by Angus Donald
Holcroft’s face was bright red. He tried to tear his eyes from the duchess’s superb naked body but found that it could not easily be done.
‘The . . . the King . . .’ he managed to stutter. ‘The King is coming here. Now. The King is coming to see you now.’
Then he turned and flung himself from the room.
*
Edwards opened the blue door and found himself looking out at a tall middle-aged man dressed in a parson’s black coat and square white collar and a charming flame-headed girl who was smiling nervously up at him.
‘Good morrow to you,’ he said. ‘How can I be of service?’
‘Might I have the honour of addressing the esteemed Mister Talbot Edwards, the master of the Jewel House?’
‘Merely the assistant keeper, in truth; the master is Sir Gilbert Talbot, and he lives at White Hall – but yes, I’m Edwards, if that’s whom you seek.’ His tone was gruff but he was clearly pleased by the parson’s mistake.
‘Sir, I do hope you will forgive us for bursting in on you unannounced. My name is Thomas Ayliffe. I have a small parish in Essex, a very humble benefice, and this is my wife, Jennifer. We are visiting friends in London and we were advised that we must not leave the City until we have had a glimpse of the royal jewels; the very crown, insignia and vestments worn by His Majesty at the glorious occasion of his coronation. I was naturally astounded and protested that surely the King would never allow such a thing. However we were earnestly assured that were we to address ourselves to a most distinguished gentleman by the name of Talbot Edwards at the Tower we might be afforded a brief visit to the Jewel House under his supervision. We would be happy, of course, to pay the appropriate fee, or emolument, if that is not too impertinent. And if you could spare us your valuable time.’
‘Oh yes, and who was it who told you this?’ asked Edwards.
‘It was none other than the Duchess of Cleveland, a connection of my cousin Sir Aubrey Villiers; the lady has proved a most generous patron of our little church of St Christopher’s in Dunwich-by-the-sea, though she has not yet, alas, paid us the honour of a visit. She has, however, been a great help to me and my wife these past few days in our exploration of the City, a most noble lady, most wonderfully condescending; she accompanied us to the Royal Exchange. It was she who suggested we apply ourselves to you.’
‘We really would be most awfully grateful,’ purred Jenny, giving the assistant keeper her most lustrous, widest-eyed smile.
‘I know Her Grace well,’ said Edwards, beaming at them. ‘A delightful lady, so gracious. An intimate of the King, I am told. She is, in fact, a frequent visitor to the Jewel House, oh she has been here many and many a time. Indeed, she has become more of a friend than a visitor. Come in, and I will find the keys, although I am afraid I must trouble you for six shillings as a contribution to the upkeep of the house, the candles, and so on.’
Inside the entrance, Edwards lifted a set of large iron keys off the hook behind the door and watched closely as Ayliffe pulled a heavy purse from his pocket and carefully counted out the silver coins into his waiting hand.
I’m a fool for not asking more, he thought, as he saw the glint of bright gold among the folds of the leather. This Essex parson is not so humble as he makes out. How else did he snare such a wife?
The assistant keeper took a taper from a box on the wall, lit it at a sconce, and by its small, flickering flame led the clergyman and his wife down a short, dark and winding set of stairs and, at the bottom, he unlocked a narrow black door, reinforced with thick bands of ancient iron.
He pushed open the door, and began to light a series of candles set in the walls at strategic points around the small, dank and musty-smelling room. Ayliffe observed that there were no windows or furniture, save for a single table and chair, nothing really in the room except a large iron grille on the far side that stretched from floor to the low ceiling and from one wall to the other. The grille was hinged on the left-hand side and evidently could be opened at need but was secured by a large iron padlock on the right near the stone wall. As the candles were lit and the dark room began to lighten, he could make out through the bars of the grille the enticing gleam of yellow metal, the rich glow of red velvet and the intriguing flashes of gemstones of every shade and colour under the sun.
‘Oh,’ said Jenny, ‘how splendid, how perfectly lovely!’ She stepped forward towards the grille, as if propelled by an invisible hand, walking towards the greatest collection of portable wealth in the Three Kingdoms.
As the three of them drew reverentially closer to the bars, Edwards in a low, husky, almost conspiratorial voice, went into his well-worn patter.
