Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  “He is a young man yet, our prince, and given to heedlessness,” Rochester said.

  “Do not call him that, sir! It verges on treason.”

  “Mmm. My point. That is a cousin to the Romanovs, and the sweet boy is spilling his tale like a girl after her first kiss. Do we wish him to be so free with his chatter before we’ve learned what it might all be?”

  “Oh, dear,” Barbara said, and cast off her cloak. With a practiced gesture, she tugged a long curl down over her expanse of breast. “We’d best coax him away.”

  “Indeed.”

  Such a pretty boy, Barbara thought, approaching. The same dark hair and delectable features as his father, the wide mouth and curiously luminous eyes. Could Charles ever have been so callow as this, though? She could not imagine it.

  “Dear Mister Crofts,” she cried, coming forward. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”

  Startled, the youth abruptly stood, his cheeks flushing. “My Lady Castlemaine!” He bent over her hand, kissed her knuckles rather too fervently—but again that rippling through her skin, that remembrance of touch, that need for a thorough riding. She allowed his lips to linger, then pulled slightly away to urge him to stand. “Whatever . . . how is . . .” he stuttered. “How might I be of service?”

  The Muscovites sitting nearby guffawed, and Jamie colored. Rochester stepped in and said smoothly, “The cub is clumsy, but you must admit his taste has no flaw.”

  The boy moved forward to retort, but Barbara claimed his elbow, leaning close to press her breasts into his arm. “Dear boy, will you assist me?”

  His tongue lashed over his lower lip. “Whatever you desire. Or, that is, wish . . . want.” He halted, mercifully. “Of course.”

  The three of them departed, leaving behind raucous laughter.

  When they were safely awash in the cold blue moonlight along the river, Jamie breathed, “How ever may I be of assistance, my lady?”

  “I only require your company, dear sir, and perhaps a second set of hands at cards. Rochester and I grow so bored with only each other.” She waited at the door to her wing for him to open it and ducked inside, taking the stairs to her chambers. A fire was lit and the drapes had been pulled, and her girl slept on the pallet at the end of the bed, so soundly that she didn’t stir as they entered.

  Rochester paused at her side, looking at the downy cheeks washed with firelight, her plump arms tumbling from beneath her blanket. “Pink and fresh as dawn,” he said softly, tilting his head one way and then another. “What do you think, dear prince? What flavors might we taste on that unblemished skin? Dew? Gillyflowers?”

  The youth knelt. “Shall we try?”

  “No,” Barbara said sternly, knocking his shoulder. “She’s not thirteen!” Ungently, she nudged the girl awake and she startled, alarm widening her eyes as she saw the men staring at her. Barbara tipped her head. “Away with you, Margaret. I have no need of you tonight.”

  The girl was only too willing to scurry away, closing the door tight behind her.

  “Cruelty holds no sweetness,” Rochester said to Jamie, pouring wine into goblets.

  Jamie sat on a stool, hair loose and tumbling around his face. Firelight glinted on his eyes, making them look as if they were made of glass. “I planned no cruelty,” he said. “I have been the sport of those who have a taste for it.”

  Barbara exchanged a glance with Rochester, taking off her cloak and tossing it over the wide sill of a window. “Life during the wars was a challenge, was it not?” She drifted behind him, trailing a hand over his shoulder.

  “I suspect he means a thing you do not imagine, Barb’ry.” Rochester gave the boy a cup. “You were sent to school, were you not?”

  Jamie scowled into his wine. “We all were, sir. It is no strange thing.”

  “But some of us are prettier than others.” Rochester sat next to the lad, brushed back his long hair, and gestured for Barbara to join him. “Perhaps you were introduced to things you knew not of before that time.”

  “I am no innocent, my lord. The hints and coyness do you no favor.” He drank of the wine. “I was buggered, like all are, and you see it did me no harm.”

