slumbering under the winter frost. They, like the palace itself, were in the midst of upheaval, their old flowerbeds being torn up to be replaced by new plantings, a more modern design. For now, though, everything was caught in a moment of stasis, frozen in place, overlaid by sparkling white like an enchanted castle in a story.
François waved away his attendants, and led her down a narrow walkway. The air was cold but still, holding the echo of the abandoned courtiers’ voices as they lingered by the wall.
“It is most sad, then, that my daughter will have to do without your company for a time,” the king said.
“Will she?”
“Yes, for I fear you must journey to England, mademoiselle. And the Emerald Lily must go with you.”
England. So the rumours were true. François sought a new alliance with King Henry, a new bulwark against the power of the Emperor.
“I am ready, your Majesty,” she said.
François smiled. “Ma chère Marguerite—always so eager to serve us.”
“I am a Frenchwoman,” she answered simply. “I do what I can for my country.”
“And you do it well. Usually.”
“I will not fail you. I vow this.”
“I trust that is true. For this mission is of vital importance. I am sending a delegation to negotiate a treaty of alliance with King Henry, and to organise a marriage between his daughter Princess Mary and my Henri.”
Marguerite considered this. Despite flirting with English alliances in the past, including the long-ago Field of the Cloth of Gold, which was so spectacular it was still much talked of, naught had come of it all. Thanks to the English queen, Katherine of Aragon, aunt of the Emperor, England always drifted back to Spain. Little Princess Mary, only eleven years old, had already been betrothed to numerous Spanish grandees as well as the Emperor Charles himself, or so they said.
“What of the Spanish?” Marguerite asked quietly.
“I have heard tell that Henry and his queen are not as—united as they once were,” François answered. “Katherine grows old, and Henry’s gaze has perhaps turned to a young lady who was once resident of the French Court, Mademoiselle Anne Boleyn. Katherine may no longer have so much influence on English policy. Since the formation of the League of Cognac, Henry seems inclined to a more Gallic way of seeing things. I will be most gratified if this treaty comes to completion.”
Marguerite nodded. An alliance with England could certainly mean the beginning of brighter days for France. Yet she had dealt with the Spanish before. For all their seeming piety and austerity, they were just as fierce in defending their interests as the French, perhaps even more so. It was said that in their religious fervour they often employed the hair shirt and the scourge, and it seemed to sour their spirits, made them ill humoured and dangerous as serpents.
“The Spanish—and Queen Katherine—will not let go of their advantage so easily as that,” Marguerite said. “I have heard Katherine seeks a new Spanish match for her daughter.”
“That is why I am sending you,” François answered. “I have assigned Gabriel de Grammont, the Bishop of Tarbes, to head the delegation, and I am sure he will do very well. As will his men. But women can see things a man cannot, go places a man cannot, especially one as well trained as my Lily. Keep an eye on the queen, and especially on the Spanish ambassador, Don Diego de Mendoza. It is entirely possible they have plans of their own, of which Henry is not aware.”
“And if they do?”
François scowled, gazing out over his frozen gardens. “Then you know what to do.” He drew a small scroll from inside his surcoat and handed it to her. “Here are your instructions. You depart in two weeks. I will have dressmakers sent to you this evening—you must order all that you require for a stay of several weeks.”
With that, he turned and left her, rejoining his waiting attendants. They all disappeared inside the château, leaving Marguerite alone in the cold afternoon. There were no birds, no bustle of gardeners or cool splash of fountains, only the lonely whistle of the wind as she unfurled the scroll.
The words were brief. The king’s kinsman, the Comte de Calonne, was to be part of the delegation, along with his wife Claudine. Marguerite was ostensibly to serve as companion to Claudine, to accompany her when she called on Queen Katherine and attended banquets and tournaments.
But Marguerite knew well what was not written there. At those banquets, she was to flirt with the English courtiers when they were in their cups, draw secrets from them they were not even aware they were sharing. To watch the queen and the Spanish ambassador. To watch King Henry, and make sure the notoriously changeable monarch did not waver. To watch this Anne Boleyn, see if she had real influence, if she could be turned to the French cause.
And, if anyone stood in France’s path, she was to remove them. Quickly and neatly.
It was surely the most important task she had ever received, a test of all her skills. The culmination of all she had learned. If she did well, if the treaty was safely signed and the betrothal of Princess Mary and the Duc d’Orléans sealed, she would be handsomely rewarded. Perhaps she would even be given leave to travel, to seek out the one man who had ever defeated her and thus finally have her revenge.
The Russian. Nicolai Ostrovsky.
The soft crackle of a footstep on the pathway behind her startled her, and she spun around, her knees bending and hands forward in a defensive position.
It was Pierre LeBeque, a young priest in the employ of Bishop Grammont. His eyes narrowed when she turned on him, and he fell back a step, watching her warily.
Marguerite dropped her hands to her sides, 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