*
The King marched down the long corridor, still in his sweat-stained tennis attire, and attended only by a pair of scarlet-clad footmen and Sir John Grenville. He scarcely noticed the tall, gangling clerk who bowed low as he approached, and kept his head far down as Charles swept past. Yes, he thought, Barbara. It has been far too long since I tasted her. Nell has the wit and her own fresh and outrageous cheek, but Barbara is a riper fruit and all the sweeter for it. Won’t she be surprised and gratified to see me. It’s just as that lewd dog Buckingham said, I have neglected her delights far too long.
As he reached the white door, one of the footmen darted ahead and pounded on the wood. ‘Open in the name of the King,’ he thundered. There was a short pause and then the portal was flung open and Barbara, Duchess of Cleveland, pink-cheeked and slightly breathless, stood in the doorway, with a peach-coloured silk robe clasped around her under which she was quite obviously wearing nothing at all. She looked adorable, as if she had only just emerged from her bed, yet the hour was past four in the afternoon, which was a late lying-in even by her louche standards.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said, dropping an awkward curtsey, one hand still holding her robe together, ‘I am deeply honoured by your visit. Won’t you come in and take some refreshment?’ She indicated the withdrawing room to her right, easily glimpsed from the door, where the pinched-faced maid was muttering angrily under her breath and hastily laying out bottles and glasses and a little plate of seed cakes on an elegant gilded table.
‘You have caught me quite by surprise,’ the duchess continued, ‘I am most disgracefully déshabillé, but if you give me a few moments I shall make myself more presentable to Your Majesty.’
‘There is no need for that, Babs, you look perfect just the way you are.’ The King moved forward and took her into his arms, kissing her full mouth passionately, sliding his hands over the peach silk.
‘Charles,’ said the duchess, pushing him gently away, ‘why, you are as eager as a schoolboy! At least let me catch my breath.’
‘Into the bedroom with you, hussy,’ growled the King, steering her backwards, away from the withdrawing room and towards the other door. His victory over Johnny Wilmot in the tennis court had made him feel unexpectedly virile, like a young buck once more – ancient person indeed! – and he intended to prove the matter of his potency without further delay.
The pair stumbled into the bedchamber, falling onto the bed, and as the footman exited and solemnly closed the double doors behind them, the King kissed her hungrily, fondling her buttocks with his right hand. Her robe fell open and she returned his kiss and her small hands began to tug at the white linen shirt, untucking it from his breeches. The King’s spare hand swept away a rumpled coverlet on the bed, clearing it for action, and his fingers caught on something, a long, silky strip of material. He glanced at it, looked twice and saw that he was holding a stock between his fingers, a long, thin strip of cloth edged with lace and rather like a delicate scarf that was used by the more fashionable military gentlemen to cover their necks. The King stared dumfounded at the stock in his hand, his excitement now utterly forgotten. How could this item be in the lady’s bed? Barbara took the King’s face in both hands and eagerly began to kiss his lips and cheeks.
‘Get off me!’ he snarled.
He s
tepped back from the bed, his erection softening in his breeches, still holding the lacy silk stock. A monstrous notion was blooming in his mind. He looked around the bedroom; there on the table were two glasses both stained with wine at the bottom. The notion became a hard certainty.
‘Where is he? Where is the scoundrel?’
‘Whatever can you mean, my love?’ said Barbara, recoiling on the bed and pulling the robe instinctively around her naked body. The King looked at her and, although she seemed outwardly unconcerned, nonchalant, even, he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes.
‘Your lover, slut. Where is he?’ His eyes ranged round the room. He bent down and peered under the bed. Then he looked at the big brown oak wardrobe in the corner of the room. He took two strides and stood in front of the double door. ‘Come out, sir, and face me like a man. If ye dare!’
The wooden doors swung open slowly and a naked, shamefaced Jack Churchill stepped out, his bundled clothes clutched in his hands at his chest.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I most humbly beg your pardon. I was quite overwhelmed by the lady’s charms. And she said you had cast her aside, were finished with her. Yet it is truly no fault of hers . . .’
