The King's Chameleon Page 7

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Stung, Faulkner bowed and, still perspiring heavily, his mind in a turmoil, backed away from the royal presence.

  When he found himself in the chaos of Whitehall, Faulkner allowed himself a low but heartfelt oath. The King’s reference first to ‘Lady Faulkner’, a title that Judith never used, conveyed to Faulkner something awful. He was suddenly angry with her; maddened by her refusal to see how the world had changed, and infuriated by her apparent complicity in Henry’s outrageous deception, about which the King was so well-informed. He had almost forgotten the King’s letter but knew that he must first set it in the hand of Lord Craven.

  Leicester House, Lord Craven’s London residence, lay within the City of London, and Faulkner, anxious to have matters out with his wife, sped there without much thought about his mission. The house fronted the street, and his over-eager banging of its door-knocker quickly summoned a man-servant.

  ‘I have a personal letter from His Majesty The King for Lord Craven,’ he explained.

  The man drew back and gestured for Faulkner to enter. Half expecting the servant to request he hand the letter over, he added, ‘I am to deliver it personally.’

  ‘Of course.’ The man-servant inclined his head. ‘But His Lordship iss absent …’

  ‘Absent?’ Faulkner was puzzled. ‘But I must see … somebody who …’ He got no further. The manservant was not obstructive, only protective of his master.

  ‘Plees, may I haf your name?’

  ‘Captain Sir Christopher Faulkner,’ he responded. The man-servant repeated the name and Faulkner nodded.

  ‘Danke.’ The man’s accent was thick and, to Faulkner, sounded like that of a Dutchman. He gathered his wits, pushing all thoughts of Judith and Henry out of his mind for the time being. Of course! The servant was a Bohemian, and this, he recollected, looking about the paved hall in which he had been left to wait, was the residence of Queen Elizabeth of Bohemia, King Charles’s aunt. Another monarch dispossessed by war, she was also mother to Prince Rupert of the Rhine, who, he had heard, shared the residence with her.

  As the moments of idle waiting ticked by, he found his thoughts returning to his personal predicament. He would have to confront Judith immediately and locate Henry without delay. The only possible thing to be done was to have the boy put on board a ship by force, removing him from the Kingdom for a few months. He racked his brains to recall which of their ships would next sail for the West Indies, but found himself gripped by some mental paralysis, unable to recollect the detail. He tore off his right glove and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ he muttered under his breath.

  And then, just when he felt his world had been capsized, it turned over yet again.

  ‘Kit? Can it be you?’

  A rapidly approaching murmur of silk came with the waft of a scent that tore at his very sanity. He looked up at a woman standing before him and stepped back hard against the wall.

  ‘Christ Jesus!’ he choked, unable to catch his breath after his blasphemy, for he was staring into the still lustrous eyes of Katherine Villiers.

  Katherine Villiers

  May 1661

  As a boy Faulkner had felt faint with hunger; he also knew the weird and debilitating effects of the trauma of a wounding, followed by an effusion of blood. He knew, all too recently, how disarming shocking news could affect a man’s composure, but this, this whirl of emotion, of a choking sensation that made the heart trip and then hammer, that set his head in a spin, made his eyes water and his legs fail him: this was something altogether new and terrifying.

  He staggered back hard against the wall, feeling preposterous, foolish and yet over-come with shock at the encounter, guilt as the recollection of their parting and yet … and yet an overwhelming joy. ‘Kate,’ he breathed as his vision cleared and he held out a hand to her, fearful that he should receive a rebuff.

  ‘Come,’ she said simply, taking his hand and drawing him quickly into a side room, the furnishings of which he could never afterwards recall. Still holding hands, they stood stock-still, close enough for each to feel the breath of the other. He could see that time had taken its toll: she was thin and pale, her skin bore the marks of time, but her features – devoid of paste or patches – were as lovely as ever, and he could tell by the heaving of her bosom that she too was in turmoil as they gazed into each other’s eyes, almost stupefied.

  ‘I fear we are preposterous,’ she said at last, with a smile and an embarrassed little laugh.

  ‘I do not care how we look, only that I can look at nothing else.’

