Game Of Seduction

Chapter 12

Paris

Sir Francis Walsingham prises the seal off his early morning dispatches, scanning them swiftly for any important updates to the situation. Although he has been in France for little more than a year, he still likes to keep a beady eye peeled on events going on at home. Elizabeth may think of him as nothing but a harbinger of doom but as he never tires of telling her: 'Security is the best defence we have.'

A dainty jewelled slipper to the head might be his usual reward and an ear-bending about the prohibitive cost of running his recon team, but Sir Francis is prepared to put his money where his mouth is and support his team.

He was immensely proud of his recon team. Highly trained and skilled. Courageous and resourceful, they worked where other soldiers and operatives dared not. Right now, he needed them here with him in France.

If Elizabeth had ever had a true inkling of the dangers she faced every day and which his team neutralised, it would turn her fiery Tudor hair grey overnight. Walsingham had cherry-picked his team from the best the Army and colleges had to offer. Had put them through gruelling bouts of training until it was second nature for them to do their jobs, ingrained into their very bones and souls. Inspired a steadfast loyalty that meant they would happily lay down their lives for him and their country. Sure, they were cocky obnoxious bastards, proud of their hard-won skills, but Sir Francis could understand that.

He re-read the first dispatch, scribbling notes in the margins in a small neat hand. This sounded serious. He could usually count on 'Ganymede ' and his analysis of the situation and if he was concerned then Sir Francis had the good sense to take it seriously. He didn't like what he read here, not by any means.

I strongly believe that we have the makings of a serious sectarian problem which is being encouraged by de Guise and his faction. The marriage is not popular, I'm sorry to say. Everyone in France is against it, none more so than the bride who vows to either elope with de Guise (!) or refuse Henri de Navarre at the altar.

Gregory XIII is making things worse by declaring he will not ratify the wedding if Catherine de' Medici goes through with it. The king equally as stubbornly insists that his sister will marry Henri de Navarre. It seems the immutable force has met the immovable object and who knows what will happen next?

As for the poison plot, so far I haven't heard anything but that may change. I have contacted our expert and asked him to keep an ear to the ground, just in case. Things are a little unsettled. I have no idea if I will be required to go with Lady Marguerite after the wedding to Navarre or whether I will have to stay here under Anjou. Personally, I would rather not join the prince but you are my master and I will do you as you willst.

Your servant

Ganymede

Sir Francis makes a decision. He sharpens a new quill and addresses a letter to his counterpart Lord Burghley back home.

England, a few days later.

"Are we any closer to finding out more about the Jesuit? Symond Funteyn claims this man enticed him into that plot?'' Lord Burghley asks at his and Brad's customary early morning meeting.

"Cariasalez and Holsey are working on it, but they haven't reported any more progress so far."

"It could be a weaselling lie to get him off the hook; we don't know the truth of the matter." Lord Burghley frets. "I don't like the idea of someone like this on the loose. We're going to have to do something, Brad."

Brad had pondered the matter at length after the interrogation, sifting both points of view carefully through his mind until the early morning.

"With all due respect, I'm not so sure that's the case. I'm trying to fit all sides of the puzzle together, but I think there is a lot more to this conspiracy than meets the eye."

"What's your judgement on this, Lord Colbert then? So far?" Burghley asks.

"I think Funteyn is telling us a part truth. This is a foreign plot and it's not over, by any means. Funteyn was just the warning shot across the bows. If we want to investigate it properly, then we should send a team abroad. To the French court and de Guise."

Burghley smiles. It seems Brad has independently come to the conclusion he wanted. "I've just received a missive from Lord Walsingham in Paris. He asks for a recon team to come out and join him at the Valois court. It's the ideal opportunity for your boys. Get up close to de Guise and keep an eye on him. Are you up to it?"

Brad nods. "Of course, Sir."

"Good. Let me finish off this meeting and I'll brief you and the lads in two hours. I have to meet with the Queen and get treasury approval for our prospective mission."

