by Jane Feather
“Hush, sweetheart,” Nick commanded, gently but with authority. “You are to say nothing at all.”
“I bear a warrant for your arrest, my lord,” intoned the lieutenant. “You are to be committed to the Tower, there to await impeachment.”
“On whose authority?” asked Nick, still quiet.
“His Grace the Duke of Buckingham signs the warrant in the king’s name,” came the answer, promptly.
“And the charge?”
“Treason, my lord.”
Polly gasped. “But that is—”
“Hold your tongue!” Nicholas snapped. “May I see the warrant, Lieutenant?”
Polly subsided, realizing that she must sit still, and watch and listen. Only thus could she perhaps find a clue to this mystery. Surely it was a mistake; Nick would read the warrant and laugh, because it was meant for some other Lord Kincaid. But she knew that there was no mistake, and when Nick, having perused the document, handed it back without a word, the little cold space in her heart began to expand until she felt a great, terrifying emptiness.
“Will you grant me privacy to dress, Lieutenant?” Nicholas asked politely. “If you await me in the parlor, I will join you in a few moments.”
The soldier’s eyes went to the casement. “You have my word,” Nicholas said.
One could not refuse to take the word of a gentleman. “Very well, my lord.” The lieutenant clicked his spurs together, spun on his heel, and left the bedchamber, his cohorts following.
“I do not understand what is happening,” Polly whispered. “What is this of treason?”
“If I knew, I would be better able to form a defense,” Nicholas said, swinging out of bed. “But ’tis my own fault.”
“How so?” Polly sat watching him dress, in thrall to a confused terror that numbed her like the poisonous bite of a spider. The world she thought she knew was disintegrating, and she could not seem to do anything to hold it together.
“I had foreseen this, but dallied overlong,” Nick said bitterly, buckling his sword belt. “Because I did not understand it, I did not believe in the urgency. I should have left London last week.”
“But why?” Desperately, she still sought for a kernel of understanding. “What will they do to you, love?” Kneeling on the bed, she stretched out her hands toward him. “They will realize it is a mistake, and then you will come back. That is how it will be, isn’t it?”
Nicholas looked at the huge eyes in the pale face, beseeching him with the dark, haunted terror of a small animal in a trap. He took the outstretched hands, folding them in his own, holding them to his breast. “You must go to De Winter and tell him of this. He will know how best to protect you. Tell him that the warrant bears Buckingham’s signature. I know not how I have fallen foul of the duke, but it is certain sure that therein lies my offense.”
Polly listened to the calm instructions, felt the warm strength of his hold, and heard again in memory Buckingham’s voice: “Everyone has a price. I will find yours, make no mistake.” How naive she had been to imagine that, having played with her a little at Wilton House, he considered his revenge well taken. He had told her as plainly as he could that he had found her price—the incalculable value of love.
Premonition took on a dread shape; what had been only specter solidified. Nick’s voice, softly urgent, continued to reach her across the gray wasteland of knowledge, telling her that she must not lose courage, that he had friends aplenty who would work in his cause, that in these friends they must both trust, because, once lodged in the Tower, Nick could not act on his own behalf; until the charges were made clear when he was impeached, he could formulate no defense.
An imperative knock came at the bedchamber door. Nick kissed her—a short, hard farewell—and released her hands, pulling the quilt around her shoulders. “Do not lose courage, sweetheart. In that you must not fail me,” he said, the deep green eyes holding hers. “And you must trust Richard. He will look after you.”
“My lord?” The door opened, and Nick turned to face the lieutenant.
“I am ready.” He reached for his cloak.
“I must ask you to surrender your sword, my lord,” the lieutenant said in wooden accents.
Nick’s hesitation was barely perceptible; then, an enigmatic smile playing over his lips, he drew forth his sword, presenting it with a bow, hilt first, to his guard. At the door, he looked over his shoulder to where Polly still knelt, wrapped in the quilt. He could feel the coldness of her hands in his, the stark terror that rendered her motionless, and he could not bear to abandon her in such a plight. He took a step back to the bed. The lieutenant laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Nick, with a violent curse, flung the hand away. The lieutenant drew his sword, and Polly in that instant returned to her senses.
