The King's Chameleon (15 page)

Looking up at him through tearful eyes, Katherine shook her head. ‘I cannot come yet, my love, there is much to be done.'

Faulkner laid a finger on her lips. ‘I know, I did not come to carry you off tonight, only to reassure you that you have only to send word. All is prepared for your reception.'

‘What about your wife?'

‘I have already explained, I do not have a wife.'

‘Your daughter, then? Hannah?'

Faulkner smiled. ‘I think that she may be the first to welcome you – after myself, of course.' She went up on tip-toes to kiss him, and he tasted her tears, wiping them away as they drew apart.

‘A sennight, perhaps,' she said, ‘a fortnight at most …'

But it was not to be. A fortnight passed and Faulkner had heard no word from Katherine who was busy with the funeral arrangements and sent him only a short note urging him to be patient, that it ‘would not, could not, now be long'. He went about his business and attended the Trinity House on the fifteenth of February when the pushy young Mr Pepys was sworn in as a Younger Brother. Thereafter Pepys somewhat beguiled the older men by his discourse so that there were those who thought his selection meet enough. Faulkner paid the self-important fellow little heed. Indeed, he remained so withdrawn that Harrison enquired if he was quite well.

‘Oh, I am out of sorts, Brian, 'tis no fault of yours but all mine.'

So keyed-up with anticipation was he that when, on the last day of February, well towards midnight, a knock came at the door, he roused himself from his fireside reverie – it having become his habit of each night smoking a pipe while the last embers died out. Convinced it was Katherine, who he expected to find on his doorstep like some supplicant waif, he was actually smiling and looking down at the level on which he expected to encounter her large and lustrous eyes. Instead he found himself staring at the large buckle of a cloaked and gloved man whose face was partly obscured by a large, feathered hat.

‘Sir Christopher Faulkner?'

‘Who asks?'

‘I do, in the name of the Earl of Clarendon. You are to wait upon him. I have a horse saddled and ready.' The man jerked his head over his shoulder so that a few drops of moisture fell onto Faulkner. ‘And rain is coming on.'

‘And what does the Earl want with me?'

‘He did not tell me, only that I was to bring you to him at once.'

Faulkner swallowed and then nodded. ‘Step inside a moment. I will get boots, hat and cloak.' Five minutes later he followed the stranger out of the house. He had taken the precaution of leaving a note for Gooding and of buckling on his sword.

‘You will not need the cutlery,' the stranger remarked with a grin.

‘Let me be the judge of that, sir,' Faulkner responded.

The stranger led through the streets at a canter, shouting out that he rode ‘in the King's name!' when a more than usually intrepid night-watch sought to stop them and know their business being out after curfew. At a side-gate of Whitehall Palace the stranger threw himself out of the saddle and tossed his reins to a waiting ostler. Faulkner descended from his mount with more caution.

‘You do not sit too ill in the saddle, Sir Christopher,' the stranger remarked. ‘I have certainly seen worse.'

‘I am a sea-officer,' Faulkner replied, somewhat irked by the condescension.

Inside the palace the stranger threw off his cloak and hat, handing them to a waiting foot-servant and indicating that Faulkner should follow suit. Then, with a brief, ‘Follow me,' he led Faulkner down several corridors through which the latter had never previously traversed. They ascended a narrow twisting stair at the top of which the stranger paused to ensure that his charge still kept up. Then, without further ado, he knocked sharply, waited a moment and then opened a door. Faulkner followed him into a darkened room. Light from a single candelabrum threw soft reflections on the oak panelling and, once the door was closed, the hangings fell back, indicating he had been brought through a clandestine entrance.

Faulkner stood alongside the stranger, his eyes adjusting. A man he recognized as Clarendon sat at a large table, bent over papers on which he wrote. For a moment Faulkner thought Clarendon to have been alone in the room, but a slight noise, a shift of harness, and the dull gleam of the candle-light on the accoutrements of a gentleman in half-armour sitting on the far side of the table almost made Faulkner start.

‘Very well, Miles, you may leave Sir Christopher with us.'

Without a word the stranger bowed and turned, barely flicking a look at Faulkner as he disappeared the way he had come.

‘Pray do sit down, Sir Christopher,' Clarendon said, without looking up.