"Good Luck, Sir. I hope your reflexes are up to dodging any jewelled missiles she decides to aim."

Burghley acknowledges his quip. "Let me deal with her Majesty, Colbert. She has to realise how important this mission is."

At Court, Hampton Court Palace

Brad waits in the corridor after seeing Lord Burghley for his partner Ray, who's having his own meeting with his boss. He pulls at his starched little ruff, scratching at the long column of his neck. The constricting stiff Court clothes are damnably restricting to wear, all whalebone, slashed sleeves and scratchy lace but he restrains the urge to rip it all off and makes the best of it.

It's just one day, he tells himself. Primped up like a prize turkey. He's fought in the Netherlands; he can handle one measly day at court. Just as long as he doesn't have to be faced with Tom and Letty. That would be too much to bear.

"Bradley!" He hears a familiar voice call him from down the corridor and he inwardly groans, stifling a muttered curse.So much for luck...

Ray's finished his own briefing with Lord Burghley and joins him just in time to see Tom bearing down on them.

"Have you seen him? On our six?" Ray mutters.

He sighs. "Yes. Now I've got to deal with this too."

"You just leave this to your old pal Ray-Ray-". There's a grin on his face that Brad knows is nothing but trouble, particularly when he spots a roll of parchment in the other man's hand. It's too much to ask that Ray hasn't seen it too.

"Ray, promise me you won't say anything." he urges.

"Even if he's about to read you some appalling lovelorn drivel? You know he's going to, and I will not be able to keep my mouth shut-"

"Try-" he says, dry as ever.

'Well, Brad Colbert! What brings you to court?' Tom says, slapping Brad heartily on the back. 'Surprised to see you here, old boy. I thought you preferred fighting the Papist hordes in the Netherlands as opposed to advancing yourself at court.'

"Business, Tom." Brad says tersely. "Some of us work for a living."

Ray is cutting the newcomer an evil look, a scornful smirk curling around his mouth.

'Not a word, Ray-' Brad warns him quietly, spotting his partner's expression. 'I mean it.'

Tom is so self-absorbed, he doesn't notice. "I've just come up with a poem for Letty. Do you mind giving me an opinion?"

Before Brad or Ray can open their mouth to tell him no, he clears his throat and starts reading from his scroll in an affected voice.

My Heart I've given to my mistress fair

I do not dare to dream

That she with Kindness will regard me now

Too long for favours thus I cannot dare

Too boldfaced it would seem

The flowers that the meadow early grace

Are nothing to the charms of her sweet face

If she would deign to be but kind to me

In heaven I'd reckon myself to be

Since I do aim for love too high, I vow

"What do you think, Brad?" Tom says with the eagerness of a hyperactive puppy. "D'ye think Letty will like it?"

Brad privately thinks that any woman who professes herself impressed by such insipid verse deserves everything she gets. He knows better than to say anything. Sometimes it was best to not say anything at all.

Of course Ray can't stand Tom or Letty, and has no such restraint.

"Seriously, Tom?"

Brad knows what is coming and tries unsuccessfully to head him off at the pass. It's not going to happen; Ray is determined to get his critique out at any cost.

"Come on, Ray. We have work to do and cannot spend time idling-"

"What kind of sappy retarded nonsense is this?" Ray asks Tom earnestly, his dark eyes shining with mischief as he peers round Brad. "'I do not dare to dream-' Do women like that self-effacing bullshit?'

Tom is astounded by Ray's attack. He simply doesn't have the verbal weapons to fight back.

"If she would deign to be but kind to me-" He shakes his head in righteous disgust. "I'm sorry, but what self-respecting woman would enjoy such a craven attempt to gain her favour? You know what? I reckon a bit of honesty would go down better than that. Doesn't it make you f*****g sick to the stomach to have to mouth such mealy-mouthed platitudes? They all know you say this s**t to get up their skirts."

"Ray!"

It's no use, he's on a roll now and there's no way Brad's going to be able to interrupt one of his flights of verbal virtuosity.

