A Ship for The King (28 page)

‘We both knew this moment must come in due course, Julia,' he said in a low voice, ignoring the children.

‘But why the
King
?' she asked, keeping control of herself with the greatest difficulty.

‘You know why the King,' he said softly.

‘For a telescope?' she cried, exasperated.

‘Yes, perhaps for a telescope,' he responded quietly. Curiously his decision, whether it had been made for right or wrong, had brought with it a kind of inner tranquillity that he was unable to explain. Perhaps it arose from the years of anxiety and uncertainty; perhaps it was the long-delayed consequence of the death of physical love between them.

‘I loved you,' she said in a low voice. ‘I loved you for the man I then knew and thought of as a constant character. I love our children but . . .' He said nothing, sensing what was coming, and prepared himself for the humiliation that he felt inevitable and which was Julia's right to inflict upon him. It stung nevertheless. ‘But you have no backbone and are swung so very easily . . .' She was almost sobbing as she uttered those last words.

He nodded. ‘Perhaps,' he said quietly, ‘but you know not from whence I came, nor have you never asked beyond believing, as was correct, that I was an orphan. I know privation, Julia, you do not; I have striven to avoid it all these long and wearying years—'

‘Then why submit now? Why give in to the weaker party whose cause is broken, discredited and damned? Why side with the King?' Her voice had strengthened as it gained conviction. ‘Fight if you must, but fight on the side of justice and right! But why, in God's name, fight for Charles Stuart?'

It was a question he could not adequately answer. His response was visceral not rational. Did it come from that natural cunning that had led him to seek the apple cores dropped so long ago on the quayside at Bristol? Was that the root of his self-preservation?

‘You will do well enough. The letters that I have written will see to that. If you cannot go to Bristol and your brother, you may remain here as long as you like. You are made master of most of my fortune for the sake of yourself and the children. I shall ask Eagles to witness those documents that are necessary before I go. Now, I must make my own preparations. I hope that we may meet again but, whatever happens, I charge you to look after the children.' He looked briefly at the two boys. Tears coursed down Nathaniel's cheeks and he was wracked by sobs as he pretended to lose himself in his book. Henry stared at him over the spine of his. It was already too dark to read and the pretence of the thing added to their mutual distress. It was shaming to argue thus in front of them but it was now the only thing they had in common. ‘You had better find flint and tinder, Harry,' he said, ‘or you will ruin your eyes.'

He hoped the boy would hate him for that remark, for he did not wish Henry to see him in heroic mould, nor conceive foolish ideas of emulation. He wanted the boy to cleave to his mother, and he only realized much later it was because Julia was correct in her foretelling of the future – it was very likely that the King's cause was doomed.

Below in a room, now almost completely dark, he found Eagles astir. Realizing the two men were alone, he coughed and said, ‘I brought something else, a separate missive from Sir Henry that he specifically charged me with delivering to you in absolute privacy.' Eagles took a folded and sealed letter from his satchel and handed it over.

Faulkner took the letter to the fire, which he kicked into life until it gave out sufficient light, then sat beside it to read what Mainwaring had written. It was an informal note, clearly written in haste and bearing neither date nor location of origin.

Overwhelmed with emotion at his leave-taking of his family, Faulkner read the letter without comprehension, looking up at Eagles, who was watching him with some interest. Then something began to burst inside him and he reread it, at the conclusion of which he sat back in the chair, his chest heaving and his heart thundering as if it would explode.

‘Are you well, sir?' Eagles asked anxiously.

Faulkner nodded, unsure what to feel. Eventually he managed to ask, ‘Do you know the contents of this letter?'

Eagles shook his head. ‘No, I know nothing beyond the fact that Sir Henry told me that should you seem unwilling to answer his summons, I was to show it to you. In the circumstances, I had almost forgotten it.'

‘I am glad that you did not,' Faulkner said. ‘I am also glad that you did not show it to me earlier. It would have had quite the contrary effect to that intended by Sir Henry!'

