.” “Usually?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he smiled, and gestured to the bank of the river. “See there, mademoiselle. Your first glimpse of the palace of Greenwich.”
Marguerite leaned to the side, watching closely as the barge slowed on its approach. Greenwich was not pale and graceful, as François’s plans for Fontainebleau were. It obviously did not intend to convey a deceptive delicacy. It was long and low, and pretended to nothing but what it was—a strong palace, a home yet also the receptacle of power.
The pitched roof was as grey as the sky above, blending with the wispy smoke that curled from its many chimneys, but the walls were faced in red brick in the old Burgundian style.
There was no moat or fortifications; that would have been too old-fashioned even for the English. Instead, narrow windows, glinting like a thousand watchful eyes, stared out over the river.
“It is very pretty,” she said. “A fit setting for revels, I would say.”
“It is built around three courtyards,” Tilney said. “Perfect for games of bowls. And there are tennis courts and tiltyards.”
Marguerite laughed. “It does sound a merry place. Dancing, bowls, tennis…”
“Ah, mademoiselle, I fear you will think us nothing but frivolous! Look you there, the Church of the Observant Friars of St Francis. The queen is their patron, and they are always there to remind us of a higher purpose.”
“And to immediately take your confession when needed?”
“That, too.” Tilney was summoned to join the English courtiers as the barge docked, and Marguerite went to see if Claudine, the Comtesse de Calonne, required her assistance. The young comtesse was enceinte, and the voyage was not a comfortable one for her. She bore it all well enough, her face so pale that her golden freckles stood out in stark relief, but she spent most of her time with eyes tightly shut, listening to one of her ladies read poetry aloud while another massaged her temples with lavender oil. She did not often need—or want—Marguerite’s assistance.
The rumours of her handsome husband’s many infidelities could not help her temper, either. The comte and comtesse were cousins, married very young, but it was said Claudine cared more for her husband than he did for her.
“We have arrived, madame la Comtesse,” Marguerite said, kneeling beside Claudine to help her gather her gloves and smooth her cloak and headdress. “Soon you will be tucked up in your own feather bed, with a warm fire and a cup of spiced wine.”
Claudine smiled tightly. “Or more likely pressed into a cold room with ten other people and only ale to drink! These English—pah. They do not understand true hospitality.”
“Then we must teach them, madame!” Marguerite nodded to one of Claudine’s maids, and between them they helped her to her feet so she could join her husband in disembarking. “We will set a fine French example.”
“At least they sent a cardinal to greet us,” Claudine said, gesturing to the man in scarlet who awaited them, surrounded by so many attendants in black he seemed enmeshed in a flock of crows. “Not some mere clerk.”
“I am sure King Henry has a better sense of protocol than all that,” Marguerite replied, examining the man. It had to be Wolsey himself—the dangerous, all-powerful Wolsey—for he had the wide girth and long, bumpy nose of his portraits.
She had heard tell that the great Cardinal, Archbishop of York, the one man Henry relied on above all others, wore a hair shirt beneath his opulent scarlet velvets and satins. And Marguerite could well believe it, to judge by his pinched, grey face. He did not look like a well man. Still, she would not like to cross swords with him. It was fortunate he promoted the French treaty so assiduously.
Marguerite fell into step behind Claudine as they all left the barge and the play commenced at last.
Claudine’s fears proved to be unfounded, for she was given an apartment to herself, albeit a rather small one almost beneath the eaves of the palace. Marguerite had an even tinier room tucked behind, a closet with scarcely space for a bed and clothes chest, and one tiny window set high in the wall. But the insignificant space was perfect for her needs—private, quiet, and, as the page told her, near a hidden staircase that led to the jakes and then out to the gardens.
Ideal for secret errands.
Left to her own devices while Claudine rested before the evening’s festivities, Marguerite set about unpacking her travelling cases. All the velvet gowns and silk sleeves, the quilted satin petticoats and jewelled headdresses, were shaken, smoothed and tucked with lavender into the chest. The high-heeled brocade shoes and embroidered stockings, her small jewel case and fitted box of toilette items, were arrayed on top.
Once the case was emptied of its fine, feminine cargo, Marguerite lifted out the false bottom. There, carefully swathed in cotton batting, were her daggers and her sword.
The blades were made to her own specifications in the king’s own forge, smaller and lighter to fit her size and strength, perfectly balanced, delicate as a dancer, strong as marble.
Holding her sword outstretched, she took up a fighting stance and thrust once, twice at the air. The steel sang in the cold breeze, a quick, fatal whine, then perfect silence. It was truly a thing of beauty.
Smiling, she tucked it safely away, where it could rest until needed. She took up one of the daggers, a thin blade that appeared almost as dainty, and useless, as a lady’s eating knife. But it was designed to slip quickly, neatly, between a man’s ribs, leaving only a fatal drop of blood behind.
The