The King's Chameleon Page 8

  ‘Somewhat, My Lord, and chiefly from these late years of strife.’

  ‘And is that why you must return immediately to London?’

  ‘In part, My Lord, though I chiefly return to expedite an affair with which I am charged by His Majesty.’

  ‘I am sorry to have brought you so far out of your way.’ Craven picked up the King’s letter and turned it over. ‘I see that you anticipated finding me at Leicester House.’

  ‘That is where I was directed. I believe the superscription to be in Lord Clarendon’s hand.’

  Craven nodded. ‘As is the letter. Ah, well, His Majesty must have thought I had not yet left for Oxford.’

  ‘I am sure, My Lord, that that was the case.’

  After easing himself, Faulkner was again in the saddle an hour later. His legs would be red raw by the time he reached London, but leaving his horse at Leicester House meant he could speak with Katherine before walking to Wapping.

  If – he thought to himself as his mount moved at a canter and joggled him in the saddle – he was capable of walking.

  He was not; dismounting outside the Prince’s residence he found that he could hardly stand, let alone walk. The boy who took his bridle called a servant to assist him inside. Helped to a settle in the hall, he waited for some time before Katherine appeared. On learning of his condition her face seemed half-amused, half-concerned.

  ‘We are not as young as once we were,’ she said as he struggled to his feet. She put an arm about him and thrust her shoulder under his. ‘Come, you must lie here tonight.’

  ‘No, I must get back …’

  ‘No!’ she insisted. ‘You must rest. I know His Highness to have a receipt for your problem, as any cavalry officer would …’

  Twenty minutes later Katherine was laughing at him as he lay face down upon a feather bed, his rump and legs bare as she worked a thick unguent into his bruised and blistered buttocks.

  ‘Watch what thou are about, my lovely Kate,’ he said, his voice muffled by swansdown. ‘There are parts tenderer for thee than any horse can render them.’

  She slapped a buttock with the palm of her hand. ‘La, sir,’ she cried mockingly, ‘there is nothing remarkable here that I have not seen before, though I should not have it tender.’

  ‘Nor will you if you allow a man a moment’s dignity …’ He groaned with the soreness of her application, aware that – as things stood at that moment – he had just uttered an idle boast.

  ‘I would not have thee incapacitated, but am content until thy vigour is full.’

  ‘You will not have to wait long,’ he said, attempting to roll over, but she forced him back.

  ‘I will not play games,’ she said, her voice suddenly serious. ‘God-willing, there will be time enough for that.’

  ‘Time,’ he grunted as she continued to knead him, ‘is something we do not have.’

  ‘Maybe not, but what you do have is a wife, and I would first determine where she and I stand in your affections.’

  ‘Stop, stop,’ he commanded, rolling over and drawing a sheet over his privities. Taking her wrist he drew her to him, kissed her and said, ‘Kate, we parted in dreadful circumstances.’

  ‘That does not matter; too much time has passed to—’

  ‘It matters in that I have taken up with my wife,’ he interrupted her. ‘I have a family and complicated affairs …’ He felt her draw away from him. ‘No—’ He shook his head. ‘No, you do not yet understand, I pray thee give me leave to speak without interruption.’ She nodded and gave a sniff as he saw her eyes fill. ‘I promise that I shall make amends to you, that I shall both love and cherish you notwithstanding any obligation to my wife. As to my regard for her, I can only tell you that no more than an hour before I received the shock of finding you yesterday, I was informed by the King himself that my son is involved with some political matter, possibly a plot against the King’s Majesty. He has given me leave to extricate my son and send him out of the country, which I may well do in one of my ships; otherwise he may risk a trial for treason, the consequences of which do not bear contemplation. As I guessed, my wife was party to some of this, though to what extent, I do not know, but I laid the matter before her shortly before leaving for Oxford. I have given her until I return to summon our son, which places both of them at my mercy. I must resolve these and their associated consequences—’ He broke off swallowing hard. ‘If she gets wind of our encounter …’ He faltered again, uncertain of how best to proceed, anxious to return to Wapping. He began again: ‘I can only plead that you understand that nothing may pass between us until—’

  She placed a finger on his lips. ‘I understand. I understand perfectly. Nor is my own situation short of obligations. Her Majesty is demanding –’ she shrugged – ‘which is perhaps understandable for a Queen who was never a queen above a year and is now both a widow and an exile as I have been. I am thus bound to her.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said miserably, ‘I left you with nothing.’

