The Emerald Swan Page 2

  "Mi­ran­da!" The vo­ice ema­na­ting from this spec­tac­le su­ited the gran­de­ur of its ap­pe­aran­ce. It was a mas­si­ve, he­avily ac­cen­ted, thro­aty bel­low that was promptly re­pe­ated. "Mi­ran­da!"

  "Ohhhh, Lord," the girl mut­te­red aga­in in a long-drawn-out si­bi­lant mo­an. The mon­key to­ok off, still

  chat­te­ring, and the girl dod­ged be­hind Ga­reth. She whis­pe­red ur­gently, "You wo­uld do me the most ama­zing ser­vi­ce, mi­lord, if you wo­uld just stand per­fectly still un­til she's go­ne past."

  Ga­reth was hard-pres­sed to ke­ep a stra­ight fa­ce but ob­li­gingly re­ma­ined still, then he in­ha­led sharply as he felt a warm body slip in­si­de his clo­ak be­hind him and plas­ter it­self aga­inst his back. It was as if he had grown a cor­po­re­al sha­dow, thin eno­ugh to ca­use ba­rely a cre­ase in the folds of his scar­let silk clo­ak, but sub­s­tan­ti­al eno­ugh to ma­ke his skin lift in a sen­su­al rip­ple.

  The mon­key le­aped in front of the lar­ge wo­man and be­gan to dan­ce and jab­ber in a man­ner ra­di­ating in­sult and chal­len­ge. The wo­man bel­lo­wed aga­in and ra­ised a fist the si­ze of a ham hock wrap­ped aro­und a very knotty stick. Chip la­ug­hed at her, sho­wing yel­low te­eth and spar­k­ling eyes, then plun­ged in­to the crowd; the wo­man fol­lo­wed, still bel­lo­wing, still flo­uris­hing her stick.

  Her chan­ces of cat­c­hing the mon­key we­re so re­mo­te as to be la­ug­hab­le, Ga­reth ref­lec­ted, but Chip had cle­arly ac­hi­eved his obj­ect in dra­wing her away from his mis­t­ress.

  "My thanks, mi­lord." The girl slit­he­red out from his clo­ak, gi­ving him a re­li­eved smi­le. "I ha­ve no de­si­re to be ca­ught by Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de at the mo­ment. She's the swe­etest per­son in the world, but she's ab­so­lu­tely de­ter­mi­ned I shall be­co­me her son's par­t­ner in the end. Lu­ke is a de­ar, but he's qu­ite daft at ever­y­t­hing but ma­na­ging Fred. I co­uldn't pos­sibly marry him, let alo­ne sha­re an act with him."

  "I'm de­lig­h­ted to be of as­sis­tan­ce," Ga­reth mur­mu­red dryly, no­ne the wi­ser for her ex­p­la­na­ti­on. Ne­it­her co­uld he un­der­s­tand why he'd fo­und the pro­xi­mity of such a dab of a cre­atu­re so un­ner­vingly sen­su­al, but the skin of his back was still hum­ming li­ke a tu­ning fork.

  Mi­ran­da lo­oked aro­und. The crowd we­re gro­wing res­t­less and the mu­si­ci­ans and jug­glers, ta­king the­ir cue, bo­wed them­sel­ves off to be rep­la­ced by a rat­her wit­less-lo­oking yo­uth in a mul­ti­co­lo­red do­ub­let, ac­com­pa­ni­ed by a frisky ter­ri­er.

  "That's Lu­ke and Fred," Mi­ran­da in­for­med the ow­ner of the con­ve­ni­ent clo­ak. "You see, it's a very go­od act and he can get Fred to do an­y­t­hing. Watch him jump thro­ugh the ring of fi­re… But po­or Lu­ke do­esn't ha­ve a bra­in in his he­ad. I know it's not my des­tiny to marry him and be his par­t­ner."