"Any woman who honestly goes for this drivel has got to be the shallowest, insipid, dull woman on the planet. There's not a single original interesting simile in the entire piece. I bet you knocked this crap up in ten minutes, didn't you? Admit it, you did, Tom. You can always tell. Shoddy workmanship isn't going to get you any quim."

Brad is managing to keep a straight face, but it's hard work.

"I...But-" Tom is reduced to stammering. His mouth is gaping open like a floundering mackerel.

"Do you know what, I got major second-hand embarrassment listening to you reciting that drivel. Didn't your stones shrivel right up inside your body having to say that loud to other people?" Ray says earnestly, a wicked gleam in those dark eyes.

Brad looks at him with a razor-sharp frown that would intimidate ninety-nine men out of a hundred. It doesn't work on Ray though. The little fucker is enjoying himself far too much, frankly.

"Joshua Person!"

Ray gives him an innocent look, all big brown eyes, but Brad isn't remotely fooled.

"Yes, Sir?"

"We have work to do. Come along-"

"Spoilsport!" Ray mutters before hurrying along after him.

William Cecil, Lord Burghley is having a very busy day. He has to wait to see Queen Elizabeth and get this mission signed off. The sooner they can get approval, the sooner the recon team can get out to France and start investigating the plot.

"You wished to speak to her Majesty?" her servant says.

"Yes, if you please. Tell her it's urgent."

*

Elizabeth is sat at her desk, quill dangling precariously from her ink-bottle. She looks up at the approach of her trusted minister.

"Spirit, I didn't expect to see you until next week. What can I help you with?"

Since they are alone, he takes the first opportunity to take a seat. The use of their private affectionate nickname bodes well. He hopes her good mood lasts long enough for him to delineate his and Lord Walsingham's plan for the team.

"It must be serious if you were prepared to interrupt your holiday, Lord Cecil. Have I ever told you that you work too hard?"

"Constantly, your Majesty. But traitors do not rest because we do."

"I understand you've just neutralised a plot against my life. I was just reading your report." She indicates the pile of papers on her desk.

"Lord Colbert and his team dealt with it admirably."

"So it seems-" she says rather drily. Lord Burghley looks down at the file and sees red ink underlines all over the document. She's been hard at work again. "Tell me, Lord Burghley, if Lord Colbert and his team have stopped the threat as you claim, why are you requesting funding and permission for a mission to the French court? A very expensive mission, may I add?"

Lord Burghley is about to launch into his well-rehearsed spiel when she interrupts with a pointed little tight smile which doesn't quite meet her eyes. "-It's funny I got the same request from Sir Francis. It seems your reconnaissance men are quite in demand."

"Of course, Your Majesty. They are the best at what they do, which is devoting themselves to keeping you safe. Right now we are convinced that the source of the threat is from France-"

"They are Sir Francis's men, aren't they?" she remarks. Burghley recognises the steel behind her voice.

"They are, your Majesty," he admits

"Many monarchs would not look kindly on a minister taking it upon himself to collect a group of men, training them for his own ends-" she muses. "There are some that would consider Lord Walsingham to be treading a very dangerous path."

There's a ruthless glint in her eye that marks her out as Henry Tudor's daughter to the life.

"The team are completely loyal to you, Ma'am, I assure you. Sir Francis wishes to convince you of the benefits of this secret force. Ready and willing to act on your behalf in the most dangerous situations." He can't quite believe it, even as he speaks. Everyone else in the council would probably laugh themselves sick for weeks. The day that he, William Cecil, spent his time defending Lord Walsingham and Lord Ferrando.

"They did serve me well in the Netherlands." she notes grudgingly, bejewelled finger travelling down the file.

"Lord Hasser was commended for bravery at Breda, I see. Took down that dam and stopped the Spanish advance, while evacuating the beleaguered townspeople at great risk to himself ."

"He's young, but worthy. A man of some promise, my lady."