‘Silence!’ roared the King. Sir John Grenville poked his grey head through the double doors and frowned when he saw the naked young man standing in front of the King.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘Should you like me to—’
‘Get out, you imbecile, this is a private matter,’ bawled the King. The groom of the close stool hastily withdrew.
‘Your Majesty, he speaks the truth,’ said Barbara. ‘You have not honoured me with a visit these many months past, and not pleasured me for a year or more, and I could only conclude—’
‘Silence,’ said the King again, this time in a quieter tone. ‘You, sir, on your knees!’
‘Your Majesty, if I could but explain—’
The King cut him off. ‘I should have you thrown in the deepest, coldest dungeon in the Tower. I should have you hanged at Tyburn. No, by God, hanged, drawn and quartered—’
‘And have the world know that your mistress of these past ten years must now seek satisfaction from a younger man?’ The duchess’s words held a crackle of real anger. She was sitting up on the bed now, arms wrapped tightly around her chest, her eyes blazing. ‘You storm in here after months of neglect, without a moment’s warning, without a gift or a single flower, and disturb the mother of your children at her leisure. Bawling threats and stamping your feet like an infant. Over what? A little afternoon dalliance? Am I not to have friends? While you flaunt your actress whore at every public gathering in London. For shame, sir, for shame!’
Not a word was spoken for a long, long while. The King stared at the duchess, then at Churchill kneeling naked on the floor. Then to the surprise of all three of them, not least himself, he laughed.
‘Oh, Barbara,’ he said, chuckling, ‘I have sorely missed your spirit. I swear your fire would singe my wig at twenty paces.’
He turned back to Jack, who was now looking up at him, the first gleam of hope in his eyes.
‘You, sir, are Jack Churchill, if I am not mistaken. The man who sets the hearts of half the court a-flutter – the women and the men, I’m told. I even heard that you also bought an annuity from Halifax – five hundred a year, was it? And I wonder where you got that ready money from, eh? I know your gallant old father has precious little.’
Churchill wisely said nothing. The King sighed. ‘Well, you are a rascal, sir. But I forgive you – I forgive you because I know you only do it for your daily bread. Now dress yourself and be gone from here. I shall await my lady’s pleasure in the other room. I do believe that we have some unfinished business between us, my dear.’
The King paused at the door and looked back at Jack who was now struggling into his breeches. He briefly examined his lean and muscled white torso. ‘A younger man, forsooth,’ he muttered.
‘One last thing, Mister Churchill,’ the King said, his hand on the handle of the door. ‘Do you play tennis?’
Jack, astounded by the question, managed to admit that he had played the game once before.
‘Then you and I shall try a match – tomorrow at noon.’ And with that the King opened the door and stalked out.
‘You had better make sure you manage to lose to him, Jack,’ said Barbara, coming off the bed to help Churchill with his shirt.
‘Do not worry, I shall have no difficulty at all in managing that.’
*
‘ . . . now this is the great orb of state,’ said Edwards, poking a finger through the grille at a golden object the size of a large cannon ball and decorated with a band of pearls and gemstones around the middle, with a half band running vertically across the top. ‘It was carried by His Majesty at his coronation, and that fine jewelled cross on the top symbolizes our Blessed Sovereign’s position as Defender of the Faith, something that might be of interest to you, parson, in your line of work.’
‘God bless His Majesty,’ said Ayliffe reverentially. ‘But tell me, sir, would it be possible to open the grille just for a moment and examine the orb more closely? I confess I find it strangely fascinating.’
‘Oh, no, sir, the jewels must always stay safely behind bars. I cannot open the cage for casual visitors. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Oh no, indeed, but surely they must trust you, sir, with the key, with your unblemished, even exemplary, record of loyal service to the Crown?’
‘They do, sir, but I am on the strictest orders not to open the grille in the presence of any man save the Master of the Jewels, Sir Gilbert Talbot himself. We wouldn’t want to tempt any rascally filching cove into trying to pocket a ruby or two, would we, sir? It’s all right taking a little peek through the bars, sir, no harm in that, but it mustn’t be opened up, no indeed.’
‘Very wise, sir, very wise indeed. We live in times of sin and lawlessness and it would not do to foster temptation.’ Ayliffe touched his nose, laying his finger flat against the side of it. Behind him, there was a small female gasp then a thump, and when Ayliffe and Edwards both spun around, they saw Jenny lying on the floor, seemingly lifeless.