  Ga­reth glan­ced from the yo­ung man's va­cu­o­us ex­p­res­si­on to the girl's bright eyes shi­ning with li­vely in­tel­li­gen­ce and saw her po­int.

  "I must go and find Chip. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de won't be ab­le to catch him, but he might get up to mis­c­hi­ef." The girl ga­ve him a che­er­ful wa­ve and di­ved in­to the crowd, her oran­ge skirt a glow of co­lor un­til she di­sap­pe­ared from vi­ew.

  Ga­reth felt slightly be­mu­sed but he fo­und him­self smi­ling ne­ver­t­he­less. He glan­ced back at the sta­ge to whe­re the boy on his sto­ol ga­zed dis­con­so­la­tely in­to the audi­en­ce af­ter his de­par­ted dan­ce par­t­ner. The child lo­oked as be­reft as if he'd be­en left alo­ne in the dark.

  The wo­man she'd cal­led Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de was pus­hing her way back thro­ugh the crowd, her ex­p­res­si­on grimly dis­g­run­t­led. She was mut­te­ring to her­self. "That girl… Li­ke a fi­refly she is with her dar­ting abo­ut. He­re one mi­nu­te and go­ne the next. What's wrong with my Lu­ke, I ask you?" She lo­oked di­rectly at Ga­reth on this fi­er­ce qu­es­ti­on. "A go­od, hard wor­ker, he is. A fi­ne-lo­oking boy. What's wrong with him? Any nor­mal girl wo­uld be glad of such a ma­te."

  She gla­red at Ga­reth as if he we­re so­me­how res­pon­sib­le for Mi­ran­da's in­g­ra­ti­tu­de. Then with a shrug and anot­her mut­ter she sa­iled away on a clo­ud of pu­ce, her enor­mo­us bo­som jut­ting li­ke the prow of a ship abo­ve the swa­ying cir­c­le of her far­t­hin­ga­le.

  Lu­ke had just fi­nis­hed his act and was bo­wing to the crowd, the ter­ri­er strut­ting on his hind legs along the ed­ge of the sta­ge, but the audi­en­ce was al­re­ady mo­ving away.

  Ger­t­ru­de was gal­va­ni­zed. She jum­ped on­to the sta­ge with ex­t­ra­or­di­nary agi­lity for one so cum­ber­so­me. "You ha­ven't sent the cap aro­und!" she bel­lo­wed. "Daft as a brush, you are, Lu­ke. Get down the­re and get yo­ur fee." She be­la­bo­red the hap­less yo­uth with the knob of her stick. "Stan­ding the­re bo­wing and ca­vor­ting whi­le the crowd go­es away! You don't see Mi­ran­da do­ing that, you dolt!"

  The lad jum­ped off the sta­ge and be­gan we­aving his way thro­ugh the de­par­ting crowd, his cap out­s­t­ret­c­hed, an ex­p­res­si­on of eager sup­pli­ca­ti­on on his fa­ce as he beg­ged for co­ins, his lit­tle dog trot­ting at his he­els. But he'd mis­sed the mo­ment and most of his audi­en­ce sho­ved past him, ig­no­ring his cap and his ple­as. Ga­reth drop­ped a shil­ling in­to the cap and the yo­ung man's jaw drop­ped.

  "Thank you, mi­lord," he stam­me­red. "Thank you kindly, mi­lord."

  "Whe­re do you co­me from?" Ga­reth ges­tu­red to the sta­ge, al­re­ady be­ing dis­man­t­led by a pa­ir of la­bo­rers.

  "Fran­ce, mi­lord." Lu­ke sto­od aw­k­wardly, his eyes on his ra­pidly di­sap­pe­aring in­co­me. He was cle­arly torn bet­we­en the ne­ed to pur­sue any last gro­ats that might be for­t­h­co­ming from the crowd and the ob­li­ga­ti­on to an­s­wer the qu­es­ti­ons of the nob­le lord who had re­war­ded his act with such lar­ges­se. "We're cat­c­hing the af­ter­no­on ti­de for Ca­la­is," he vo­lun­te­ered.

