Plague (25 page)

Coke had been distracted. The scene had ended and Charles was rising, applauding, so the rest of the audience did too. A break was being taken. King, courtiers and commoners would go to their separate stations, be it commode, closet or convenient wall, to void. “Come,” the captain said, “shall we go see the ladies?”

“Between acts? Is it done?” asked Pitman.

“Aye. It’s where the king’s going. Betterton will feed him, and offer him a more discreet place for the royal piss.”

It was unfortunate that they arrived backstage after His Majesty. The royal party and those who ogled them formed a barrier to
progress. Coke himself had no desire to see Charles, nor be seen by him—their interchange at the Banqueting House had been more than enough. Pitman, however, resisted Coke’s tugs to go around the mob. Indeed, for a man who’d spent a considerable part of his life trying to defeat the king’s cause, he seemed inordinately fascinated by the king himself.

“Amusing, is he not?” Pitman whispered.

“Hilarious,” answered Coke. “Now, if you would—”

“Hark! Betterton’s just praised him for being the one who allowed women on the stage—an addition I do think good myself. Let’s hear what he has to say, eh?”

“Saw ’em on the Continent during our exile, didn’t we, Jamie?” Charles was addressing his brother, the Duke of York, who nodded. “The French have had women players for years. My brother monarch Louis maintains it has led to a notable decrease of sodomy in his kingdom!” Cheers arose, which the king loudly topped. “Now, while I admire a comely lad as much as the next man, I do not desire one. I require a woman with whom to fully explore my feelings. Is that not right, my heart?”

Charles asked this last of the masked lady at his side. Rouged lips beneath the gold vizard shaped a smile. The voice was husky. “I cannot speak to your feelings, sir. Though, God’s my life, I know all about the exploring of your fingers.”

The loudest laughter came on this. Coke gave up pulling at Pitman and left him there gawking, going solo in search of the mistresses Chalker and Absolute.

He found them by the open rear door, in an enclave whose walls were made of racks of dresses. They were sitting on stools, Sarah with her arms around the younger woman, who looked pale. He bowed, then sat beside Lucy, taking her hand. “Lass, are you well?”

Sarah answered for her. “She was—until she realized Rochester was not with the king. He has never yet missed her first performance in any play. Yet no note has arrived, no messenger.”

“I am sure he has his reasons.” Lucy’s voice was weak, quite unlike her courtesan’s upon the stage. “All will be well, I am certain.”

“I will see that it is well,” Coke growled.

“Ah, my gallant,” murmured Lucy, squeezing his hand.

Sarah passed Lucy a glass of cordial. “Drink, my dear.”

Coke rose as did Sarah just as a man stuck his head through the dresses and said, “Mr. Betterton has given us the nod. A few minutes, ladies.”

“Mrs. Chalker.”

“Captain.”

Sarah led him a little way apart. “You need to know, sir. Lucy is ill.” Coke stiffened. “It is not the plague?”

“Nay. It is her woman’s state alone. But the worry does not help. I fear that the earl dallies with her. He promised her much last week and since has made no contact.”

Coke sighed. “I feared as much. I know Lucy has hopes of him, but a nobleman and an actress? It never ends happily. The most she can hope for is a settlement, which I shall strive to get her. Should we not persuade her of this and begin to ease her toward her new situation? I doubt she can remain much longer upon the stage.”

“We should. But not today.” She took the captain’s arm. “Let her believe what she will for now. She will know the truth soon enough.” They both glanced at her hand upon him and she drew it away. “Do you enjoy the play, Captain?”

“I do. Though not as much as Pitman does. He is enraptured.”

“Ah, yes. I noted him. Hard to miss, isn’t he, our Pitman in the Pit?”

“It is not an analogy I would belabour. He is already mightily sick of it.”

“I am sure.”

Both laughed. Both fell silent. Then, “Are you recovering, Mrs. Chalker?”

“No,” she replied, “but I am sustained. With the hope that you will keep the pledges you and Pitman made to me last week and aid me in finding John’s killer.”

If he’d had any doubts in his constancy to this cause—and he had—they vanished in her presence. “Indeed, madam, Pitman has some ideas of where such a search could begin.”