"And of course, Lord Colbert-" she muses. "Quite the military prodigy, I see. Several years in my service-"

"He is extremely loyal to your Majesty. The council believe he has great promise. In a couple of years, with your approval and God willing perhaps we could introduce him to the council."

"The Council? At his age? He's still quite a young man, in his twenties, I believe. You think he's that good?"

Lord Burghley nods.

"Why, Spirit, you must think a lot of this man." She says with a playful smile breaking out onto that royal visage.

Lord Burghley looks at his mistress with relief. Perhaps for all her posturing and playing hardball, she isn't so averse to the idea.

"I do. I trust people very rarely, but he has never let me down. Never."

"I really do hope your trust in him is justified." She hands over a scroll, and Lord Burghley has to hide a flash of elation. Despite her ball-busting she signed the order; they can start the mission straight away.

"Just try and remind Sir Francis to keep the costs down, will you?" she remarks as a parting shot. "My coffers are not inexhaustible."

-0-

"Bradley ?"

Brad's day is completely going to s**t. It's bad enough he had to deal with Tom and his thoughtlessness, but Letty as well? With Ray hanging around, practically quivering at the prospect of conflict, this is not what he needs, at all.

"Do you not know me any more?' she says with a flirtatious air. 'It's Letty Glenister."

"My lady Laetitia-" Brad says, with a bow. There's no need for him not to be polite. Even though she tore out his heart and stomped it into the ground the day she told him she was leaving him for Tom .

"So formal? What are you doing at Court anyway? I thought you hated Court with a passion."

"As I said to Tom, Business."

"You saw Tom?" She says, a tell-tale flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck from her wired lawn collar. He remembered of old how she would blush in embarrassment if caught out in a lie.

"Yes. He's writing some poetry for you. You should be prepared."

She looks inordinately pleased with herself.

Brad knows he shouldn't allow himself to get sucked in by her wiles, he shouldn't give her the satisfaction, but he can't help it. "Tell me honestly, Letty. Is that what you really want in a man? Poetry and fine words?"

She c***s her head to one side. "It was sweet between us, but did you genuinely think we could ever make a union of it?"

"Yes, that's why I asked you to marry me, Letty. Why I courted you since the age of seventeen-"

"Oh, Bradley-" she sighs. She almost sounds sorry for him, repentant for letting him down. Not quite. "I have to be at court. I have to advance myself and my family. I could have never done that as your wife. You weren't prepared to play the courtly game, like Tom is. What would I have done in the countryside, raising horses ?"

"I'm so sorry I disappointed you." Brad remarks, but the irony's lost on her, as he knew it would be.

"Tom is a gentleman, born and bred for centuries. I know we've been friends forever, and a long time ago I cared for you, Brad-". For a moment she looks almost wistful. "-But in truth, no one knows who your true family is. You were adopted by the Colbert's as a babe. You are a foundling. You could be anybody."

Brad looks at her as if he never knew her. As if she's just revealed herself for the shallow social climbing flirt that she is. She was never like this when we were young, and I fell in love with her. This place has changed her, corrupted her beyond redemption .

"I'm sorry you see fit to reproach me for my birth Letty, since I cannot do anything to change it." He says with dignity.

Letty's face falls, the barb striking home. "Bradley, don't be like that, I dids't not mean-"

It wasn't worth getting annoyed with her. It would take far too much energy to set her straight. Make her understand how disappointed he was in her. Maybe that's the first sign I'm over it. I don't care enough to fight for her, to compete with Tom for her favour, and that is what she wants. A contest for her hand in marriage, he and I vying for her caresses and smiles, one that I cannot win.

"Forget it, Letty. I'm going on a mission very soon. I don't need this right now."

Oblivious that she is, even she notices his brusqueness. "You're not angry with me, are you, Brad?" She flutters her lashes at him, giving him her most winsome look, but now he sees through her wiles and has not time for them.

"I never said I was." He says shortly, shaking off her hand on his arm.