  The earl of Har­co­urt nod­ded in dis­mis­sal and Lu­ke di­ved af­ter the ret­re­ating audi­en­ce. The earl idly wat­c­hed the dis­man­t­ling pro­cess for a few mo­re mi­nu­tes, then tur­ned back to the town nes­t­ling at the fo­ot of the she­er whi­te cliffs ri­sing from the En­g­lish Chan­nel.

  He had lan­ded from Fran­ce him­self at dawn af­ter a ga­le-blown cros­sing and had de­ci­ded to stay over­night in Do­ver and start out for his ho­use on the Strand just out­si­de the city walls of Lon­don the next mor­ning.

  His de­ci­si­on had mo­re to do with his re­luc­tan­ce to re­en­ter the ma­el­s­t­rom of his sis­ter's fre­ne­tic bat­tles with the re­cal­cit­rant Ma­ude than an­y­t­hing el­se. In truth, he'd enj­oyed the ele­men­tal bat­tle with the storm, wor­king be­si­de the fran­tic sa­ilors, who'd wel­co­med anot­her pa­ir of hands in the­ir strug­gles to ke­ep the fra­il craft af­lo­at. He sus­pec­ted that the sa­ilors had be­en much mo­re af­ra­id than he had be­en, but then ma­ri­ners we­re a mo­re than usu­al­ly su­per­s­ti­ti­o­us bre­ed who li­ved in per­pe­tu­al dre­ad of a wa­tery gra­ve.

  Ga­reth slip­ped a hand in­si­de his do­ub­let of richly em­b­ro­ide­red sil­ver silk, his fin­gers en­co­un­te­ring the lit­tle vel­vet po­uch con­ta­ining the bra­ce­let, Henry's gift to a pros­pec­ti­ve bri­de. The par­c­h­ment in its wa­xed en­ve­lo­pe lay aga­inst his bre­ast and he tra­ced the ra­ised se­al of King Henry IV of Fran­ce be­ne­ath his fin­gers. Henry of Na­var­re was king of Fran­ce only in na­me and bir­t­h­right at pre­sent. French Cat­ho­lics wo­uld not wil­lingly ac­cept a Hu­gu­enot mo­narch, but on­ce he had suc­ce­eded in sub­du­ing his re­cal­cit­rant su­bj­ects, he wo­uld ru­le an im­men­se ter­ri­tor
y in­fi­ni­tely mo­re po­wer­ful than his na­ti­ve land. King of Na­var­re was a me­re ba­ga­tel­le be­si­de king of Fran­ce.

  And be­ne­ath that ro­yal se­al of Fran­ce lay the ro­ad back to the po­wer and lands on­ce enj­oyed by the Har­co­urt fa­mily.

  It was a ro­ad of such diz­zying splen­dor that not even Imo­gen, Ga­reth's po­wer-hungry sis­ter, wo­uld ha­ve da­red to con­tem­p­la­te it.

  A sar­do­nic smi­le to­uc­hed Ga­reth's fi­ne mo­uth as he ima­gi­ned how Imo­gen wo­uld re­act to the pro­po­si­ti­on he car­ri­ed in his bre­ast. Sin­ce Char­lot­te's de­ath, very lit­tle out­si­de his own pur­su­its had ro­used Ga­reth from his let­har­gic in­dif­fe­ren­ce to the wi­der world, but this gol­den stro­ke of for­tu­ne had set his ju­ices run­ning, re­vi­ving the old po­li­ti­cal hun­gers that had on­ce en­ric­hed his da­ily li­fe.

  But first he wo­uld ha­ve to se­cu­re the ag­re­ement of his ward-not so­met­hing that co­uld ever be ta­ken for gran­ted.