“I have been thinking much on this. This may be nothing—but there was a certain lord who was bothering me, whom John—”

She was interrupted by a young male voice. “Shelter me! Hide me! For mercy’s sake, sanctuary!”

The rack of dresses burst apart. Thrusting gowns aside, panting and sweating heavily, was the Earl of Rochester.

“Johnnie!” Lucy rose, stretching out her hands to him. “Whom do you flee? Oh, come to me.”

But whatever sanctuary he sought, it was not in Lucy’s arms. “You?” he cried. “No, it is the king I need—the king!” He swung around. “Majesty, where are you?”

“Here!” Through the dresses the earl had parted, Coke saw Charles step from around some furniture. “Well, sir? What means this clamour?”

“Sire!” Rochester threw himself down at the king’s feet. “You must protect me!”

“From whom? Get up, for pity’s sake.”

But the earl did not move and then did not have to answer, for through the rear doors charged three large men. “We have you!” the first of them cried, as the trio strode toward the prone nobleman. Men equally large intercepted them: the king’s bodyguards, interposing themselves between hunters and quarry.

Seeing their way was blocked, the earl’s pursuers began shouting, demanding him. The crowd below and a new one forming on the stairs, drawn from the theatre by the noise, also gave tongue.

But one voice above them all bellowed a single word: “Silence!”

Immediately the king’s command was taken up. “Silence for His Majesty! Silence!”

“What means this uproar?” demanded Charles. “For God’s sake, Rochester, get off my boot, will ye! Stand and face your pursuers, man. I will not let them take you. I do not know who they are. Who are you, damme?”

The first man, his large face heated to a carrot red, now fully realized in whose presence he was. “Sire,” he said, removing his hat, “we are constables of the parish of St. Martin in the Fields. And we have come to arrest that villain.”

“No villain I,” shouted the earl, standing at last, “unless love be a crime, I am none.”

Some of the courtiers cheered this, some people on the stairs too. Charles waved a hand. “This is the Earl of Rochester, Constable. By what right do you pursue him?”

“By the right, begging Your Majesty’s pardon, that he has committed a heinous crime in our parish. A most heinous one.”

“And have you a warrant drawn for this crime allegedly committed?”

“I require none. For the outrage was committed not half an hour since and we are even in pursuit of him from the scene.” The man drew himself up still taller, not much intimidated by the royal presence. “He will be indicted once we have him in Newgate.”

“But what has he done?” demanded the king.

“Not twenty minutes since, by Charing Cross, he tried to abduct Elizabeth Mallet!”

A gasp arose at the constable’s announcement. Obviously some there knew the name. Coke did not and raised eyebrows at Sarah. “An heiress,” she whispered. “Very young, I believe, but possessed of two and a half thousand a year when she comes of age.”

“Is this true, Lord Rochester?” The king’s tone was severe.

“Sire,” the earl answered, “it cannot be a crime, surely, when the victim is willing.”

“It can if she is below the age of consent. The crime is not against her but her parents. They are the ones you robbed. Failed to rob, you double idiot!” He shook his head. “I warned you off her, Johnnie. Time and again I told you, do not—Ach!” He put a hand between the earl’s shoulder blades and pushed him. “Take him, Constables. Do your duty, since he knows none.”

The king’s bodyguards and the courtiers gave back. Only one stayed quivering in the path of the advancing men. “Ma-Majesty,” stuttered Sir Charles Sedley, “you cannot let one of us be put in—” he swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing “—Newgate.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot! Unhand me, oafs!” squealed Rochester, as men took his arms. “Sire, I beg you! Do you not rule here?”

The king pivoted, his one walleye appearing even glassier. “I do, Lord Rochester. And I have vowed to see that the laws of England apply equally to every man.” He glanced up. “Here is someone arrived who will confirm me in my opinion. Is that not so, my Lord Chancellor?”

All turned. Standing on the stair was Sir Edward Hyde. “I am sure you do not need my confirmation on anything to do with the law, Sire.” His voice, oft likened to dry leaves rubbed, barely crackled.

“But would value it anyway. If you feel able to give it, Edward—you look exhausted, man.”

“I have been up these several nights upon a matter I would speak to you about with some urgency. It is why I am here. It is
your
opinion I need, Majesty.” Sir Edward sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is the crime for which they would take you to Newgate, my lord?”

“Love,” shouted Rochester.

