The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (15 page)

 
‘Why?
 
What have I done?’

‘Opened your mouth when you should have kept it shut. You know what will happen.
 
D’Amboise will tell Clermont it was your idea to let Etienne read in – and he’ll throw a fit.’

‘Let him,’ sniffed Athenais.
 
And, with a grin, ‘He’s always going on about his old friend Montdory.
 
Perhaps he’ll do us all a favour and go the same way – though preferably not mid-performance.’
 
She paused and, when Pauline didn’t laugh, added, ‘It was a joke.’

‘One you’d better not repeat.’

‘I wouldn’t – except to you.’

‘You would.
 
You’d say it to Clermont himself if he pushed you far enough.
 
And unless somebody else upsets him first and worse, he’s quite likely to do that tonight.
 
So you’d better be ready to hold your tongue and deal with whatever he throws at you on stage.’

‘I’m
always
ready.
 
The daft old bugger fluffs his lines so often, I have to be.’
 
Athenais settled back and took another bite of the cake.
 
‘Don’t worry.
 
I can handle Clermont.
 
And if he tries any of his little tricks, I’ll have the pit on my side.’

‘Don’t rely on it.
 
The pit can break you as easily as it made you.’

‘So if I’m ever to get out of the Rue Benoit, I can’t afford to disappoint my public,’ recited Athenais obediently. ‘Yes.
 
I know.’

This remark was less flippant than it sounded. The Rue Benoit was the tiny, insalubrious alleyway between St. Severin and St. Julien-le-Pauvre where Athenais lived with her father in a three-roomed hovel … and which she was desperate to leave.

Pauline said slowly, ‘Yes.
 
Well, you know my views on that.
 
Quite apart from it being inconvenient living so far from the theatre, the world judges by appearances.
 
If your admirers knew how you live, they’d die laughing.’

Athenais sighed.

‘There’s a house on the Rue des Rosiers that would be perfect.
 
But I can’t afford it. And even if I could, I’d never talk Father into moving.
 
Squalor doesn’t bother him as long as he’s got enough money to spend most of his waking hours in the tavern.’

Frowning, Pauline laid down the hair-brush and, keeping her tone perfectly neutral, said, ‘Perhaps you should consider leaving him to stew in his own juice, then.’

An odd expression, half-stubborn and half-regretful, stirred in the luminous smoke-dark eyes and it was a while before Athenais said wryly, ‘I consider it several times a day.
 
But I can’t do it.
 
The drunken old sod’s the only family I’ve got.’

*
 
*
 
*

Precisely as Pauline had predicted, Clermont used that night’s performance of
La Bague de L’Oubli
to show Athenais the error of her ways.
 
He threw her incorrect cues or none at all; he cut her lines, then paused where she had none before continuing with an air of subtle reproof; and he altered his moves so as to alternatively up-stage or mask her.
 
By the end of the first act, Athenais thought she’d parried every trick in the book; after the second, she was fraught with the effort of re-arranging her speeches so they made sense and giddy from circling the stage like a blowfly; and, at some point in the third, she lost her temper.

She hid it from the audience.
 
But as soon as the play was over she rounded on Clermont in full view of the company and, using the gutter vernacular of her childhood, told him what she thought of his acting, his professionalism and his stinking breath.
 
Then, leaving him white with fury, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

The audience was still leaving the theatre and the street outside was thronged with carriages and chairs.
 
Athenais found her own shabby hire-coach on the corner of the Rue de la Perle.
 
Its driver was enjoying a leisurely pipe but as soon as she appeared, he grinned and said, ‘You’re early tonight.
 
Place on fire, is it?’

‘Something like that,’ she agreed aridly. And then, from inside the carriage, ‘Martin – I’ve had a downright evil evening.
 
Can we just go?’

‘Suits me,’ he shrugged.
 
And, slamming the door shut, hoisted himself on to the box and set the horses in motion.

The cobbled, tooth-rattling route took them down the Rue Vieille du Temple, then past the H
ô
tel de Ville and the Place de Gr
è
ve to the Tour St. Jacques.
 
From there they crossed the Pont au Change to the Ile de la Cit
é
before leaving it again by means of the crumbling Petit Pont below the H
ô
tel Dieu.
 
Athenais clung to the strap, wearily regretting her outburst at the theatre and longing for her bed.
 
Then the coach plunged to a halt.

‘
Now
what?’ she muttered irritably and stuck her head out of the window.

Inexplicably, the Petit Pont was blocked with fallen scaffolding and chunks of masonry beneath which lay a cart.
 
