Dark Angels (51 page)

He crumpled, half falling, half sliding down the side of the mantelpiece. Riggs knelt at once to see to him. Alice left the closet, and Riggs followed her into the bedchamber.

She turned on him, dark eyed, heartsick. “Are these his fits?”

“I am not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

“What if he falls and hits his head?”

“I stay with him, ma’am.”

“Until?”

“He goes to sleep, as he’s just done.”

“And when he wakes?”

Riggs shook his head, sighed.

“How often does he have these…fits?”

“Not often, now, ma’am.”

Now? “How often?”

“Once a month or so.”

“I will call upon him tomorrow.”

“He won’t receive you tomorrow.”

“I will call upon him tomorrow. You will tell him that I called upon him today and appreciated his kindness in receiving me.”

Riggs opened his mouth to protest, but Alice cut him off. “Not a word from you. Good day.”

Halfway down the stairs, she stopped, turned around, walked back up, found Riggs in the closet, lifting Balmoral in his arms. She stood to one side as he laid the duke on his canopied bed, propped pillows behind him so he was almost sitting. Balmoral was as limp as if he were dead. “How long have you served him?”

Riggs sighed, as if wondering why this particular plague were being visited upon his house at this particular time. “Years now. I was his body servant when he was a lieutenant colonel. But that was long ago.”

“Very good. Good day to you, Riggs. Don’t forget my message.”

He opened his mouth, shut it again. It was just as well. Alice was already out the door.

Downstairs, she walked past a formal chamber where there was a huge painting of His Grace on one wall. It drew her in. It was taller than her and half the width of the room. It had been painted years earlier; he stood in his battle armor, a sword in one hand, a helmet with plumes in the other, against bloodred draperies that floated behind him and partially obscured a distant scene of London, with its many church spires, its bridge across the Thames River. At his feet was a curling map of England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, architect’s tools strewn near balanced scales of Justice. Her heart hurt. She put her hand against it and stared up at the painting’s face—he was a legend in the court, one of the architects of the Restoration, important enough to ride directly behind His Majesty during the entrance to London ten years ago, crowds cheering, women weeping, her father among the riders, and she in new clothes of silver lace and pearl buttons watching from a window. He was captain general of the army during the last Dutch war, and there’d been an inquiry into his conduct and decisions, because the Dutch had sailed down the Thames and set fire to any number of warships. He and York had been questioned. Had he been drunk on the morning of the attack, this captain general, this great duke, the last of the old soldiers who’d once ruled this kingdom?

She’d sail in tomorrow in spite of his anger and the way his body would be feeling. She’d sail in as if she were expected, welcomed. She’d be kind, and sprightly, and not say a word of what she’d witnessed. If he could trust that she wouldn’t lecture or moralize, that she didn’t care, he would see she would keep his secrets, the way he kept hers. He would marry her.

What would she do when he touched her?

Bear it. Remember what once he’d been, something honorable and brave. Was still, except broken. She, too, was brave. She could bear anything to be a duchess, to be his duchess, to have the honor of bearing his name. Startled by wet upon her cheeks, she put a hand to her face. Who was this in her who wept? How strange. But no stranger than that a hero of the Restoration—His Majesty’s greatest general—should have come to this.

C
HAPTER 29

Queen Elizabeth’s Ascension Day, St. Catherine’s Day,
November’s end

I
n a small chamber off the queen’s chapel at St. James’s Palace, Father Huddleston dipped his fingers in the holy water of the chancel, touched them to John Sidney’s forehead. “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, I do baptize you.”

Nearby, Barbara sobbed into a handkerchief, Gracen on one side, Renée standing on the other, Richard beside her. Queen Catherine was there, and the Duke and Duchess of York, Lord and Lady Arlington, and the king.

“Another drops like a fly,” King Charles leaned over to whisper to his brother. “You’re not apostatizing are you?”

York was stiff. “It’s the true faith and has its own lure. As you know so well.”

When did you and I stop laughing together? King Charles thought, watching his brother keep his eyes upon the baptism. He knew the answer—when Buckingham began to meddle. King Charles observed his brother blow his nose loudly into a huge kerchief and wipe surreptitiously at his eyes. Altar boys began to arrange Communion. Father Huddleston moved to the altar railing, and King Charles watched as his wife hushed Barbara, wiped her cheeks, kissed them, and presented her with a wedding bouquet of winter’s hothouse roses and rosemary. Then John and Barbara, with Gracen and Richard, Queen Catherine and York, moved to stand before Father Huddleston.

As the long litany that was the marriage ceremony began, King Charles motioned to Lady Arlington, who came and sat beside him. “What’s this I hear about Cleveland falling in the theater yesterday,” he half whispered.

“It was too amusing. She made her usual entrance. And when she sat down in her chair, it fell with her. She clattered over like a tipsy doll, and my own lord hurt his neck straining to have a really clear view of her legs. She came up sputtering like a cat, while the pit applauded. And though Tom Killigrew himself came out to see to her, she was seething. Nothing could mollify her. She left the play in a rage.”

“How was the play?”

“Not nearly as amusing as Her Grace’s tumble.”

“I’ll see it on the morrow. Gadzooks, how long does it take to marry?”

“Marry in haste, repent in leisure.”

King Charles drummed his fingers on the back of the pew and leaned his head back to view the paintings done in this smaller chapel, then closed his eyes. He dozed, as he was able to do, anywhere, anytime, an attribute he’d learned running from capture. And so he missed the litany, the prayers, and the benediction. He missed seeing Richard mouth a silent “I love you” to Renée, missed seeing her return a grave smile. He opened his eyes to see Father Huddleston offering Communion to those there who wished it. The marriage was done.