“Abduction. Attempted, anyway. Of a minor,” said the king.

“A capital offence, then. You could hang, sir.” Hyde lowered his hand. “However, since you are a nobleman, you can claim the axe rather than the rope. Indeed, since you are a nobleman—” he yawned “—you can claim the Tower over any other prison.”

“The Tower?” Rochester ceased struggling. “I’ll take the Tower. That’s where nobility lies.”

The chief constable spoke. “If I can have him before my justice of the peace back in St. Leonard’s, and he says it’s acceptable, I’ll turn him over to the king’s justice and the Tower.”

“Very well. All settled. So it is prison for you, my lord, one way or t’other, and no more than you deserve.” Charles looked around. “And now that we have had quite enough drama off the stage, shall we return to the professionals? Can my opinion wait on this other matter, Edward?”

“It cannot, Sire.”

“Very well. Mr. Betterton, please give me a few more moments. ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’ eh?” He smiled. “That’s Shakespeare, ain’t it?”

“It is, Sire. And well spoken, may I say.”

The king nodded. “Then I will talk with my good chief minister while you, sirrah,” he turned back to Rochester, “away!”

The earl, who now appeared quite recovered, shook off the men who had held him and walked between them toward the rear door.
Yet he was not halfway to it, when a woman’s cry rang out. “But love, love, what of me?”

Lucy pushed through men to seize the earl’s hand. He raised hers, kissed it swiftly. “Do not fear for me, sweetheart.” His voice rose. “Be assured, everyone. All will be well.” Then, jerking his hand from hers, he swept from the playhouse.

Lucy dropped to the floor. Coke and Sarah were at either side of her in a moment, but Lucy had swooned and they had to carry her to a stool. There, they held her while another actress ran for some sal volatile. Over her lolling head, Coke and Sarah looked at each other. “He did not even notice her here,” Coke said, his voice low.

“I know,” replied Sarah. “We will have to persuade her of his indifference.”

As Sarah bent to Lucy with the small bottle the player had fetched, Coke stood—and recognized the voice talking low on the other side of the rack of dresses.

“There can be no doubt, Edward?” asked King Charles.

“None, Sire. I have brought you the bills of mortality from not just one parish but from five. From Whitechapel across to Westminster. The figures are clear. They have risen tenfold in two weeks.”

“It is certain, then. The plague is upon us.”

“It is. May God have mercy on our souls.”

“What is to be done now?”

“Proclamations must be issued forthwith. The first must be the closing of all places of gathering. Bear baits, taverns. Theatres.”

“May we not at least see the rest of the play? There’s some good deaths, I hear.”

“Death is in this house already, Majesty. If you are willing to allow it a few more for your entertainment, sir, then by all means see the end of the piece.”

A harsh intake of breath. “No, very well, very well, Edward. I would not have that. But let me speak to Betterton and try to do this calmly. No doubt he can extemporize some speech. Should I send the queen straight to Syon House, think you?”

Coke did not hear the reply. The men moved away, talking low once again. He turned to Sarah and Lucy, whose eyes were now open. “Listen, both,” he said. “You must put on your own clothes—and swiftly. The plague is come.”

Pitman, who’d appeared quietly and unnoticed, heard him. “So they are at last to admit what many have known this month and more?”

Coke nodded. “And you were so enjoying the play, Pitman. I am sorry you will miss the end of it, for they will close the playhouse immediately.”

The large man shrugged. “Bettina would say it is the just reward of sin. So be it. But what do
we
do now?”

His gesture encompassed the other two, but it was the third person there who spoke. “My John is arrested. I must see him. I must!”

“Child!” Sarah put her arms about Lucy again, restraining her. “You heard why he was arrested, didn’t you, love? You understand?”

“I do.” Lucy wiped away tears. “He has forsaken me.”

“He has, dear heart.” Coke knelt. “You must forget him.”

“Hard to do when a part of him so swells my belly.”

“Something for which he will still answer to me. But in the meantime—and especially in this time—we must make plans around you, not him.”

Lucy moaned. “He kicks, the little earl.” Her eyes went wide. “I would go home.”

“Indeed. Mrs. Chalker, her dress? Let us get her back to Chancery Lane.”

“You misunderstand me.” She gripped his arm. “Home.”