  ‘That was, perhaps, partly my own fault, but Charles, when he learned of your defection, quizzed me, and such was the state of my nerves that I confessed. I was not the apple of His Highness’s eye – as he then was – and he found me employment in the thread-bare household of his aunt.’

  ‘That was considerate of him.’

  Katherine shrugged. ‘Perhaps; more like the thought of feeding me filled him with horror. But ever since I have helped Lord Craven attend Her Majesty and have received every kindness both from The Queen and His Lordship.’ She watched him for a moment, then added, ‘And before you ask, I have never been Lord Craven’s bed-fellow, no, nor slept with any man since thee.’

  ‘Katherine …’

  ‘And that is more than I know you can say for yourself, Sir Kit of the red arse!’ And smiling, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  He walked towards Wapping next morning, his heart light as a bird’s so that, had no consequences attached to the act, he might have blithely forgiven Judith her dissembling. Fortunately, his mood darkened, adumbrated by the chafing of his swollen legs so that he rolled worse than any sailor just ashore from a rough passage from Virginia, and he was taken for such by a brace of whores parading along the Ratcliff Highway. With The Tower and the harlots’ laughter behind him, his wits had sharpened by the time he came to his own door. He was aware that he had given Judith time to compose herself and hatch a counter-plot; she may even have spirited Henry out of the country in defiance of his order, which, if so, could not be helped.

  Entering the house with a deliberate clatter, he summoned bread and wine. He had declined breaking his fast at Leicester House, and when the kitchen-maid brought him a loaf and some cheese he sent her in quest of Judith. The girl bobbed a curtsey and left, her face witness to unpleasantness in the house. A few moments Hannah came in to him.

  ‘Hannah, my dear. Come, kiss your father.’

  ‘Father, what is afoot? All is mystery and whispers, Mother is quite unlike herself and Uncle Nathan got drunk last night. I have never known him to touch more than a glass or two, but he was so drunk that he had to be dragged to bed.’

  Faulkner was shocked by this news, but the elation infecting him since his encounter with Katherine compelled him to suppress a smile. ‘Your uncle drunk, eh? Then things must be afoot, my darling girl, but you are not to worry about them; they do not touch you, and what does not touch you, you are best to be ignorant of. Come, now, glad as I am to see you, I had called for your mother—’ He was about to add Henry’s name but stopped himself in time.

  ‘Mother went out last night, before Uncle Nathan began drinking.’

  ‘And where is Uncle Nathan now, pray?’

  ‘Why, still a-bed, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Then I must wake him. The fellow has work to do; we are due at the ship-yard this forenoon,’ he said with a business-like air. He turned at the door. ‘Daughter, have them boil some water; I have been in the saddle for nigh on twenty hours and reek of the roa
d.’

  Faulkner watched her a moment as she scuttled out to the kitchen, then he turned and stiffly ascended the stairs until he reached the upper landing where Gooding’s room lay. He threw open the door. Gooding lay fully clothed, though without his shoes and wig, the former having been removed and the latter occupying a place on his pillow like a decapitated wife.

  ‘Well, well,’ Faulkner muttered, ‘you poor, benighted devil.’ He threw open the shutters and flung the casements wide before bending over the prostrate form. ‘Brother-in-law!’ He spoke directly into Gooding’s exposed ear, and the man stirred and came-to, rubbing his eyes and groaning as first the horror of the hang-over, and then the realization of the circumstances to which he woke, invaded his consciousness.

  ‘Come, Nathan, it is not like you to be lying a-bed when work calls. We are due at the ship-yard before noon.’