A handful of people were attempting to remove the debris but, since it would plainly take hours to clear the road, Martin gloomily observed that they would either have to pay the toll on the Pont au Double or go right round via the Pont Neuf.

‘
Merde!
’ breathed Athenais bitterly. Then, descending from the coach, ‘Go home, Martin.
 
I’ll walk.’

Hefrowned.
 
‘You can’t.’

‘Yes, I can.
 
It won’t take more than ten minutes – and I can take care of myself,’ she replied, tying her hood firmly beneath her chin. ‘Goodnight,
mon vieux
.
 
I’ll see you tomorrow.’
 
And she walked on to the bridge and started clambering over the wreckage.

It wasn’t difficult and she managed well enough until her skirt got caught – reminding her that, in her haste to leave the theatre, she hadn’t bothered to get changed and was therefore still wearing her costume.
 
This in itself was a fineable offence.
 
If she also damaged the wretched thing, it was likely to cost her a day’s wages.

She gave her skirt an experimental tug and heard an ominous tearing sound.
 
A colourful expletive escaped her lips and she twisted round, trying to locate the source of the problem without making matters any worse.
 
Her balance faltered.

Two capable hands grasped her about the waist and a rich, seductive voice, rippling with amusement, said, ‘If you stand still for a moment, Mademoiselle, I’ll disentangle you.’

Athenais found herself staring down on a tall fellow in a wide-brimmed hat and trailing black cloak.
 
His face, no more than a pale blur in the darkness, disappeared abruptly as he bent to free her skirt from the nail-studded piece of scaffolding which had ensnared it.
 
Then, straightening his back and holding out his arm to her, he said, ‘May I help you down?’

Ignoring both arm and offer, Athenais jumped down and pulled her cloak more firmly about her.
 
Then, uttering a frigid ‘thank you’, she waited for him to step aside.

He didn’t do so.
 
Instead, still on that annoying note of laughter, he said, ‘Since you’ve been forced to abandon your conveyance, I’d be happy to escort you to your door.’

‘And beyond it no doubt,’ snapped Athenais witheringly. Then, ‘Get out of my way.
 
I didn’t come down with the last shower – and if you want a whore, I suggest you try the Pont Neuf.’

The man stepped back and accorded a small, sardonic bow.

‘Thank you for the advice.
 
I’ll bear it in mind.
 
Just now, however, I was merely offering my protection. At this time of night, the St. Severin quarter is no place for a lady.’

Some half-dozen steps past him, Athenais halted again and turned her head.

‘I know that.
 
I live there. And fortunately, I’m no lady.
 
So don’t try your tricks on me. I’ve heard them all before – plus a few you haven’t yet thought of.’

‘I doubt that.’
 
Laughter drifted after her across the bridge. ‘And you shouldn’t make so many assumptions.
 
They’ll trip you up, one day.’

Athenais continued briskly on her way.

‘Bugger off,’ she said.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

At home in the ugly little house on the Rue Benoit, Athenais found her father snoring drunkenly over the kitchen table and, leaving him where he was, went straight to her own cramped room under the eaves.
 
Then, throwing herself into bed, she sank into deep, dreamless slumber.

She awoke, as usual, shortly after nine and, wrapping herself in a chamber-robe which the second-hand clothes seller in St. Michel assured her had once belonged to a marquise, went down to cook herself a belated breakfast.

Her father – awake and more or less sober – was sitting by the hearth, nursing his head. Athenais’s brows rose and she said blightingly, ‘My God.
 
Which has run out – Gaston’s wine or your money?’

Archibald Stott, who’d fought in the German wars until the palsy had taken the use of his right arm, looked back at her blearily and, in the unlovely accents of Bridewell, said plaintively, ‘Bleeding ’ell, Agnes – for Gawd’s sake stop nagging, will you?’

Athenais drew an irritable breath and, sticking to French, snapped, ‘I haven’t started yet.
 
And don’t call me Agnes.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?
 
You can use a fancy made-up ’andle at the theatre – but in this ’ouse you’re plain Agnes Stott.’

It was an old argument.
 
Usually, Athenais refused the bait.
 
Today, with her nerves at full-stretch over the likely consequences of her attack on Clermont, she said acidly, ‘Since you and
Maman
never married, that’s not true, is it?
 
But if it was, I could hardly be blamed for changing it.
 
Agnes is bad enough, God knows.
 
But
Stott?
’

Archie sat up rather too spryly and winced at the sudden throbbing in his head.

‘I don’t see what’s wrong wiv it.’

‘No.
 
You wouldn’t.’
 
Snatching a pitcher from the table, Athenais turned towards the door to the yard.
 
‘If you want breakfast, you can make a start by getting the fire going,’ she remarked.
 
