“We have made our peace with the king,” Glenkirk snarled. “We will leave for Queen’s Malvern as quickly as we can be packed up.”
“Oh, no, Jemmie,” Robin Southwood said quietly as they settled themselves in his coach. “The king has decided Jasmine is to have a choice of husbands. A bit after the fact, of course, but then timing has never been old king fool’s strong point. He has offered up his favored minion for Jasmine’s delectation. If you depart for Queen’s Malvern, the king will be angry all over again, and Hartsfield will probably come after you. You have a bit over five weeks until your wedding day. You will remain here in London for four weeks, give or take a day. You will let Piers St. Denis play the eager suitor, and then Jasmine will announce her decision to marry you after all. Only then can you depart for mother’s with the king’s blessing, which you must have. The queen, as you well know, favors your marriage to Jasmine. Now promise me, Glenkirk, that you will not be foolish, and you will follow my plan.”
“Why do I want to punch our pretty marquis in the mouth?” growled Glenkirk.
“Because he is a slimey little turd,” Robin Southwood replied.
“What the hell does Jamie see in him?”
“He’s young, and very amusing, and clever. He panders to the king’s affections; and right now James Stuart seems to need those two young men vying for his attention and his favor. He has never really recovered from Prince Henry’s death, and Prince Charles is a dour little fellow, quite unlike his elder sibling. The king doubts he will ever make a good ruler, and is not shy about saying so. Charles, of course, is fiercely jealous of both Villiers and Hartsfield. He thinks they take his old dad’s affections from him, but I wonder just how much affection the king has for his younger son. Now, Jemmie, you are going to behave yourself, aren’t you?”
“I suspect I have no choice,” grumbled the earl of Glenkirk.
Robin Southwood chuckled. “Well,” he said wryly, “we could waylay Hartsfield in a dark alley and strangle him, I suppose.”
“Now there’s a fine thought!” James Leslie said enthusiastically.
“We will have to convince Jasmine to play along with our game,” Lynmouth told his companion.
“You may have that privilege,” Glenkirk said.
“You must back me up, Jemmie!” Lynmouth said. “My niece can be the very devil to reason with, as you well know.”
“I’ll back you up,” Glenkirk agreed, “but if she’s not of a mind to do it, heaven help us all.”
“Damn, I wish mother were here,” Robin Southwood said.
“Well, she isn’t, and she’ll have both our hides if we do not make this all come out right, Robin. I hope we’re doing what Madame Skye would want us to do in the matter.”
“There is nothing to keep us from sending her a communication as to what’s going on,” the earl of Lynmouth said. “She should know.”
Glenkirk laughed. “Aye, so she should,” he agreed. “She will not be afraid to take on this king. Divine Right means nothing to Madame Skye, does it, Robin?”
His companion chuckled. “Nay, Glenkirk, it never did, and I think Jasmine is more like my mother than anyone else I know.”
“But Jasmine has always respected Divine Right,” Glenkirk said.
“She won’t when it interferes with her plans to marry you,” the earl of Lynmouth said mischievously. “She has never stopped being the Mughal’s daughter. May God have mercy on us all if the king does not cease his meddling in her life. There will be hell to pay for certain, and Hartsfield will learn to his regret that you cannot make our wild Jasmine do what she does not choose to do.”
Chapter 8
Richard Stokes, the earl of Bartram, was extremely worried. He had served the king ever since James had arrived in England, gaining his master’s favor by his hard work and his sober habits. A protégé of Robert Cecil, the earl of Salisbury, son of Lord Burghley, who prior to his death had been the king’s most trusted advisor, Lord Stokes was content to remain in the background doing his duty for the crown. Often it had meant long hours and very little time with his family, but his wife, Mary, had completely understood. Only on Sunday was Richard Stokes unavailable to his royal master. Sunday was the Lord’s day, and he was a pious man. The earl of Bartram followed the commandment to remember the Sabbath and to keep it holy.