He stood, and leaving a thoroughly puzzled Eagles waiting again, went to gather his effects, noisily stumping about the house to deter enquiry from either Julia or the boys. Had one observed him at this time one would have thought him mad, for his face worked excessively, torn, it would seem, between laughter and tears. Moving with almost manic energy, he executed his task in a vacillating mood of high excitement and self-loathing. He was at once spineless and vindicated, a weathercock, a fool . . .

There was only one possible lady to whom Mainwaring could have referred and she, he had long ago concluded, he was never likely to see again.

Nine

Pendennis

‘Kit! By God, you are most welcome! A glass, a glass, my dear fellow, a glass.' Faulkner wrung Mainwaring's outstretched hand. ‘And you have brought a ship.' Mainwaring turned and greeted Eagles before pouring both men a glass of wine. Mainwaring peered through the stern windows of the
Saint George
at the
Phoenix
which, not half an hour earlier, had dropped her anchor in Carrick Road off Falmouth town, under the looming presence of Pendennis castle.

‘The King has a fleet again,' Mainwaring said, handing them each a glass, ‘mustering fifteen armed merchantmen and now yours. Is she chartered, or purchased outright?'

‘I have chartered her, Sir Henry,' Eagles put in.

‘And her people?'

‘Men signed for a voyage,' Faulkner said. ‘They will stay if they are paid. Trade is fallen off mightily now the war has resumed and they mostly have families.'

‘Hmmm,' Mainwaring grunted, ‘money does not buy loyalty except in the short-term. Still, the ship's the thing. There are King's seamen enough here in the West Country.' Mainwaring turned to Eagles. ‘What news did you glean in London?'

Faulkner studied his old master and mentor. Mainwaring was much altered, a man on the threshold of old age, careworn and lined by anxiety, thinner through poor living and overwork, his once heavy features fallen away, giving him the lugubrious appearance of an old hound.

‘And what of matters here?' Eagles asked, recapturing Faulkner's attention.

Mainwaring shook his head. ‘The Prince is presently at Pendennis and is mustering men.'

‘We saw the standard as we came in by the Black Rock,' Eagles remarked.

‘Aye, a fine lad sent thither by his father to raise forces . . .' Mainwaring's voice tailed off.

‘But . . . ?' prompted Eagles.

Mainwaring blew out his cheeks. ‘But while men come in we have news that Fairfax is on the march.'

‘Black Tom!' Eagles shook his head.

‘Aye. And he is expected in Truro within a day or two.' Mainwaring turned to Faulkner. ‘You are come just in time, Kit.'

‘So it would seem,' he replied, ruefully. Were it not for the fact that a question for Sir Henry burned in him, he might have felt the clutch of fear and despair in his gut, but from some foolishness he felt instead a surge of pure elation.

‘Fairfax will invest Pendennis,' Eagles said. ‘And what then?'

Mainwaring sighed again. ‘The arguments range from Ireland to France, but my advice is Jersey, which is the most practicable, opens up a communication with the Queen.' He paused reflectively, adding, ‘And with ships we may yet come to the King's aid.'

Faulkner sensed that Mainwaring's optimism was recurring, making the best of disaster and always as resourceful as ever. Eagles seemed privy to the contagion, for he reminded them cheerfully that, ‘They have yet to take Pendennis, gentlemen. Let us drink to its defence and its stalwart garrison.'

‘Well,' said Mainwaring after a moment, turning to his table on which a litter of charts and papers lay scattered. ‘We have work to do. James, you shall relieve me in command of this vessel and here is your commission to that effect.' He handed Eagles a sealed document. ‘She is not in good condition, James, and, as you may hear from the noise of the pumps, requires constant attention. Nor are her sails or ropes much better, alas, but she may be used in defence of the castle and we shall presently remoor her to command the approaches. You may take over this cabin.' Eagles took the commission and nodded as Mainwaring turned to Faulkner. ‘I shall hoist my flag aboard the
Phoenix
, Kit, thither we shall go now with my effects, such as they are. James, I am likely to return here by nightfall when, I hope, to have better intelligence of Fairfax.' Mainwaring saw Eagles to the cabin door, engaging him in a brief, private conversation, before returning to the table, calling for his single manservant and gathering up his papers.

