by Robyn Carr
A creeping sludge filled Geoffrey’s gut and his face lost its flush.
"And I imagine he wants every detail of your part in the battle. I doubt you have much to worry about, but just the same, leaving now would not be wise. Let’s not make him any angrier than he already is."
Lord Seavers gulped hard and set the wine on the tray.
"Well, I admit," she went on casually, "he’s more angry with me than just about anyone, but when he’s angry with me it’s already got a good start, you see. You’ll want to handle him gently for now. He’s lost friends in the battle, you know. And he doesn’t have a farthing to pay his navy."
"The rumors, lady. What rumors have found Whitehall?"
"Perry, the jackass, is in a fit over Lady Seavers’s departure, shall we say. Seems he has the worst possible timing as ever I saw. While Charles refused to eat, sleep, or speak to anyone, Perry insisted on seeing him and telling his story, the most ridiculous story about Lady Seavers being a country wench trumped up to get the inheritance. Charles was closer to sending a man to Bedlam than ever before."
"Then he does not believe...?"
Barbara rose from his bedside, brushing down her skirts and looking bored as she could be. "I think he doesn’t care, my lord. And I think if anyone is going to get stuck with the problem, it’s bound to be you."
She chewed her finger as if deep in thought. "Well, I’ve a hundred things to do if I’m moving this household before they’re all rotting of the plague. There’s none in the palace yet, from what I hear, and I’ve set my own spies to that bit of news. If there’s plague here," she said, shaking her finger at him, "I’ll be the first to know it."
"You weren’t afraid I was sick with plague?" he asked.
"Only a bit." She shrugged.
"But you took a grave chance."
"A small chance, my lord. His Majesty would not likely come to my apartments for a while since I told Mistress Stewart I’d like to have her nose slit. I told you, he’s angry with me. But your name’s gotten some attention around here the last few days and I knew if I had you here he’d want to see you."
Geoffrey reclined with a smirk on his lips. "You’ve got something going all the time, haven’t you Barbara."
"There’s a thousand people in this town who’d see me burned in a trice. I’ll warrant you I can take care of myself well enough, but I’ve got to keep my wits sharp."
And, Geoffrey thought, you’ve got to keep your lover in check. He smiled slightly with the thought and, as if she’d heard it, Barbara responded with her own smile.
"How do you suggest I handle these rumors, lady?" he asked slyly.
Barbara laughed and turned toward the door. "If there’s any truth to them, my lord, I suggest you do a damn good job of lying.
Lord Seavers sent word to his mate that he’d taken up residence at Whitehall in the hospitality of Lady Castlemaine and all messages for him should be forwarded to the palace. It was only one full night’s sleep and a day later that saw him feeling fit and restless, but still he was cautioned by Castlemaine that leaving would be a huge mistake.
In another part of the palace there was much more excitement than that caused by Geoffrey Seavers’s problems, for the king had gone through about as much as a king could without cracking. The plague was on a vicious rampage through London: crosses marked more doors every day, while graves were being left unmarked and often were filled with more than one body. Sailors rioted in the streets in fear and anger, for none had been paid and all had earned bonuses; and, while the war had been a victory for England, her ships were suffering the wounds of battle and would need heavy repairs.
It was not strange that in all this fervor Charles paid little attention to the problem of Lord Seavers’s wife and the legitimacy of her inheritance. He might have been particularly interested had he been grotesquely bored.
He received several requests from the young lord for an audience and ignored every one. The end of June was drawing near and he was concerned with moving the court, placating the sailors, and perhaps getting out of London with his health. He was fiddling in his closet with medicines that a visiting Jew had given him the formula for, when George Villiers, the duke of Buckingham, entered and caused a slight frown to cross the king’s face.
"It had better be urgent," Charles said without looking at him.
"I confess it’s not the least bit urgent. It’s my cousin again. Lady Castlemaine."
"How is it she can creep up on me when I least expect it? And not even in the flesh."
"In the flesh would please her best," George said.
Charles sighed and mixed his potion. "Only because she thinks it’s likely to make a difference in how I’m feeling." He turned toward the duke with his noxious mixture in front of him. "I promise you it won’t."
"I know that and you know that, but Barbara’s probably going to drive us both crazy if we don’t do something about her condition."
"Another condition, is it? Well it’s not mine."
"Not pregnancy, Your Majesty."
"Try this, George. Guaranteed to relieve anything, and with any luck at all, it’ll take care of your pox as well as my fear of plague." Villiers wrinkled his nose in stark refusal, and Charles shrugged and downed the brew. It could’ve tasted like a cesspool and he still would have smiled. The man liked nothing so well as his own medicines, except perhaps chasing women.
"I think, George, that perhaps we ought to move to Hampton Court tomorrow. What do you think?"
"Sire, I beg your indulgence this once but—"
Charles scowled and moved out of his closet and away from his toys. Whenever George begged his indulgence it was sure to be something distasteful.
"Give it to me quickly, it’s got to be worse than that concoction I just swallowed. The plague might be better, for that matter." He sighed. "What does she want this time?"
"She’d like you to give her guest permission to leave so she can have back her apartments with some privacy."