She tumbled off the bed, clutching the quilt, the life again glowing in her eyes as her blood began to flow hot and fast. “I will not lose courage, love,” she said, her voice strong. Tripping over the quilt in her haste, she ran toward him. “You must not think of me. You require all your thoughts and energies for yourself.” She turned to the lieutenant, her chin lifting as she looked him in the eye, her voice icily scornful. “Put up your sword, sir. It is not meet to draw it against an unarmed man and a woman.”
Nicholas relaxed. “Bravo, sweetheart,” he approved softly. “You will do as I bid you?”
“Aye,” she said strongly. “Fear naught for me.” Ignoring the guard, who, having sheathed his sword, was now shifting his booted feet impatiently, she reached up to kiss Nick. “I will see you back soon, my love.”
He left then; it was not a farewell to be prolonged, for all that in the bleak recesses of his soul he knew that it could be the last.
Polly flew to the parlor window, looking down into the dark street, where a closed, unmarked carriage awaited. The escort and his prisoner climbed in, the troop mounted their horses, and the sinister procession set of in the direction of the Tower, from whence so many never returned. For one dreadful minute she saw the scaffold on Tower Hill, the executioner with his ax, heard the crowds laughing and jeering, come to see the sport; Nick, his hair tied back, shirt collar loosened, laying his bared neck upon the block. That paralyzing terror threatened again. This was not a world where one could rely on justice. Justice was an instrument of putty to be bent and shaped by those who possessed the power. George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, possessed that power.
The terror receded, a cold, clear purpose taking its place. She would consult with Richard first, because that was what Nick had bidden her do. But if De Winter would not agree to support her when she did what she knew had to be done, then would she play the game alone.
She dressed rapidly, then hastened down the stairs. The Bensons appeared from the back of the house as she laid her hand upon the latch. “Where’ve they taken my lord?” quavered Goodman Benson, his face waxen in the light of the candle that wavered in his shaking hand.
“To the Tower,” Polly said shortly. “Ye’ve no need for fear. ’Tis no great matter, and will be soon sorted.”
“But he was ta’en in our house,” moaned the goodwife, dabbing her lips with her handkerchief, her nightcap askew on the thin gray curls. “’Tis us they’ll come fer next.”
“You talk foolery,” Polly snapped, understanding their fear but having little time for it. “Ye’ll not be traduced. Why should the Duke of Buckingham concern himself with the likes of you?”
Indeed, neither of the Bensons could think of a single reason, and some of the anxiety faded from the faces still raised, half in appeal, half in anger, toward their lodger without whom this dread happening would not have occurred.
Polly could not stay for further discussion. She left them by the stairs, going out herself into the cold and the gray gloom of a winter dawn. Richard lived in a fine house in St. Martin’s Lane. It took her no more than ten minutes before she was hammering on the great knocker, caring not if she woke the dead.
The bolts scraped back, and
a sleepy footboy stood, indignant, in the doorway, rubbing his hands in the icy air. “What business d’ye have at this hour?”
“Business with my Lord De Winter,” Polly announced briskly, pushing past him into the hall. “Pray tell him at once that Mistress Wyat desires speech with him.”
The footboy looked as if he was about to take issue with this peremptory and outrageous demand, but Richard, alerted by Polly’s vigorous knocking, appeared on the stairs, a warm furred nightgown drawn close about him against the early morning chill.
“Why, Polly! What’s amiss, child?” Quickly, he came down to the hall. “No, you shall tell me in my parlor. Lad, kindle the fire, then bring hot milk to the parlor!” He snapped his fingers at the bemused boy, who scampered off in obedience. “You are chilled to the bone. Have you walked from Drury Lane?”
“Aye,” Polly said, a hint of impatience in her voice. “There is not time for fires and hot milk, sir—”
“There is ample time for both, child,” Richard inter rupted calmly. “You will learn as you grow older that very little cannot wait upon hot milk and a fire.”
