Scar Face regards Mary with disdain. “Our king will never sanction the whore’s elevation to queen. We’ll see how far your king’s petition gets with Spain’s Emperor and the Holy See of Rome.”
“Your ignorance is astounding, monsieur,” I say, coolly. “King Francois despises the emperor. His great desire is to isolate the Spanish, then crush them into dust. After King Francois supports Lady Anne as King Henry’s legitimate wife, not even the pope will deny her as England’s legitimate queen.” I bump into his chest, forcing him to take a step backward. “King Francois would be enraged if your actions frustrate his carefully laid plans. Are you so eager to spend what remains of your life in the Bastille.”
“Get her out of there, Dodger.” Nico’s voice is urgent in my ear. “Starting a fight with the locals will attract the wrong attention.”
“What the hell are you doing, Clémence?” Fagin says.
I ignore them both and continue to glare up into Scar Face’s black eyes. Half of me wants this asshole to stand his ground so I can kick his ass into the next millennium. God knows I’ve got enough tension coiled in inside me to start a proper roadhouse brawl if he makes one more wrong move.
Scar Face considers me with a mix of suspicion and apprehension, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying or just foolish. He seems to choose the latter opinion. “Women make terrible spies,” he says with a smirk. “You always give too much away when you talk.”
“That may be true, monsieur,” I say with a nod. “Still, you don’t deny the truth of the current political climate, so who has given away too much?”
The man’s eyes narrow. He scratches his chin as he throws an anxious glance over my shoulder toward the dance floor. “The English mare isn’t worth the trouble,” he says. The comment is an undeniable reference to the crass gossip regarding King Francois’ nickname for Mary, chosen as a reference for how frequently he has ridden her.
I wait until Scar Face is out of range before steering Mary toward the wine buffet. She clutches my hand, her breath coming in shallow pants of frustration and anger. I nod at the Vicomtess who obligingly provides two goblets. I take one and offer the other to Mary, who accepts it with trembling hands.
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” she says, taking a deep, grateful draught from the goblet. “A gallant knight couldn’t have defended me—and my sister—more perfectly than you. France is not as welcoming as it was the last time I was here.”
“You must be careful, Mistress Boleyn,” I say, “There are many in this room who would make sport damaging your reputation.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I am well-acquainted with court intrigues; I served in Queen Claude’s court when I was young. What I am not accustomed to is the righteous indignation of those who should have no say in matters regarding my sister.”
“Our king will do his best to dispel any ill wishes directed toward her. He has pledged his support of the union to King Henry.”
“King Francois says he will publicly support their marriage, yes,” she says. Her expression turns skeptical. “If true, why have both his queen and sister refused to receive Anne? Their denial is a terrible omen for the King keeping his promises.”
“There are people in the French court who continue to remind our king that forging a strong alliance between France and England against the emperor in Spain will change the world.”
“Good, Dodger. Make her believe you’re an ally.” Fagin says, in my ear. It’s the first scrap of validation from her in what feels like forever. My heart leaps; I could run on this simple praise for the next month.
“There are days when I fear it’s quite an ill-fated path my sister follows. It is well-known that our king can be...” she pauses, hesitant to speak the words she’s mulling over. As most well-positioned courtiers with something to lose would do, she softens her tone with a diplomatic whitewash. “Well, he can be inconstant in his mood and appetites, moving easily from one liaison to the next, leaving a woman to contend with being a social pariah. I have much experience with this matter.”
“Your king is well-known for his appetites,” I say. When Mary frowns at the overly familiar and, slightly judgmental bent in my tone, I give her my warmest, most engaging smile. “But, you’re a resourceful woman, and with your sister as queen, surely you have many suitors fighting to wed you.”
“No, mademoiselle.” Her eyes grow sad. “Having occupied too many royal beds, my value in the marketplace suffers. I’m afraid fate has utterly abandoned me.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” I say. “We create our own destinies. Any royal court overflows with schemers. You can scarcely throw a stone, in any direction, without hitting someone who covets what you have. Material riches are shallow compared to true wealth.”
“Riches and wealth are the same thing,” she says, perplexed. “I don’t know how long my father will support me without having a proper husband.”
“Dear Mary, never confuse money with wealth.” God, I sound like Fagin. “One is used to buy goods that decay with time. The other is the thing of higher value that you would abandon all of your earthly possessions to gain.”
“You speak in riddles, Mademoiselle. What is true wealth?” She asks, earnestness brimming in her eyes.
“For some, it’s good health or a clean conscience. For me, it’s being the mistress of my own life. To owe allegiance to none but
