The Emerald Swan (48 page)

“He was stillborn,” Lady Bryanston said without expression. “He was born early, four weeks too soon. He did not live.”

“But … but I heard him cry,” Pen said. “I
heard
him.”

Her mother-in-law shook her head. “You were unconscious when we pulled him from you with the forceps. You heard nothing unless ’twas in your dreams.” She turned from the bed with a dismissive gesture and left the chamber.

Pen closed her eyes on the tears that filled them, on the despairing weakness that swamped her anew. Since Philip’s death she had lived for the child growing in her womb. Philip’s child, the child of their love.

“Let me make you more comfortable, madam.” A brisk voice accompanied firm hands, and Pen kept her eyes shut as the woman cleansed her, changed her smock, pulled
from beneath her the wadded sheets that had protected the feather mattress.

Pen wanted her mother. It was a childlike want, an all-consuming need. Her mother was on her way, making the long journey into High Wycombe from Mallory Hall in Derbyshire to be at her daughter’s confinement, but the baby had come early and the countess of Kendal had not yet arrived. Instead, Pen had endured the cold ministrations of her mother-in-law, and the women, all strangers, that Lady Bryanston had appointed to assist at the birth.

And it had all been for nothing. Those dreadful hours had been for nothing.

But she
had
heard the baby cry. The baby had entered the world alive.

Pen opened her eyes and fixed her attendant with a clear and commanding eye. “I wish to see my son’s body,” she stated, pushing aside the cup of warmed wine the woman held to her lips.

“Madam, he was buried immediately,” the woman said. “In this heat, it’s not wise to keep a body unburied.” She hurried to the window and drew back the heavy velvet curtains. The pitiless midday sun poured into the already sweltering chamber.

Pen had endured the last weeks of her pregnancy throughout one of the hottest summers in memory. Bodies did not remain unburied. Pen slipped down the bed and closed her eyes again. She opened them immediately at the sound of the door latch lifting followed by a heavy tread approaching the bed.

Miles Bryanston, her husband’s younger brother, stood beside the bed. His brown eyes malicious, cold,
so like his mother’s, regarded her with a degree of complacency. “Sister, I’m sorry you have had such ill luck,” he declared.

“ ’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” Pen returned with a cynical smile that despite her weakness came easily. Miles was now the earl of Bryanston. Red-faced, heavily built, thick-witted, strong as an ox, the absolute antithesis of his elder brother. Philip had been thin and quick but physically frail. A dreamer, a poet, a musician. Everything his brother was not.

And Pen had loved him.

She turned her head aside, away from her brother-in-law’s smug countenance.

She
had
heard her baby cry. She
had.

L
ONDON
, D
ECEMBER
1552

“W
HAT
I
PROPOSE
is a matter of some refinement, my dear sir. A scheme of some complexity.” Antoine de Noaüles paused to lift a silver chalice to his lips. He drank with an assessing frown, then nodded his satisfaction and gestured to his companion that he drink from his own chalice. He waited to see if the wine found favor with his guest before he continued speaking. “Yes, a complex scheme, a two-pronged scheme. Very neat.” Noailles smiled happily. “One perfectly suited to your own particularly delicate methods, Owen.”

Owen d’Arcy contented himself with a raised eyebrow. Antoine de Noailles, the French ambassador to the English court of the young king Edward VI, delighted in taking his time when revealing to his master spy an intrigue that he considered especially ingenious.

Owen d’Arcy was a tall man, lithe and slender, and when necessary as deadly as the rapier in the chased-silver scabbard at his waist. His black eyes were never still, they missed nothing, and the fertile brain behind them ceaselessly absorbed, sorted, and acted upon the information they transmitted. He knew now without being told that the ambassador was about to drop a choice plum in his lap. So he sipped his wine and waited.

“I believe that the king is dying,” Noailles said calmly. “His Privy Council think to keep the true state of the young man’s health a state secret, but …” He shrugged and smiled at this absurdity. “The issue, of course, is what happens on the boy’s death.”

“The crown goes to Mary,” Owen said, his voice surprisingly dark and rich with a musical lilt to it.

“It certainly
should,”
the ambassador agreed. “King Henry so decreed it. After Edward, if the boy has no issue, Mary is next in line, Elizabeth is second.” He paused and again Owen waited with no sign of impatience.

