In the Garden of Sin (17 page)

Or should I say, my fellow lacquey, for I was posing as exactly that, a young servant-of-all-work sent along to perform tasks that were too lowly even for the duke’s yeomen. It was Elle who had offered “Henri’s” services to Sir Humphrey, saying I was new and untrained and getting underfoot around the château, but perhaps I could be of some use to the duke’s evening hunting party.

My transformation into a young man had been accomplished
by Elle that afternoon. To excuse me from my afternoon lessons and supper, she had reported that I had a stomach ailment for which she was nursing me in her own quarters.

“Domenico wanted to bring you a mint tonic,” she’d told me, “but I convinced him you wouldn’t want him to see you in such a state.”

I was swamped with guilt to be heaping yet another lie upon the mountain of deceit that represented, God help me, the foundation of my relationship with Domenico Vitturi. My contrition was all the sharper because of my realization, as he took me for the second time in his bed the night before, that I was in love with him. With my resolve weakening, I reminded myself what was at stake. I was my uncle’s only hope. If I didn’t stiffen my spine and do what had to be done, he would be doomed.

The first thing Elle did while I was thusly “indisposed” was to shear off my wavy hair above my shoulders—as I squeezed my eyes shut and called up memories of my Uncle Guy carrying me around as a child, reading to me, teaching me to play the lute and the harpsichord…

It would be most prudent, Elle and I agreed, to darken my distinctively reddish blond hair. Although Buckingham himself would be unlikely to recognize me with my natural color, given his disinterest in women and the distance he’d maintained from us, such would not be the case with the other men in his party. In fact, Sir Humphrey had bedded both Lucy and Bianca during our journey. The duke’s yeomen were not, of course, at liberty to approach us, but they could, and did, look their fill at every opportunity. Elle mixed up a dark brown dye using oak gall, henna, walnut shells, and a few other things— an ancient Roman recipe, she told me. I didn’t ask how she’d come by it. I hadn’t brought up the subject of incubi and so
forth since the day before, nor did I intend to, given her disinclination to discuss the matter.

Elle came up with a set of laborer’s clothes—coarse tunic and pantaloons, shabby boots, and a red knitted cap—that belonged to an adolescent scullery boy. She had me practice walking and talking like a male and speaking with a provincial French accent.

“You’re supposed to be a nineteen-year-old boy,” she told me as she wrapped a length of linen around my chest to flatten my breasts, “so don’t forget to act like one. Don’t get careless. But at the same time, don’t forget to flirt with the duke.”

The idea was to make Buckingham think that I, too, fancied those of my own sex, and in particular, him. Then, when he’d taken the bait and we were alone together, I could broach the subject of Guy Goodchild.

“How does a male flirt with another male?” I asked.

“The same way a woman flirts with a man. Let him notice you staring at him, but be subtle about it. Meet his gaze, then look away. If he says something witty, laugh just a bit too hard. You’re naught but a young French peasant, if a comely one. He’s one of the most famous men in the world, and one of the handsomest. Be awed by him. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt if you could contrive to come in physical contact with him, skin to skin, however briefly.”

So that I wouldn’t be forced to compete with Jonas Knowles for the duke’s attention, Elle had sent Master Knowles a note asking him to meet her for a tryst at four o’clock on the top floor of the southeast tower.

“When he walks into
la Chambre des Voiles et des Miroirs
and sees me standing there with a pair of leather cuffs in one hand and a cat-o’-nine-tails in the other,” she said, “he’ll probably spend in his breeches.”

Her plan was to keep him immobilized until Buckingham and his party, including me, had returned from the evening hunt.

“Knowles will worry about missing another hunt,” Elle had said, “so I’d best gag him, too, to keep him from yelling for help. Although if I fuck him senseless ten or twelve times, he might not fret so about the hunt, and ’twould certainly make the time pass more pleasantly for me.”

I told her I didn’t think ordinary men, meaning men who weren’t Elic, could climax that many times.

With a wily little smile, she said, “They can if they’re in the right hands.”

And thus did I take Jonas Knowles’s place in that evening’s hunting party. After some initial apprehension, I grew more comfortable with my role. I’d been charged by Sir Humphrey with carrying a bucket and a coil of rope and “keeping out of the duke’s way.” This I did, but without missing a single opportunity to catch Buckingham’s eye as Sir Humphrey tracked their prey’s feeding trails through twilit woods and meadows. I should say “the duke’s prey,” because although he had six men with him, not including Yves and me, this was indisputably the Duke of Buckingham’s hunt. The others, the dogs included, were simply there to bow and scrape, fetch and serve.

It felt most peculiar indeed to not only be in such close proximity to the reclusive duke, but to have him acknowledge my existence. He made no attempt to avoid me, as he had when I’d looked like a woman. He gave me instructions, sent me on errands, he even asked my name! And after he’d caught me gazing moonily in his direction once or twice, I began to see a heat and interest in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Then came the frenzied barking of the dogs, along with panicked porcine grunts, and the chase was on. Being a slower
runner than the men, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of the boar, which was big and bristly and crazed, as the hounds pursued it across the field into a bog.

“Who has the duke’s spear?” Sir Humphrey yelled as I arrived at the bog, where the six dogs were holding the boar at bay, nipping and tormenting it as it screamed and screamed. “Give the duke his spear!”

One of the yeomen handed Buckingham a long boar spear, whereupon he waded into the bog, taking careful aim. He jabbed the captive animal in the shoulder, yanked out the spear, and backed away.

