by Lily Reynard
Two hours passed. Margaret sat at Antonia's side, clutching Prospero, while Antonia read out loud from the Metamorphoses.
Then Jemmy returned, and as soon as she saw him, Antonia knew that he bore ill news. She swallowed hard, trying to calm her pounding heart as he entered the room.
"Where's Papa?" demanded Margaret. "Isn't he coming home?"
"I'm sorry, milady," said Jemmy, soberly. "I wasn't permitted to see him. The governor of the prison said that he had received orders not to permit Mr. Fitzgeorge any visitors, nor allow him any other form of contact, until such time as the king's pleasure be known."
"I want Papa," Margaret said, and began to sniffle.
Antonia gathered her close, and held the little girl as she wept.
Over Margaret's head, she exchanged worried looks with Jemmy. It was almost unheard-of for a prisoner to be denied visitors or even ordinary comforts.
Antonia bent her head. "Hush, Margaret. I'll go to see the king tomorrow. I'm sure he'll agree to release your Papa."
* * *
The few shillings in Kit's pouch had been confiscated as an admission fee by a stout jailer clad in a greasy doublet and stained breeches, so Kit had no means of purchasing food or drink or even a blanket for his bedding.
Thus, penniless and friendless, Kit entered Newgate through the medieval gatehouse that gave the prison its name.
Like a lost soul descending into the underworld, he was led through a maze of narrow and dismal passages, enveloped by the prison's appalling stench.
Each stage of his journey into the building's interior was marked by huge gates and gratings made of massive, iron-studded timbers, which seemed to reinforce the impossibility of ever escaping this place.
To his relief, he was not led down to one of the infamous stone-floored cells in the dungeon. Instead, the jailer thrust him into one of the ground-level men's wards, a large communal cell that held about twenty prisoners.
It was a large, gloomy room, dank and cold despite the warm summer day outside, and lighted only by two tiny windows high on the wall overlooking the yard.
The floor was thickly spread with gray straw from which rose the stench of mildew, stale urine, and something throat-raspingly foul.
At one end of the ward, there was a small brick fireplace, and before it stood a long plank table. The table held a collection of battered tankards and tarnished pewter dishes crusted with old food.
"Welcome to yer new home, Mr. Fitzgeorge," said the jailer, shoving Kit into the room. "I wager ye are prayin' that yer fine doxy'll spring ye free. Or at least pay to have ye moved to one of the gentlemen's cells in the upper stories."
He spat into the straw near Kit's worn boots, then slammed shut the cell door.
Kit heard the dolorous clanking of the jailer's large key in the large, rusted iron lock. Then the man moved away, leaving Kit alone with his new cellmates.
Along both sides of the large cell ran a row of large hooks, with a thin, stained sleeping mat hung on each hook. Above them, dirt-encrusted rugs and blankets were piled haphazardly on long shelves.
Huddled together near the fireplace were his fellow prisoners, ranging in age from mere boys in apprentice's garb to an elderly man in shirt-sleeves and a tattered felt hat from which drooped the sad remnants of ostrich plumes.
Some of the men were dicing or playing cards, while others merely sat, dully staring at the scarred plank walls. A few of the men stood under the windows, examining Kit with a vacant interest, as if they were too beaten-down in spirit for actual curiosity.
"And who mightst thou be, sir, and why art thou here?" asked the old man with the plumed hat.
"Christopher Fitzgeorge, your servant, sir," Kit said, sketching a bow in his direction. "Dueling."
The old man laughed, creakily. "Oho, and who did you kill?"
"No one. But I seem to have displeased someone at Court."
That produced another wheezy laugh from the old man. "And I seem to have displeased my creditors, so here I am. Well, this place isn't so bad, after you become accustomed to it. Why, I can't even smell it anymore!"
I pray God I won't be here long enough to grow accustomed to the stench, Kit thought, moving over to the graffiti-scarred plank wall.
He leaned against it, not wanting to sit in the damp, stinking straw, and resigned himself to watching the narrow bar of sunlight creep across the floor, straining his ears for the jailer's return.