  Faulkner’s reasonable tone, telling of mundane commitment, further threw the waking man, who mumbled incomprehensibly. ‘What o’clock is it?’ he finally managed to ask through a thick and foul mouth.

  ‘Come, sir, you stink so much, I fear you have been drinking, a fact made plain by your apparel. Good God, you look like a cavalier after a night of insensible revelry, or is it a pig rolling in mud? I cannot decide which you most closely resemble.’

  Gooding focussed his eyes with difficulty then frowned. ‘Do not mock me, Kit—’ he began, but Faulkner cut him short.

  ‘Where is your sister? And where is my son Henry?’ Not waiting for a reply, he went on, ‘And how much of their devilish and damning folly did you know about?’

  Gooding seemed to shrink from this verbal assault, putting up his hand to shield himself, as if from a blow, but in fact from the light that tormented his sore eyes.

  ‘And all the while,’ Faulkner went on, pressing his advantage, ‘I was walking contentedly up and down Limehouse Lane to the Lea’s mouth to take tea with Sir Henry Johnson in the mistaken belief that my partner was an honest man with whom I enjoyed an honest discourse.’ Faulkner turned away as Gooding began to drag himself off the bed. He was genuinely troubled by this break-down in trust. ‘And do not accuse me of having turned upon you and making war upon you in the past,’ he added with an unfeigned vehemence. ‘You know I should not have deliberately attacked your ships had I known them to be yours. Such mischances fall out in war when men conceive their duty opposes their friends’ interests. I had thought all that faction and heat behind us, but now …’ Faulkner drove one gloved fist into the other with a noise like a carter’s whip. ‘God damn it, Nathan, I even named the one son I can trust after you!’

  ‘Stop, Kit! Stop, I pray you. Give me water from that jug, and I shall confess what I may confess.’ After he had poured half the contents of the night-jug down his throat and the remainder down his front, Gooding stood miserably before Faulkner. They made an odd pair, the one still in dusty clothes, the other looking as though he had just swum the Thames.

  ‘I did not know of Henry’s deception until about a month ago. He came to the house and I had come home from the counter while you had gone to Blackwall to discuss the fitting of the lower capstan and then aboard the Arrow, d’you remember? I expressed my astonishment, but immediately guessed how he had played his trick and that his being in the house meant that someone here knew too.’

  ‘Hannah?’

  Gooding shook his head. ‘No, she knows nothing, bless her, though how Henry and Judith kept things from her I do not know.’

  ‘She is trusting and trustworthy,’ Faulkner said pointedly. ‘She believed Henry had sailed with Edmund Drinkwater, and that association made the lie the more believable. It gulled me, by God!’

  ‘Yes, yes, I daresay. They had concealed the matter from me well enough, but I am not here during the daytime. For all I know they met elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘To hear Henry talk, the entire city is rife with plots and conspiracies and the King’s life hangs by a thread. Ever since the hanging of the first of the Regicides – Thomas Harrison, if I recall aright, though there have been over-many of them for my liking, poor souls – there have been rumours of a revival of the old Army.’

  Faulkner scoffed. ‘Time passes, Nathan; the New Model has become the Old Army as well as the Royal Army and most get their pay after a fashion, which is more than can be said during Old Nol’s reign.’

  ‘That may be, but it does not alter the case in Henry’s eyes.’

  ‘Where is the boy, Nathan? And where is his mother? She will burn for a witch if the King has his way, while Henry will be dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that about your own son!’

  ‘Don’t preach to me, damn you,’ Faulkner said in a low voice. ‘I set out the plain truth. If that fool of a boy has allied himself with any plot he will hang, and all the rest of the disgusting ritual which has been inflicted on the Regicides will be visited upon him and his co-conspirators.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Gooding was weeping now, the effects of emotion and alcoholic remorse playing havoc with him.

  ‘Where is his mother?’ Faulkner asked, his voice again low and temperate.

  Gooding looked at him miserably and shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Kit, I truly do not know.’

