by Angus Donald
Too late, Holcroft turned away, blushing hotly. And he stared down at the crumbs of his honey bun on the table for several minutes, making patterns in his mind with the individual fragments until he was sure that she must have passed by. Looking up, he just glimpsed her being handed out of the wherry at the Stairs by a squat man in a leather jerkin and being followed by her grim maid, before she disappeared from sight into the Palace.
It was not that he disliked Barbara Villiers, nor was he overawed by her rank and wealth, but she made him feel distinctly uncomfortable every time they met. She fascinated him: images of her naked body, the languorous violet eyes and slow smile had haunted him since their last awful encounter. He knew that he wanted her and yet he also knew that she was untouchable, both as the lover of Jack Churchill, his friend, and as the mistress of the King. It was not that he was virgin-pure: he had awkwardly tumbled several girls in the back alleys and stables of Shoreditch. But he found love confusing. The girls had been willing enough at first but after the fucking they seemed to want something from him, some token, some change in his behaviour towards them. He had no idea what they wanted and, when the love-making was done with, he was inclined to forget all about them and carry on with whatever he had been doing before. Barbara was different, however. Her soul, or whatever the spirit that animated her, was terrifyingly powerful – it sucked him in and repelled him at the same time. He wanted her but he could never allow himself to have her. But did she understand that he could never come into her bed, no matter how much he might want to?
He finished his pint of ale, swept the crumbs into his hand and dumped them into a bucket for the ale-wife’s pigs, wiped the table clean for the next drinker and was about to leave the small beer buttery and head back to the Cockpit, when the Duchess of Cleveland walked through the door.
‘My dear, don’t tell me you were about to leave. I have come here most especially to speak with you.’
The duchess took Holcroft by the elbow and led him to a table in the centre of the room, waving and calling merrily to the ale-wife to bring them sustenance. The maid stayed sullenly by the open door, like the soldiers on guard duty at the White Hall gatehouse, and watched Holcroft across the space between them with dark, suspicious eyes.
‘So tell me, my dear Mister Blood, how do you do?’
Holcroft was saved from answering by the arrival of the ale jug. The ale-wife poured out two cups and duchess took a mouthful, grimaced and put the cup back down on the table. Holcroft drank his in a single draft.
‘My dear boy, are you quite well?’ said Barbara, putting a soft hand on Holcroft’s. ‘You seem very solemn today?’
He found himself mumbling that he had a lot on his mind.
‘I too have been thinking a good deal – I am concerned about our dear friend Jack. Since that unfortunate encounter with the King’s visit the day you came to see me – you know all about what happened, yes?’
Holcroft nodded.
‘Well, since then, Jack is quite out of favour at court – all over that silly misunderstanding between the King and myself. The King gave Jack an almighty thrashing in the tennis court the next day, quite humiliated him, but it seems that Charles still bears a grudge against the poor boy. He has set his face against giving him any sign of royal favour and, as for advancement – well, he can forget about that for the time being. Charles is behaving badly, and while I have tried to reason with him, he can be quite obstinate. And I have not seen hide nor hair of Jack since. I worry for him. Have you seen him about the palace in recent days?’
Barbara picked up her ale cup, looked at the scummy brown liquid and set it back down on the table.
‘I have not seen him since that day either,’ Holcroft told her.
‘Well, I know that you two are the greatest of friends so, next time you see him, will you give him some advice from me?’
Holcroft said nothing.
‘Will you tell him that all avenues are closed to him in White Hall. If he seeks preferment, he must look for it away from the court. There will be war with the Dutch, and while I dread to think of my beautiful Jack charging into the cannon’s mouth, there are opportunities for advancement for young officers who prove their mettle on the battlefield. Dead men’s boots must be filled, after all. And if he were to come back from the war covered in glory, well, something might be arranged. But, for the moment, there’s nothing for him here. Will you tell him?’
‘I will tell him if I see him,’ said Holcroft, and he managed a smile for the lady. He imagined himself a dashing officer, heading off to war and coming back, scarred and stern, covered in glory. Perhaps then something might be arranged for him too.
