A Sinful Alliance. Amanda McCabe
Читать онлайн книгу.
emerald.
She remembered, too, how she had lost it. But one day she would get it back.
Marguerite lifted the hem of her skirt, tucking the blade into a sheath attached to her garter. She couldn’t think about him now. He had no place here. She had her errand laid out before her, and it would begin with tonight’s formal banquet to welcome their delegation. She needed to bathe and change her gown, to don her disguise of velvet and pearls.
Why, then, did it seem like the Russian followed her everywhere she went, and had for more than the last year? Those icy blue eyes…
Marguerite slammed the lid of her case and pushed it beneath the window, as if she could break his memory in two. The tiny pane of precious glass was so high she had to climb atop the case to see out. Her room looked down on one of the three courtyards Tilney had told her of, a carefully laid-out garden that slumbered in the winter chill. The square and diamond-shaped flowerbeds were brown and brittle, the trees bare, the fountains still. Yet she could clearly see that come summer it would be spectacular, a riot of roses, lilies, violets, gillyflowers, scented herbs, green vines twisting over the low railings and trellises.
The gardens were hardly dead now, for people strolled along the white gravel pathways, their Court raiment as bright as any flower could hope to be. Were they English, French, Spanish? She could not tell from her high perch. But she would know all soon enough.
Chapter Four
“And you see there, Master Ostrovsky, the king’s newly built banquet house. And, over there, at the other end of the tiltyard, the theatre,” Sir Henry Guildford, the king’s Master of the Revels, said, waving toward a long, low wooden building as they strolled through the gardens. Even at this late moment, as the sun set on the first day of this vital meeting, workmen scurried about, hammering, sawing, putting the last details in place on these new structures.
“That space shall be for the planned pageants and masquerades,” Guildford said, leading Nicolai toward the theatre. They ducked around a crowd of servants building two towering silk trees, a Tudor hawthorn and a Valois mulberry. “The king is also very fond of spontaneous disguisings, but one never knows when those will occur, no matter how organised my office strives to be.”
The tightening of Guildford’s mouth in his plump face was the only sign of the vexation such “spontaneous” displays engendered. The Master of the Revels was meant to oversee all the Court’s entertainments, even to keeping account of all the costumes and properties, the casting of various roles. That could not be easy when the one person most meant to be impressed by these careful displays kept subverting them!
Nicolai had a hard enough time herding his own small troupe on their travels. He did not envy Sir Henry his task of shepherding an entire Court. “It must be a fine thing to have your own space for this great task, Sir Henry,” Nicolai said, nodding toward the new theatre.
“‘Tis not only my space, Master Ostrovsky. We must share it with the Master of the King’s Minstrels and his musicians,” Guildford answered. “But there is room for us to store our properties, which is a blessing. Usually they must be fetched from a great distance.”
Nicolai’s props were often stored in a painted wagon, with more dangerous items hidden among the masks and bells. Items for more—discreet tasks. But he merely nodded understandingly.
“We are very glad to welcome you here, Master Ostrovsky,” Guildford went on. His smooth tone gave no hint of curiosity about what Nicolai, a player and a Russian to boot, might be doing among the Spanish party. “Assistance with our revels is always greatly to be desired, and Señor Mendoza tells us you have much experience with Italian pageants. All things Italian are very fashionable, you know.”
“It is true I am recently come from Venice,” Nicolai answered.
“Ah, yes, the Venetians. They do enjoy their masquerades and fêtes, do they not? Excellent, excellent! I have so very many tasks, and most of my idiotish assistants can do naught unless I watch them at every moment.”
“I am happy to assist in any way I can, Sir Henry.” In Nicolai’s experience, it was often the actors at Court—both the professionals from the Office of the Revels and the courtiers who so often took on roles—who knew most of the secrets. The hidden plans and desires. If he could do what he did best, insinuate himself into a play, his task would be that much easier.
“The king has ordered a different entertainment for almost every evening. I will be happy of your assistance in directing some of our players.” Sir Henry shook his head, muttering, “The ladies all want to take part, but they do not want to work, you see. Merely gossip and giggle together without learning their lines and postures.”
Nicolai laughed. “I am told I work well with the ladies, Sir Henry.”
“I would wager you do. They always seek to impress a handsome face. Well, here we are at the theatre, then. Just long enough for a quick glance round, I think, before the sun quite vanishes.”
Sir Henry opened the tall double doors of the new theatre, the rich wood carved with vines and flowers, surmounted by the king’s Tudor roses and portcullises, the queen’s pomegranate of Granada and arrow-sheaf of Aragon.
How long, Nicolai wondered, would those badges remain, if the rumours were true? The tales of a certain Mistress Boleyn and the king’s anguish over his lack of a son. And what vast trouble would their removal cause?
Today, though, the pomegranates were firmly in place, boasting of a long, solid marriage, a firm dynasty. Sir Henry led Nicolai into the interior of the theatre, so new it still smelled of paint and sawdust. It was beautiful, unlike any place Nicolai had ever performed in before. Long, soaring, lit with a profusion of flickering torches, the theatre gave the impression of a celestial realm. The ceiling was painted the pale blue of a summer sky, while below was hung a transparent cloth painted in gold with stars, moons and the signs of the zodiac.
Seats rose in tiers along the walls, while at the far end a large proscenium arch marked the performance space. Workmen were still putting in place terracotta busts and statues.
“‘Tis a most glorious space, Sir Henry,” Nicolai said truthfully. “And yet you say it is just temporary?”
“Oh, I am sure we will find a use for it once the French depart,” Sir Henry said. “But it is all wood and gilt, meant to deceive.”
He led Nicolai behind the arch, where several trunks were stacked. Scrolls, lengths of bright satin, cushions and spangles spilled forth in a confusing jumble. As Sir Henry dug through the glittering array, a chorus of angelic voices rose up somewhere in the shadows, a tangle of silvery sound that grew and expanded, soaring up to the ceiling-sky. Nicolai turned his head to listen, enchanted.
“The chorus of the Chapel Royal,” Sir Henry said. “They are to give a recital after tonight’s banquet. Fortunately, they are not my responsibility. Ah, here we are!”
He drew out a scroll, untidily bound with a scrap of ribbon, and handed it to Nicolai. “This is to be the pageant to follow the king’s great tournament a few weeks hence. With your permission, Master Ostrovsky, I put you in charge of it.”
Nicolai quickly read over the programme. “The Castle Vert?”
“The Green Castle, yes. An old piece, perhaps, but always a Court favourite. As you see, there are roles for all of sixteen ladies.”
Sixteen? “Are the parts already cast?”
“Not at present. Lady Fitzwalter and Lady Elizabeth Howard must have a turn, of course. And Mistress Anne Boleyn, who at least knows how to sing and dance already. Oh, and they say there is a lady among the French who is uncommonly lovely. A veritable angel, according to Master Tilney. Perhaps it would be a diplomatic gesture to cast her as Beauty. But, Master Ostrovsky, I leave it all up to you. I must work on The Fortress Dangerous, which fortunately only calls for six ladies.”
Sir