The King's Chameleon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Further Titles by Richard Woodman from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Tumbledown Dick

  Part One: Restoration: 1660–1662

  Honest George

  Indemnity and Oblivion

  Katherine Villiers

  The Chase

  The Launching

  Part Two: Contagion: 1662–1666

  On His Majesty’s Secret Service

  The Birds Caged

  Rendition

  The Home-Coming

  The Deodand

  The Plague

  Part Three: Conflagration: 1666–1667

  Battle

  Holmes’s Bonfire

  The Triangle

  Disaster and Disgrace

  Part Four: Redemption: 1667–1672

  Rupert

  The King’s Chameleon

  Destiny

  Author’s Note

  Further Titles by Richard Woodman from Severn House

  The Kit Faulkner Naval Adventure Series

  A SHIP FOR THE KING

  FOR KING OR COMMONWEALTH

  THE KING’S CHAMELEON

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  THE EAST INDIAMAN

  THE GUINEAMAN

  THE ICE MASK

  THE PRIVATEERSMAN

  THE KING’S CHAMELEON

  Richard Woodman

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Richard Woodman

  The right of Richard Woodman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Woodman, Richard, 1944-

  The King’s Chameleon. – (A Kit Faulkner naval adventure; 3)

  1. Faulkner, Kit (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Sailors–Great Britain–History–17th century–Fiction.

  3. Seafaring life–History–17th century–Fiction.

  4. Great Britain–History–Puritan Revolution, 1642-1660–Fiction.

  5. Historical fiction.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8296-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-455-3 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Arlo

  Into this Universe, and why not knowing,

  Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;

  And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,

  I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

  From The Rubaiyyat of Omar Kayaam

  Translated by Edward Fitzgerald.

  Tumbledown Dick

  May 1659

  ‘So, you have had a successful voyage, Nathaniel, and in such uncertain times that is most gratifying.’

  Captain Christopher Faulkner paused. Both his son, Nathaniel, and his brother-in-law, Nathan Gooding, held their peace, anticipating some further remark.

  The older Faulkner looked up from his diligent perusal of the papers before him, raising his eyebrows. ‘Have you nothing to say?’ he asked of his son.

  ‘I am sorry, Father,’ replied Nathaniel. ‘I thought that you had not yet finished speaking.’

  ‘Huh.’ Faulkner turned to his partner. ‘Nathan?’

  ‘Likewise, Kit. But if comment is necessary I would say that Nathaniel’s voyage has proved most encouraging. The Jamaica trade is like to flourish, and that our house should profit thereby is, once more, evidence of God’s infinite mercy.’

  Faulkner rolled his eyes at his son who had remained standing while his voyage accounts were scrutinized by the senior partners and owners of his ship. He then settled his gaze upon Gooding, soberly clad in black with the plainest of ruffles at his throat and wrists as befitted a Puritan. ‘Heaven forefend that we should omit God from our accounts,’ he said with a heavy sarcasm, ‘though I suspect that the skills of Nathaniel here in seamanship and navigation may well have seen him through his venture.’ Faulkner paused and, just as his brother-in-law roused himself to defend his remark, turned to his son. ‘What say you of the matter, Captain?’

  ‘I, er …’ Nathaniel looked awkwardly at both men. ‘I am sure,’ he temporized, ‘that God oversaw us.’

  ‘Only sure?’ quizzed Gooding. ‘Did thy faith not bear the conviction of certainty?’

  ‘Come, Nathan, you are not a seafaring man,’ Faulkner intervened. ‘What explanation would you have tendered had young Nathaniel’s ship been overwhelmed in a hurricane? That he had sinned to such an extent that God had wrought his infinite justice upon him and his crew? We deal in realities, the laws of cause and effect, and so do you when you take off that confounded large black hat of yours and stare at a ledger. We have enjoyed a handsome profit, whatever the price of rum and sugar in London town.’

  ‘I would not deny that,’ responded the discomfited Gooding. Faulkner’s ready wit was too quick for him, while his brother-in-law’s easy habit of command brooked no interference as he rumbled on:

  ‘Well then, let us praise God by all means for our good fortune and drink a cup of wine to Nathaniel’s success.’ He indicated the jug and glasses on the table. The young master-mariner performed the office, and Faulkner smiled at Gooding as he took the proffered bumper. ‘Praise God by all means, Nathan, but do not confuse the divine with the commercial. Thank him that we were not committed to the Baltic trade when war broke out there, or that we have avoided capture in the Mediterranean where English ships have been seized.’