Easing himself into the only other chair in the room, Faulkner stared first at the bent head of the Earl and then at the face of the other man who was studying him. The two men thus measured each other without a word passing between them; the only noises in the room were the quiet creak of leather and the scratch-scratch of Clarendon's pen.

After what seemed an eternity, Faulkner felt the pressure of his bladder defied further procrastination. He stirred uneasily for some moments, casting about for any signs of relief, until he could restrain himself no longer. ‘My Lord,' he said, ‘I have grave need of a piss-pot …'

‘Behind the screen in the far corner, Sir Christopher,' said the man across the table, his face obscured by the shadows.

Faulkner got up and crossed the room. When he had relieved himself he emerged to find Clarendon had set his papers aside. Faulkner did not resume his seat but stood, awaiting whatever business Clarendon had summoned him for.

‘Pray do sit down, Sir Christopher,' he said again, turning to the other man. ‘Sir George, since you know the room, perhaps you will perform the office.' The other man rose and turned to a side table while Clarendon asked almost kindly, ‘A glass, Sir Christopher?'

Taking first his seat and then the glass of wine the unknown Sir George held out to him, Faulkner awaited Clarendon's explanation.

Having sipped his wine, the Earl made a gesture to the third man, who had now resumed his own seat. ‘Sir Christopher Faulkner,' Clarendon said, ‘may I introduce you to Sir George Downing, His Majesty's Minister at The Hague … Sir George, Sir Christopher Faulkner, Captain in His Majesty's Navy and a considerable owner of his own tonnage to boot.'

The two men nodded at each other across the table. Downing's face remained in shadow. Faulkner's mind was racing. Setting aside the possible jibe Clarendon had made at his ship-owning, Faulkner could only associate this all-but-secret midnight meeting with the ambassador to The Hague with his wife's presence in The Netherlands. Having drawn this conclusion he kept his mouth shut, sipping again on Clarendon's excellent wine.

‘Now, Sir Christopher, Sir George is here with certain intelligence, and I have asked you to join us because it is both my intention and the King's will that thou should attend Sir George to The Hague, whither he returns shortly.'

‘Forgive me, My Lord, but has Sir George, in his capacity as the King's Minister, need of my attendance?'

The two men exchanged glances and smiled at each other. Clarendon explained. ‘From time to time circumstances find Sir George under an obligation to undertake certain tasks that fall beyond the remittance of a Minister Plenipotentiary, Sir Christopher.'

Faulkner recalled hearing at the Trinity House a vague story about a bungled attempt to secure the person of one of the Regicides, Edward Dendy, in Rotterdam. A cold apprehension closed round his heart as he felt the influence of the King. Not content to compel Faulkner to relinquish his share of the profit in his new ship, Faulkner was now to be made to act in a manner that would compromise his honour and make him the King's creature. It flashed across his mind that Judith may have been right – he was indeed the King's chameleon. And it was as quickly followed by a second thought, that Fate was again thwarting him from living with his beloved Katherine. Both Clarendon and Downing were studying him, as if attempting to divine whether or not he understood what was being asked of him.

‘Am I to assist Sir George in the seizure of Regicides in The Netherlands, My Lord?'

‘You are.'

‘And may I ask, Your Lordship, whether this action is—'

‘It is clandestine, Sir Christopher,' Downing broke in, thereby avoiding any reference to the legality – or otherwise – or the proposed mission. ‘And I am sure you can guess why we have asked you to assist in this delicate matter.'

Faulkner sat back in his chair. ‘I assume that my wife lies at the bottom of it.'

‘Your wife is proving a deal of a nuisance, Sir Christopher,' Clarendon broke in, his tone mild. ‘In fact she and her –
your
– son are known to be caught-up in a plot to kill the King.'

‘To kill the King!' Faulkner sat bolt upright. It was not that he had not considered the matter but it was one thing to think the unthinkable in the privacy of his bed, when the black dog had his soul in its teeth, and quite another to have it said to his face by the King's First Minister.

‘We have been watching them both for many months, Sir Christopher,' Downing said. ‘They are in almost daily contact with three of the Regicides, John Okey, Miles Corbett and John Barkstead. I intend apprehending these men, and I require your assistance in seizing your wife and son. His Majesty has given orders that Lady Faulkner should be placed under your own protection, Sir Christopher …' Downing gave Faulkner a meaningful look.