While openly espousing England’s officially sanctioned church, Lord Stokes was secretly a Puritan. He did not hold with popery or the superstitious trumpery he believed tainted the Anglican Church. He firmly held that the church should be free of such tomfoolery. God’s word was simple and direct, even as the church should be. The earl of Bartram did not approve of the dogma, the elegant ritual, and the businesslike organization of England’s church. People should follow the Bible and its teachings as God had meant them to do, else he would not have had it all written down. Devout simplicity. That was what the true church should be about.
Richard Stokes, however, kept his faith to himself. Faith, he believed, was a very personal and a private thing. He did not like those men who publicly screeched and shouted their creed for all to hear in the market square, demanding that others follow them. Besides, Puritans who noisily trumpeted their beliefs too loudly for all the world to hear could find themselves the center of intense persecution. Even more than those misguided men and women who persisted in continuing to follow Roman Catholicism. A discreet faith, along with adherence to the official Church of England, was acceptable. King James too well remembered his own mother’s difficulties in the matter of religion. It had cost him her company and caused him to live a basically cold, unemotional, and strict childhood devoid of either maternal warmth or any real loving affection.
Alas that Lady Mary Stokes, the earl’s wife, was not as careful as her husband in the matter of religion. A devout woman, she had of late become an impassioned proselyte of their secret faith. In part Stokes blamed himself. His business kept him in London most of the year, and their children were all grown and married. The eldest of their daughters lived down in Cornwall, and the youngest had been wed up north into Yorkshire. Their only son and his wife lived on the family estates at Bartramhalt in Oxfordshire.
In service to the king from dawn until midnight most days, the earl understood how his wife, with nothing else to do, could become more deeply involved in their faith. Mary was a woman of high morals who did not believe in the frivolity exhibited by the royal lifestyle. She had no friends at court, and, without her family, she was lonely. Now she had suddenly devoted herself passionately to religion, certainly a worthwhile pursuit for a woman, but unfortunately his wife’s enthusiastic zeal had come to the ears of the king. How this had happened the earl of Bartram could never learn, but James Stuart was not pleased by the knowledge.
“I dinna hold wi the Calvinists, Dickie,” he said to the earl, having called him into his royal presence late one afternoon. “Were ye aware of yer wifie’s nonconformism? The Calvinists dinna respect my divine rights, Dickie. Ye’ll hae to beat Lady Mary and turn her from her heresy,” James Stuart concluded. He turned to his two companions. “Is that not right, my sweet laddies.” Then he smiled at them.
“With our children gone to their own homes, I fear my good lady is bored, Your Majesty,” the earl said. “Mary means no harm.”
“She doesna come to court,” the king observed. “I canna remember the last time I saw her, Dickie. Does she hae all her wits about her?”
“She is a shy and retiring lady, Your Highness,” the earl excused his wife, wishing that she were indeed addled so he might condone her behavior in that manner.
“Nae so timid, Dickie, that she could nae stand outside of Westminster handing out seditious tracts condemning our good church,” the king said grimly.
The earl of Bartram paled. “What?” he managed to say. Mary had to have lost her wits to have done such a foolhardy thing.
“Are ye losing yer hearing then, Dickie?” The king did not look pleased at all.
“I
shall certainly remonstrate with my wife . . .” he began, but he was cut short by the marquis of Hartsfield.
“Remonstrate, Stokes? Your wife stands on the edge of treason, and you, His Majesty’s most trusted servant, and you want to remonstrate with her? You should beat the bitch until she comes to her senses, my lord,” the marquis of Hartsfield told the astounded man.
“Sir,” the earl snapped angrily, “my wife is a good and decent woman. I have never had to resort to violence in managing her. She is a lady of reason. Since you have no wife, you are hardly an expert on the matter of spouses.”
“Do you hold with her treason then?” the marquis said slyly.
“What treason?” the earl demanded, angered further, and drawn into indiscretion. “Where is there any treason in preferring a simpler form of worship, my lord St. Denis? Did not the old queen herself say that there is but one lord Jesus Christ, and the rest is all trifles?”
“You are familiar then with this Puritanism,” St. Denis goaded the earl of Bartram further.
