The King's Chameleon Page 6

  ‘I am to be presented at Court.’

  Gooding stared, open-mouthed.

  ‘You will catch flies, Nathan,’ Faulkner remarked.

  ‘I wish that you were not,’ Gooding said.

  ‘It is a royal command,’ Faulkner said shortly, dismissing Gooding’s apprehensions. ‘But I have had a further thought. I conceive it to be a good idea if we call our new ship “Albemarle” …’

  Later, when Faulkner and his wife retired for the night, Judith addressed the problem of the morrow. ‘I wish you had not agreed to attend Court,’ she said curtly. ‘You had said you would lie low and attend to our own affairs, not meddle with the high-born who return from exile only to pretend nothing has happened these last ten years.’

  Faulkner suppressed his exasperation. ‘I am commanded by the Duke of Albemarle, Judith. He speaks for the King; what would you have me do – spit in Albemarle’s eye and tell him to inform the King that I am indisposed?’

  ‘The King would be none the wiser …’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Faulkner said, taking the wig from his head, placing it on its stand and scratching his pate. ‘He would simply summon me the instant I was on my feet again. And what do you suppose might be the consequences of his learning that only this morning I was discussing a new ship with Sir Henry Johnson? I would say that at the very least His Majesty—’

  ‘His Majesty!’ Judith spat the words from her like a foul oath, letting her hair down and turning on him so that she made him think of a harpy. ‘And as for the noble Duke of Albemarle, he is a triple turncoat, unless, of course, I have lost count. It is a wonder which of you is the greater chameleon.’

  ‘Oh, Judith, desist and give way,’ he said wearily, kicking off his shoes and fearing the direction the conversation was taking. ‘Thou knowest times have changed and we must change with them.’

  ‘No, the King does not acknowledge that; he counts his reign from the death of his father … Where are you going?’

  ‘Somewhere far from the owl screech that I am subject to.’

  Faulkner took his candle up to the attic and unlocked his private room. Through the thin wall he could hear the low and even snore of their kitchen-maid. He sat and stared about him, much as he had done a week or so earlier when he had summoned Henry. He saw the smear of his finger where it had dragged through the rust on his corroding cuirass and encircled the dent driven in by the Dutch ball that had only partially been knocked out.

  ‘I should black that,’ he mused to himself. ‘God knows but I might yet require it if old George is right about the Dutch. And if he is,’ he added thinking of Judith, ‘that would not distress me too much, either.’

  Then his eye fell on the portmanteau, and this time he did not resist the temptation to open it and withdraw the telescope. It was in a soft leather bag and, thanks to its origins, possibly his most cherished possession. The feel of it in his hand revived the recollection of the dream wherein the face of Katherine Villiers had so surprised him, appearing at the bow of their proposed new Indiaman. Perhaps, he thought in a moment of pure devilry, he should have the ship named ‘Villiers’ and adorn her with such a figure-head. It would damn well serve Judith right!

  No, that was an ungenerous thought; unfair too. He extended the telescope, noted the faint resistance from lack of use, then closed it with a snap, turning it in his hands. Those distant days when he was a lieutenant aboard the Prince Royal, and the exquisitely lovely Mistress Villiers had been attending her grand cousin, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, seemed to have played a part in another man’s life.

  ‘Who am I?’ he asked the chill night air, recalling the wastrel boy who stole apple-cores on the waterfront of Bristol until rescued by Sir Henry Mainwaring. He thought of Katherine and their love-making – and that also seemed too remote to have involved him. ‘Who am I?’ he repeated.

  The metaphysical question hung for a moment until Faulkner’s practical spirit dispatched it. ‘Bah! What a damned foolish question!’ he muttered to himself with some vehemence. ‘What man knows? And be he even a king, he is blown by the winds of fate so that one day he is up and the next he is down.’ He thought of poor Clarkson, one of his officers aboard the Union when they had fought the Dutch. Faulkner had been standing next to him, deep in conversation one moment, and the next Clarkson was dead, his loins shot-out by a ball that severed his trunk from his legs. ‘And Nathan speaks of a God,’ he muttered almost incredulously, suddenly angry at the dull incomprehension of all those who lived on land.

