NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court. Amanda McCabe
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 refolded the letter, staring again at the cold, grey expanse of sea. How could he refuse? The claims of friendship and the protection of a gentle lady were his two greatest weaknesses. So, he had written back to Marc, stating that he expected this new baby to be named Nicholas if a boy, Nicola if a girl, and set out to meet Dona Elena Maria Velazquez, the new Duchess de Bernaldez.
And he found that his friend quite underestimated his mother. Yes, she was sweet and lovely, but the convent had not softened her core of iron. Her current mission was to see Nicolai wed to one of her ladies by the end of their time in England, and she was most determined. His protests that he led an aimless, mercenary life, most unsuited to fine ladies, made not a whit of difference.
“A good wife would settle you, Nicolai, make a home for you, as Julietta has for my son,” she said. “Do you not desire a family?”
Fortunately, he was saved from her matchmaking by a round of seasickness that overcame Dona Elena and many of her ladies. He did not have time to fend her off and plan for their troubled mission in England!
Ostensibly, he was meant to be a sort of Master of the Revels to the Spanish party, devising entertainments to impress the English Court and the French, to show off Spanish wealth, piety and strength in the face of all their challenges. His years as a travelling player and acrobat would stand him in good stead in such a task, and in his less obvious assignments as well. Not only was he to protect Dona Elena and her new husband, he was to keep an eye out for the interests of the Tsar of Russia. Tsar Vasily III had seen much success in his new trading schemes with the East, and now thought to expand westward