“I am a member of England’s church,” the earl said tersely, suddenly aware of the danger into which he was being so cleverly drawn.
“But yer wifie would appear not to be,” the king noted. “Were ye aware of her heresy, Dickie?” James Stuart’s amber eyes peered sharply at the earl.
The marquis of Hartsfield smiled toothily at the earl from just beyond the king’s shoulder. Young Villiers, the king’s other companion, however, looked just a trifle sympathetic toward the embattled Lord Stokes.
“Women are apt to be fickle, my lord,” George Villiers murmured softly. “Has not our good queen gone round about you on occasion to obtain her own way?” He chuckled good-naturedly. “This matter has obviously caught Lord Stokes unawares. Allow him the latitude to straighten it out privately within his own house. As our good Piers has observed, the earl is and has always been your most loyal servant, sire.”
The king turned and bestowed a loving smile upon the young man. “Ahhh, Steenie, ye hae such a good heart, does he nae, Piers.”
“Aye, Yer Majesty,” the marquis of Hartsfield answered sourly, forcing a smile. He didn’t like Richard Stokes with his pious and hardworking ways. Stokes kept a tight rein on the king’s expenditures and had recently convinced James not to bestow a small crown property near the marquis’s estates upon Piers St. Denis, who had long coveted it. For that he would repay the earl of Bartram in kind when he got the chance, and he had almost succeeded this day had it not been for clever George Villiers and his faux sweetness. Villiers was as sweet as a rabid rat, had the truth been known, but he was a canny and resourceful fellow, damn him!
“Verra well, Dickie, go home and tell yer lady I will hae no more of her wickedness and revolutionary ways,” the king said, dismissing the earl of Bartram, but not giving him the royal hand to kiss.
Richard Stokes bowed, throwing young George Villiers a grateful look and backing from the king’s privy chamber. He now owed Villiers a favor, he knew, and he wondered what would be asked of him. Still, he was relieved to have escaped so easily. Obviously he had made an enemy of the marquis when the royal property he desired was denied him. Still, Lord Stokes thought, it was in the king’s best interests he was working, and it had not been in James Stuart’s best interests to lose the income from that property. Old Queen Bess had left the royal treasury full, but James, with his overgenerous ways, was fast emptying it, not to mention the queen’s outrageous extravagances. Since Robert Cecil’s death no one had really been able to keep the court’s greed in check.
The earl of Bartram hurried from Whitehall Palace, calling for his coach as he entered the open courtyard. It was quickly brought, and the earl instructed his driver, “Home, Simmons, and take the fastest route!” Then he climbed into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him. His mind was awhirl. Mary had gone too far this time, and while he did not believe his life was in any danger, Richard Stokes knew he had no true friends among the king’s courtiers. Ordinarily he would not have cared. His sole loyalty was to James Stuart. His value to his master was his strict honesty and his discretion. But these traits would mean next to nothing if someone like Piers St. Denis undermined the king’s trust in him. He had just been saved today by the charming young George Villiers, and only because that young man desired a favor of Richard Stokes.
Villiers was an ambitious young man, the earl thought, who had already set his sights upon the earl of Rutland’s heiress. The girl, according to the gossips, was besotted with George Villiers, silly chit. All she saw was his extraordinarily handsome face and form. She knew little of his character, or whether he was a godly man. Richard Stokes suspected not. The new co-favorite was charming, amusing, and polite to a fault—traits unusual in one his age. Perhaps he was every bit as good as he seemed, but Richard Stokes doubted it. Still, he would recommend to the king that Villiers be given a small peerage. The king would like that, especially as the suggestion would come from the earl of Bartram without royal prodding. He would claim to see promise in George Villiers, and perhaps there was promise in him. That should certainly repay the debt he owed Villiers for rescuing him today.
The earl’s house was located in the village of Kew just outside the city. It was not on the river like the residences of so many of the rich and powerful. It was a simple brick structure standing three stories high, set in the center of a small park. The coach drove through the gates and down the drive, drawing up before the mansion’s door. Richard Stokes exited his carriage and entered the house. “Fetch her ladyship to me at once,” he told a footman, then went into his library, where a fire burned, taking the chill off the damp late-spring day. Pouring himself a small crystal goblet of wine to calm himself, he waited for his errant wife to make her appearance. When she finally entered the room he was reminded that she was still a pretty woman, despite the fact she was well past her prime.