  With a sigh he put the telescope back in its bag, reflecting that it bore witness to the fact that he had indeed been that young man in the Prince Royal all those years ago. He returned the relic to its resting place, placated by the instrument’s solid existence. He rummaged idly through the rest of the box. It held some manuscript books; some loose papers, all of them long redundant; some nautical instruments and tarpaulin headgear that the seamen called a sou’-wester; and a large wheel-lock, wrapped in oiled cloth.

  Faulkner pulled it out and peeled off the cloth. The pistol was of exquisite German workmanship and he recalled acquiring it during his exile. Age made him sentimental as well as forgetful. How he now wished that he had given it to Henry. He had thought of it, if the boy had gone to sea as he desired, and now it was too late. He should have done it the moment he thought of it but had hesitated for fear the boy saw it as a crude inducement. No, it was a pity, but such an obvious douceur might have wrecked their apparent reconciliation.

  Faulkner sighed again. A son with whom he had been at loggerheads, a wife whose politics were likely to encumber them both, and now an imminent meeting with the King, whose lust had utterly destroyed the one true doomed love of Faulkner’s life. There was nothing he could do about any of it, he concluded and, moreover, he must get some sleep before Honest George presented him to His Majesty King Charles II.

  As instructed Faulkner presented himself at Whitehall Palace the following forenoon. He was decked out in his best finery, a suit of sober dark blue, the sleeves of his doublet un-slashed with breeches of blue above white silk stockings. The silver buckles on his belt and shoes, and the Dutch lace at his collar and wrists, were the only sign of ostentation. He had bought the outfit on his return home, in spite of Judith’s misgivings. He held his plain, wide, curled-brimmed hat along with his grey gloves in his left hand, his sword-stick in the right, looking every inch the successful merchant. He recalled a visit to the Court of the first Charles that he had made years earlier in the company of Sir Henry Mainwaring and looked about him curiously as he was conducted towards the throne room. He cast the recollection of the past aside, for that too contained the memory of Katherine Villiers.

  A moment later he was caught up in the bustle as others, keener than he to enjoy the privilege of proximity to the royal personage, hurried forward to secure their place at the assembly. Idly, Faulkner wondered how many had earlier favoured the contrary party and formerly displayed soberer apparel? Did a country need a king to answer some deep-seated desire for general cohesion? He concluded that he rather inclined to the belief that it did.

  ‘Sir? Your stick, sir. I apprehend it contains a sword-blade.’

  ‘What? Oh, of course.’ He surrendered the weapon. Clearly, the King was nervous of his subjects. One of the Lord Chamberlain’s flunkies took his stick, but he retained his hat and gloves and caught sight of Albemarle waiting for him. ‘Good morrow, Your Grace, I have kept you waiting again.’

  ‘Sir Kit, good morrow. It is not to be wondered at; this is like Billingsgate. Come.’

  It was unnecessary to force their way through the throng. After the King himself, the imposing figure of Albemarle was the best known in the three kingdoms, whether one knew of him as Monck, ‘Honest George’ or as Duke of Albemarle. It was said that Honest George was free to enter the King’s presence at any time, and to remain there until the King himself specifically asked him to retire.

  Having worked his way to the front of
the noisy throng, Albemarle took his station, indicating Faulkner should stand on his right. Faulkner had little time to stare about him, though he recognized the hall and knew by which entrance the King would emerge. He felt an attack of nerves, apprehensive at the reception he would receive at the royal hands. Looking sideways he judged there were perhaps two people to whom the King might speak before he came to Albemarle, such was Honest George’s standing. Faulkner thought he recognized Clarendon among them, but the other was unfamiliar to him. Then a functionary banged a staff three times on the floor, the babble fell away and a voice cried out: ‘His Majesty the King!’

  With a scrape of shoes, a sweeping of arms and a susurration of silk skirts, the entire assembly bowed or curtseyed. Those gentlemen, like Albemarle and Faulkner in the front of the crowd, thrust forward their right feet and drew back their left hands, their hat brims gathering the dust of the floor.