‘There’s my lovely boy,’ said Barbara, smiling back at him. ‘But enough talk of Jack. Tell me about yourself, tell me when you are going to come and visit me? You know very well where my rooms are.’
‘I’m not going to sleep with you.’
Barbara stared at him in shock. ‘I wasn’t aware that I’d asked you to,’ she said. Suddenly she was very angry. It was as if a spark had been struck in a pile of black powder: ‘Just who in God’s name do you think you are? I did not invite you into my bed. I was merely being friendly. And how dare you say no to me, anyway; you, a servant, a jumped-up page. As if I would sully my body with your greasy touch. Good day, sir. Good day to you, you filthy, gutter-born, importunate poltroon.’
The Duchess of Cleveland rose. She gave him a gorgon’s glare and swept both the ale cups off the table with a single blow of her right arm and, while the echoes of the crashing pottery were still dying away, she marched, chin high, back straight, out of the buttery and into Wood Yard.
*
It had been a magnificent dinner. Thomas Ayliffe had proved to be a most well-bred young man, polite to his seniors, moderate in his speech, and seeming not at all haughty or sensible of his wealth; in fact, quite down to earth. Mistress Edwards approved of his hearty appetite, Mister Edwards applauded his fine, fierce views on the growing numbers of highwaymen that plagued the King’s roads – they should all be scragged from the nearest tree the moment they were caught, the thieving bastards – and Lizzie was already half in love with his dark, dangerous looks and air of silent reserve.
Tom had said little after his humorous remarks about highwaymen, as he had received a very painful kick in the shin from his father under the table and a significant warning look. After that he had contented himself with eating until his waistcoat buttons protested and in paying a few compliments to his hosts, drinking their health from time to time. He had been extremely nervous to begin with, knowing that a false slip would bring the wrath of his father down on his head. But after a few glasses of claret, he had unwound and found that, in spite of the circumstances, he was enjoying himself. The girl was perfectly appalling, of course, that long furry eyebrow gave her a distinctly feral look, but he had not been expecting a beauty. And the more he drank, the more he found himself able to smile at her and even to engage her in conversation – or at least try to.
‘Are you fond of dancing, Miss Edwards?’ he had said to Lizzie as the saddle of mutton was brought in.
‘Oh Lizzie is ever such a good dancer, isn’t she, Talbot,’ said Mistress Edwards, who had taken a good amount of wine herself. ‘Such grace and rhythm, such a shapely ankle – ooh, but I shouldn’t be saying such things to a young gentleman. Whatever must you think?’ Mistress Edwards simpered horribly and mashed her bulldog lips with her napkin.
The conversation languished for a while until Parson Ayliffe took up the threads of a discussion with Edwards about the scandalous London price of sugar compared with its value in the Caribbean.
After a while, Tom tried again: ‘Tell me, Miss Edwards, are you fond of sea air? The air in Essex where we live is bracing, most health-giving.’
Again Mistress Edwards answered for her: ‘Oh the sea air always brings out Lizzie’s complexion in the most wonderful way. Last year we paid a visit to Plymouth at the invitation of Sir
Gilbert Talbot, who is the Member of Parliament there – Lizzie and I were to help with providing the voters of the town with Sir Gilbert’s food and drink – and very hungry and thirsty fellows they proved to be! And Lizzie fair blossomed in all that fresh air. Her skin glowed like a peach, a ripe unplucked peach, sir!’
After that Tom gave up. He ate his meat and drank his wine and smiled benevolently at the company.
As Tom and the parson were about to take their leave, Talbot Edwards pulled Ayliffe aside into the pantry and whispered, ‘I think that went well, sir, very well. I can tell that Lizzie is fair smitten with the boy. Do you think we might allow them to make an excursion together, properly supervised, of course, to the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall, perhaps. What say you, sir?’
‘I think that is an admirable idea, Edwards. But there is one other matter I would like to discuss with you, if I may. I told you that I was not the only man who was made guardian of Thomas after poor Edwin’s death.’
