yourself. But I do hear that I have you to thank for one thing. Thank—or curse.”
“I am most intrigued. Ladies have surely cursed me before, but rarely on such short acquaintance. What must I beg pardon for?”
“For recommending me to the Master of Revels for his pageants.”
Tilney laughed. “I merely suggested that it would be a fine gesture to include some of the French ladies. Your beauty and sweetness recommended themselves.”
“I am scarcely sweet, Master Tilney! In fact, I have often been told quite the opposite.”
“Mademoiselle Dumas, methinks you protest too much.” He reached for a sugar wafer from one of the silver platters, offering it to her with a flourish. “These rare delicacies could not be more agreeable than you.”
Marguerite accepted it with a smile, but the delicate flavor turned dry in her mouth as she saw that Nicolai still laughed with his pretty Spanish companion. Her sweetness no doubt far surpassed any honey or sugar.
The banquet went on for what seemed like hours, a succession of artichokes in cream sauce, whole pigs stuffed with spiced apples, swan and peacock, lamb dressed with mint, and sweetmeats coloured pink and pale green and dusted with more sparkling sugar.
As the wine flowed, the shrill laughter grew, until Marguerite could scarcely hear above the hum in her head. She ate little and drank less, her smile growing more pained as the revelry went on. Would her face simply crack, like one of the statues in the garden? The marble of her skin corroding under the bombardment of rain and laughter, flaking away until she was nothing at all, just a handful of white dust.
At last, the platters and cloths were carried away, the curved table pushed forward so there could be dancing in its hollowed space. The musicians, who had been playing sweet madrigals practically unnoticed during the feasting, struck up a stately pavane. King Henry led the dance with his daughter, her tiny hand in his giant paw.
Princess Mary was a graceful little thing, Marguerite observed, pointing her toe, turning with a flourish of her wrist. Her thin face was solemn with concentration, but her father beamed down at her. Queen Katherine watched it all with a serene smile. Would the princess truly marry the Duc d’Orleans one day, and be a credit to the French royal family? Marguerite could not yet say. It was early days yet in the treaty negotiations, and Princess Mary seemed so solemn, so—Spanish. But it could be an important, and long-lasting, alliance for François and Henry both.
As the music ended, Henry lifted Mary high, twirling her around as he laughed. “You behold here, gentles, my pearl of the world!” he announced. Amid applause, the princess bowed prettily.
“Pearl or not, girls need their rest,” Queen Katherine said placidly. She took her daughter’s hand as Henry lowered Mary to her feet. “I will take the princess to her apartment.”
With the queen and her ladies gone from the hall, the music changed. From the slow, traditional pavane, the tempo increased to a lively saltarello, the newest dance to arrive from Italy. Marguerite watched closely as King Henry led a new lady on to the floor, and the other couples edged to the sides of the pattern to make room for them.
This, then, must be the famous Anne Boleyn, Marguerite thought. Lady Penelope Percy had been right, Mistress Boleyn was not beautiful. She was small and very thin, her complexion too sallow to ever aspire to the fashionable roses-and-lilies. Her hair was almost as black as the night sky outside, thick and straight, glossy, held back from her pointed face by a jewelled band. Her dark eyes flashed with a bright, naughty wit as she smiled up at the king.
But Marguerite saw that she possessed something deeper, more valuable than mere prettiness. She had style, and a light, lithe grace. She had self-possession and confidence. She looked at the gathering as if she owned it, as if they were all—Henry especially—hers to command. And the king in turn stared at her as if he would be commanded in an instant by anything she said.
Non, Anne Boleyn was not someone Marguerite would care to tangle with. She would just have to take care to steer clear of her. If such a thing was possible.
“That must be the English king’s new harlot,” Marguerite heard a low, hard voice murmur. She glanced up to see that the Duke de Bernaldez had moved to sit beside his wife, and Father Pierre had taken his place. The priest watched the dance with burning, disapproving eyes.
“I would not let King Henry hear you say such things,” Marguerite warned. “You could find yourself sent back to Paris in a trice.” Which might not be such a bad thing, Marguerite reflected, except for the bad light it would cast on the whole French party.
“And why is that? She will surely be gone soon enough, just like Elizabeth Blount and Mistress Shelton.”
Marguerite reached for her goblet, sipping at the wine left in its gilded depths. “What do you know of them?”
“I know they are not at Court, even though Mistress Blount gave the king a son. They have no place here once the king tires of them. They were sent away, an embarrassment, and Mistress Boleyn will be, too. Just as her sister was before her.” Father Pierre’s voice was filled with low, bitter spite.
Marguerite watched the dancing. Mistress Boleyn was very deft; she leaped and ran, snapped her fingers, twirled in a graceful snap of her sky-blue silk skirts. And Henry stared, enraptured, his hands reaching for her as a praying supplicant would touch the Virgin’s robe. “I am not so sure of that.”
“Why, these English dances are only trotting and running,” Don Carlos said, laughing. “Not at all graceful. We should show them what true dancing looks like, querida.”
Marguerite looked back to see Dona Elena hide her own laughter behind her fan. “My dancing days are long done, I fear.”
Her husband smiled ruefully. “As are mine.” He pressed his hand to his wife’s arm, a couple obviously united in deepest contentment.
Marguerite’s heart gave a sour pang, and she longed to turn away from the whole room. All these damnably loving couples. Dona Elena stopped her with a word. “I am sure Señorita Dumas’s dancing days are in their prime!”
“Oh, no, Dona Elena,” she protested. “I do not care to dance tonight, and my skills in the saltarello are nothing to Mistress Boleyn’s.” Beside her, she felt Father Pierre’s stare burning on her skin.
Dona Elena would not hear it, though. “Nonsense! They say you French ladies are the finest of all dancers, that you begin to learn as soon as you can walk.” She waved her hand, calling, “Nicolai! Come here a moment, I need you.”
The duke laughed, giving Marguerite a complicit shrug. “My wife, you see, will not be turned when she gets a thought into her head. If she wants to see you dance, mademoiselle, you will surely dance.”
Marguerite had to laugh. Was that not what she always did? Dance when commanded? First for her father, then King François. Why not for Dona Elena?
But did it have to be with Nicolai? She watched warily as he drew nearer, the abandoned Spanish girl taking his departure with a pretty little pout. He went down on one knee next to Dona Elena, smiling up at her. Marguerite saw, though, that he was also cautious, his blue eyes shadowed.
“I am at your command, as ever, Dona Elena,” he said gallantly. “What is your desire? Shall I fetch oranges from Madrid?
