incredulity.
‘Oh – for God’s sake! Hortense has a voice like a shrew and Delphine’s turning into a tub of lard from all the pastries she stuffs herself with. Neither one of them can hold a candle to you – not in looks nor in talent, either. The next new face will be yours. But not just yet. Timing is the important thing. If we get that right, I’m counting on you eclipsing Marie d’Amboise inside a year.’
The grey eyes flew wide and then the girl burst out laughing.
‘Me? Steal parts from Madame d’Amboise? Now I know you’re joking.’
‘I’m not. She admits to being thirty-five – which means she’s at least forty – and she’s been leading-lady at the Marais since I made way for her.’ Pauline’s mouth curled in an acidulous grin. ‘Time she bowed out in favour of some new blood. You.’
‘Bloody hell! Sorry. You actually mean it, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I actually mean it. A fresh face. What are you now? Nineteen?’
‘Twenty – as of yesterday. September the sodding second. Sorry, again.’
‘You should have said. I’d have brought you a cake.’
‘After what you just said about Delphine?’
Pauline gave a snort of laughter.
‘Maybe not. But there’s something you’ll need to consider before you make your debut. At least, I’m assuming you won’t want your real name on the playbill?’
‘God, no.’ She shuddered. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘So you’ll need to come up with a stage name. Not something like Floridor or Bellerose. Something that sounds real.’
There was a long silence and finally the girl said slowly, ‘Actually, I already have.’
‘And?’
‘Athenais de Galzain. I’d like to become Athenais de Galzain.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
ACT ONE
THE LAST CRUSADE
January to September, 1651
‘The army may look well – but it won’t fight.’
General Leslie to Charles the Second
ONE
On the first day of January, 1651, Francis Langley stood at the back of Scone Cathedral and watched a tall young man, five months short of his twenty-first birthday, receive – as a reward for several months of gritting his teeth – something which already rightfully belonged to him.
On the surface, the occasion looked just as it should. The young Prince, robed as befitted his station and with the royal regalia laid out before him, sat beneath a crimson velvet canopy supported by the eldest sons of six Earls. The vacant throne stood atop an impressive stage, some four feet off the ground and covered in rich carpets … around which the flower of Scottish nobility, splendidly attired, rubbed elbows with the cream of the Kirk. But there the illusion ended. For the crowning of a king, though a serious business, ought also to contain an element of rejoicing; and this one had so far been about as cheerful as an interment.
It wasn’t a surprise. After forcing Charles to take both Covenants, making him publicly repent the sins of his parents as well as his own and ordaining two fast days, the Scots were scarcely likely to allow the coronation itself to be marred by any hint of pleasure. The handful of English Royalists had been relegated to the edges; the Engagers, those gentlemen who’d fought for the late King at Preston, had been prohibited altogether; and the only persons permitted to have a hand in the ceremony itself were those whose Covenanting principles met the exacting standards of Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll. Francis, of course, wasn’t supposed to be there at all – which is why he was lurking as unobtrusively as possible in a dimly-lit corner.
The Moderator of the General Assembly delivered an epic sermon, liberally laced with gloom. Major Langley shifted his shoulders against the cold stone, smothered a yawn and let dire warnings about tottering crowns and sinful kings flow over him. One became
‘Oh – for God’s sake! Hortense has a voice like a shrew and Delphine’s turning into a tub of lard from all the pastries she stuffs herself with. Neither one of them can hold a candle to you – not in looks nor in talent, either. The next new face will be yours. But not just yet. Timing is the important thing. If we get that right, I’m counting on you eclipsing Marie d’Amboise inside a year.’
The grey eyes flew wide and then the girl burst out laughing.
‘Me? Steal parts from Madame d’Amboise? Now I know you’re joking.’
‘I’m not. She admits to being thirty-five – which means she’s at least forty – and she’s been leading-lady at the Marais since I made way for her.’ Pauline’s mouth curled in an acidulous grin. ‘Time she bowed out in favour of some new blood. You.’
‘Bloody hell! Sorry. You actually mean it, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I actually mean it. A fresh face. What are you now? Nineteen?’
‘Twenty – as of yesterday. September the sodding second. Sorry, again.’
‘You should have said. I’d have brought you a cake.’
‘After what you just said about Delphine?’
Pauline gave a snort of laughter.
‘Maybe not. But there’s something you’ll need to consider before you make your debut. At least, I’m assuming you won’t want your real name on the playbill?’
‘God, no.’ She shuddered. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘So you’ll need to come up with a stage name. Not something like Floridor or Bellerose. Something that sounds real.’
There was a long silence and finally the girl said slowly, ‘Actually, I already have.’
‘And?’
‘Athenais de Galzain. I’d like to become Athenais de Galzain.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
ACT ONE
THE LAST CRUSADE
January to September, 1651
‘The army may look well – but it won’t fight.’
General Leslie to Charles the Second
ONE
On the first day of January, 1651, Francis Langley stood at the back of Scone Cathedral and watched a tall young man, five months short of his twenty-first birthday, receive – as a reward for several months of gritting his teeth – something which already rightfully belonged to him.
On the surface, the occasion looked just as it should. The young Prince, robed as befitted his station and with the royal regalia laid out before him, sat beneath a crimson velvet canopy supported by the eldest sons of six Earls. The vacant throne stood atop an impressive stage, some four feet off the ground and covered in rich carpets … around which the flower of Scottish nobility, splendidly attired, rubbed elbows with the cream of the Kirk. But there the illusion ended. For the crowning of a king, though a serious business, ought also to contain an element of rejoicing; and this one had so far been about as cheerful as an interment.
It wasn’t a surprise. After forcing Charles to take both Covenants, making him publicly repent the sins of his parents as well as his own and ordaining two fast days, the Scots were scarcely likely to allow the coronation itself to be marred by any hint of pleasure. The handful of English Royalists had been relegated to the edges; the Engagers, those gentlemen who’d fought for the late King at Preston, had been prohibited altogether; and the only persons permitted to have a hand in the ceremony itself were those whose Covenanting principles met the exacting standards of Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll. Francis, of course, wasn’t supposed to be there at all – which is why he was lurking as unobtrusively as possible in a dimly-lit corner.
The Moderator of the General Assembly delivered an epic sermon, liberally laced with gloom. Major Langley shifted his shoulders against the cold stone, smothered a yawn and let dire warnings about tottering crowns and sinful kings flow over him. One became
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