‘I believe you mentioned two other gentlemen, old friends of your dear departed brother.’
‘Yes, well, it grieves me to tell you that they have written to tell me that they utterly oppose the match between Thomas and Elizabeth. They say that they cannot in good conscience sign over to him the fortune he has held in their trust. And, of course, if Thomas has no money he cannot marry.’
Edwards looked at Ayliffe, suddenly appalled. ‘You mean these two gentlemen would block the marriage? Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Language, my dear friend, please moderate your words. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, I beg you. They feel, and I hope you will forgive me if I speak candidly, that he is marrying beneath himself, and that it would be unwise for him to become linked to a lady of little fortune and no prospects of inheritance.’
Edwards glared at him. ‘Marrying beneath himself?’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear friend, but I think it best to lay out the position as clearly as possible. However, I think that I may have an elegant little solution to the problem.’ Ayliffe paused.
Edwards was still scowling, and for a moment the parson wondered if he had gone too far. If the man took the offence too deeply then the whole plan was wrecked. Finally, the assistant keeper unclenched his big jaw and said: ‘And what is your solution, sir?’
‘Why, it lies beneath our very feet. I have told them of the high esteem in which the noble Talbot family holds you. I have told them that the King himself entrusts you with his royal treasures. I have, if you will forgive this low expression, laid it on thick that you are a gentleman of great influence and responsibility, trusted absolutely by the highest in the land.’
Edwards managed a smile but the muscles around his jaw were tight.
‘I think I might persuade Mister Paris and Mister Halliwell – both gentlemen of unimpeachable character and rectitude – that you are a man of consequence if you were to show them the Crown Jewels in your keeping, and particularly if they were to be allowed to see them unencumbered by those ugly iron bars, and perhaps even if they were allowed to handle some of the royal items, under your strict supervision, of course. I think, I truly believe, that might sway them to the opinion that Elizabeth comes from a suitably respectable family and persuade them to agree to the match.’
Ayliffe found he was holding his breath. For a long time Edwards said nothing. Then: ‘Well, if it helps convince them to allow the match, I think I can see my way clear to unlocking the treasures just for a few moments. Yes, let them come. I’ll show them what kind of family Elizabeth has.’
Saturday 6 May, 1671
James Pratt waited in the porter’s lodge of the Cockpit feeling a little nervous but mostly confused. Holcroft Blood, the Cardinal of the Card Table, the Tyrant of Trump, as Pratt privately thought of him, had told him that he was to come to the lodge on this day at this hour and ask to see Holcroft. He was to give him the note that now lay in the pocket of his moss-green coat, and if he rendered Holcroft this small service his debt of four pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence would be wiped out.
He had, of course, opened the folded piece of blue paper in the privacy of his tiny room in Clarendon House but was astounded to find that it was blank. He wondered if there had been some mistake. He could not for the life of him understand why Holcroft would give him an unmarked piece of paper, for Pratt to deliver back to him. He had held it over a candle to see if there was any secret writing on the paper but no. Nothing. It made no sense at all but Pratt could see no harm in it – and there was also the matter of the four pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence.
The porter, Arnold Smith, had entertained him while he waited, if entertained was right word, with items of gossip that he had heard about the attack the year before on the Duke of Ormonde, Pratt’s master, who, while no longer bed-ridden and perfectly healed of the hurts that he had suffered, was still a virtual recluse in his borrowed mansion. Ormonde had become an old man since the event, feeling every one of his sixty years, and the family business was now managed by his hot-headed son Lord Ossory.
‘They say it was a gang of wild Scotch Presbyterians who done it, Covenanties, they call themselves,’ said Arnold, with a nod and a wink. ‘Ruthless bastards; heathens who will have no truck with bishops. A fellow at the Bull’s Head said he heard a gang of rogues in the snug talking murder and rebellion in Scotch accents afore the wicked assault on His Grace.’