  When he'd yi­el­ded to his sis­ter's de­mands and sa­iled for Fran­ce, he had car­ri­ed a much mo­re mo­dest pro­po­si­ti­on than the one he now held. It was a pro­po­si­ti­on to the king's ad­vi­sor and clo­se con­fi­dant, the du­ke of Ro­is­sy, sug­ges­ting that the du­ke ta­ke Ma­ude, da­ug­h­ter of the du­ke d'Albard, and se­cond co­usin to the earl of Har­co­urt, as his bri­de. But events had ta­ken an unex­pec­ted turn.

  Ga­reth tur­ned back to the wa­ter aga­in and ga­zed out to­ward the bar­ri­er wall that pro­tec­ted the har­bor from the en­c­ro­ac­hing wa­ters of the Chan­nel. It was a be­a­uti­ful, pe­ace­ful spot well de­ser­ving of its na­me- Pa­ra­di­se Har­bor. Qu­ite un­li­ke the grim ca­cop­ho­no­us tur­mo­il of King Henry's be­si­eging camp be­ne­ath the walls of Pa­ris…

  Ga­reth had en­te­red Henry's camp on a filthy Ap­ril eve­ning, with a dri­ving ra­in mo­re su­ited to win­ter than spring. He had tra­ve­led alo­ne, kno­wing he wo­uld draw less at­ten­ti­on to him­self wit­ho­ut a re­ti­nue of ser­vants. The en­ti­re co­un­t­r­y­si­de was in an up­ro­ar as the­ir un­wan­ted king la­id si­ege to Pa­ris and the city's in­ha­bi­tants bat­tled with fa­mi­ne even as they re­fu­sed to ad­mit and ac­k­now­led­ge a so­ve­re­ign they con­si­de­red a he­re­tic usur­per.

  Lord Har­co­urt's lack of at­ten­dants and vi­sib­le bad­ges of his rank and iden­tity had ca­used dif­fi­cul­ti­es with the mas­ter-at-arms, but fi­nal­ly he had be­en ad­mit­ted to the spraw­ling camp re­sem­b­ling a ten­ted city. For two ho­urs, he had kic­ked his he­els in the an­tec­ham­ber to the king's tent as of­fi­cers, co­uri­ers, ser­vants, had hur­ri­ed thro­ugh in­to the king's pre­sen­ce, ba­rely glan­cing at the tall man in his dark, ra­in-sod­den clo­ak and mud­di­ed bo­ots, swin­ging his arms and pa­cing the trod­den-down grass of the en­c­lo­sed area in an ef­fort to ke­ep warm.

  Mat­ters hadn't im­p­ro­ved much on­ce he'd be­en ad­mit­ted to the ro­yal-pre­sen­ce. King Henry had be­en a sol­di­er from his fif­te­enth bir­t­h­day and now, at thir­ty-eight, was a hard-bo­di­ed, pas­si­ona­te war­ri­or who dis­da­ined cre­atu­re com­forts. His own qu­ar­ters we­re ba­rely war­med by a sul­len bra­zi­er, his bed was a straw pal­let on the cold gro­und. He and his ad­vi­sors, still bo­oted and spur­red, hud­dled in thick ri­ding clo­aks.

  The king had gre­eted Lord Har­co­urt with a co­ur­te­o­us smi­le, but his sharp dark eyes we­re sus­pi­ci­o­us, his qu­es­ti­ons ke­en and po­in­ted. He was a man who had le­ar­ned al­ways to see tre­ac­hery in of­fers of fri­en­d­s­hip af­ter the hi­de­o­us mas­sac­re of Sa­int Bar­t­ho­lo­mew's Day, when at the age of ni­ne­te­en he'd mar­ri­ed Mar­gu­eri­te of Va­lo­is and thus un­wit­tingly sprung the trap that had ca­used the de­aths of tho­usands of his own pe­op­le in the city that he was now coldly, de­li­be­ra­tely, star­ving in­to sub­mis­si­on.