  An unexpected wave of sympathy stirred Barbara as she imagined him a fresh, damp boy at the hands of classmates who used him for their own pleasures. She took his hand, long and white, and pressed it into her cheek without speaking. For a moment, he only gaped at her, eyes moist, lips open. “I would that boys were not so unkind to each other,” she said softly.

  He trembled, looking at her mouth, her breasts, and it was a balm to be so desired.

  “Kiss her, lad,” Rochester urged.

  Jamie yanked his hand away as if scalded. “You must think me ten times the fool,” he spat out, backing away. “My father’s mistress! You think to discredit me!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Shh, shh,” Rochester murmured, coming close, his hands gentling the boy as if he were a nervous horse. “We mean you no harm. Have I shocked you?” He gave Barbara a sleepy glance. “Shall I go first?”

  “I am not shocked.” Jamie grabbed Rochester’s face in his big hands and kissed him, a rather long and luxurious kiss on his full mouth. Barbara watched, stunned, her skin rustling, spying tongues.

  They broke apart, Jamie near flinging Rochester away, then spinning toward Barbara. “And one for you.”

  His hands fell on her shoulders as they kissed, a big, deep kiss, his tongue not yet clever but hungry, and it lit points of heat through her, dangerous heat. Roused too much, she pushed him away.

  But there was Rochester, her old friend, eyes shining with wicked intent as he caught her round the waist. “And one for me.” As he leaned in, she felt a sharp thrill—Rochester! Whose mouth she had wondered over, whose hands would know their way to a woman’s pleasure. She caught his scent, night and earth, before he kissed her. Delicately, tiny flickers of tongue only over her lips, then her neck, and there was no halting the tumble into the lush thing they all wanted. With Rochester’s lips on her neck, she reached for Jamie, turned her face for another kiss. A blue-white light, born of the raw spectacle and the moonlight and deprivation, burned them all three together. Limbs and lips, slow slide of flesh on flesh on flesh, orange firelight splashing a shoulder, the high round of buttocks. Mouths, tongues, cocks and cunt. Barbara lost herself in it. Opened, rode, gave and received.

  Slept.

  • • •

  Bright morning light filled her chamber as Catherine stirred. Against her hip rested the hand of the king, heavy and possessive. She smiled to herself and tucked into his side, pleased as ever when he stayed abed long enough to share a pot of chocolate with her. More often he was up and about with the dawn.

  “Good morning, little Cat,” he said now, his voice deep from disuse. His finger moved to tickle her earlobe.

  She shifted to see his face. “And to you, sire.”

  A servant brought in a tray of chocolate, with cups and a pot of milk, and settled it between them. “Thank you,” she said, and the girl curtsied and ducked out backward. Catherine poured the thick, dark drink into each of their cups, then added milk to thin it down.

  “The Muscovites are a wonder. What a spectacle that was!” Catherine said, offering him his cup. “Do all emissaries bring so many presents?”

  “No, no. But with the Muscovites, they insist upon a diplomatic ceremony that must be followed.” He sighed. “I’m told it will take forty days.”

  Catherine laughed lightly. “All steps of grave importance, no doubt. Will you grant their petitions?”

  “I will hear them out.” His mouth turned down at the corners. “They are at war and may wish our alliance, but we must keep our focus on our own concerns.”

  “The Dutch?” She had heard him discuss their ships with his brother.

  “Aye.” He rubbed a brow, a signal of worry or annoyance. “All the years we warred with the Spanish, they spent building trade, leaving the English a poor second. But for th
e nonce, my concern lies with the Spanish, who do not rest in their desire to claim your homeland.”

  “Indeed. And my brother has banished Mamãe to a convent. If I think too long on it, my heart boils.” She shook her head. Fond as she was of her brother, he’d never had the sense to rule, and had only managed because Mamãe was so clever. He endangered the country with his trust in those who cared more for their own advancement than the good of their homeland. “Foolish boy.”