"Aha," Charles brooded.
"I think he is afraid to touch her and she can’t get about as she likes with him there. Sire, you instructed her to keep him until you could see him."
"I know," Charles said, moving toward his fruit bowl and picking up an apple that had spoiled. The sickness in the city not only carried the constant fear of contamination, but servants in the castle were afraid to go out to purchase food, and many of the merchants had closed down their stands and shops to flee. And when food could be found and bought without fear, it was of a quality far inferior to that of healthier days. "Damn me, it’ll be a long time before we can enjoy decent nourishment again, I vow," Charles pouted, dropping the rotten apple back into the bowl and shaking his head in frustration. "To be a common man and helpless is one thing," he told George. "But you can’t imagine the pain of being a helpless king."
George got a bit bored with following his king and finally took himself across the room to look out the window. There he stood quietly, knowing better than to push Charles for a response. They had been good friends for many years, alternately fighting and playing together. This happened to be a good period for their friendship; but Charles was always the king and George the faithful servant.
"Well?" Charles finally said.
"Well, I’m curious as hell and could care less about Barbara’s predicament."
Charles laughed in good humor, for he liked George best when there were no protocol barriers between them and they were simply friends. Charles was cautious, however, because no one was to be trusted. Especially George. Charles never did blame a man for trying to get the best he could. He tried not to tempt George into betrayal by giving him too much inside information.
"Tell me what’s got you by the tail, George."
"This business Perry carries on about; that Charlotte Bellamy is not Charlotte Bellamy and that she’s not dead but run off and that the real Charlotte—"
"I’ve never heard such a lot of garbage in my life," Charles said,
pouring himself and George some wine from a decanter that sat on a nearby table.
"Then you think there’s no truth to it at all?" George asked.
"I imagine it’s all entirely true."
George rose and accepted the preferred glass, a look of complete perplexity crossing his face.
"True?" Buckingham asked.
"What I can’t believe is that Lord Perry expects me to spend any time thinking on it."
George raised the glass to his lips and downed much of the contents. He absolutely never got on the upper side of Charles. Once again he couldn’t come close to understanding Charles’s position on the matter. It looked to George as if the king had been cheated and taken advantage of and should be mad as a hornet.
The king let himself drop into his chair and muttered. "Hampton Court. Or perhaps Salisbury...but I don’t want to get too far away, and damn me, I hate this running about. I traveled enough in my day. I like the idea of staying put, don’t you, George?"
"Sire, you think it’s true?"
"That again? Yes, I suppose it’s true. I quite imagine that Seavers took one look at Charlotte Bellamy and thought that even for a fortune he couldn’t bear the wedding night. That’s not how Perry tells it, but it could be the fact. And I imagine he brought his own Charlotte from some decent household; she’s a lovely creature, don’t you think? And I imagine if she didn’t in fact die of the plague, she’s off somewhere where we won’t see or hear of her again."
George swallowed the rest of his wine in confusion and held his empty glass toward Charles. "Sire, may I?"
Charles chuckled. "Be my guest."
Villiers poured again.
"I think this has you in more of a knot than I, George. Would you like to handle the problem for me?"
"Sire," he said, turning back from the decanter, "I can’t for the life of me imagine how that could be done to please Your Majesty."
Charles loved to play this game, and with George it was especially amusing. Poor Buckingham needed to be on the better side of his king and never knew from one moment to the next if Charles would be laughing at a plot, or having a man’s head for it.
But Charles wasn’t likely to spend a great deal of time with this amusement, since there were so many serious things to deal with. He controlled his laughter and composed his face.
"Simply, Buckingham, I was looking for a way to drop an inheritance in Seavers’s lap. I considered one or two estates that could be given as rewards, but there are always so many of higher rank asking and I’m not the fool to anger the few good men I’ve got in this country. When Fergus died and left a tidy sum for his daughter, I thought it might get Seavers started on his ships."
"You never had any intention of letting anyone but Seavers marry Lady Bellamy?"
Charles let his brooding eyes drop and he shook his head.
"But you put her on the block and let the gallants all have their bid for her."
He nodded.
George began to laugh. "And Seavers bargained himself into the money with a promise to make his venture joint with you. God’s bones, but you’re a crafty fellow." He raised his glass in a toast to his king, impressed and a little jealous. "And what about Perry?"
"Perhaps he has something, perhaps not. I told him I particularly admired the lady in question, and if he brought his gossip through my chambers another time, he’d be buying his way out of Newgate."
George laughed uproariously.
"As for Seavers, if you like your head you would do well to hold silent. I don’t think I’d like him to know I don’t give a damn who he’s married, I want him on the seas earning a decent wage, half of which belongs to me. Let him stew awhile and then I’ll let him out of his hole." Charles laughed. "Spending a few days with Barbara should be sufficient punishment, especially if he’s frightened to death to crawl into her bed."
Buckingham’s loyalty to Barbara didn’t go very far, and certainly no farther than his king. He laughed in good humor when the king, presently angry with his mistress for her bawdy behavior, criticized her.
"She rather expects that keeping Seavers warm for you will cause you to visit her apartments, Sire."