“I fear, however, that our friend, Northumberland, the Grand Master of the realm, has some other plans,” the ambassador said in a musing tone.

The two men were standing before the fire in a small paneled chamber in the ambassador’s residence at Whitehall. Outside the clerestory window snow was falling softly, dulling the ceaseless sound of traffic along Whitehall, the clop of hooves, the clang of iron wheels on the cobbles, the shouts of barrow boys.

The chamber was lit only by the fire and a many-branched candelabrum on the long table that stood
against the wall opposite the window. In the shadowy gloom the ambassador’s scarlet gown glowed in vivid contrast to his companion’s black velvet, and when he moved his plump hands the firelight caught the jeweled rings on his fingers in flashes of green and red and turquoise.

Owen left the fire and refilled his chalice from the flagon on the table. “Do we know what Northumberland is planning?”

Noailles extended his own chalice to be filled. “That, my dear Owen, brings us to the crux of the matter.”

“Ah.” Owen tipped the flagon and watched the red stream of wine arc into the silver vessel. “This is where I come in?”

“Precisely.” Noailles turned back to the fire. “There’s a certain woman who attends Princess Mary, who is particularly well placed to provide us with the most intimate information about what goes on in the princess’s household. She is a trusted confidante and a party to Mary’s thoughts and intentions.”

Noailles glanced over his shoulder at Owen, who still stood beside the table in the flickering candlelight, his black eyes sharp and alert, belying the impassivity of his countenance.

“You could perhaps become … shall we say … acquainted with the lady,” Noailles suggested. “It’s a task most suited to your talents, I believe.” He chuckled, his round face shining.

Owen did not respond to the ambassador’s amusement; he said simply, “And the other prong to this attack?” He took a sip of wine, regarding the ambassador thoughtfully over the lip of the chalice.

Noailles beamed. “Ah, yes. Here lies the beauty of it. The lady is closely connected to a man, her stepbrother, in fact, who is a trusted friend of the duke of Suffolk and his family. I hardly need to tell you that Suffolk is an intimate of Northumberland’s. Their interests He closely bound, and whatever Northumberland is planning, Suffolk will be a part of it. ’Tis not unreasonable to assume that Robin of Beaucaire is privy to some of their secrets.”

“And we assume that the lady in question exchanges confidences with her stepbrother,” Owen stated, setting down his chalice. He walked to the window, his short black velvet gown swinging from his shoulders.

“They are very intimate and they spend a great deal of time together when they’re both in London.”

“As happens to be the case now, I presume.” Owen looked down on the street below. The snow was falling heavily.

“Yes, both Princess Mary and Suffolk are in their London residences for the Christmas festivities. I understand that Edward ordered his sister’s presence. She’ll find it hard to celebrate a Christmas mass under the king’s eye.”

Owen drummed a finger on the glass. The religious differences between the fanatically Protestant King Edward and his equally fanatical Catholic half sister Mary were of little interest to him except where they impinged upon his work. He was much more concerned with the lady who was to be his quarry.

“Exactly how intimate are the lady and her stepbrother?” He turned back to his companion.

Noailles offered a very Gallic shrug. “I’ve heard no
whispers of scandal, but they are
very
close. And Lord Robin at the ripe age of twenty-eight has never married.”

“And the lady. What’s her situation?”

“The Lady Pen has been a widow close to three years now. Her marriage to Philip, the earl of Bryanston, was promoted by the king and Princess Mary, and to all intents and purposes seemed happy. But Philip died and she gave birth some months later to a stillborn child. Her brother-in-law inherited the earldom and is ruled, it’s generally believed, by his mother. He’s something of a dolt.” The ambassador’s lip curled. “Like most inhabitants of this nasty island.”

Owen smiled slightly. The Frenchman was not happy in his present diplomatic position and made no secret of it to his intimates.

Noailles drank wine and then continued. “The Bryanstons have little or nothing to do with Philip’s widow. She lays no claim to any part of her late husband’s estate. She doesn’t even take the title of dowager countess, leaving that to the sole use of her mother-in-law. ’Tis clear there’s no love lost there.”

Owen nodded. He ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin. “Is the lady ripe for plucking?”