  As he straightened up, it seemed the King stood before him. ‘My Lord Duke,’ the King said, smiling and taking Albemarle’s hand. Set in the King’s strong features, dark eyes – at which Faulkner hardly dare to look – regarded him keenly as Albemarle made a gesture of presentation with his right hand. ‘You Majesty may I have the honour—’

  But he got no further, for the King held out his hand. ‘Ho! But it is Sir Kit, is it not?’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Faulkner murmured, hardly daring to take the King’s finger-tips and bow his head over the perfumed glove of soft leather that concealed them. He remarked the large ring the King wore.

  ‘You taught me to con a vessel, sir, for which I am indebted.’

  ‘Your Majesty is most kind …’ He was about to relinquish the royal hand but the King maintained a strong grip.

  ‘I would speak privately with you, Sir Kit,’ he murmured and, turning to Albemarle, said in a low voice, ‘see to it, Duke.’

  A moment later the king was gone; he could be heard discussing the racing at Newmarket with a couple ornately dressed in silks and covered in jewels that stood alongside them.

  ‘What am I to make of this summons, your Grace?’ Faulkner asked Albemarle as they emerged into the rough bustle of Whitehall.

  ‘I have asked that you serve again in the Navy, Sir Christopher. I imagine His Majesty wishes to commission you directly.’ Albemarle paused as Faulkner digested this news, his imagination filling with a myriad of pros and cons. Then Albemarle added, ‘He is like to want to test your loyalty for himself. These are still early days for him … you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’ He paused. ‘Your Grace, may I ask a favour? May we name our new ship in your honour?’

  Honest George chuckled. ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘But I have had enough of titles. On the other hand, if it were to be my wife after whom the ship was to be named, it would please me greatly.’

  Faulkner smiled and bowed. ‘Then the “Duchess of Albemarle” she shall be, Your Grace.’

  Faulkner did not have to wait long. The following day an elegantly clad gentleman arrived at his house at Wapping, commanding him to attend the King the next morning. On his arrival at Whitehall Palace he was immediately conducted by way of several passages into the King’s private chambers. Left to kick his heels in an ante-room for half an hour, he was summoned into the royal presence about noon.

  The King sat at a table covered with papers. Beside him, to his left, was the man Faulkner had recognized two days previously as Clarendon. The two were conversing over a document and without looking up the King motioned Faulkner to come closer. He stopped a few feet from the table and made a deep bow, keeping his eyes lowered as he came upright. The dull drone of the conference between the King and Clarendon, his Chief Minister and leader of the Privy Council, ceased, and the King sat back, regarding the downcast Faulkner.

  ‘Well, Sir Christopher, we meet again.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Faulkner responded.

  ‘I have summoned you, Sir Kit, not because of any past love I may have had for your person, notwithstanding your past services, for you were among those who deserted me …’ Faulkner made no move, though he felt the colour mounting into his face. The King’s pause was pregnant with foreboding, an earnest of his power, and yet Faulkner could not escape the notion that he was being toyed with, as if the King’s silence was a lure for him to speak. ‘You have nothing to say?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing beyond expressing my desire to serve Your Majesty.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What would Your Majesty have me say, beyond pledging my allegiance? These have been difficult times, Sire.’

  ‘You served the so-called Protector.’

  ‘I conceived that I served my country, Your Majesty. The Protector had me mewed up in The Tower.’

  ‘Look at me, Captain Faulkner,’ the King commanded.

  Faulkner raised his eyes and met the King’s gaze. Anyone as unlike his father would have been hard to conceive. Where his small-statured parent was haughty, yet halting, a stammerer whose insistence on his divine right to rule his realm without the benefit of a Parliament had sat oddly with his diffidence, the son had a solid, worldly air. Charles’s eyes were not only dark, but they were penetrating. His features were strong and his body was that of a powerful man.

  ‘You are an honest fellow, I think,’ the King said with a certain heartiness after appraising Faulkner for a moment or two. ‘And honourable – perhaps too honourable for your own good.’

  Faulkner frowned at the ambiguity, but held his tongue. Was the King referring to …? But no, that was impossible. Charles might condescend a little; but not to the extent that Faulkner perhaps hoped for. He drove the thought from his mind. This was no time to be self-indulgent.