  But Ga­reth's cre­den­ti­als we­re im­pec­cab­le. His own fat­her had be­en at Henry's si­de at that ill-fa­ted wed­ding. The du­ke d'Albard, Ma­ude's fat­her, had be­en one of Henry's clo­sest fri­ends and had lost his wi­fe and baby in the mas­sac­re. The mur­de­red wi­fe had be­en a Har­co­urt be­fo­re her mar­ri­age. So, af­ter a ca­re­ful­ly po­in­ted in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on, the earl of Har­co­urt was ac­cep­ted as fri­end and bid­den to sha­re the king's fru­gal sup­per be­fo­re he and Ro­is­sy dis­cus­sed Lord Har­co­urt's pro­po­sal.

  The wi­ne was ro­ugh, the bre­ad co­ar­se, the me­at he­avily se­aso­ned to dis­gu­ise its ran­k­ness, but the fa­mis­hed ci­ti­zens of Pa­ris wo­uld ha­ve fo­und it man­na. Henry for his part ap­pe­ared to find not­hing at fa­ult with the fa­re and had eaten he­ar­tily and drunk de­ep, his be­ak­li­ke no­se red­de­ning slightly as the wi­ne in the le­at­her bot­tles di­mi­nis­hed. Fi­nal­ly, he had wi­ped his thin mo­uth with the back of his hand, sha­king bre­ad crumbs lo­ose from his be­ard, and de­man­ded to see the por­t­ra­it of Lady Ma­ude. The king must jud­ge whet­her the lady was worthy to be the wi­fe of his de­ar Ro­is­sy. It was sa­id with ap­pa­rent jocu­la­rity, but the­re was mo­re than a strand of se­ri­o­us­ness be­ne­ath.

  Ga­reth had pro­du­ced the mi­ni­atu­re of his yo­ung co­usin. It was a go­od li­ke­ness, de­pic­ting Ma­ude pa­le, blue-eyed, with her air of wan et­he­re­al fra­gi­lity that in many wo­men pas­sed for be­a­uty. Her pe­net­ra­ting azu­re ga­ze from the pe­arl-en­c­rus­ted fra­me bes­po­ke the girl's de­eply in­ten­se tem­pe­ra­ment. Her skin was very whi­te, un­he­al­t­hily so by Ga­reth's lights. Her long swan­li­ke neck was one of her gre­atest cla­ims to be­a­uty and it was ac­cen­tu­ated in the por­t­ra­it by a tur­qu­o­ise pen­dant.

  Henry had ta­ken the mi­ni­atu­re and his thick eyeb­rows had drawn to­get­her ab­ruptly. He glan­ced to­ward Ro­is­sy, an ar­res­ted ex­p­res­si­on in his ke­en eyes.

  "My lord? Is the­re so­met­hing wrong?" Ro­is­sy had lo­oked alar­med, cra­ning his neck to see the por­t­ra­it that the king still held on the palm of his hand.

  "No. No, not­hing at all. The lady is qu­ite lo­vely." Henry's vo­ice had be­en cu­ri­o­usly ab­s­t­rac­ted as he tap­ped the mi­ni­atu­re with a cal­lu­sed fin­ger­tip. "How tra­gic that she sho­uld ha­ve grown up mot­her­less. I re­mem­ber Ele­na so cle­arly." He glan­ced up at Ga­reth. "You we­re clo­se to yo­ur co­usin, I be­li­eve."

  Ga­reth me­rely nod­ded. Ele­na had be­en so­me ye­ars ol­der than he, but they had had a clo­se rap­port and her mur­der had gri­eved him so­rely.

  Henry suc­ked in his bot­tom lip as he con­ti­nu­ed to sta­re down at Ma­ude's por­t­ra­it. "It wo­uld be an im­pec­cab­le con­nec­ti­on."

  "Yes, in­de­ed, my lord." Ro­is­sy so­un­ded a lit­tle im­pa­ti­ent. "The d'Albards and the Ro­is­sys ha­ve long be­en al­li­ed. And the Har­co­urts, al­so." He had thrown a qu­ick smi­le at the earl of Har­co­urt.