‘You are a most fortunate man,' Clarendon added, ‘but His Majesty has an aversion to executing women.'

‘And my son?'

‘Will submit to the rigour of the law. The evidence suggests the charge will be High Treason.'

‘Dear God!'

‘Your duty is quite clear,' said Downing, persuasively.

‘I do not need to be told my duty, Sir George,' he growled.

‘You will take ship at Harwich,' Clarendon said, interrupting in a smooth and conciliatory tone, ‘where the
Blackamoor
– Captain, Tobias Sackler – has been withdrawn from the fishery to convey Sir George back to Helvoetsluys. I have made out an order that Sackler is to take all directions regarding the conduct and management of the
Blackamoor
from you, Sir Christopher, as his senior officer.' Clarendon paused, picked up and passed a paper which bore a heavy seal across to Faulkner. The seal and the name scrawled across the top of the paper –
Charles R
– told him what this was: a commission from the King.

‘It is dated from the commencement of His Majesty's reign. You are indisputably the senior officer.' Faulkner frowned. The King had dated his reign from that of his father's execution; to be commissioned thus was a mark of singular approval – or something of a bribe.

‘His Majesty wished to acknowledge his debt to you. It is a privilege the weight of which—'

‘I feel, My Lord. Believe me I feel.' Faulkner nodded and rolled the paper, tucking the seal inside. ‘I shall need to gather some personal effects.'

Clarendon and Downing exchanged glances and the former nodded.

‘Very well, Sir Christopher,' said Downing. ‘Major Miles will attend you and act as escort. My coach will be on Tower Hill at dawn. I shall expect you and Miles to join me there. Please ensure that you travel light.'

‘You may go, Sir Christopher,' said Clarendon, ‘unless, of course, you have further questions?' Faulkner rose and shook his head. He had a score of questions, but none would be answered in this room. ‘Very well. Then I thank you for your offer of service. I can assure you that should this matter fall out as we intend, His Majesty will not be unmindful of your services.'

There was always the possibility of Royal Clemency for Henry. For a moment Faulkner felt light-headed, thinking old Sir Henry Mainwaring stood at his side. Perhaps, he thought afterwards, his shade had indeed come to Faulkner's assistance, but he recalled his old master sufficiently to bow to Clarendon and murmur, ‘Please assure His Majesty of my loyal devotion.'

Clarendon nodded. ‘You may leave the way you came. Miles awaits you.'

Faulkner turned away from the focussed brightness of the candelabra and regarded the darkness that hid the panelling and arras. Behind him Clarendon tinkled a little hand-bell. Suddenly, a darker rectangle appeared and in it the faintly perceived and oddly sinister figure of the cavalry officer stood. Faulkner followed Miles, the door fell to behind him and they clattered down the narrow stairs, along the passages and out into the freezing night and the still steaming horses.

On reaching home Faulkner found Gooding awake, wrapped in a robe and sitting beside the parlour fire which he had made up. Gooding rose wearily, about to speak until he saw the tall figure of Major Miles follow Faulkner into the room.

‘This is Major Miles, Nathan; Miles, my partner and brother-in-law, Nathan Gooding.'

Each man made an acknowledgement of the other, and Faulkner bade Miles make himself comfortable in the parlour, asking Gooding to accompany him to the room above.

‘Is your brother-in-law …?' Miles asked pointedly, though without finishing the question.

‘Is my brother-in-law to be trusted, is that what you were about to ask, Major?' Faulkner said, drawing the rolled commission from his doublet.

‘I have my orders, Sir Christopher,' Miles said darkly.

‘I have mine too, Major, and this commission –' Faulkner laid the paper on the parlour table – ‘which you may read at your leisure whilst I gather a few effects for our journey.'

‘What journey?' interrupted Gooding.

‘I'll tell you in a moment.' Having silenced Gooding, Faulkner turned back to the cavalry officer who was now sprawling in the chair recently vacated by Gooding, his boots out towards the fire, his feathered hat on the table and his gloved right hand drawing the commission towards him. ‘That commission makes it clear that I am, and have been for some time, a Captain in His Majesty's Navy, so I would be obliged,
Major
Miles, for a moment or two to myself.'