“But they have taken Nick!” Polly cried.
“Yes, it was to be expected. But wait until we are private to tell me the manner of it.”
Polly yielded. She had not the strength to batter against the wall of De Winter’s calm impassivity. “You expected it?” She allowed him to lead her into the small, booklined parlor at the back of the house, where a fire now blazed in the hearth.
“Aye, but we miscalculated. We had thought to discover what lay behind Nick’s fall into disfavor, and thus hoped to circumvent it.” Richard tapped his fingers on the carved wooden mantel, staring down into the fire. “He is imprisoned in the Tower?”
“Yes.” Polly sat wearily on a leather-covered stool beside the fire. “They took him but a half hour since. He said—” She broke off as the door opened to admit the lad with a steaming pitcher and two mugs, which he set on the table.
“That be all, m’lord?”
“For the moment,” Richard said, strolling over to the table. He poured hot milk into one of the mugs, then added brandy from the decanter. “Drink this, Polly. ’Twill put the heart back in you.”
She took the drink, warming her chilled hands on the mug, then, between grateful sips, told the tale, carefully repeating Nick’s words.
“So we must lay this at Buckingham’s door,” Richard mused when she had finished. “Why?”
He looked shrewdly at Polly, sitting upon the stool, hands still clasped around the mug, a strange expression on her set face. “Ye’ve some light to shed on this, Polly?”
“I think so,” she said.
“How so?” He waited, curious to hear what this exquisite creature could have to say. She had shown herself quickwitted in the past, possessed of an eye and an ear for the important, the ability to select from a mass of information and impressions that which was salient.
“The Duke of Buckingham promised … nay, threatened that he would find my price,” Polly told him, staring fixedly into her mug. “It would appear that he has done so.”
De Winter whistled softly. “You think he would have Nick accused for such a reason?”
Polly shrugged. “I am certain of it. Let me tell you what transpired between us at Wilton House.”
Richard heard her out in attentive silence, then spoke firmly. “Buckingham is a cunning bastard, my dear. A great deal more cunning than you.” He leaned forward to poke the fire. “I would have you do nothing until I have had a chance to smell the wind. It may be that you are mistaken, that this is nothing, that the king will lose interest and will be persuaded to rescind the order—”
“And while we wait for such an illusion to take shape, Nick languishes in the Tower, in God knows what conditions!” Polly interrupted, impassioned, leaping to her feet. “Tread softly, lest ye rouse the devil! Is that it, my lord?”
“It seems to me that the devil is already roused,” Richard said dryly. “Moderate your tongue. Nick may allow you uncommon license in your badgering, but I will not.”
Polly flushed and resumed her seat. The rebuke, as had been intended, served to bring under control the sudden surge of panic that had led to her outburst.
Richard permitted himself a smile, lifting her chin. “I understand your fear. Indeed, I share it. But nothing will be gained without due thought and care. Trust me.”
“I do.” Polly offered a wry smile. “But I should warn you that I will act on my own if you will not assist me.”
“That were foolish in you. I will not deny you assistance, but I ask that you let me do what I can first.”
Polly looked into the calm, strong face. Richard would have no chivalrous scruples about permitting her to make whatever sacrifice she chose, if that was the only path open to them. Had he not already asked such a thing of her? But beside his deep and abiding friendship for Nicholas, he also had a fondness for her. She could count on him to behave with pragmatic realism, but he would take no unnecessary risks.
“Very well,” she agreed. “But you will not ask me to wait overlong?”
He shook his head. “How should I? But Nick would prefer that you not make this sacrifice, so let us see if we can obviate the necessity.”
“He must not know,” Polly said. “If it is necessary, he must never know of it.”
Oh, the naivete of the young, thought Richard. But he would not enter that murky arena—not yet, at least. “Now, listen carefully, Polly. You must, for the moment, behave as if you are quite unaffected by this. Puzzled, certainly, but not unduly disturbed. You can always find another protector, can you not? That is what the world must think.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “The play must go on, must it not?”