  Pressed with a glass of wine, Gooding succumbed to his brother-in-law’s charm. It was difficult to stay angry with him for more than a moment or two, no matter what his conscience told him. There was that confidence in the old seaman that Gooding so envied, for he had always been a man of business, and he knew himself inadequate to the task of commanding a ship. Nevertheless, he knew that his own skill in negotiating freight-rates and brokering deals was fundamental to the continuing success of their joint enterprise. He also knew, with the deep-seated conviction of a fierce and private faith, that much of this was directly attributable to his personal devotion to the Lord God and the godliness of his own life. Sometimes, however, he feared that God would set aside his personal rectitude and take issue with the casual blasphemies of Faulkner, his partner and brother-in-law, notwithstanding the additional saintly atmosphere engendered by his own sister and her children, to whom Faulkner, the erstwhile cavalier naval officer, had returned after a long estrangement. Gooding had a habit of regarding life not, as Faulkner did, as a series of causes and effects to be batted
-at or manipulated, but as an ever rolling balance sheet in which good was constantly weighed against bad and from which consequences flowed. The question that constantly tormented Gooding was whether or not those consequences included an eternal life in the Holy Presence or … He could never quite comprehend the pains of eternal torture in Hellfire but, alongside what he feared, the public hanging, drawing and quartering of a condemned traitor seemed a mild enough fate.

  Faulkner was untroubled by such frightful perturbations. ‘How were the men?’ the old sea-captain asked of his son.

  ‘Tolerable, Father. I had trouble with two who roistered ashore at Port Royal and debauched themselves most savagely. I discharged them when they returned to their duty and left them to rot where it seemed their fancies took them.’

  ‘And you did not want their labour on the homeward passage?’

  Nathaniel shrugged. ‘We were fortunate in the quality of the rest of the people.’

  ‘Such men are not to be encouraged,’ Gooding put in. ‘There are far too many of them in the merchants’ service.’

  ‘Most, no doubt, dispossessed Royalists,’ Faulkner added drily. ‘Which,’ he went on, ‘brings me to the matter of your brother, Nathaniel …’

  ‘Henry? He is not a dispossessed Royalist. Quite the contrary.’

  ‘Indeed. But Henry possesses the same hot righteousness.’

  ‘But what of him?’ Nathaniel stared at his father. ‘Do you purpose to send him to sea? If so, he will not agree.’

  ‘He is become a danger to himself,’ Faulkner continued, his tone now serious.

  ‘He is political,’ Gooding intervened, relieved of his brief mental anguish. He would have said more had Faulkner allowed him to.

  ‘Your uncle is a secret admirer of his younger nephew,’ Faulkner explained to his son. ‘He thinks Henry destined for a career in politics, God preserve us.’

  ‘He has radical views which your father does not like,’ Gooding put in sharply.

  Nathaniel put down his glass, grinning broadly in an echo of his father’s winning smile. ‘Please, gentlemen, please desist for speaking the one for the other …’

  ‘Ah,’ said Faulkner with a laugh, looking across the table at Gooding and raising his glass in mock salutation, ‘he has us to a likeness, Nathan. It is a besetting sin to express another’s thoughts, but too often done, I fear.’

  ‘A presumption, I agree,’ responded Gooding, ‘but why not quiz the young man himself? I hear him on the stair.’

  Henry Faulkner burst into the room without ceremony; he was flushed and panting with exertion. He stood for a moment, his hand against the door-frame, catching his breath as the three men he had interrupted turned at the intrusion. Quite clearly Henry was the bearer of news.

  ‘He … he’s gone! Resigned!’

  ‘Who?’ Gooding asked, sitting up expectantly.

  ‘Sit down, boy,’ ordered Faulkner in the peremptory tone he habitually used to address his younger son.

  Gooding shot Faulkner a glance of disapproval; ever since Christopher’s return to live again with Nathan’s sister and her children, the relationship between Henry and his father had been strained and abrasive. He observed the young man’s eyes flash pure venom at his father before addressing his remarks to Gooding alone.

  ‘The Protector! Richard Cromwell!’

  There was a moment’s silence broken by the entry into the room of Judith, accompanied by Hannah, the Faulkners’ third child. Both women had been in the parlour below and heard the commotion of Henry’s boots upon the stairs. The men rose, and then, as Judith sat at the table, they resumed their seats. Only Henry remained defiantly standing, his chest still heaving.

  ‘Where did you glean this intelligence?’ Faulkner asked coldly.

  ‘I have been at Westminster.’

  ‘And you are certain of it?’

  ‘The whole of London knows by now,’ said an exasperated Henry, thinking his news was not believed on account of his father’s lack of faith in him.

  ‘It is as well to be certain, Henry,’ Gooding temporized.

  ‘Well, it is not altogether a surprise,’ Faulkner ruminated. ‘Dick is no likeness of his daddy …’ It was an unfortunate remark, though made without a shred of disingenuousness. Faulkner’s rational reference to the worthy but ineffectual son of Oliver Cromwell, who had picked up the mantle of Lord Protector after his father’s death the previous year, was not intended to be an implied criticism of Henry, but the young man bristled and flushed scarlet, only too ready to think so. He caught his mother’s eye and would have spoken out sharply had not she made a negative motion with her hand.

