A home. Marguerite feared she did not even know what the word meant, as wondrous as it sounded. “He must be a great friend to your son, Dona Elena, for you to take such concern.”
“He is indeed! He saved Marc’s life.”
Very interesting. “How so?”
“I do not know the particulars. It happened in Venice. Or was it Vienna? No matter. He saved my son, and I shall always be grateful to him. And now he comes all this way to watch over me! Such a good man, señorita. If only he would let me repay him by finding him a fine wife.”
They walked on, the conversation turning to lighter matters of fashion, but Marguerite’s thoughts whirled. Could it really be that Nicolai was not here at Greenwich on matters of state and politics, but merely—friendship?
It scarcely seemed possible. Marguerite had never heard of such a thing. There must be something else, something Nicolai hid from the sweet Dona Elena, that brought him to this meeting. He had to be in the pay of someone else. But what was it he really sought?
Marguerite was more determined than ever to find out.
Chapter Eight
“What will you wear tonight, mistress?” asked Marguerite’s borrowed English maid, sorting through the clothes chest.
“Hmm?” Marguerite asked, distracted. She was sitting before her small looking glass, restlessly moving combs and jars about though she was meant to be dressing her hair. She would never be ready for the banquet in time if she carried on like this! Then she would have to go down in her chemise and stays. “What do you think?”
The maid examined the jumble of garments, at last holding up a skirt and bodice of silver-and-white satin. “This one, mistress! And the gold tissue sleeves.”
It was one of Marguerite’s best outfits, with the trim worked in a flower pattern of tiny crystals and silver-gilt embroidery, and she had meant to save it for the end of their English stay. But she remembered Dona Elena’s pretty attendants, her vow to see Nicolai married to one of them. It aroused in Marguerite a fierce, irrational yearning to outpretty them all, to capture Nicolai’s gaze and hold it only to herself. To never surrender it to some Spanish ninny, who might indeed make a fine, sweet wife, but who could never keep his interest for long.
“Abruti!” she cursed, throwing down a comb so hard one of the delicate teeth snapped. What was wrong with her tonight? She didn’t want Nicolai’s attention. Indeed, those unearthly blue eyes watching her just made her task that much harder. And it was nothing to her if he married fifty featherbrained Spanish girls. A hundred, a thousand!
Marguerite pressed her hands to her temples, feeling the throbbing veins just under her skin. She had sometimes heard of François’s spies going mad under the unceasing pressure of their work, turning into raving lunatics who had to be locked away because they no longer knew friend from foe. Was that what was happening to her?
“Non,” she whispered.
“Mistress? Is aught amiss?” the maid asked, her voice full of concern. Perhaps she did not often see ladies throw small tantrums, as the placid, polite English queen kept everyone under such control.
“Nay, I think I am just tired,” Marguerite answered steadily. “The white will do very well. You have a good eye.”
As the maid laid out the garments, Marguerite reached for her bottle of perfume. It was a special scent, blended for her by the royal perfumer. Her father used to tell her how her mother wore the fragrance of springtime lilies all the time, so Marguerite wore it, too. Its fresh sweetness seemed to revive her now, quiet the rush of her 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