“Good girl.” He released her chin. “Go to the theatre and give the performance of your life. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” she said simply, getting to her feet. “’Tis to be Rule a Wife and Have a Wife. I shall be the most wicked, defiant Margarita imaginable, and hint to the entire playhouse that, like Margarita, I conduct my love affairs where I choose, accepting no man’s authority—be he husband or keeper; and the absence of my keeper at the king’s pleasure makes little difference to my roving eye. We will see what my lord duke makes of that.” Then the spark faded from her eye, the challenge from her voice. “Can you discover if Nick wants for anything, Richard?”
“He’ll be lodged as a lord, child. He will not suffer discomfort.”
“But ’tis a dark and gloomy place, the Tower.” Polly shuddered. “Damp with the river slime, and lonely, with only the ravens for company.”
“He’ll have the governor for company,” Richard reassured. “And they’ll not put him to the torture without cause; which cause must be declared for all to hear.”
Polly’s pallor increased, and Richard realized with annoyance that he had planted a thought hitherto not conceived. “Be not afeard,” he said swiftly. “We will not permit such a thing.”
“I wonder how you would prevent it,” she said in dull truth. “I would sell my soul to Buckingham first.”
Richard, for once, had no answer, but he bade her wait beside the fire while he dressed; then he would escort her home, where she should try to repair the broken night.
That afternoon Buckingham sat in his box at the king’s house and watched her performance with cold admiration. He had been given a detailed account of the dawn events at the lodging in Drury Lane; he knew that Kincaid’s mistress had not reacted to his arrest with equanimity. Yet here she was, investing the part of the amorous, designing Spanish heiress, intent on cuckolding a foolish husband, with such flagrant provocation as to make it a challenge to every man in the audience. It was almost as if she herself were saying, you may have me if I choose to be had, but let no man think to rule me. It was a clear statement that the abrupt removal of her present protector—a piece of gossip on everyone’s lips—was not causing her any grave unease.
; Thomas Killigrew, better attuned to the actor’s skills, sensed the brittle edge to the performance. It was an edge that sharpened her act, but increased its fragility. It would take little to fragment the coherence of the part she played, and he found himself biting his lip in anxiety, for once feeling the play drag as he wished it to a speedy conclusion before disaster struck. It was not a wish shared by the audience, who were responding with gusts of laughter and shouts of encouragement when Leon revealed himself as far from the fool Margarita had believed him, and set about the task of bringing his errant wife to heel.
Polly alternately appealed to and challenged the spectators until they did not know what outcome they wanted in this particular duel of the sexes. Edward Nestor, as Leon, had no doubts at all and played better than he had ever done, a fact duly noted by Killigrew. One of Polly’s great attributes was her ability to bring out the best in her fellow players. However, it was with a deep sigh of relief that Thomas heard the epilogue spoken.
As Polly came off the stage, the strain of the act she had just put on showed clear in her eyes, in the tautness of her mouth, the tension in her body. Thomas called her, and she came over to him, expecting his usual words of approval and the inevitable constructive criticism. “How often do you think you can do that?” he demanded bluntly.
“I do not know what you mean.” She found herself avoiding his eye. “Was there something wrong? They did not think so, at all events.”
“You know well what I mean. It is because of Nick, is it not?” He laid a compassionate hand on her arm.
“I will not let you down, Thomas,” she said, ignoring the question. “If that is your concern, you may rest easy.”
“My concern is for you. You will not be able to continue at such a pitch of desperation for very long. You will break, and you will take everyone down with you.”
“I will not fail you,” she reiterated. “I have matters well in hand, Thomas.”
It was a statement that Thomas had some difficulty accepting, but before he could say anything, a noisy, laughing, chattering throng of courtiers, the Duke of Buckingham at their head, came into the tiring room, exclaiming and congratulating, waving perfumed handkerchiefs in emphasis, quizzing Polly through monocles as they called her a wicked jade, a sorceress who knew too well how to enslave the poor male with her charms and her wit.