  Again Gooding temporized. ‘Ever since he dissolved Parliament at the insistence of the Army,’ he said, ‘his position has weakened, while the finances of the state leave so much to be desired that it was all but impossible for him to govern …’

  ‘But who will govern us now?’ put in Judith. ‘What will happen? The Army … a resumption of civil war? Why has God forsaken us?’

  ‘No!’ Faulkner banged his hand on the table and stood up. He went to the window and stared down into the street, as if the solution were to be found there among the citizens of Wapping as they ran about their daily business. ‘Not God, Judith, not God!’

  ‘Would you have a King back?’ Judith rounded on him, and everyone in the room braced themselves. Despite his distinguished service in the Commonwealth Navy, no-one in that room was insensible of the fact that Captain Kit Faulkner – Sir Christopher, if he wanted to assume the rank and dignity of knighthood conferred upon him by an exiled King-in-waiting – had also served King Charles the Martyr in the late Civil War.

  Faulkner turned from the window with a wry grin. ‘Despite your fears and suspicions,’ he said slowly, looking round at them all, ‘it is not up to me. I am an Englishman who must do what, at the time, seems right for my country. No man can – or is expected to – do more.’ There was a silence; then Faulkner asked, ‘What are the rumours, Henry?’

  The young man was still hot with resentment at the implied rebuke to his character and for a moment had no answer.

  ‘You must have heard something,’ prompted his uncle. ‘Such news is rarely unaccompanied by speculation at the very least.’

  ‘Well,’ began Henry, ‘’tis said the Army will assume power … What alternative is there in such circumstances?’

  ‘They will offer the Protectorship to another,’ said Gooding.

  ‘But who?’ asked Judith.

  ‘God forbid that it should be Fleetwood, or Disbrowe,’ Gooding ruminated, following his own train of thought.

  ‘Cromwell rose from the ranks of the Army; where else shall we look for governance?’ put in Judith, whose political views and right to express them were a well-established feature of the household.

  ‘Perhaps there is someone of sufficient standing to command respect, at least in some measure,’ added Nathaniel with the awkwardness men of the sea have when discussing matters of which landsmen are better informed.

  ‘Well, Harry,’ said Faulkner in an unbending and conciliatory moment, for he had seen and guessed the reason for his younger son’s heat, ‘as our resident politico, what sayest thou upon the matter of which you have brought us notice?’

  Called upon for advice Henry gathered himself. ‘The Army is divided,’ he began. ‘The younger officers, all for a republic, are nonetheless largely responsible for the resignation of the Protector. Some older men of the New Model, keen to retain the status quo, would have served under Richard for as long as he drew breath, provided he did not deny the Army its rights—’

  ‘Whatever they are,’ breathed Faulkner under his breath.

  Undeterred by this interruption, Henry pressed on. ‘The senior officers have been corrupted by power and have lost touch with the men they are supposed to command, so it would seem that the Rump will be recalled and directed to establish a new republic with no head of state!’ Henry’s eyes were glowing with excitement a
t the contemplation of this Utopian dream.

  Faulkner laughed. ‘No head of state! Why now, there is a high-road to disaster,’ he said dismissively. ‘Surely not. More likely a triumvirate of republicans such as Vane, Ludlow and Heselrige will guide this nation of ours.’

  ‘And all Christians will be allowed to practise their faith,’ put in Judith.

  Henry, meanwhile, smarted at his father’s rapid analysis of the likely outcome. He had not thought of such a solution. Henry was an idealist, not a pragmatist.

  ‘Provided it be not Popery or Prelacy, I trust,’ interjected Gooding.

  ‘Indeed not, Uncle,’ Henry said, recovering himself. ‘What is being mooted is that a legislature should reflect the will of the people and a senate be appointed from which would derive a council-of-state, and that Fleetwood should be made commander-in-chief of the Army. To this end, Parliament has been recalled.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Faulkner as Henry looked round the assembled family, judging the impact of his intelligence. ‘It only remains to get the agreement of all parties to this marvellous plan. As for us, my dear Nathan,’ he said, nodding at Gooding, emptying his glass, rising to his feet and clapping his son Nathaniel on the shoulder, ‘we must haul down the old Faithful and refit her for another voyage to Jamaica, I think.’

  ‘Aye,’ Gooding said, closing the books in front of him. ‘Life goes on.’ He rose from the table, gathering both ledgers, papers, pen and ink, indicating that Hannah might help. Both withdrew from the room, followed by Judith. There seemed little more to say, and all knew they would reassemble for dinner. Nathaniel made to move, picking up his hat, while Henry, after a moment’s havering, made for the door.

  ‘Wait, Henry, I would speak with thee alone,’ Faulkner said, nodding to Nathaniel as his elder son paused on the threshold and then passed from the room, closing the door behind him. Faulkner turned to Henry. ‘Please sit a moment.’

  ‘I prefer to stand.’

  ‘Do please sit.’

  ‘I prefer to stand,’ Henry repeated.