Royal Blood. Rona Sharon
Michael thought, as Anne continued to plead with her brother. This was to be his trial by fire. Self-preservation and prudence, badges of cowardice and lack of vision, would not have the reins of him. Bound by duty and honor, mindful of the fact that his presence had been noted by the jewel-eyed spy watching him in the shadows, he knew there was no way out. Even if he did nothing, said nothing, he was enmeshed in this to the bitter end. Fortune favors the brave.
“Choose whom you serve, dear sister—your lord brother…or Our Lady St. Mary de Pratis!”
4
Hidden hostilities are more to be feared than open ones.
—Cicero: In Verrem II
Renée flounced upstairs in a mad dash. She had heard enough; she dared not risk exposure. Reaching ground level, she stomped her feet to dispose of dirt pellets, dusted her person of spiderwebs, and walked briskly toward the royal chambers, where she could disappear in the throng. The Duke of Buckinghamshire—descendent of King Edward III, King Henry’s heir presumptive, the lord high steward of England, the premier and wealthiest peer in the realm, richer than King Henry, holder of seats in twelve counties, and allied by blood and marriage to the oldest echelons of the nobility—planned to assassinate the King of England. Was that good or bad for her?
There were no rights and wrongs in politics, her royal sire would say, only implications. One had to analyze the situation from every angle, take into consideration the players, bear in mind one’s objectives, and astutely determine how best to manipulate the events to suit one’s purpose.
The king lived, the king died: which occurrence benefitted her the most?
If King Henry lived, naught would differ; expect perhaps the future of the house of Stafford. If King Henry died, Cardinal Wolsey would lose his buckler; Edward Stafford, the third Duke of Buckingham, would seize the crown. Buckingham was the leader of the disaffected nobles, a faction composed of Wolsey’s victims—nobles of the highest, longest, and proudest pedigrees who had lost time-honored positions and the king’s favor because of the up-and-rising son of an Ipswich butcher. Ergo, Buckingham’s first order of the day as king would be to depose the reviled lord chancellor. Two boars in one valley. But he was unaware of the card of ten Wolsey had up his sleeve, a card he would not hesitate to use should his royal master die. It was this card Renée was after.
Hitherto, her scheming had come to naught. Cardinal Wolsey had abjured her presentation to Their Majesties; the banquet he had planned in honor of the king and the Knights of the Garter in the gardens of his new palace of Hampton Court had been postponed. Her quiver of tricks and plots was empty. Should Buckingham assassinate the king, the cardinal would have no choice but to play his trump card, and all future occasions for snatching it would be lost to her. Unless…
Unless she struck at the opportune moment—the occasion of misrule! What better time than when news of the king’s murder reached the cardinal? Mayhem, fear, lawless confusion…
Hence, King Henry VIII must die.
Renée stopped in her peregrinations, unmindful of the perspiring bodies occluding the royal gallery. The last of her suspicions regarding the role she was destined to play in this treacherous game were dashed. Her puppeteers, King Francis and Cardinal Medici, had not been looking to retain the services of a spy or a thief or an assassin or a sophisticated harlot—they required all!
People had secrets. Knowledge was power. One person’s rise meant another’s downfall. At court one either lived on her wits or perished by stupidity. It was that simple. And as it turned out, her impulse had been correct. She had followed the king’s former mistress to a meeting with the third most powerful man in England to discuss the king’s assassination.
By whatever means, had been Cardinal Medici’s valediction before she boarded his ship, the luxurious caravel now docking at Gravesend. They had not chosen her by a roll of the dice. King Francis, believing her to be the reincarnation of his perfidious predecessor—a master at the art of high confidence—had handpicked her to suit Cardinal Medici’s needs. They accoutred her with trappings befitting her station, supplementing her already handsome wardrobe with extravagant jewels and gowns, assigned her a platoon of highly trained soldiers, signed all the documents she required, and attached her the marquis of her choice. In truth, she was on her own: an instrument masquerading as a princess on a peace mission, her position at court unspecified, even her sullied reputation a conducive factor in establishing her credibility as a featherheaded girl, one who had destroyed her chances of becoming queen somewhere by dallying with a nobody. No one would suspect her of possessing the guile necessary to aid the assassination of a king. Truth be told, she doubted she possessed it herself. But facilitate this assassination she must. So how did one assist conspirators without joining their ranks? By subtly removing obstacles from their path.
The duke’s plan was elementary yet efficient. Anne might need prodding. Who was the fair man? Whom was he spying for? He had seen her. He had her life in his hands. As she had his.
“Froward Renée, the royal French whore,” a man said behind her. “I wager you that in a fortnight the queen’s new maid of honor shall become the king’s well-ridden lady-in-waiting.”
Renée moved away. The day before she had heard a knight in the Duke of Norfolk’s retinue say to his mate: “If I had a drop of French blood in my body, I’d cut myself open to get rid of it, but I would not mind invading this morsel of France.” And his pewfellow had replied: “Were I you, Devereaux, I’d ride the spirited French mare all the way to a double dukedom.”
The gossip had arrived in England before she had, and true to the old adage, rumor gathered strength as it went. They thought her a wild piece, a wanton slut, and were speculating on the value of her dowry in gold, land, and demesnes. The men ogled her covetously. The ladies were gracious to her face and buzzed behind her back. Queen Katherine welcomed her with courteous wariness, as the Spanish distrusted all things French. King Henry was impassively hospitable; he weighed her in his male balance and decided to pass. Which suited her fine. She had no intention of entangling herself with another king. The only person she might partly confide in was due to arrive today: her bosom friend, the Lady Mary, the new Duchess of Suffolk.
Renée halted outside the king’s watching chamber, locally christened as the Guard Room. Sir Henry Marney, Vice Chamberlain of England and Captain of the Guard, was conversing with the officer in charge. “Keep good watch on the king’s grace and mind foreign fellows.”
The officer, a handsome colossus with a carrot mane and alert green eyes—Renée suspected all the yeomen responsible for safeguarding the king at all times were chosen for their height and pleasing countenances—nodded and resumed his perambulation among his subordinates.
She peeked inside the chamber. King Henry, immured in gaudy opulence and presiding over a busy swarm of ambitious sycophants, was joshing with his favorite gallants, receiving the out-of-town knights coming to attend the chapter, gulping wine, and polishing off a fruit platter. She spotted a pair of conspicuously scarlet ecclesiastical robes. Two cardinals? One was the supreme Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. Who was the other? Cardinal Campeggio? Still in London?
His Excellency the French ambassador, Monsieur Pierre-François le Marquis de Rougé, was conferring with the septuagenarian Duke of Norfolk, His Grace’s son, Earl of Surrey, and the rude, Gallophobic Sir Devereaux of the duke’s retinue. As she observed them, reading Rougé’s lips and disliking what she fathomed, the Duke of Buckingham bawled past her toward the king, a score of dashing, scabbard-rattling noble retainers forming his wake. Scornful of Wolsey’s ostentation, the duke was flamboyance personified in gilt crimson, with the heavy gold chains of his lineage and offices slung across his shoulders. She saw heads turning, men bowing, the king scowling. The duke flourished a pompous bow that smacked of malicious condescension and launched into an exchange with his soon-to-be slain sovereign. Was he already picturing himself on the throne?
Renée, stanching a sneer, delayed the jaunty page carrying in another fruit platter. “Robin.”
He glanced aside. His eyes lit up. “My lady.”
She