And went out to the pump.

The yard stank of rotting cabbage leaves and the contents of countless
pots de chambre
.
 
Athenais wrinkled her nose and, ignoring the jibes of the pair of slatterns gossiping by the wall, filled her pitcher and went back inside to fry slices of sausage.
 
Archie watched her work and, in between debating ways of getting her to line his empty pockets, wondered – not for the first time – how he and Louise had managed to produce such a little beauty.

He was proud of her, in his way.
 
Proud of her success on the stage as well as the way men looked at her.
 
He was also sometimes uneasy about exactly how far she’d had to use the second in order to achieve the first.
 
But he never asked any questions or told her of either emotion. He simply reminded himself that, despite her fragile appearance, his Agnes had a will of iron, the constitution of an ox and a tongue like a razor.

As for himself, he’d never meant to let her keep them both and, in the past, had tried various schemes which always seemed certain to make money but somehow never did.
 
For a year or so after Louise had died, he’d even occasionally tried holding down a job.
 
But when nothing worked, apathy had set in, causing him to dive deeper and deeper into the bottle.
 
And the truth which lay inescapably at the bottom of it was that the dratted palsy had deprived him of the only thing he’d ever been any good at.
 
Soldiering. Without that, he was left with nothing; not even self-respect.

Whereas the recent civil troubles afflicting France had failed to grasp Archie’s interest, the wars in England had been a constant reminder of what he was missing.
 
And just when he thought that the battle of Worcester had finally removed that particular thorn from his side, the Commonwealth had driven it in afresh.

As Athenais placed the platters on the table and sat down opposite him, Archie said abruptly, ‘Now England’s at war wiv the Dutch, I reckon the Cavaliers’ll be trying their luck again.’

Athenais, whose interest in English politics registered at several points below zero, merely shrugged.
 
Then, when her father continued staring morosely at his sausage, she relented and answered in the English he’d taught her.

‘Wiv what?
 
They got no army, no money and nobody to ’elp ’em.
 
By all accounts, they’re lucky they still got their Prince.’

Archie scowled.
 
Everyone knew that Charles Stuart had narrowly escaped death or capture in England and only got back to Paris by the skin of his teeth, leaving his Cause in tatters behind him.
 
Scotland was being forcibly incorporated into England; the Royalists of far-off Barbados and Virginia had submitted to the Commonwealth; and even though Henry Ireton had been dead since the previous November, Ireland still lay crushed beneath the boots of the New Model.
 
Consequently, the Parliament had probably picked as good a time as any to go to war with the Dutch over the carrying-trade.

Through a piece of sausage, Archie said stubbornly, ‘He’s not a prince no more.
 
He’s King of England.’

‘Noll Cromwell don’t seem to fink so.’

‘No.
 
Well, he wouldn’t, would he?
 
Bloody king-killer.’

Athenais grinned faintly.
 
She had never understood why her father was so fiercely Royalist – and suspected that he didn’t either.
 
On the other hand, she wholeheartedly agreed with his views on regicide for the simple reason that no King meant no Court – and her profession relied on patronage.
 
Not that there had been much of that recently – what with the Fronde, His Majesty, King Louis
X1V
still being a few months short of his fourteenth birthday and neither his mother, the Queen-Regent nor Cardinal Mazarin having much interest in the theatre.
 
But Marshal Turenne would eventually drive Cond
é
from Paris so the Court could return; and, in the meantime, at least the theatres stayed open –which was more than could be said for England.
 
But then, in a country where women’s roles were played by boys, the closure of the playhouses was probably no great loss.

Here in Paris, things were very different … and if the revival of
Le Cid
was a success, her own career would blossom with it.
 
If, of course, she still had a job.
 
Feeling suddenly sick, Athenais pushed her platter aside. Rightly or wrongly, Clermont was not without influence.
 
If he set out to get her dismissed, he’d almost certainly succeed; and she’d have thrown away years of work for the fleeting satisfaction of telling an over-blown pig’s bladder what she thought of him.

The possibility of being cast out of the theatre terrified her. It wasn’t just the fact of not being able to act any more or of no longer being part of that warm, glittering make-believe world she escaped to every day.
 
It was the thought of going back … of being trapped in the sordid cage of her childhood where everyone stank of stale sweat and there wasn’t always enough to eat and you saved your only pair of shoes for church on Sunday.

The real trouble, of course, was that she’d glimpsed something better … had herself
become
something better.
 
She’d started by sweeping the theatre floor and running errands and had ended as one of the Marais’ leading actresses.
 
But it hadn’t been easy.
 
