To Kiss a Spy

Chapter One London, December 1552 "What I propose is a matter of some refinement, my dear sir. A scheme of some complexity." Antoine de Noailles paused to lift a silver chalice to his lips. He drank with an assessing frown, then nodded his satisfaction and gestured to his companion to 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. He sipped his wine and waited. "I believe that the king is dying," Noailles said calmly. "His Privy Council think to keep the truth of the young man's health a state secret, but . . ." He shrugged and smiled at the 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, 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 clerestory 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 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.[read more]