No one came.
By the time the afternoon light faded, Kit began to despair. Without money or friends, he might starve to death here.
Does anyone know where I am? Or what happened?
He worried about Margaret. He knew Antonia would be kind to her, but Margaret would not understand why he did not return. It had taken her months to stop asking for Anna...
Would Antonia think he had abruptly departed, abandoning both his daughter and the woman he loved?
It might be days, even weeks, before the true reason for his disappearance became known.
For if Antonia knew, surely she would have come by now...
* * *
Antonia arrived at Whitehall for the king's levee early the next morning, her stomach churning with anxiety.
She entered the antechamber of the king's apartments to find it littered with crudely printed broadsheets. Then someone noticed her entrance, and the room erupted in whispers and quiet sniggers.
She stopped, seized by the feeling that all unawares, she had done something horribly wrong.
The only friendly face was Chelmsford's.
He rushed over to her, bowed gallantly and offered her his arm. "My lady! His Majesty has agreed to see you privately."
Antonia smiled at him, grateful. "Thank you, my lord. You're very kind."
Everyone stared at her as they made their way to the chamberlain to inform him of Antonia's arrival.
Then came the Purgatory of waiting amidst the snickers and sly looks directed at her.
Why was a simple audience with the king causing such a sensation? Surely everyone had heard about Cranbourne's duel by now...
Then, she saw a discarded broadsheet on the floor. Curious, she stooped and picked it up.
"My lady, don't!" said Chelmsford.
But it was too late. Antonia had already seen the vile verses printed on the sheet.
The Widow's Delight
She through her lackey's drawers, as he ran,
Discerned love's cause, and a new flame began,
Her widow's weeds thenceforth and Court she shuns,
And still within her mind her guardsman runs:
His brazen calves, his brawny thighs (the face She slights),
his sword shaped for a smoother race.
Poring within her glass C————readjusts
Her looks, and disfigured beauty still distrusts;
Fears lest he scorn a woman once assayed,
And now first wished she e'er had been a maid.
Great love, how dost thou triumph and how reign,
That to a guard couldst humble her disdain!
Antonia crumpled the broadsheet and flung it away. Her face flamed, and her heart pounded with rage and humiliation. She felt sick.
She heard someone titter nearby, and looked up to encounter Lady Anne Edmonton's pale, malicious gaze. The young woman immediately tried to compose her features into a sympathetic expression, and began to approach, but Antonia turned away.
Chelmsford looked as angry as she felt. "If I discover who wrote these, I'll call them out!"
Antonia tried to think of anyone at Court she might have offended, but only Castlemaine, that proud, malicious woman, came to mind.
And Antonia knew that the king's mistress did not consider her either a threat or a rival.
Then, to her relief, her name was called at last.
Chelmsford at her side, his arm a comfort and an anchor, Antonia crossed the crowded room with her chin held high, making for the carved door at the opposite end wit
h a brisk step.
The gathered courtiers parted, many ostentatiously turning their backs to her, others examining her with sly contempt.
"...there goes the fencing-master's doxy..." A stage whisper, followed by muted snickers.
This, from Sir Theo Chesney, of all people, who owed his place at Court to his daughter, one of the king's many mistresses.
"...Puritan hypocrite...no better than the rest of us..."
Antonia's cheeks were burning, and her face ached with the effort to keep her expression under control.
Ten more steps...nine...eight... Antonia counted off the distance remaining to the dubious safety of the king's apartments.
"Shouldn't be received at Court...brazen..."
Finally, the door. Sanctuary.
Chelmsford released her arm with a comforting squeeze.
"Good luck," he whispered.
Antonia was escorted to the King's Privy Closet by the chamberlain.
After being announced, she timidly stepped into the paneled, book-lined room and saw the king seated behind an ornately carved desk, toying with an ostrich-feather quill.
His Majesty was deep in conversation with Clarendon, his Lord Chancellor.