“You are home early today, my dear,” Lady Mary Stokes greeted her husband, and then her eye went to the goblet in his hand. “Spirits, Dickon?” she said with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Pastor Simon Goodfellowe says spirits are not godly.”
“Our lord Jesus turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana of Galilee, Mary,” the earl said sharply. “If wine was approved by our Lord, then how can Simon Goodfellowe disapprove?”
Lady Mary made a motion of smoothing down the dark blue silk of her gown. It was a simple garment adorned only by a white ruff of a collar. She wore no jewelry but her wedding ring. “You do not like Pastor Goodfellowe, Dickon, do you?” she replied.
“No, Mary, I do not. I find him narrow-minded, and mean-spirited, and I especially dislike him if it is he who has convinced you to stand outside of Westminster handing out religious tracts,” the earl told his very startled wife. “What in God’s name ever possessed you to do such a thing, wife? Have you lost your wits, madame?”
“The word must be spread, Dickon,” she began, but he interrupted her harshly, his look dark and angry.
“You will cease your activities at once, madame! I absolutely forbid you to ever do such a thing again, and I forbid you to see this Simon Goodfellowe. He is a dangerous man, and will come to a bad end.”
“But, Dickon . . .”
“The king is aware of your activities, madame. He considers them treasonous heresy. I have been in the royal service twenty years, and I came close to losing my place today because of you, madame. Only the intervention of that fawning puppy, George Villiers, saved me. Now I will owe him a service in return. If I owe a boon to people like Villiers, madame, I lose my authority and my usefulness to the king. How did you dare to involve yourself in such seditious activity?” the earl demanded of his wife.
“Ohh, Dickon,” she replied, genuinely distressed. “I did not mean to cause you any trouble. I just want to spread our faith to others, for I love our Lord, and would have His church free of all popery. Do you not desire that, too?”
“Mary,” he said, his tone softening a bit, and leading her
to a settle where they now sat side by side, “you know I prefer a simpler faith, but I am no martyr. I can practice that faith quietly, thus satisfying my own conscience while appearing to follow the letter of the king’s law. There is currently but one sanctioned church in England, and as loyal subjects of James Stuart we must give the outward appearance of being devout members of that church. How can I influence the king to moderate his stand in small ways toward the Puritans if I do not have his ear? I have forever been a loyal servant of England’s monarch as you well know, beginning my service in the reign of Queen Bess. Your foolishness has today almost cost me the trust and respect I have built up over those years. The marquis of Hartsfield is my enemy because I convinced the king not to give him Summerfield. Today he attempted to pull me down merely to gain his vengeance on me. He cares not for England or even for the king. He but seeks to advance himself in any manner he can, even pandering to a lonely and sad old man if he must. I have said more to you than I should have, but you will be discreet, I know, as you always are regarding our private conversations. Now, promise me, my dear, no more proselytizing.”
“Oh, Dickon, I am so sorry. I did not realize what I was doing. I so wanted to help our dear Lord,” Lady Mary told her husband.
“My dear,” he said soothingly, “you are only a woman. You could not understand the seriousness of your actions. I am not content that we must hide our true faith, but if we are to triumph in the end for our God, then we must behave with sober modesty now. You will please our Lord best by being an obedient wife.”
“I will have nothing further to do with Pastor Goodfellowe, husband,” Lady Mary promised her husband.
“I will personally see the pastor is informed that you will no longer participate in his activities,” the earl of Bartram replied.
“Dickon? I have the most wonderful idea of how you can be certain you regain the king’s full trust and triumph over the marquis of Hartsfield. Did you not tell me he is to wed the dowager marchioness of Westleigh, who bore Prince Henry’s bastard? What if you could convince the king to give you custody of that little boy? If he gave you his grandson to raise, then certainly you would be sure of his favor.”
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