Royal Blood. Rona Sharon
and then King Louis XII, who unified the French dominions under his house, his rule, his banner.
“If you recognize the value and weight of this badge, which I admit was bestowed on me by the king your father, then you must also know that the three dozen knights of the Order of St. Michael are amongst the strongest nobles in France and are strictly in the king’s power.”
“Yes, that is true. But the lucrative iron mine you operate in the Loire in Brittany, whereon you rely heavily for your proceeds, is in my power.”
“The devil!” he snarled, disbelieving.
“I had it shut down until I return to France successful in my peace mission.”
His eyes turned into black cartwheels. “You lie!”
“I have a copy of His Majesty’s writ in my apartment. Would you like to view it with your own eyes or employ what precious time we have in ensuring your solvency?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw; his expression was one of impotent rage. She read the struggle in his eyes as he questioned her sincerity and fretted over which cataclysm she might deliver next if he should be so disrespectful as to demand to see this proof. “What do you require of me?”
Renée was calm. Her fears were many and varied, but the marquis was not one of them. “To begin with, I require you unhand me.” Instantly he let go. “Now.” She affected a charming smile. “The Cardinal of York, I would meet him. It should be an informal audience and—”
“Is that where the wind blows?” Rougé scoffed. “To ply state secrets, send a royal whore.”
She slapped him, catching him unawares.
“Madame, you try my patience,” he rasped with barely leashed fury. As he stared at her, his spleen abated. He smirked. “Usually when a woman hits a man, she is asking to be bedded. Is that what you want from me? A quick tumble on the prie-dieu?”
“Rude, violent, and blasphemous withal. No, I thank you. I do not care for a tumble. I want you to arrange an audience for me with the Lord Chancellor. Are you capable of accomplishing this great feat?” As she studied his face, it occurred to her he might be in need of a carrot. “Yes, I did take certain precautions to guarantee your goodwill, knowing you are not the sort of man who would gladly accept a woman’s lordship, but I specifically begged you for this peace mission.”
He looked stunned—again. “You asked for me specifically?”
“Do not be shocked, monsieur. We are alike in many ways, though you have much to learn.”
His complexion crimsoned. Heretofore he had considered her a confounded nuisance and an awkward diplomatic embassy. Now he viewed her differently, as if a blindfold were ripped from his eyes. Respect mingled with resentment. Thin lips stretched over even teeth in a vulpine smile. “Allow me to recant and rephrase. To ply state secrets, send a royal sword—sharp, beautiful, and lethal. Congratulations, madame. I am duly impressed. I did not think our king was blessed in his relations, but of course you are the king your father’s daughter.” He took her gloved hand and kissed its back. “I bow to you in all matters on this embassy. As for the Cardinal of York…”
“I should like to meet the cardinal and convey our king’s personal message to him.”
His expression hardened. “What message?”
She smiled, thinking of silk jesses. “The secret behind this peace mission, the true reason.”
“Tell me,” he begged in a whisper, his face and body taut with curiosity.
“King Francis”—she tormented him with her slowness—“is of a mind to bring France and England into peaceful unity by uniting his sister-by-marriage with an eligible English husband.”
“You?”
She could see the wheels turning in his head. Ah, ambition, she thought. How obvious he was. “Surely the good cardinal should have several candidates in mind, a young English duke, or son of a duke…. I am well dowered.” She shrugged dismissively, easing open her trap.
“We came to find you a husband.” Rougé looked bewildered, calmed, interested. “But your presence is not required. It may take months to sift the candidates for the office, then months of negotiations, then the signing of the indentures, the contracts…”
“They say Wolsey is a fisher of men. He would think it an inordinate stroke of luck that the French should come to him with the business.” That Renée had no intention of following through with this farce was of no import. She required entry into York Place. Haste-posthaste. She laid a hand on the marquis’s silken sleeve. “Please, arrange it. I should very much like to visit with the cardinal at York Place—today, tonight, as soon as possible!”
Rougé stared at her hand. “I shall see what I can do.”
Sir Walter, having tailed the French spies to the chapel doors, returned to the hectic gallery, wherefrom he had a vantage point of the chapel closet and of the entrance to the king’s watching chamber. The richest woman in Christendom, Norfolk said. Daughter to the late King of France, sister-in-law to the present king, a duchess of two duchies, deflowered but not devoured.
Norfolk, a taciturn man, never gossiped unless it served his purposes. Therefore, Walter deciphered, his duke expected him to act upon the information in a way that would benefit his benefactor. The game Walter intended to play with the precious princess would be well worth the candle. Insinuating himself into her good books—and with any luck her bed—would repair his family’s fortune. A predacious grin curled his lips. Pursuing her would hardly be a distasteful task. Notwithstanding her reputedly barbed tongue, Froward Renée was a tasty little treasure.
An officer of the Valois guard entered his vision. The man halted to survey the gallery, his breath coming swiftly. If he had to hazard a guess, Walter would say the princess had given her bodyguard the slip. With an amicable grin, Walter strolled up to the officer and said in French, “You shall find your royal charge at chapel, conferring with the French ambassador.”
“I thank you, sir.” There was a thick Italian accent to the officer’s French. “Madame has no care for her safety and evades me to my great distress.”
“Perhaps if you gave her the occasional slip, she would grow to appreciate your bucklering,” Walter offered affably. He extended his hand. “Sir Walter Devereaux.”
The officer shook it heartily. “Lieutenant Armado Baglioni.”
“Baglioni? I know a baron by the name of Malatesta Baglioni, the lord of Spello.”
A smile expanded on Armado’s face. “Malatesta is my brother! You met?”
“Five years hence, when I fought in the League of Cambrai in Italy. Your much esteemed lord brother and I shared a few cups and a few whores.” He refrained from mentioning that he had served as a man-at-arms, a poor mercenary, who could scarce afford his own armor. A brilliant idea struck him. He grinned in a man-to-man rapport. “How should you like to share a tankard of bad ale and a pair of liced but not poxed whores at the stews after midnight?”
Armado looked delighted. “Con piacere! I thank you for the invitation!”
“Splendid! I shall wait for you at the palace landing. Ah, there comes your princess.” Walter touched his forehead and paced off before she glimpsed him. One at a time…
5
They come to see, they come to be seen themselves.
—Ovid: Ars Amatoria
The opening feast of the annual festivities of the Order of the Garter was held with the great pomp and splendor King Henry was fabled for. The king’s presence chamber, illuminated by a wealth of beeswax candles set in antique-style candelabras, wall brackets, and table candlesticks, was sumptuously ornamented with dewlaps of red buckram embroidered with Tudor roses and Spanish pomegranates spilling from