  The king agreed with her and did not need to say it. Catherine had fretted enough over the news of her mother when it arrived a few weeks before. Her brother was barely fit to manage a household, much less a nation, and heaven only knew what would happen to her beloved country without the stabilizing influence of Luisa.

  Lightly, hoping to find a way into his confidence regarding politics, she asked, “Is there value in the gifts the Muscovites brought? In the jewels, perhaps?”

  “Aye, it appears they might have eased the treasury a little.” He scowled, rubbed that place on his brow. “More is required, but you needn’t concern yourself over that.”

  “Perhaps I will be a better queen if I am better informed, Your Majesty?” She said it gently, but held her head high and met his eyes.

  “No, no.” He gulped down the chocolate and rubbed her flank. “I’m afraid I must away, my dear. Much as I dislike leaving behind these lovely legs of yours.”

  After he departed, Catherine lay alone a moment longer, threading Feliciana’s ear between her fingers. The pup sprawled on her back, front paws hanging loose in the air, fast asleep, her pale belly exposed. Catherine disliked her husband’s dismissal, and longed to take more of an active part in matters of state. She found pleasure in thinking, in considering matters of economics and politics and war, and she needed something to do besides wait. Wait. Wait. Catherine stroked the hot skin of the dog’s belly, touching her barely formed teats, thinking of puppies.

  Rolling onto her back, she placed a hand over her own womb, imagining her son growing there, a dark-haired, burbling child. Last night they had made love vigorously, and as her powerful husband moved within her, she’d had a quickening sense of otherness, a being coming to life within her. A child. Her child.

  Please, she offered to the heavens. Perhaps she should add a novena to her daily prayers as a petition for her child.

  Yes. Just right. She called for her maid to begin her morning toilette.

  She would start the novena this very day.

  • • •

  After Mass, she waited in the chapel, taking a moment to dismiss her ladies. “I would have a moment,” she said to Dona Maria. “Will you send the others away?”

  “Of course, Alteza. Would you like me to linger?”

  “No, Godmother. Thank you. You may wait for me outside.”

  “As you wish.”

  In the quiet, deeply fragrant confines of the chapel, Catherine gathered herself, her desire, and knelt. The novena was one she had memorized many years before, a petition to the Blessed Mother in special circumstances, prayed by rote for nine days in a row to show devotion. Holding her rosary between clasped fingers, she began:

  O most Blessed Mother, heart of love, heart of mercy, ever listening, caring, consoling, hear our prayer. As your children, we implore your intercession with Jesus, your Son. Receive with understanding and compassion the petitions we place before you today, especially—

  She paused to envision her desire, a plump, dark boy like the baby she had glimpsed in the Lady Castlemaine’s arms, a hearty child, and happy.

  We are comforted in knowing your heart is ever open to those who ask for your prayer. We trust to your gentle care and intercession those whom we love and who are sick or lonely or hurting.

  She paused to imagine her mother in the convent, where she would be angry over her impotence in saving Portugal from the addled Alfonso.

  Help all of us, Holy Mother, to bear our burdens in this life until we may share eternal life and peace with God forever. Amen.

  She knelt in communion with the Virgin, who surely understood the yearning of a woman who longed to be a mother, a woman who ached to fill her empty womb. As she pressed her forehead to her folded fingers, a peace spread through her, as if her heart was touched by grace, by love. It poured through her chest, filled her head, then her limbs, making her weightless, without form, part of all that was eternal, all that was holy.

  “Obrigado,” she breathed over the sense of grace and connection to her Lady. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  • • •

  Barbara swam toward wakefulness, then broke the surface all at once, her mouth dry and head pounding.

  And felt the unmistakable effects of a robust night between her legs, on her elbows and knees. Memories flooded through her, mouths and hands and limbs—

  She bolted upright to look around the chamber for lingering evidence, but Margaret had been here and there was not even single rumpled stocking to show anything untoward had happened.