  ‘I am so pleased to see you,’ she responded. ‘Since I came back to London a week or so ago I have been tempted to seek you out but I could not.’

  He shook his head. ‘I did not know … How came you here?’

  ‘In the train of Her Majesty; I am a lady in waiting to the Queen of Bohemia living in exile here, and I am as beholden to Lord Craven for my accommodation as is Her Majesty herself.’ He stood looking at her, unable to say anything, digesting the plain facts, and she, awkward herself, ploughed on. ‘His Lordship has been a steadfast friend and staunchly loyal servant of The Queen.’ She made a little gesture. ‘This is his house …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said, gathering his wits. ‘That is why I am here, to see his Lordship.’

  ‘How so?’ she asked, a puzzled look on her face.

  He stepped back and drew the King’s letter from his doublet. ‘I bear him a letter from the hand of the King.’

  ‘Then …’ She frowned before continuing: ‘But the King knows Lord Craven is in Oxford in hope of turning up papers relating to—’

  ‘Then why …?’

  It dawned on both of them simultaneously, breaking the artificial but necessary discourse that had thrust itself upon them in the wake of their mutual shocks. ‘He knew you were here,’ Faulkner said wonderingly.

  ‘He knew that we parted …’

  ‘Because of him?’

  ‘Because of what you thought of him.’

  ‘He cared that much?’

  ‘You were an outstanding sea-officer. In his opinion you stood second only to his cousin.’

  ‘Prince Rupert of the Rhine?’ asked Faulkner, astonished, only half-believing Katherine’s explanation.

  She nodded. ‘Few carried the King’s fight to the enemy’s doorstep. I heard him say so in those very words.’

  ‘Well.’ Faulkner shook his head and looked down. She anticipated him speaking and held her silence, though she took up his hand again and held it to her breast. ‘I, er … I acted infamously then … both to you and to the King.’ He rallied, threw up his head and stared at her. ‘But he had proved himself a rake, and I was jealous!’

  She put her left hand up and smoothed his cheek. Shaking her head, she said with tears welling in her eyes, ‘You were not to blame. The times and our situation was such that …’ She paused. ‘It was impossible …’

  Her upturned face, her half open mouth and the whispered words that trailed off into a desperate longing drew him towards her. They kissed.

  Still embracing, their breasts heaving and a hot desire forcing the blood of both to raise their colour, she asked, ‘But what now?’

  He opened his mouth to speak and then hesitated. There was so much to think of. Besides this encounter, the King’s task and the King’s warning galled him with the spur of urgency. He stepped back, holding both her hands and looking at her expectant face. She seemed troubled by his failure to reply.

  ‘You have a wife,’ she prompted, ‘and children.’

  ‘Yes, but there is much to think of. This letter, I know not what to do with it. If, as you say, it was but a device to bring us together, it may well lie and await his Lordship’s return, but His Majesty’s express order was that I was to lay it in Lord Craven’s hand.’

  ‘I know not what to say of that, unless to advise you to take horse for Oxford, for His Lordship is not expected back until tomorrow.’


  ‘But,’ he said with a frown, ‘there is another matter more closely attaching to my person …’

  ‘And this troubles you?’

  ‘Aye, my darling, for it involves my wife and children, or at least one of my sons.’

  ‘I do not know what to advise.’

  Faulkner suddenly made up his mind. ‘Whisht, I am decided. I’ll have a horse made ready and leave for Oxford in an hour or so, but first I must return home …’

  ‘But the King’s commission, what of that?’

  ‘I think the King, knowing that I had not found Lord Craven here, whither he directed me, would wish me to set other matters in motion before attending to his letter. I can ride all night.’

  ‘If ’tis a matter of horses, I can arrange a relay.’ She was all eagerness, and Faulkner felt the balm of forgiveness in her offer.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘You forget who else is resident in this house?’ She stared smiling at his puzzlement. ‘Prince Rupert.’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘I can have him order a relay of horses on the Oxford Road within two hours. Indeed, have you a horse yourself?’

  ‘No, I should need to arrange the hire.’

  ‘Forget it. His Highness will oblige me in the King’s name. Do you wish to see him?’