The Earl of Clarendon was a round-faced, stern-looking man of middle years, with thinning reddish-blond hair. He stood beside the king's chair, pointing emphatically at one of the documents with a stubby finger.
"Ten ships, Sire? Impossible! Unless we have more money towards the doing it than we have in any view."
Antonia approached the desk, her heart pounding, and sank down into her deepest curtsey.
Her movements awoke the spaniel sleeping at the king's feet. The dog gave the hem of her skirts a cursory sniff, then sank back down and closed its eyes.
King Charles, dressed today in cloth-of-silver trimmed with blue ribbons, waved negligently in her direction.
"Worry not, Clarendon. We shall pay for our ships by and by. How else will we stand against the Dutch? But I wish to make a visit to Tunbridge for a night or two," His Majesty said, in a faintly querulous tone. "If I must inspect the fleet, when do you think I can best spare that time?"
"I know of no reason why you may not go next week," Clarendon replied, with the tone of a schoolmaster addressing a recalcitrant pupil. "Perhaps Wednesday or Thursday, and return in time enough for the adjournment of Parliament. I suppose," added Clarendon, in the tones of a man who supposed exactly the opposite, "that you will go with a light train?"
"I intend to take nothing but my night-bag," Charles said, with evident sincerity.
Clarendon's small mouth pursed in a skeptical expression. "Truly? I thought that you never go without thirty or forty horse!"
Charles gave his Chancellor a smile that transformed his rather melancholy-looking features.
"I count them as part of my night-bag," he said dryly. "Next Wednesday it is."
Then the king turned his attention to Antonia, who stood, her hands clasped meekly before her.
"Lady Cranbourne," he said, with such evident disapproval that Antonia felt her knees quiver.
"Your Majesty," she squeaked.
The king laughed. "Come now, Lady Cranbourne. I shall not have you drawn and quartered! But I am displeased at some news I hear, and I hope you can give me an explanation that pleases me."
"I am flattered Your Majesty takes an interest in my affairs," Antonia began, feeling dangerously short of breath. "But—"
"I take an interest in the affairs of all my subjects, but you are of particular interest for two reasons."
"Your Majesty?"
"Am I to understand that you are conducting a highly unsuitable liaison with a common fencing-master? I find the report difficult to believe because you are renowned for your modesty and prudence. Pray enlighten us."
"Your Majesty, I am not conducting a liaison with anyone, suitable or unsuitable," Antonia said, firmly.
The king raised a black eyebrow. "And is it true that you have said publicly that you do not wish to remarry?"
"That is true, Your Majesty, I do not." Antonia decided that honesty was her only course. "As it does not seem likely that mutual affection and respect might enter into such a match, rather than esteem solely for my worldly goods."
To her mortification, both the king and Clarendon laughed.
"You are as naive as they say, Lady Cranbourne," said Clarendon. "Why do you suppose you were invited to Court, if not to provide one of His Majesty's friends with a rich wife?"
"I did not think it otherwise," Antonia murmured, her cheeks burning. "And yet I hoped..." She took a deep breath. "Please do not make Mr. Fitzgeorge suffer for my failure to fulfill your wishes. He was only being gallant on my behalf."
The king leaned back in his chair to study her, thoughtfully brushing the end of the ostrich-feather across his lips. His magnificently curled dark hair brushed his shoulders, giving him a leonine appearance.
"Are you prepared to swear on the Bible that you are not betrothed or secretly married to Mr. Fitzgeorge? Can he swear the same oath?"
Antonia nodded, her mouth dry. Betrothed? Where on earth had the king gotten that idea?
"Well, then, perhaps we can strike a bargain," said the king.
"I'll do anything," Antonia said, rash with relief, then added, hastily, "But, please, Your Majesty, release Mr. Fitzgeorge from prison. He has done nothing except defend my honor."
"He has defied my edict against dueling, so at the very least I must levy a fine upon him."
"I will pay it, Your Majesty," Antonia said, immediately.