  She fell back, covering her face with an arm draped with the voluminous sleeve of a chemise. Flashes of the night came back to her, the flavors and colors and textures—the pleasures!—

  And the trouble. A cold sense of terror washed over her as she imagined what might have happened if Charles had come late to her room and found them all three tumbled together like puppies. Not just one lover, but two, one of them his own son!

  What a fool she had been. What a fool.

  It had been more than a full moon cycle since she’d last lain with Charles, too, so what if a babe was in her now?

  The longings of the flesh had oft led her to trouble, but in Charles she’d found a match, a willing and vigorous partner who explored the reaches of their play. He’d eased her restlessness, and settled her—somewhat—and slaked her thirst for years now.

  Without his vigor, she had become reckless, restless.

  Lying utterly still in the softness of her bed so as not to disturb the hammers in her head, she warned herself that it could not happen again. Nor could any word of it ever get out. She would be ruined—with Charles, if not at court. She would have to bribe Margaret.

  And if there was any mercy in the world, she would see her courses on their monthly round. Soon.

  Dear God. Please. It was less a prayer than an oath.

  • • •

  Lady Eleanor strode through the gardens in her heavy cloak, on an errand to return a borrowed book. The cold air bit her nose and ears, but she welcomed the silence of the frozen landscape. A pair of hearty birds sang in the deep center of a shrub, and a soft wind rustled the treetops. Far off, someone shouted. The quiet assuaged her desperate homesickness only slightly. Back home, children would be tumbling down snowy hills while their mothers roasted chestnuts for them to share when they came in from their play. For a long moment, she saw a vision of it, hanging in the air—

  “There you are.” Lord Russell took her by the elbow and steered her toward a copse of trees. “Walk awhile with me, dear Lady Eleanor.”

  She willed herself not to yank her arm away from him but to simply give in to the press of his thumbs as he led her into the trees. She had not seen him since the night of the opera, when she had been so desperately wrong about the queen’s musicians. As she’d told Russell, she had imagined they would play some popish thing, that first step toward converting the court to her forbidden religion. Instead, it had been the most English of presentations, all about King Arthur and his sword.

  “You have not come to see me,” Russell said.

  “My duties leave me few hours of freedom, as you must know.” She pressed her lips together. “I have not gathered any further knowledge, so what point to it?”

  “The point is to find that knowledge, to reveal something, find something, bring me something I might use to topple this travesty of a queen.”

  “And I tell you I have nothing more than what I brought before.” She strode away from him, clutching the book to her breast. “I am
only on an errand and will be missed if I do not return.”

  “My patience wears thin, Lady Eleanor.”

  She swung back to face him. “As does mine, sir. I loathe this place, the noise and gossip and sin. None could wish to find what you seek more than I. Now leave me be.”

  • • •

  To amuse himself during the cold weeks of winter—and to escape the rather boisterous party of Muscovites who seemed to be laughing and whoring and drinking in every corner of the palace—Charles slipped away to the Royal Society at Gresham College. The Royal Society, newly established since Charles had returned to England, was a collection of natural philosophers and mathematicians. Their passions were devoted to expanding the body of knowledge in many arenas, including astronomy, botany and horticulture, mathematics, and others. John Graunt annually presented mortality tables for the city of London, and travelers presented their findings from abroad. Charles found relief in the company of such learned men—a change from the plodding minds of many of his courtiers, as well as a respite from the constant pecuniary worries that plagued his court. This morning, he’d invited Jacob Winthrop, the young botanist, and a handful of other naturalists and gentlemen with questing ideas who had come to his attention about court and in various gatherings.

  They ate a simple pie of partridge and winter apples and listened to the presentation of a paper from Mister Evelyn on forestry, proposing that more oaks be planted in order to provide wood for His Majesty’s navy. Charles cried out, “Hear, hear,” and Rogue hopped up from his feet and barked. The company chuckled. They were less formal than some society he kept, once they leapt the initial block of his royalty, and he appreciated it.

  After the forestry lecture, Mister Ball, limping noticeably, presented a short lecture on Saturn.