  ‘The Duke of Albemarle speaks well of you. He valued your late services at sea, and I hope, should it become necessary at any time in the future, that I may count upon your exertions on my behalf.’

  ‘I am at Your Majesty’s service,’ Faulkner responded with a half bow.

  The King sighed. ‘You are indeed. But there is the matter of your son.’

  ‘My son?’ Faulkner was unable to conceal his astonishment.

  ‘You have two sons, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And do you know of their whereabouts?’

  ‘One is at sea in command of one of my ships engaged in a voyage to Jamaica—’

  ‘And the other? The one named …’ The King’s hand passed over one of the papers lying before him.

  Faulkner heard Clarendon murmur: ‘Henry.’

  ‘Is also at sea, on a voyage in the East Indiaman Eagle,’ Faulkner said firmly.

  ‘Do you dissemble, Captain Faulkner?’ It was Clarendon’s voice, speaking to him for the first time. Faulkner shot him a quick glance, before confronting the King. He could feel a rank sweat break out; his breathing seemed difficult, and he felt his face flush. The fact that he was not in command of himself increased his bafflement. ‘Sire, I have … He wrote to me from Gravesend, from the Eagle …’ The King’s eyes transfixed him.

  ‘Did you arrange the voyage, Captain Faulkner?’ Clarendon asked.

  Faulkner shook his head. ‘No, no, My Lord. I was desirous that he went to sea but he would not go upon my own terms …’ He paused, shaking his head as if to clear it, before going on. ‘I would have had him sail in one of my own vessels, under the supervision of one of my own ship-masters.’

  ‘But he defied you,’ Clarendon suggested.

  ‘Indeed, he did, My Lord.’

  ‘And then wrote to you and said he had shipped aboard this Indiaman.’ The King set the very obvious facts of Henry’s hoax before him.

  ‘But you did not see him board this Indiaman, nor see her sail, nor find out whether any man came ashore at Deal?’ Clarendon asked.

  ‘Your Majesty, am I to conclude that you have information that he did not sail in the Eagle and that he is here, in Londo
n?’

  ‘And keeping dangerous company.’

  ‘Very dangerous company,’ added Clarendon. ‘You knew nothing of this?’

  Faulkner shook his head. He could say little more. A vehement protestation of ignorance would, he felt instinctively, fail to convince either of his interlocutors. ‘No,’ he breathed in a low voice, ‘nothing.’

  ‘Well,’ said the King, raising his right hand from its resting place on the papers before him, ‘you should look to your son, sir, and mew him up before I am obliged to—’ The King brought the palm of his hand down flat upon the papers with a small slap. It was eloquent of royal prerogative.

  ‘You are aware of the Act of Indemnity and Oblivion?’ Clarendon asked, as though eager to add his own intimidation to that of the King’s.

  ‘I am.’ Faulkner paused and then said, ‘Your Majesty is most kind but I am at a loss to know where my son is at present.’

  ‘Ask Lady Faulkner, Sir Christopher,’ said the King, drawing himself up in his chair and indicating the subject was closed. Faulkner stood stunned for a moment, before bowing again. He would have withdrawn but the King restrained him. ‘One moment more. There is another matter,’ he said, ‘a small service with which you may oblige me.’

  Faulkner looked up. ‘Your Majesty?’

  The King held out his hand; Clarendon lifted a sealed letter which lay on the table, put it into the King’s outstretched hand, whereupon the King extended it to Faulkner. ‘Be so kind as to see this is placed into the hand of Lord Craven at Leicester House.’

  ‘You know where that is?’ asked Clarendon.

  ‘I do, My Lord.’

  Faulkner took the letter directly from the King’s hand, sensible of the honour done him. This small errand of trust meant more than that he was expected to convey a missive from the King to a nobleman, but was at odds with the serious charge against Henry.

  ‘Look to your son,’ the King repeated as he waved Faulkner away, appearing to resume work on his papers. Then, just as Faulkner was about to make his final bow, the King caught his eye. ‘And to your wife, Sir Christopher.’