and I know that my father would be equally pleased." Sketching a bow before Anne Boleyn, he added, "My lady, I hope to see you in Yorkshire. Your arrival would bring new radiance to that district!"
More courtly farewells were exchanged until, at length, Andrew and Micheline escaped, climbing the stairs to their quiet wing of the palace.
"How I despise such artificial conversation!" he muttered darkly, his bright mask dangling from his fingers.
"You seem quite adept at it, my lord," Micheline teased him. Away from the crowd, she was suddenly aware of her own fatigue. Voices, faces, music, and all the day's experiences continued to swirl in her mind; she would be glad for sleep if only to escape them.
"I need to be adept to survive, I fear. I can only hope that whatever charm I can muster will be enough to counteract the displeasure I've incurred when I could not bring myself to behave as an obedient subject ought." He glanced heavenward. "I've not the temperament for a lord of the realm, I fear. Obedience is not in my nature."
"Will you rebel against the bonds of matrimony too?"
They had reached Micheline's door, and he slid his arms around her slender waist. "This is the first time in my life I've faced a commitment to which it will be a pleasure to submit. Besides, you don't want to rule me."
"That's true." She opened her mouth as they exchanged a sleepy, sensual kiss. "And neither will you rule me!"
"If I imagined it were possible, I couldn't love you as I do." he told her honestly. "We think and feel alike, Michelle, and we understand and respect each other. Aside from that"—he paused to kiss her peacefully drooping eyelids—"there are other extremely pleasurable considerations. No doubt you'll be relieved to learn that I'm too tired to press that issue now. My own fatigue is such that tonight I shall not lie awake, in tormented solitude, for very long."
"Je t' adore..." she whispered, gazing at him in wonder.
"Go to bed." Sandhurst laughed gently.
They shared another sweet, drowsy kiss, then parted. Alone in her bedchamber, Micheline managed to unlace the back of her gown unaided. When she drew off the velvet sleeves, a small piece of parchment dropped to the floor, reminding her of that moment in the great hall when she had felt it slide against her wrist. Puzzled, she removed her gown, petticoat, and shakefold, then picked up the paper and sat down on the bed in her chemise to open it.
Printed in tiny, barely legible characters were the words: "Leave England alone, or die."
She blinked in confusion. As the message sank in, Micheline's heart began to pound and her hands perspired. Still, it didn't seem real. Mechanically she walked about the huge, chilly bedchamber, removing her crispinette, brushing out her hair, washing her face, and even cleaning her teeth, all the while trying to block the ominous note from her thoughts. Perhaps it was someone's idea of a joke. Perhaps it had fallen into her sleeve by accident and had not been intended for her at all.
Finally she blew out the candles and crawled into the enormous bed, but sleep would not come. Over and over again Micheline considered waking Andrew, but there seemed no purpose. Her door was latched. Who would be foolish enough to harm her with Sandhurst in the next room? Moreover, who would want to harm her at all? Could Iris Dangerfield be that wicked? Perhaps, if she had written the note, the threat was empty—simply an attempt to frighten Micheline into running home to France... unmarried.
An hour passed, and still her heart drummed against her breastbone. Occasionally there were footsteps and voices in the corridor. Each new sound made her start—and then, suddenly, when all was quiet, there came a soft scratching noise at Micheline's door. No sooner did she sit up straight in bed, wide-eyed and terrified in the darkness, than the scratching stopped. A full minute passed during which she neither moved nor breathed, then... scratch-scratch. The sound was all the more sinister because it was barely audible, but then it grew to alarming proportions.
Somehow, she made herself act. Scrambling off the other side of the bed, Micheline ran through the darkness, bumping into furniture. There was barely enough firelight remaining for her to make out the shape of the connecting door to Sandhurst's room. Praying that no one had locked it, she found the latch, lifted it, pushed on the door, and it swung