"Then I shall commission a Warrant of Release...on one condition." The king smiled at her, and she went cold. "That you wed. I will generously offer you a choice of husbands acceptable to me."
He had snared her as neatly as a forester might snare a dove.
Her head bowed, Antonia convulsively gripped handfuls of her skirt, every fiber of her being rebelling against submission to the king's will after all her efforts to remain free.
And yet, she could not abandon Kit in the darkness and filth of prison. After a long moment, she raised her head.
"As Your Majesty commands," she whispered.
Chapter Twenty
Did we lie down, because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
— John Donne, "Break of Day," (1633)
Antonia came for him in the morning.
Kit felt like weeping with relief as he saw her standing behind the stout jailer, a pomade ball raised to her nose to block out the prison's stench.
She was dressed in pale gray silk with a matching vizard, jewels gleaming in her hair and at her throat. The stiff parchment of His Majesty's Warrant of Release was clutched tight in her ringed fingers.
She found me! She didn't abandon me! Loyal and true...
He had found a rare treasure indeed. Pray God he never lost her!
Weary from a sleepless night, Kit left the ward. He shambled in her sweetly-scented wake, her clove-and-orange pomander dispensing a fragrance like warm sunbeams in the dank passageways.
Neither of them said anything in the smirking presence of the jailer.
"You’re a fine sight, Mr. Fitzgeorge," Antonia remarked sharply as soon as the last massive gate crashed shut behind them. Her smile belied her tone. "But I trust you are well?"
"I am, now."
Kit stopped in the middle of the street, braving injury from hackney carriages and delivery wagons, and took a deep breath, throwing back his head and shoulders. The air was as sweet and fresh as spring water, and the sun felt like a warm benediction on his face and hands.
God, but it's good to be free!
"I cannot thank you enough, my lady." He turned to kiss her hand, but she moved discreetly away.
Kit grinned despite himself, and followed her to where the Cranbourne carriage stood waiting. He was free again. All other defects could be remedied
with a bath, clean clothes, and a shave.
"How did you manage it?"
Antonia busied herself with the jeweled pomander.
"I paid a call on His Majesty, and begged for your freedom."
She wrinkled her nose, but Kit couldn’t tell if it was a comment on her interview with the king, or because the errant breeze had wafted his admittedly pungent odor towards her.
"I pleaded my weak female nature, which led you to gallantly defend my honor, and he graciously bestowed his pardon for defying his ban on dueling. He wanted," she continued, not meeting his eyes, "a fine of fifty pounds sterling and the honor of my favors."
"You didn't!" Kit exploded. "Better you left me in pris—"
Antonia cut him off. "Oh, I didn't play the whore, not even for the king. It cost me another thirty pounds, but at least His Majesty had the grace to look disappointed at my virtue."
"Eighty pounds, eh?" Kit shook out the grimy sleeve of his linen shirt, and examined it doubtfully. "I’ll be a long time working off my debt to you, my lady."
"I’m sure I can find sufficient labor for you to perform, my dear Mr. Fitzgeorge," Antonia replied demurely enough, but the curve of her mouth under her mask scorched him.
* * *
Safely back at Cranbourne House, Antonia left Kit in the dining room, attacking a tray of food that included cold pork pie, a bowl of apricots and cherries, cheese, and a basket of sliced bread. She ordered water warmed and sent down to the bathroom, then hurried up to her rooms.
No one was there, and for the first time that day, Antonia had time to think about all that had happened.
She sank down on the padded bench at her dressing table, and let her shoulders slump. They ached with tension.
All her life, she had tried to behave as a godly and modest Puritan woman ought, so that she would not shame parents or husband. Even in her widowhood, she had taken such pride in her virtue!
But now, that vile broadsheet had made a mockery of the reputation she had so carefully guarded. Would everyone think of her henceforth as a titled harlot like Lady Castlemaine?
Well, what was done, was done. And I must make the best of it.
Her virtue, sorely strained by her feelings for Kit, was in tatters, her future overshadowed by the threat of a second husband.