  ‘I … I know not … I would not importune …’

  ‘Come.’ She led him back into the hall, relinquished his hand and led him upstairs, motioning him to wait as she disappeared inside a room from which the sound of an erratically played harpsichord came. He stood for a few moments as two servants passed him, looking at him with undisguised curiosity. Then the door opened and Katherine motioned him into the chamber.

  ‘Sir Christopher. You are most welcome.’ The tall and once familiar figure of the Prince rose from behind the instrument.

  Faulkner bowed. ‘Your Highness is most kind.’ He raised his eyes to the smiling Rupert. He too wore his years well; years that Faulkner knew had seen him campaigning on the Continent. His handsome face had lost none of its cool yet pleasant loftiness, the moustache upon his upper lip softened the sharp nose and the intelligent eyes that twinkled with recollection set Faulkner at an ease he had not felt during the entire day.

  ‘The Lady Villiers has explained your predicament, and I shall pass orders for a relay of horses to be ready for you.’ He turned to a writing table and seated himself, scribbling a few lines on a paper. Faulkner exchanged a glance with Katherine, who was smiling triumphantly. There! she seemed to imply. That is what I can do for you.

  Rupert scribbled his signature with a flourish, sanded the paper, shook it and handed it unfolded to Faulkner. ‘That will secure you the horses. Now, sir, a glass of wine.’ He motioned to Katherine, who quickly supplied two glasses of Rhenish from a decanter on a side-board. ‘I remember you at Helvoetsluys; a council of war on a winter’s day.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Highness.’

  ‘Odd how times change. You are a friend of Albemarle’s, are you not?’ Rupert enquired in his perfect, if accented English.

  ‘I am honoured to be so acquainted.’

  ‘As one of the Trinity Brethren, I understand.’

  ‘You are well informed, Your Highness.’

  Rupert laughed. ‘I have to know these matters if I am to live in your country again. Here is a toast to the future: Prost!’ The Prince tossed off the bumper at a single swallow and Faulkner followed suit as Rupert smiled and sat himself once more at the harpsichord. ‘I shall play you a march for the road.’ He began thumping out chords as Faulkner bowed and withdrew.

  ‘Your Highness has been most kind.’

  Katherine showed him to the street door. Before opening it she turned to him. A footman was nearby, and she drew Faulkner’s face down and, whispering, asked, ‘You will come back to see me?’

  ‘Of course,’ he responded. Then, with a sudden resolution, he added, ‘I shall settle matters, but we must be patient and circumspect.’

  ‘Of course, my darling, of course! But please return – when you are able to.’

  ‘You may depend upon it.’

  She indicated to the waiting footman that he should open the door and smiled as Faulkner saw the horse ready saddled for him. Donning his hat and mounting awkwardly, he waved at her before hailing the animal’s head round and giving its flanks a kick with his unspurred heels.

  His arrival at his home on horseback created a stir. Telling the kitchen boy to walk the horse to an inn, see an ostler had it fed and watered and brought back an hour later, he strode into the house. The events of the day had been so transforming that he felt a strange empowering exhilaration. Weaving through the crowded streets on horseback, he had been somewhat preoccupied by staying in the saddle, for it was years since he had ridden. The knack had come back to him while the congestion of passers-by, vendors, whores, pick-pockets and beggars prevented the spirited horse from running away with him. Nevertheless, it had thrown up its head from time-to-time, throwing froth about, its eyes blazing. He had kept the rein tight and had been able to spare a thought for the turn events had taken. By the time he reached Wapping he had determined upon a course of action.

  Having handed the horse over to the boy, he entered the house. Gooding met him, eager to discuss some detail of their business, but Faulkner brushed him aside. ‘Not now, Nathan, not now.’

  Almost run down by Faulkner’s advance, a crest-fallen Gooding stood back until Faulkner, having passed him and set his booted feet upon the stair, suddenly seemed struck by a thought. Turning, he said, ‘I am sorry, Nathan, but there is a matter of some delicacy I have first to discuss with my wife and I think it best if you were privy to the affair. Would you call her from the parlour, or wherever she is?’