It had taken six years of struggle and hard work.
 
Extra tasks in return for reading lessons; hour upon hour developing proper posture and learning how to curtsy correctly – how to move, to turn, to smile, until she was graceful enough to be allowed on-stage as a walker.
 
Then, most difficult of all, striving to eradicate every trace of the gutter from her speech before she could be trusted with a line of her own.

The result was that, along with her acting skills, Athenais had learned how to pass as a lady.
 
The veneer might only be skin deep but it was good enough to deceive most people.
 
The trouble was that, as long as she lived in this midden, there wasn’t much point in playing the duchess every day.

‘Finished wiv this, ’ave you?’
 
Archie gestured to her half-full platter and, when she nodded, said, ‘Reckon I’ll finish it, then.’
 
He eyed her obliquely. ‘It ain’t like you to pick at your food, Agnes.
 
Not sick are you?’

‘Yes,’ said Athenais, catching his meaning and resenting it. ‘I’m sick of living in this pig-sty and finding you drunk every night.
 
I’m sick of wearing other folks’ cast-offs and ’aving Marie d’Amboise sneer at me.
 
And I’m
particularly
sick of being called bloody Agnes.
 
But the one fing I
ain’t
is sodding pregnant!’

Archie pursed his lips. ‘Never fought you was.’

‘Course you bloody did.’

‘Didn’t.
 
A brat’d put paid to your acting, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes.’
 
She came abruptly to her feet.
 
‘Worse still – unless you don’t mind starving – it’d mean you’d ’ave to do an ’ands turn yourself once in a while.
 
So it’s just as well I’ve more sense than to get caught that way, ain’t it?’

And she swept out without giving him time to reply.

*
 
*
 
*

She set off for the theatre earlier than usual but walked slower. She could only afford Martin’s services for the homeward journey, so every day – come rain or shine, she tramped the not inconsiderable distance between St. Severin and the Marais.

Her route took her along the Rue des Rosiers, past the house she would have sold her soul to live in.
 
It wasn’t anything spectacular; just a tall, narrow building, jammed between numerous others.
 
But it looked as clean and neat as the road outside; and, to someone reared amid the smells and filth of the Rue Benoit, it seemed like a palace.

She arrived at the theatre to find her colleagues clustered before the stage, conversing in abnormally subdued voices.
 
Clermont was the only one missing.
 
All the rest fell abruptly silent as soon as she appeared.
 

Athenais’s heart sank but, assuming an expression of mocking indulgence, she threw her cloak across a bench and said, ‘Don’t stop on my account. I’m sure I’ve missed the best bits, anyway.
 
And doubtless Monsieur Laroque is waiting to see me.’

‘In the Green Room with Froissart,’ nodded Marie d’Amboise promptly. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t been very wise, my dear.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed Athenais, turning to go. ‘But at least I’ve got some back-bone.’

She crossed the floor to the sound of her own footsteps and was just about to leave the auditorium when Etienne Lepreux called out, ‘Watch your step, Athenais.
 
They’ve got old pig-face with them.’

For an instant, Athenais looked back at the slender young man who – since he could out-act Clermont a hundred times over – ought to be making his debut next week as
Le Cid
.
 
Then, with a swift smile, she thanked him and continued on her way.

Well-modulated even in rage, Clermont’s voice reached her from the other side of the Green Room door.

‘It is insupportable!
 
I, Arnaud Clermont – who have worked with Montdory and Jodelet – to be insulted by a common little trollop?
 
An arrogant ing
é
nue who appears to think herself of such importance that she can order the company as she sees fit?
 
It is not to be borne!’

It was as good a cue as any.
 
Athenais opened the door and walked in saying coolly, ‘Why not?
 
The rest of us have to put up with
you
doing it all the time.’

Glaring, Clermont swung round and said, ‘Bitch!’
 
Then, once more addressing the manager, ‘You see?
 
The impertinent slut isn’t even sorry!’

Petit-Jean Laroque, an ascetic-looking man in his middle fifties, who ran the Th
éâ
tre du Marais with ruthless efficiency and still occasionally played character roles, surveyed Athenais with faint irritation.

‘Well, mademoiselle?
 
Can we expect no apologies?’

‘On the contrary, Monsieur – you can expect several,’ replied Athenais ruefully. ‘I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced Monsieur Froissart and I’m sorry we’re wasting good rehearsal time on a squabble.
 
But I don’t take back anything I said to Clermont last night.
 
After the way he behaved on stage, he deserved every word.’

The actor’s colour became positively apoplectic and, seeing it, Froissart said quickly, ‘Doubtless there is fault on both sides. But for the sake of the play --’