“Well done, Your Grace!” exclaimed Sir Humphrey as he pushed the dying, squealing beast onto its side in the water. The yeomen praised him, too, with an exuberance that struck me as bizarre, under the circumstances. After all, it was the dogs that had done all the work.

Remember why you’re here
, I thought.
“Félicitations
, Your Grace,” I said with a smile I hoped wasn’t too coy.

He returned the smile, saying
“Merci
, Henri.” It didn’t escape me that I was the only one he’d thanked for congratulating him.

After tying the dead pig by its hind legs, the yeomen dragged it to an oak tree next to a stream and hung it from a heavy branch. One of them took my bucket and set it on the ground, while another pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt and slit the animal’s belly open. Slippery ropes of entrails poured forth—along with half a dozen fetal piglets.

“Oh!” Clamping a hand over my mouth, I spun around.
Don’t be sick, don’t be sick, don’t be sick…

The men roared with laughter at my squeamishness— until Buckingham ordered them to shut their mouths, producing instant silence. Patting my shoulder, the duke said, “Henri is young, he’s never hunted boar ere today—have you, boy?”

“I… I have not, Your Grace.”

Buckingham moved his hand along my shoulder until his fingers grazed my bare neck. Lowering his voice, he said, “Some things take a bit of getting used to, eh?”

I looked up and met his eyes. He held my gaze, his fingertips softly stroking my throat.

I swallowed.
“Oui.”

“’Twill be dark anon, Your Grace,” Sir Humphrey told Buckingham. “Why don’t we have a look around whilst the boar’s being dressed, see if we can locate the herd’s bedding place before we head back to the château—matted grass, that sort of thing. Then perhaps we can come out especially early tomorrow and surprise them, eh?”

Spurred by the realization that I had to act fast if I was to get Buckingham alone, I said, “I know where they sleep, Your Grace! I can show you.”

“You
know?” Sir Humphrey said. “I thought you’d never hunted boar.”

“I haven’t, but I’ve seen matted grass not far from here. I could take you there,” I told the duke. “I could show you.”

Sir Humphrey said, “Let us go, then, afore there’s no light to—”

“No need for you to come along, old man,” Buckingham told him. “The boy can show me where it is. Why don’t you stay here and make sure they get that boar properly dressed.”

Sir Humphrey’s gaze shifted from the duke to me, and back again, his expression carefully neutral. “As you will, Your Grace. I’d be quick about it, though. Night falls fast here in the mountains.”

I led Buckingham into the closest patch of woods, walked until I couldn’t see the hunting party anymore, then stopped.

He looked around, then gave me a canny smile. “There’s no matted grass here. There’s no grass at all.”

“Nay, Your Grace. I wanted a private place to talk to you.”

Apparently oblivious to the absence of my French accent, he came toward me, his gaze on my mouth. “What very red lips you have, Henri. They’re as red as your cap.”

He seized me and closed his mouth over mine, plunging his tongue between my lips. Shoving a hand under my tunic, he hastily unbuttoned my pantaloons.

I squirmed; he gripped me tighter. My pantaloons slipped down; I yanked them up with both hands. Wrenching my face away, I said, “Your Grace, please! If we could just talk—”

“Aye, that would be lovely, if there were time.” Spinning me around, he pushed me down onto my hands and knees with seemingly little effort; he was a very strong man. “Humphrey’s right,” he said as he unbuttoned his breeches. “We must be quick about it.”

  TRIED TO CLAMBER to my feet, but Buckingham held me down, saying “Come now, I know it’s not your first time. It can’t be, not the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Throwing my tunic up, he spat in his hand and rubbed it on his member. I felt it brushing up against my bare buttocks, and struggled harder, crying “Nay! You don’t under—”

He clamped a hand over my mouth, hard. “For pity’s sake, do you want the others to hear?”

I could feel his cockstand, slippery with spit, between the cheeks of my bottom. I tried to wrest his arm from around my waist, but it was like trying to budge the limb of an oak.

He was shifting around behind me, trying to penetrate me without using his hands. “Hold still, will you?” A sharp jab
missed its mark. He swore and thrust again, coming perilously close to his intended target.

He’s going to do this
, I thought.
He’s going to do this to me, and there’s nothing I can…

Yes there was.

I stopped resisting, went absolutely still.

“There’s a good lad,” he said. “I knew you’d settle down. If I take my hand off your mouth, do you promise to hold your tongue?”

I nodded.

He released me and straightened up, giving his cockstand a few firm strokes as he fondled my bottom. “That’s a fine little arse you’ve got there, boy, as round and soft as a girl’s.”

“There’s a reason for that,” I said as I took his caressing hand and drew it down between my legs.

“Want me to pull you off, eh?” he asked as he groped around. “Greedy little…” He fell silent as he discovered there was nothing there to pull.

“Fuck!”
He pushed me away and bolted to his feet. “Bloody hell!”

I refastened my pantaloons as I clambered up off the ground.

Buckingham was backing away from me with an expression of outrage as he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. “Who the devil are you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m Hannah Leeds, Your Grace.”

“Who?” he demanded, not taking his irate gaze off of me as he pushed his hair off his face.

“I requested an audience with you in London, but you refused to see me.”

A second passed. “God’s blood, you’re Goodchild’s niece.
What the devil are you doing here in France? Dressed like that?”