"I know that, too. Why is it I’m the smartest one here and always taken for a fool?"
"Beyond me," Buckingham laughed. "Completely beyond me, Your Majesty." He laughed for a moment longer, Charles enjoying his own humor all the while as well. "Sire, you’ll pardon me if I wonder what will happen next."
Charles shrugged. "I don’t see how it matters much, as long as Seavers is alive enough to sail. Odd’s fish, I don’t think a better sailor has come along since Rupert." He took a long pull on his wine and grimaced slightly. "You may tell Barbara I wouldn’t discuss Lord Seavers, and be sure and let me know how bad her tantrum was. I enjoy hearing about them a great deal more than witnessing them."
Charles rose from his chair and moved to the window. The sun was setting and his city was in for another fitful night, with the church bells tolling for the dead and the stink of disease floating through the air. It pained him a great deal to think of death and suffering. It hit him in the stomach and head, and he ached with a longing to have powers beyond that of a mortal, but his gifts were few and his money less. Once again his hands were tied and he punished himself and his inadequacies as little as possible. He turned back to George.
"I do hope Lady Seavers is not dead, George. She seemed a decent woman."
George nodded his agreement, though he didn’t really have an opinion. She wasn’t dreadful, but he hadn’t seen the challenge as Charles had.
"I suppose I won’t know the truth unless I’m of a mind to punish someone for lying—and I’m not. Pity is, I could easily have endured a bit more of Lady Seavers," he said, raising one knowing brow at George. "But my poor circumstance insists I give a mind to money, and Seavers can’t earn any for me if he’s dead or in jail. As long as I’m left out of it entirely, I’m just as happy." He looked out the window again, then turned quickly back to his friend. "Let’s leave tomorrow. Or the next day. I’ve had enough of those damn bells."
The plague did not confine itself to London. Many of the small villages began to report cases soon after droves of Londoners fled the city for the safety of the country, taking the infection along with them and spreading it from town to town.
Charles came to a decision and the court left Whitehall on the first day of July and moved just twenty miles away to Hampton Court. Lady Castlemaine went with them, though it looked as though that might not happen. Seavers was told by Barbara that the king was not interested in his story or lack of it, but simply sent his regrets if Lady Seavers had in fact died, his congratulations for Seavers’s part in a victory over the Dutch, and his best wishes for his sailing.
"And what of Lord Perry’s tales?" Seavers asked impatiently.
"His Majesty quite expected Perry’s jealousy to appear a good deal sooner; he did bid for the hand of Lady Seavers before the king gave you permission to marry her."
"If he’s chalked it up to jealous lies, why has he kept me here for so long?" Geoffrey stormed.
"Very likely to keep me occupied, the rogue," Barbara pouted.
"But you’ve at least seen him. I—"
"I haven’t seen him at all," Barbara retorted. "Buckingham came to tell me we are moving and you can go where you please. He said the king’s message to you is that he’d like to see Perry handled, and out of his chambers, with as little attention drawn to him as possible. I fear for you both if Charles hears any more about digging up graves to prove identities."
"What?" Geoffrey blustered. "What is this? I am not even certain my wife was ever ill."
Barbara gave an impatient wave of her hand. "How would I know what the fool prattles about? I am leaving, Lord Seavers, and you can find your lodging elsewhere. I have a bone to pick with Madame Stewart. If you’ve any sense you’ll leave London too. This bloody city is crawling with death."
It cost a decent sum to get a courier
even to visit the wharves to see if any messages of any kind had been left for Lord Seavers, that being about the most dangerous place in the city.
The house on Tiller Street was looted, as could be expected. Most of the furniture was still there, the heavier pieces, but everything else was gone. Geoffrey’s spirits sank as he thought of the silver and other small valuable items, and he hoped that Rodney had had those things moved, and they were missing from the house for that reason and not because they had been stolen by scavengers. It was with a heaviness in his heart that Geoffrey closed the door and headed for Bellerose.
With the threat of disease all about, inns were dangerous places to stop for the night. Traveling on horseback, with a small packet of food and some water, and sleeping on the ground, were the best safeguards against the risks of eating infected food and sleeping among other people, who might no longer be alive by morning.
As he rode, he passed people moving from the city to the country, some of them taking plague with them. Some weary travelers held pomanders over their mouths and noses as he rode near, in case he was carrying the infection. He saw carts and wagons stopped because one of the members of the family was sick, and he witnessed a burial more than once. His heart ached anew as he wondered if there was any truth to the rumor that Alicia was just about to enter the coach that would have carried her to safer territory, when she became ill. And with that thought he quickened his pace.
The sun was hot and high when he neared Bellerose. The grounds and house were quiet; work on it had ceased, probably because of the heat and illness. He pounded at the front door of the mansion and heard his man’s voice answer his knock. "Who calls?"
"Lord Seavers—if you remember me..."
The door creaked open and Rodney stood in the doorway, a huge smile on his ruddy face. "Good to see you, sir."
Geoffrey walked through the door, glancing around and noting that the place was a good deal cleaner and some progress had been made in its restoration. He saw no other people. "Where is everyone?"