blood.
She was tired, that was all. The long journey, and now this unceasing round of activity. She could scarcely draw breath, let alone think. And Nicolai was just an unexpected complication.
She had to confess she did not understand him, could not decipher him at all. She, who prided herself on her knowledge of people, her ability to discover what motivated them, what they craved, and then using that for her own ends. She had no idea of what Nicolai desired, what brought him here to Greenwich. For all his lightness, his seeming good humour, he had depths she could not read.
Unless he was just here for the Spanish ladies…
The maid held up the white satin skirt, and Marguerite left the looking glass and the mess she had made of her toiletries to let her fasten it over the petticoats, the quilted silver underskirt. Marguerite stood still as the maid adjusted the bodice, the stiff silver stomacher, and tied on the delicate gold sleeves.
Every person had weaknesses, desires. Every person had a price. Nicolai Ostrovsky’s was just harder to find—and surely far more expensive—than most. He had to be up to something—no one would come all this way for the sake of mere friendship. To leap into the fray of Henry, François and Emperor Charles just because a friend asked? Absurd!
Non, he had some agenda, and the Spanish were surely part of it. She just had to be patient and steady, and she would find what his motives were. What price he asked.
To do that, she would have to be very careful. No more temper tantrums. And no more touching his hair! It was clear she could not trust herself in that direction.
She fastened her silver brocade shoes, and let the maid settle the nimbus-shaped headdress over her smooth hair. It was made of stiffened silver satin, embroidered with crystals and pearls that sparkled in the candlelight. The effect was of an angel’s halo, shimmering atop her pale hair.
It was a good fashion choice the maid had made, Marguerite thought, examining herself in the looking glass. Who would suspect an innocent, shining angel of any subterfuge?
Except perhaps Nicolai himself. For had she not compared him to an angel? And he was full of prevarication, of feints and dodges.
Marguerite opened her jewel case and took out a piece she rarely wore but always treasured, a large, square-cut diamond on a thin silver chain. Like the essence of the perfume, it had been her mother’s. Tonight it would give her courage.
When the doors opened on the banquet hall, a gasp went up. Marguerite stood on tiptoe, peering around Claudine’s shoulder to see that the arrangement of the tables was changed. Rather than two long, straight tables, French and Spanish, on either side of an aisle, they were arranged as a large horseshoe, facing the king’s dais.
“My beloved guests!” King Henry boomed, striding toward them like a purple velvet-clad bull, all hearty enthusiasm and good fun. He held Princess Mary by the hand, clad in a matching purple gown. Her large eyes were wary in her pale face.
“Welcome to our feast,” Henry went on. “It is much deserved after all our hard work this day. As we are united in the great cause of peace, so must we be united at the banquet table. My servants will show you each to your seats. We can no longer be divided!”
A murmur of speculation rose up, mutters of excitement and protest. “How can one know one’s proper place, in such an arrangement?” Claudine said, gesturing angrily toward the rounded table.
“Just play along with the English king’s whims, chère,” her husband answered through gritted teeth. “It will be over soon enough.”
Marguerite watched with interest as they were each led away to their assigned seats, men and women, French, Spanish, and English alternating. This could serve her purposes very well indeed! An easy way to chat with the enemy, much like her stroll with Dona Elena. Simple, informal, completely unsuspicious.
Plus, it would get her away from Father Pierre, who appeared to have assigned himself as her official escort, or perhaps guard, while they were at Greenwich. His silent presence at her side, the rustle of his black robes, his strange watchfulness, was becoming an irritant.
She waved to him as he was led away, protesting, to a place at the far end of the horseshoe. A page took Marguerite to a seat at the middle curve, where she was between Roger Tilney and Dona Elena’s husband, the Duke of Bernaldez. Dona Elena, across from them, greeted her happily, telling her husband of their afternoon walk by the river.
“And she listened to me prattling on about Marc, and about how you and I met, mi corazon, with nary a complaint!” Dona Elena said. “Such great patience.”
“Not at all, Dona Elena,” Marguerite answered. “I enjoyed our meeting very much. It can get lonely, being in a strange country, and your wife, Don Carlos, is so very amiable.”
He gave her a cordial smile, and Marguerite saw that he matched his wife for fine looks and kind eyes. Despite the stark formality of his black velvet clothes and thick white hair and beard, his glance was most gentle when he looked at Dona Elena. “She is indeed amiable, Señorita Dumas, and I am grateful she has found a new friend here. It is not easy for her to be so far from her son at this time. I’m happy for any distraction you can provide for her. Perhaps you would do us the honour of joining us for a small card party in our apartment after the banquet?”
“Oh, yes, do say you will come, Señorita Dumas,” Dona Elena urged. “It is only a few friends for a hand of primero, and will be much quieter than these great feasts. I would enjoy knowing you better.”
“Merci, Dona Elena. I happily accept your invitation.”
That was even easier than she expected. Marguerite sat back, satisfied with her progress. Then she felt a sharp, stabbing prickle on the back of her neck, like a sewing needle jabbing at her skin. She laid her fingers over the spot, under her hair, and glanced down the table to find Nicolai watching her.
For an instant, she caught him unaware, and his mask of merriment was down. His face was hard and serious as he looked at her, his eyes hooded. Even thus she could feel the force of them, like celestial blue daggers. She felt caught, pinned in place, unable to move or think. The entire vast, crowded hall vanished, narrowed to that one point—just him.
He grinned at her, breaking the spell, and lifted his goblet to her in mocking salute. As the room widened out again, she saw that he sat next to one of Dona Elena’s ladies, a young woman who stared up at him with shining adoration writ large on her pretty, heart-shaped face.
Marguerite turned away, taking a large gulp of her wine. It was fine stuff, a golden sack from Provence, that even her father, who firmly believed only his home in Champagne could produce truly fine wine, would not have scorned. Yet she hardly even tasted it.
Across the table, Dona Elena caught her eye and gave her a wink. “My plan is working!” she mouthed.
She could say nothing else, though, for a procession arrived bearing an enormous subtlety for the courtiers’ applause. It was a rendition of Greenwich Palace itself all in sugar and almond paste, its turrets and courtyards and windows, even a river of blue marzipan dotted with tiny boats and barges. Yet, like the wine, Marguerite did not fully appreciate the fine artistry. Her skin still prickled, and it took all her strength not to turn back to Nicolai. Not to stare at him like a dull-witted peasant girl.
The subtlety was presented to King Henry and Queen Katherine, and followed by more