‘Oh, Jenny, oh Jennifer, my love,’ cried Ayliffe, immediately crouching by her head and peering into her pale face. ‘I should have known the excitement of this day would prove too much!’
Edwards, too, knelt down beside her and, seizing her fine-boned hand in his meaty grip, he began to pat it gently.
‘What ails her, sir? D’ye know? Tell me ’tis not the plague returned.’
‘God forbid! No, sir, like all women she is a weak and fragile creature and, now that I come to recollect it, she did complain of feeling a little queasy this morning. I believe it was merely the joy of seeing the jewels, that and a lack of air in this chamber, perhaps. Do you have any spirits about the place? A drop of brandy? That might be just the thing to revive her.’
Between them, and with some awkwardness, Edwards and Ayliffe carried the apparently unconscious girl up the narrow winding stairs to Edwards’s apartments, with the assistant keeper calling out on the way for his wife and daughter to come to their aid. They settled her on a mouldy chaise longue in the withdrawing room and Mistress Edwards, a cheerful matron with a certain bulldog quality to her square, ruddy face and sagging jowls, sponged her brow with lavender water. Her daughter Elizabeth, a singularly ill-favoured girl of eighteen, with sallow, pockmarked cheeks and one long furry eyebrow, brought in a bottle and several glasses on a tray.
Ayliffe accepted a large glass of brandy from Elizabeth and, gently easing Mistress Edwards away from the couch, he knelt and trickled a few drops between the unconscious girl’s lips, then took a healthy swallow for himself. ‘My dear,’ he said, lightly patting her cheeks, ‘can you hear me?’
Jenny fluttered her eyelashes, slowly opened her eyes and tried feebly to raise her head. ‘Where am I?’ she said.
‘You are in the apartments of Mister Talbot Edwards,’ Ayliffe told her. ‘
In the Irish Tower. You were taken ill while we were viewing the King’s jewels. How do you feel, my dear?’
‘Oh,’ she said, putting a wrist to her brow, ‘I feel so horribly faint.’ She gave a little moan of anguish. ‘I am sorry, so terribly sorry for putting you to all this trouble.’
It was a performance not dissimilar to that of an actress dying slowly but flamboyantly of unrequited love at the end of a play – which, indeed, was no coincidence since this was the profession Jenny pursued whenever she found herself without the protection of a wealthy gentleman friend.
‘That’s quite all right, you poor duck,’ said Mistress Edwards, shouldering Ayliffe roughly out of her way and continuing to apply the lavender water to Jenny’s temples. ‘You rest here as long as you like.’
Edwards and Ayliffe withdrew to the far side of the room where they amused themselves for a while with the brandy bottle, while Mistress Edwards fussed and clucked over Jenny, finally allowing her to sit up on the chaise longue. An hour later, on a gushing tide of thanks and mutual good wishes, Ayliffe and Jenny, still admirably pale and playing the invalid for all she was worth, took their leave of the Jewel House and its occupants and tottered down the steps of the Irish Tower to rejoin the rest of mankind.
Wednesday 19 April, 1671
Mistress Aphra Behn passed through the imposing gatehouse of the Palace of White Hall and stepped into the wide thoroughfare of The Street. Under her black woollen hood, her face was just as pale as any invalid, but her brown eyes sparkled with something very close to anger and her jaw was set with a firmness unusual even in the strongest-willed individual.
She wore her habitual plain black dress in memory of her dead husband Johannes Behn – an unfortunate Dutch merchant who traded with Surinam and had died at sea seven years previously, the ship sinking in a storm with all hands and his valuable cargo of African slaves – and who had left her with nothing but his name. In a basket over her arm, she carried a thick sheaf of papers, the manuscript of her latest play The Amorous Prince, which was the ostensible reason for her visit to the Duke of Buckingham’s apartments that day – if questioned about her visit, she planned to say that she hoped to acquire his patronage for a run of the play to be performed by the Duke’s Company. It was unlikely that anyone would question her; the guards at the gatehouse had allowed her through without a word, but it had long been her habit always to have a plausible reason for anything she did when she did not wish to reveal the true nature of her task or destination.