  He turned away and clattered up the stairs. From the landing he could hear Gooding’s voice and then Judith’s. He did not bother to try to eavesdrop on what passed between them. In the upstairs room Faulkner threw a glance round, then stood facing the empty fire-place, leaning on the over-mantel. Behind him he heard the door open and two sets of footsteps enter.

  A short silence was broken by Judith. ‘You wished to speak with me, husband?’

  He knew immediately from her tone of voice that she knew her treachery had been exposed. He had had time to compose himself and he turned and confronted brother and sister, his face blank of all expression. ‘As you know, I have been with His Majesty The King,’ he began pleasantly without a hint in his voice of what might follow. ‘In consequence I have been charged to convey a message direct from His Majesty to my Lord Craven.’

  ‘What has my Lord Craven to do with me … us?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Very little, my dear, except that I shall be absent over-night; I am taking a relay of horses, for His Lordship lies at Oxford and the King’s message is of some importance.’

  ‘Is this to be your future business, Husband?’ Judith asked sharply.

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ he responded mildly. ‘Acting as messenger to the King was but ancillary to His Majesty’s purpose in summoning me.’

  ‘Then why did His Majesty summon you?’ she asked, clearly emboldened by the apparent allaying of her fears.

  Faulkner shot a look at Gooding. He was a better student of his brother-in-law’s moods than his sister. His face wore an expression of deep concern; he was almost putting out a hand to restrain her over-confidence whilst simultaneously worrying about what Faulkner was going to say next.

  Faulkner smiled. ‘His Majesty,’ he said with a slow deliberation, ‘told me to ask my wife, The Lady Faulkner, where our son Henry is.’

  Judith went a deathly pale, and she shot a hand out to steady herself against the heavy table. Gooding swallowed hard and cast his eyes down.

  ‘I see, without pressing for an explanation as to why, that you both know to what I refer. Thanks to the condescension of His Majesty, if I may bring my son swiftly to heel he may escape a hanging, drawing and a quartering.’

  ‘Oh God! No!’
Judith cried, before collapsing in a faint. Gooding caught her and settled her down.

  Faulkner turned his back on them, walked to the window, opened the casement and let the noise of the street penetrate the room. ‘You have five minutes,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Then I want water and victuals put in a satchel.’

  After a few moments he heard Gooding behind him cough. He closed the window and turned back into the room. Gooding had seated Judith in the chair he habitually used and settled her with a glass of wine. Now he stood behind her.

  ‘Well?’ Faulkner said.

  The Prince’s relay of horses served him well, and he was in Oxford by dawn, though it took him an hour to locate Lord Craven’s lodgings near Christchurch College. When he was ushered into Craven’s presence, his Lordship was breaking his fast. Learning of Faulkner’s over-night journey, he offered his table and a bed, the first of which Faulkner accepted gratefully, the latter he declined on account of having urgent business recalling him back to London.

  ‘Very well, Sir Christopher, but please partake of something.’ Craven waved his hand over the breakfast table before taking up a knife and breaking the royal seal.

  Faulkner eased himself onto a chair. His legs ached abominably, and he took his mind off his extreme discomfort by observing, with some curiosity, Craven reading the King’s letter. He had half expected Charles to have sent a blank sheet, resulting in some ridicule from the noble lord, or perhaps a witty message in which he was to tell the messenger that he had been sent on a fool’s errand, though not without purpose. Neither, in fact, proved to be the case. Once, as he read, Craven looked up at Faulkner, smiled, and resumed his perusal of the letter. Then he laid it down upon the table and casually remarked: ‘I am here upon private business, Sir Christopher: the matter of recovering lands removed by the Parliament.’ Craven blew out his breath, seemingly at the enormity of his task, then added with an air of abstraction, ‘I seek certain papers thought to have been left here by the late King. Spending these many last years abroad in the service of the Queen of Bohemia has wrought havoc with much of my life.’ He sighed deeply, made a gesture of resignation by shrugging his shoulders and went on. ‘No matter; the King advises me of some issues that may clarify my somewhat complicated affairs. Are your affairs complicated, Sir Christopher?’