When his effects were ready, they descended the
Saint George
's side, into the
Phoenix
's boat. Reading Mainwaring's mind, Faulkner held his peace until they reached the privacy of his own cabin aboard the
Phoenix
. ‘There is little space here, Sir Henry, she was not designed as a flagship.'

‘Needs must, Kit, and necessity is the mother of invention. I shall not trouble you unduly but I require agility. The Prince of Wales is a fine but very young man, much influenced by those around him, all of whom have vested interests. We have had word of a conspiracy by the Cornish gentry to seize him and hold him hostage against the King's conduct. I tell you, we are in desperate straights and much will depend upon these few ships.'

‘I see,' Faulkner said ruefully.

Mainwaring was watching the younger man whose character he knew well. ‘No moment is well chosen in war,' he said consolingly, ‘and nothing is more uncertain than the outcome until its end.'

‘Do you hold out hope that the King's cause is not lost?' Faulkner asked.

‘No, but the Prince's isn't . . .'

‘The Prince's . . . ?'

‘I conceive it my task in life to think of the future. The present I leave to the fools who inhabit it. That is why I have shifted my flag into the
Phoenix
, Kit.' He looked at Faulkner expectantly.

‘You are providing for retreat.'

Mainwaring nodded. ‘Let us call it retirement.' He watched the younger man nod and then waited for him to ask the question that lay between them. It was to Faulkner's credit that he did not blurt it out immediately. There were those about the Prince, as about his father, whose every move was governed, not by their monarch's cause, but by their own self-interest. Moral qualities were as rare in the King's party as they were superabundant in the Parliament's. And the quality of personal reticence was a tribute to Mainwaring too, for the manner of his bringing-up and schooling Faulkner seemed now justified, and the more so since Eagles had told him that he had not needed to tempt Faulkner with the lure of Mistress Villiers.

‘I am glad to see you, Kit, and you will be wanting to know of Mistress Villiers.'

Faulkner gazed back at him, his eyes steady. ‘Did you think I would not have come hither were it not for her?'

‘You have a wife and family . . .'

‘I have.'

‘It may have been necessary . . .'

‘To tempt me?'

Mainwaring shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I know that you came of your own inclination.'

‘Eagles informed on me?'

‘Of course. This is
civil
war; brother turns against brother, father against son. It is easy to embrace a spy and easy to turn one's coat. Perhaps we shall all have to turn our coats, kill our fathers and maim our sons; certainly enough of it has been done already. If the Parliament wins it will itself fall foul of faction; that is why we must stand by the Prince. He is young, persistent, possesses the courage of his father without, it seems, his lamentable want of common sense. It is not a question of divine right, but legitimacy. The present King will go down in the mud like Richard at Bosworth, but no mixture of righteous brothers-in-arms will ever rule this country without legitimacy. That is what kings confer. Had Charles seen the sense of this he would have seduced Parliament with the charm he endows on so many. Were he to choose the right men, instead of the likes of Villiers, Goring and all the other self-serving wastrels who, whatever their abilities, have not the integrity and military ability of a Fairfax or a Cromwell, King Charles's cause might have prospered, but Eagles tells me this latter has mustered a new army; that is bad news.' Mainwaring broke off and sighed, shaking his head. ‘You and I must play a longer game, Kit. You are young enough to see the end of it, I shall not.'

Faulkner could think of nothing to say. Mainwaring's words had made a deep impression on him, the arguments obviously the product of serious consideration. They had driven thoughts of Katherine Villiers from his mind and, in a moment of almost Damascene revelation, he realized why he had abandoned his family at Mainwaring's summons. It was to him that Faulkner looked, as a son might to a father. He had not yet come of age, a rum thought for a man in his mid-thirties, in the midst of a war, but it was true. The underlying security of a past, of roots, of family and tradition had never been a part of him. An English gentleman could not grow up without these essential foundations. The realization marked at once his coming of age and his despair at his failure as a father; how could he imbue his sons with any a sense of belonging, of self-worth? Now he knew why all he had found to concentrate on was his business, and simultaneously how this must have disappointed Mainwaring.