Richard stepped forward to the couple. “Mrs. Sidney, I salute you.”

Barbara kissed his cheek. “Now you are my cousin, too.”

Leaving his seat, King Charles walked to Barbara, took her hand in his, kissed it. As everyone clustered around the bride, King Charles looked down at Renée with dancing, amused eyes and kissed her swiftly on the mouth. It was not the first time he had kissed her publicly in the last weeks, but it was the first time Richard had seen it. “Let the wedding feast begin,” he commanded, and led the way to an adjoining chamber, where servants began to serve goblets of wine.

A tower of round cheeses and winter nuts sat upon a table. A servant began to carve roast beef just taken off a spit. Richard glanced at the tasters, who nodded to him solemnly. The king and queen would touch nothing they themselves had not tasted first. A guard had been in the kitchen for the cooking of this. I ought to set one permanently, thought Richard. And I ought to talk with the cooks, warn them against the hiring of new servants. Meet any new servants hired since All Hallows’…He kissed her as if she were his. I could kill him.

Toasts to the bride began.

“To a beautiful maid of honor who has graced this court.”

“To a cherished servant who has been faithful and loyal.”

“To John Sidney,” interrupted York, raising his goblet, as John, who was in the midst of a swallow, choked to be singled out, “who has bravely followed the call of his conscience.”

Can he never stop preaching? thought King Charles to himself. He walked over to his brother. “Your heedlessness will plunge him into trouble if you’re not careful.”

“How?”

“Look around this chamber. There are servants everywhere. Pray remember it is against the law of the land to be Catholic and hold public office. I ignore it, but I won’t if it causes me trouble.”

“I’m a fool.”

“Precisely. Drink the wine and flirt with the ladies and leave off all talk of God, Jemmy, for the bridegroom’s sake and my own.” King Charles raised his goblet. Everyone fell silent. He felt in a wicked mood. “‘O rare Harry Parry, when will you marry? When apples and pears are ripe. I’ll come to your wedding, without any bidding, and lie with your bride all night.’” He drank deeply, not seeming to care that the old rhyme fell flat in this more austere company, where the bride stood blushing and the groom stared at his king bemusedly.

That was for me, thought Richard. The kiss was a first shot across my bow. This is the second.

King Charles held his goblet to be refilled and called out to Richard, standing on the other side of the chamber, “Captain Saylor, pull me from the abyss.”

Third shot, thought Richard. He raised his goblet. “‘Drink to me only with thine eyes,’” he began to sing, his voice tender, true, no sign in it of the anger pulsing in his temples. “‘And I will pledge with mine. Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.’”

King Charles looked around the chamber, at the sentimental smiles on the faces of the women. Richard had changed the mood entirely.

“To Mrs. Sidney’s eyes.” Richard held his goblet high.

King Charles made his way to where Renée stood. “Are you enjoying the wedding?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Every woman’s desire?”

“Indeed.”

“‘Come live with me and be my love and we will some new pleasures prove,’ the poet says. There are other ways men and women may ally most joyfully, as I intend to show you. I see the bride and bridegroom are retiring. There is to be no flinging of the stockings. No wedding bacchanal, it seems. A pity. I always enjoy those.”

It was the custom to see the bride and groom to bed, for her to take off her stockings and fling them out to be caught by any man of the company, for everyone to make bawdy suggestions and ribald comments about this first night the bridal couple would spend together. This age, as had most—except for Cromwell’s—celebrated the pleasures that came with coupling. But whatever celebration there had been in the chamber departed with the bride and groom. If there was one thing King Charles would not endure unless forced, it was dull company. In a moment, he had commanded cloaks fetched, was tying them about Gracen’s and then Renée’s necks. Queen Catherine stood back, watching, and he brought a cloak to her and tied it about her neck, too. “Are you pleased for your little maid?” he asked his wife.

“Very. Thank you. You honor with the presence of yourself.”

Something in the high-strung nervousness with which she spoke touched him. He stared down at her, seeing the taut lines around her mouth. “I won’t abandon you.”

“Divorce is no abandonment? I am stupid for I not understand.”

“I never discuss policy at a wedding, ma’am. You’d be wise to do the same.” Turning, he held out his arms, first to Renée, then to Gracen, snubbing the queen. She made a sound, and Richard stepped forward, offered his arm.

They all walked across St. James’s Park, the night cold, pages running before them with torches, a few of the Life Guards with them. The sky above was clear of cloud, stars sparkling. November moved toward winter solstice, the turning of the year, the longest night, the shortest day, moved toward Advent, preparation for the arrival, the birth, of the Christ. King Charles stopped, pointed. “There is Orion, his dog stars at his heels. Artemis loved him, you know, and her brother Apollo sent a scorpion to kill him, and she set him in the sky, where Scorpio forever pursues him. See, it’s just rising there.”

“I’m cold,” Gracen complained.

“Step lively, then, girl.”

King Charles began to run, forcing those with him to do so also. Across the park they ran, the pages, the guards, the queen, Richard. By the time they reached the stairs that took them out of the park and up into Holbein Gate’s top floor, they were breathless, laughing. King Charles sent the women up the stairs, calling up to them, “Beauty before majesty. Majesty before the military,” he told his guards. At the top of the stairs, he stamped his feet, rubbed his gloved hands together. “A race. Whichever of you two reaches the maids’ apartment first shall have a good-night kiss from the king.”