She clings to his arm, biting her lip. "It's just that Tom wanted me to ask you; Would you mind being our best man when we marry in October?" She looks up at him, making her eyes big and appealing.

"Your best man?" he echoes, taken aback by her request.

"It's just that everyone knows that you are his best friend and mine from childhood. It'd look strange if you weren't involved in some way." She says hurriedly, a furious flush on her cheeks. "Won't you consider it, Brad? For me?"

Brad always knew Letty was a bit thoughtless, but he cannot believe the bare-faced cheek she has, asking such a thing of him. Has she completely forgotten they were courting for years before she discarded him for Tom? He thought she understood. He was a soldier. It was his duty to work in the service of the crown. A long time ago, when he first started he thought he had been doing it for them, to secure their future but now he knew that wasn't true. He loved his work. He was damned good at it. And he would apologise to no one for it.

"I don't know if I'll be here." He says evenly. "Lord Burghley expects the team and I to move out to France in a couple of days. I have no idea when I'll be back."

"You're not angry with us? Tom's worried that he might have lost your friendship." she chirps.

Brad thanks God that Ray isn't here to hear her say that. He dreads to think what his response would be. He did the right thing accepting this posting, and now he can't wait to get away from Laetitia and Tom and their emotional games.

"I hope you and Tom will be very happy together." He says as sincerely as he can. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mistress Glenister ."

Headquarters, that evening

Walt knocks on the door of Brad's office."Are you busy, Sir?"

Brad's just working through some files with Ray to take his mind off the encounter with Letty Glenister. Mundane stuff, really. It can wait. 'What is it, Lord Hasser?'

"It seems Funteyn's finally found the use of his tongue. Says he's ready to spill. But he'll only do it for Lord Colbert. You better go, before he changes his mind."

*

"I'm ready to talk, Sir-" says Funteyn as soon as Brad enters the cell.

Brad is impassive as he draws up a stool and faces the prisoner, long legs in their dark silk and wool hose stretched out before him. "What about, Mr Funteyn?"

"The de Guise plan." He says, swallowing nervously. Brad notices his hands shake. Funteyn is really falling apart at the first hurdle. How could anyone have thought this bumbling merchant would be suitable for any kind of mission?

"So you are willing to admit that you were hired by the family? And for what end?" he enquires in a pleasant tone of voice.

Funteyn's shoulder slump. He looks terrible, not bearing up under the strain at all. 'Seems no more point in lying about it, does there? And you and Lord Burghley were true to your word. You didn't hurt me.'

Brad nods, waiting for Funteyn to spit it out.

"If I didn't succeed, then phase two of the plan would come into effect. They would send an agent from France to create and smuggle a poison for her Majesty. A poison fit for a queen. One which would be impossible to detect, until it is too late-"

"Is such a thing possible?"

Funteyn nods and gulps convulsively, pulling at his ruff with obvious discomfort. "Yes. Monsieur de Guise seems to think so, and has invested a wealth of money in the enterprise-"

A wealth of money. How much are we talking about? Hundreds? Millions? The bastards are rich enough to afford it. There must be a paper trail somewhere. We'll have to get one of the team onto it.

"Thank you for your information. I can assure you that it's come in useful." he says coolly, putting away his slate.

Funteyn looks disappointed at Brad's cool reception to his information. "Aren't you going to set me free? I told you all you wanted to know."

Brad sincerely doubts Lord Burghley will do any such thing. He knows for a fact Sir Francis wouldn't even consider striking dubious bargains with prisoners. Besides, does not this rube have any idea that his life is still in danger with the failure of his plot? Verily, this one is a true amateur! Brad almost feels he should be sorry for him.

'If it were in my power to do so, I would seriously consider it. Alas, it is not. Still, I will try to put in a good word for you, Funteyn. You eventually did the right thing. That's got to count for something.'

-0-

'What did you get from Funteyn? You were in there for quite a while.' observes Walt on his return to the office.

'Funteyn decided to sing like the proverbial linnet about the plans of the de Guise clan. We'd better set off as soon as possible to France to get to de Guise.'