‘I heard it was the Papists,’ said Pratt. ‘Jesuit agents of the King of Spain who want to force good English Protestants to bow down to the Whore of Rome. They’ll stop at nothing, I’ve heard. Murder people in their beds if it suits their foul purposes.’
‘You’d best lock up all the doors and windows at night, son, if you want to keep your duke safe. Catholics or Covenanties, makes no difference – both creatures of the Devil and that’s for sure.’
Into this edifying exchanged stepped Holcroft Blood. ‘Good day to you, Pratt. You wanted to see me?’
Pratt stood up, nodded to his new friend, and followed Holcroft out into the tulip garden. He handed over the note with a curt: ‘Well, here it is.’
Holcroft held the blue paper in his hand for a moment. He saw that Arnold was watching the pair of them from the lodge, his index finger mining busily in one dirty ear, and also noticed Fox Cub sauntering past on the far side of the tulip garden and gave him a cheery wave, which was returned.
‘That should do it,’ he said and put the note in the pocket of his coat.
‘Is that all you want?’ said Pratt, still mystified by his role in this affair. ‘That’s enough to clear my debt?’
‘That’s all. But if you breathe a word about this business I will tell everyone that you welshed on it and you will never play cards again.’
‘I’d no doubt be the richer for it,’ muttered Pratt. But then seeing Holcroft’s look, he said: ‘But I’ll keep my silence, I swear.’
*
‘Your Grace,’ said Holcroft. ‘If I might have a moment of your time.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ The duke was in his bedchamber, seated at the desk and dressed only in a thick, padded silk gown, writing the last few letters of the day by candlelight. Holcroft had brought him soup, bread and wine and had transcribed two of the confidential letters into the usual code but now the duke was yawning, stretching, scratching; it was not far off midnight.
‘I was brought this note by a servant of the Duke of Ormonde today, and I think that you ought to read it, sir.’ Holcroft passed the grubby blue piece of paper across to his master.
Buckingham opened up its folds and read in silence for a while. Then he looked at the boy: ‘Have you read this?’
Holcroft looked most uneasy. He opened his mouth.
‘Of course you have. Don’t bother to lie. It’s not sealed and you’d be a fool not to open it. And, despite all your peculiarities, you’re not a fool, are you, Holcroft? So, well, what do you think about it?’
‘I think it seems far-fetched,’ said Holcroft with absolu
te sincerity. ‘I cannot imagine a noble peer of England inviting a foreign prince to usurp the throne. I just cannot believe it of His Grace.’
‘Can’t you, though? I can – I know Ormonde of old. He lusts for power. Always has. Now that he has been pushed to the margins of the court, hiding away like a frightened old woman in Clarendon House for fear of assassins, I think he would fix on any scheme – however treasonous – to get his family back into the sunlight.’
Holcroft said nothing.
‘Tell me about this Pratt fellow, then, who is he and how did he approach you?’
‘He is in the duke’s service, a senior page – not assistant secretary, as he claims. He plays cards a great deal – and not very well. I know he has debts. He came to me today and gave me the note and asked me to help him. I said I would take it to you, Your Grace, but only for your consideration.’
‘And no doubt he promised you a consideration for your pains – what was it? Ten per cent of the gold?’
Holcroft said nothing. He was determined, if at all possible, not to tell a lie to the duke. His own tangled morality demanded this fig leaf. He might connive to rob his master, but he would not lie to him, if he could help it.
The duke read the letter again. ‘So tell me then, did you cook up this little scheme between you? You and Pratt, hoping to nip some chink, as they say, out of your kindly old duke? Did you write this note, Holcroft?’
‘No, sir, I did not.’
The duke looked at him sideways. He seemed to be making up his mind. ‘Well, it definitely bears investigation. I want you to go and see this Pratt fellow and ask him a little more about this letter he claims to have, written by Ormonde himself. Get him to show it to you. Read it. I want to know what is in it. Oh, and you can tell Pratt that I won’t be paying a thousand in gold. That’s absurd. I could not possibly go to that. But if the letter is genuine, if, I say, I may slip him a few pounds for his trouble.’