“When have you ever failed to
persuade
the fruit to fall from the tree?” Noailles smiled.

Owen did not return the smile. “In the interests of business,” he said somewhat curtly.

“Oh, of course, only in the interests of business,” the ambassador agreed hastily. Owen d’Arcy’s private life was a closed book, or had been since that unfortunate business with his wife. As far as Noailles knew, the man
lived the life of a monk except when seduction suited his purposes. And then he was a true artist.

“Is she pleasing, this Lady Pen?” A frown crossed Owen’s black eyes. “A strange name. Is that truly how she’s called?”

“Penelope … but I’ve never heard her called anything but Pen, even by the princess. ’Tis a family name and she’s very close to her family. I think you’ll find her pleasing. She’s not strikingly beautiful but has a certain sweetness of countenance. She’s of middle height, neither fat nor thin.”

“She sounds singularly unexciting,” Owen observed aridly. “Do you have any views on her temperament?”

Noailles pulled at his neat dark beard. “She is somewhat reserved,” he said finally.

Owen gave a sharp crack of laughter. “I had hoped at the very least that you would tell me this nondescript creature would exhibit some passion once in a while.”

The ambassador opened his hands in a gesture of resignation. “ ’Tis said she took the deaths of her husband and child very hard.”

Owen shook his head and picked up his gloves from the table. He drew them on and strode to the door, where hung his thick, hooded cloak. He slung it around his shoulders, observing, “It seems you’ve set me quite a task, Noailles. I hope I’ll be equal to it.” The door banged shut on his departure.

“Oh, you’ll be equal to it, my friend,”
murmured the ambassador as he took up his chalice again. He went to the window, peering down through the driving snow at the street below.

After a minute the black-clad figure of Owen d’Arcy
emerged from the house, a page at his heels. He paused for a second, casting a quick glance up and down the street in a manner quite familiar to the watcher above. The master of intrigue never took a step without first assessing his surroundings. Then he walked off quickly in the direction of the Savoy Palace and was immediately lost in the swirling white.

Antoine de Noailles smiled to himself at the absurd idea that Owen d’Arcy would not succeed in bedding Pen Bryanston. Her confidences behind the bedcurtains would keep the French ambassador informed not only of Princess Mary’s schemes with her cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, but also of whatever intrigue was plotted in the two great ducal houses of Northumberland and Suffolk.

The great hall of the Bryanstons’ London residence on the banks of the Thames at Westminster was thronged. Pen stood in the gallery, looking down on the hall, where jewels glittered and sparked against rich velvets, damasks, satins, under the great wheels of candles suspended from the ceiling. From above, the mass of people seemed like a gigantic brilliantly colored wave that ebbed and swelled. Voices were indistinguishable; the sound was a featureless rumble that occasionally became a roar that drowned the sweetness emanating from the minstrels’ gallery.

It was hot in the gallery. The heat from the massive fireplaces, the many candles flaring in sconces high on the walls, the press of heavily clad bodies, rose to envelop Pen, and she dabbed at her forehead with an embroidered handkerchief.

It was hot but it was also secluded and afforded her the best view of her mother-in-law. The dowager countess of Bryanston was at the far side of the hall among the ladies surrounding Princess Mary. She was unlikely to leave that circle and her royal guest for some time, but even if she did she would have no reason to come up to the gallery. And even if she did have a reason, it would take her at least fifteen minutes to push her way through the throng and make for the stairs to the place where Pen stood.

She had at least fifteen minutes, Pen decided. Her eyes searched the throng for the earl of Bryanston and his lady. They shouldn’t pose a threat, but Pen would feel safer if she could locate them. She leaned forward slightly to get a better look and was suddenly blinded as a pair of hands came over her shoulders to cover her eyes.

Even as she started she knew to whom they belonged, and a delighted cry broke from her as she wrenched the hands away and spun around. “Robin! You scared me!”

“No, I didn’t. Of course you knew it was me.” Her stepbrother grinned at her, his brilliant blue eyes alight with pleasure at seeing her. He was a stocky man, square built, with a shock of springy nut-brown curls on which his velvet cap perched somewhat insecurely. His dress was rich and yet somehow awry. Pen automatically reached to brush a piece of fluff from his doublet, and while she was about it, resituated the jeweled brooch he wore in the lace at his throat.