  "Yes, yes… a fi­ne con­nec­ti­on for a Ro­is­sy," Henry sa­id dis­tantly. "But no bad al­li­an­ce for a king… eh?" He had lo­oked aro­und the tab­le at that with a grin that ma­de him ap­pe­ar yo­un­ger than his ye­ars. "I li­ke the lo­ok of this co­usin of yo­urs, my lord Har­co­urt. And I am in so­re ne­ed of a Pro­tes­tant wi­fe."

  The­re was a stun­ned si­len­ce, then Ro­is­sy had sa­id, "But my lord king has a wi­fe al­re­ady."

  Henry had la­ug­hed. "A Cat­ho­lic wi­fe, yes. Mar­gu­eri­te and I are fri­ends. We ha­ve be­en se­pa­ra­ted for ye­ars. She has her lo­vers, I ha­ve mi­ne. She will ag­ree to a di­vor­ce whe­ne­ver I ask it of her." He had tur­ned his brig­ht-eyed ga­ze on Ga­reth. "I will see yo­ur ward for myself, Har­co­urt. And if I find her as ple­asing as her por­t­ra­it, then I am af­ra­id Ro­is­sy must
lo­ok el­sew­he­re for a wi­fe."

  The­re had be­en obj­ec­ti­ons of co­ur­se. The king co­uldn't le­ave the si­ege of Pa­ris and tra­vel to En­g­land at this jun­c­tu­re. But Henry was de­ter­mi­ned. His ge­ne­rals co­uld con­ti­nue the work for a few months wit­ho­ut him. Star­ving a city in­to sub­mis­si­on re­qu­ired no gre­at tac­ti­cal ma­ne­uvers or blo­ody bat­tles. He wo­uld slip away from the fi­eld, wo­uld tra­vel in­cog­ni­to-a French nob­le­man vi­si­ting Qu­e­en Eli­za­beth's co­urt-and he wo­uld enj­oy the hos­pi­ta­lity of the earl of Har­co­urt and ma­ke the ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce of the lo­vely Lady Ma­ude. And if he be­li­eved that he and she wo­uld ma­ke a su­itab­le match, then he wo­uld do his wo­o­ing for him­self.

  The me­di­eval ser­pen­ti­ne bra­ce­let with its eme­rald swan charm had be­lon­ged to Ma­ude's mot­her. It was a uni­que and most pre­ci­o­us pi­ece of jewelry. How it had co­me in­to the king's pos­ses­si­on, Ga­reth didn't know. He pre­su­med Fran­cis d'Albard had gi­ven it to his king at so­me po­int and Henry now con­si­de­red it a most ap­prop­ri­ate gift as ear­nest of his in­tent to woo d'Albard's da­ug­h­ter.

  And so it had co­me abo­ut that Ga­reth now car­ri­ed in his do­ub­let the pro­po­sal that wo­uld send Imo­gen in­to tran­s­ports of de­light and pa­nic. And God alo­ne knew what it wo­uld do to Ma­ude.

  He pas­sed thro­ugh the bro­ken ga­te­way in the crum­b­ling town wall. The town was well pro­tec­ted by the cas­t­le on the clif­ftop and the three forts bu­ilt along the se­af­ront by Eli­za­beth's fat­her, Henry VI­II, and had long gi­ven up ma­in­ta­ining its wal­ls-they we­re too sus­cep­tib­le to a can­no­na­de from the wa­ter to ma­ke it wor­t­h­w­hi­le an­y­way. He tur­ned to­ward Cha­pel Stre­et and the Adam and Eve Inn, whe­re he co­uld bes­pe­ak a bed to him­self that night and be re­aso­nably su­re of get­ting one. In­nke­epers we­re no­to­ri­o­us for pro­mi­sing such pre­ci­o­us pri­vacy and then in­f­lic­ting un­wan­ted bed­fel­lows on the­ir pat­rons at an ho­ur of the night when a man co­uld do not­hing abo­ut it.