Walt is rather surprised he got anything out of Funteyn. 'He told you all that? Not exactly standing up under interrogation, is he? Imagine if Trombley had got his hands on him.'

'He seemed to be under the impression that he would be instantly being granted his freedom if he started to talk. Does this surprise you, Lord Burghley?' he says to his boss, who's just entered with Ray, Burris and Trombley.

'It's amazing what technology is capable of nowadays.' answers Lord Burghley, not quite addressing the question. Brad remains suspicious. 'The Jesuits are sponsoring studies in toxicology, according to our sources. This news from Funteyn merely ties in with that.'

'The Jesuits. Why are they poking their nose into these matters, Lord Burghley?' Burris asks.

'They want a patent of a new poison. I don't know details but I know they are employing a perfumer in Paris to come up with a new formulation. One so deadly it'll take us many years to come up with an antidote.'

"To the right people it would be worth a fortune. A king's ransom." Burghley frets. "Insurgents could hold whole countries to ransom, just imagine the havoc a few hotheads could cause..."

'We've got our work cut out for us.' Brad notes.

Burghley regains his cheer, confident in his team. 'I have every confidence that you and your team will manage the challenges of the French court perfectly. You are our best men, our elite. Lord Walsingham thinks a lot of you all.'

Aye, he expects us to carry out miracles! thinks Brad silently.

Brad barely has time to arrive back at the Grange with Ray to straighten out his affairs before they depart for France. He leaves instructions with his housekeeper, the redoubtable Rikje on his absence.

"You know you have authority to run the place in my absence as you see fit, Rikje. I trust you implicitly."

She nods as she acknowledges his trust in her. Brad took her and her family in when they had nothing but the worn soles of their shoes bound to their feet, owing their lives to the team's valour. While Brad still held to his promise to her departed husband Joost he would take care of her and the children, Rikje insisted on paying her way and helping him run the place in his absence. With the departure of his own adoptive parents on their Eastern adventure, Rikje and her ragtag bunch of kids were a strange sort of family. Certainly, the children adored Brad and Ray.

"So when will you return, Lord Colbert?" she asks, locking his chest and padlocking it down. "There that's all done. Are you sure you don't want me to pack for you, Master Person?"

"You spoil him too much, Rikje." he reproves her lightly, "Person is perfectly capable of packing for himself."

"'Tis no hardship to do things for Master Person, sir. And I'm nearly all done." Brad doesn't push it, knowing that she'd probably packed for Walt as well.

"I have no idea, Rikje. Lord Burghley and Lord Walsingham indicated this might be a long-term assignment."

"Hopefully not years, Sir." she says curiously.

"Who knows, Rikje?"

She nods comfortably, easily taking on the responsibility assigned to her by Brad. "You can trust me to hold the fort until you return."

Brad shrugs. Frankly, she knows as much as he does about the mission and just how long it will take. "Who knows, Rikje?"

As soon as she leaves Ray grins. "I think even 'Iron Dimples' was concerned about the length of our tour. Didn't Lord Burghley give you any more details about the assignment?"

"You know as much as I do. And I wouldn't let Rikje hear you call her that. You know she doesn't like it."

Ray shrugs. "She knows I mean it affectionately. Think the world of her and the little ones, she knows that."

Frankly Brad isn't so sure that she does, but sometimes there's no arguing with Ray. His life is far too short to start arguing about it anyway.

"Come, we must retire for the evening. We have an early start for the harbour, and we must hit the ground running when we arrive. Lord Burghley and Lord Walsingham want results, and let's not forget we shall have Lord Ferrando to contend with as well."

"Lord Ferrando? He's joining us out there?" asks Walt with interest. "Where did you hear that from?"

"Well, you know what they say: you don't come to work to enjoy yourself and we're all going to be earning our gold over there, there's no doubt about that." Brad says, "Now I will see you in the morn. Be ready to work, gents.

"Aye, Sir!"