  Faulkner nodded and indicated the stain seeping through Gooding’s breeches. ‘Very well; you look as though you need a piss-pot. I am going to a bath. I will send up some food.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Gooding, his humiliation complete as he rummaged under the bed for the piss-pot. ‘I could not bear for anyone else to see me like this.’

  ‘I understand. Come below when you are ready. I will send Hargreaves to Blackwall with a note that we are detained.’

  The bath not only refreshed Faulkner, it also gave him time to think. He thought not only of Judith’s treachery but of Katherine’s pliant hands, for the hot water still stung his wounded flesh, despite the remarkable effects of Prince Rupert’s grease. His mood of elation heightened: it was clear that the King entertained some regard for him; he had discovered Katherine and, almost in the same breath, the deception of his wife. Why, the coincidence could not have been more apt! It was astonishing! Despite the dangerous curiosity of his circumstances he felt an extreme pang of sublime happiness …

  Until, that is, he recalled that all hinged upon the apprehension and transportation of Henry far from these shores. The recollection threw cold-water on his sudden and infatuated felicity, making him angry again. As he rose from the tub, the water running from him over the paved floor, the absence of Judith only increased his sudden feeling of cold fury.

  He was almost dressed when the pallid form of Gooding entered the room. Seeing Faulkner naked, he apologized, but Faulkner insisted he come in, and he called for the kitchen-maid to empty the bath and serve Master Gooding some breakfast. The wan appearance of his brother-in-law had prompted another sudden thought; it occurred to Faulkner that while he had been duped by his wife, Gooding had been used. Manipulated by a sister who knew well his honest and compliant character, Gooding had been trapped in so unfamiliar a situation that he was quite unable to use his customary moral yardstick. The thought led Faulkner to conclude that Judith’s whereabouts were perhaps not so difficult to divine. He looked at Gooding, who had sunk into a chair, leaned his elbows on the table and sat miserably waiting for his bread.

  ‘You say you have no idea of Judith’s whereabouts, Nathan?’

  Gooding shook his head, the drawn-out monosyllabic groan presumably a negative response. ‘Has she been to the counting-house of late?’ Again Gooding shook his head. ‘And you say you caught Henry here, not at the wharf?’

  ‘Yes, but he would tell me nothing. Nothing about himself, that is.’

  Faulkner grunted, then raised his voice and called Hannah’s name. The girl came in from the parlour next door. ‘You said your mother left last night. Did you see her leave?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘No, Father. That is what is so strange; she simply went
out.’

  ‘You did not see her go? Did not see whether she carried anything, a satchel or bag?’

  ‘No. She simply left the room and was gone when I sought her out. Molly told me she had left the house.’

  ‘Send Molly in to me and then go immediately to your mother’s chamber. See if you can find her keys, and tell me if you think any of her garments have been taken away.’

  Hannah did as she was bid, and a moment later Molly stepped into the room carrying bread, cheese and a tankard of small beer for Gooding. ‘You sent for me, Sir?’ she said after serving Gooding. Her face wore an expression of apprehension as she bobbed dutifully to her master.

  ‘Your mistress left here last night, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she was going?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘Did she ask you to pack her a bag, or did she leave with anyone?’

  Molly shook her head.

  ‘Has anyone unusual called here in the last fortnight or so? Think, now …’

  Molly’s non-too-clean brow furrowed. She was a bright enough young woman whom Judith had taken as her maid, but she seemed genuinely at a loss as to offer any credible evidence which would solve the domestic mystery.

  ‘Has she told you anything unusual, offered any hint as to why she might leave in a hurry?’

  Molly shook her head with slow deliberation. At that moment Hannah came back into the room. Faulkner turned to her: ‘Well?’

  ‘I think there are some clothes gone. Molly, run up and see. The blue gown and the grey cloak. Check the mistress’s small clothes and her linen.’

  ‘Aye, Miss.’

  After Molly had disappeared, Hannah held up the ring of household keys. ‘I found these.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ Faulkner said. ‘Hannah, my dear, you are in charge of the household and must keep those. Tell me, are you aware of any odd visitors of late?’