And there was the Duchess of Albemarle to fret over. He was confident that news of hostilities would be better transmitted to the West Indies than the eastern seas, but still if Edmund failed to find a convoy, guarded by a man-of-war, all was at hazard to the enemy and a hostage to fortune. Since the loss of Nathaniel, Faulkner’s confidence had ebbed, as though he sensed his star was on the wane. He shuddered; it was not a grey goose flying over his grave, but the cold consideration that behind his losses, past and future, lay Judith’s spells.
However, such fears grew most terrible at night. In daylight he derived some comfort from the fact that the war, like trade, was affected by the plague. Following the battle off Lowestoft no further reports of anything other than scuffles reached London, suggesting the war might simply fizzle out.
While death in battle was the seaman’s lot off the Suffolk shore, the plague raged unabated in London. By late-July, with only the briefest of discussions and an assumption of Gooding’s earlier declaration on the matter being his final word, Faulkner announced himself satisfied that Gooding should manage the business as he had done during his, Faulkner’s, exile. On news of the King and the Court leaving London for Salisbury, Faulkner gave orders that his household should embark in the Hawk. Faulkner ordered Hargreaves to join them, adding his mother to the little vessel’s company on the lad’s pleading. By August they had taken up lodgings in Falmouth from where Faulkner made an occasional long and tedious journey up to London, meeting Gooding at the counting-house. He was careful of his person and, on Katherine’s insistence, with whom he came in contact.
It was not now difficult to keep Gooding at arm’s length when they met, for their relationship had become strained. Besides, Faulkner had convinced himself that the disturbed Gooding wanted himself infected in order that he might carry the disease home to his sister and in so doing dispose of her and martyr himself.
The business of travelling, a matter of indiscriminate propinquity, was another matter. Claiming some knowledge of avoiding contagion thanks to her indigent existence as a camp-follower, Katherine insisted that his small clothes were removed immediately upon his home-coming and he himself took a hot bath.
However, Faulkner eventually gave up these ventures. The plague had such a strong grip upon London that all trade was suspended, as he had predicted. Still unrequired by the Admiralty, he bent his energies elsewhere, purchasing a small vessel by the candle, putting Toshack in command and sending Hargreaves aboard by way of supercargo. Despatching her across the Channel, he was soon doing a lively trade with the Channel Islands and the Breton coast, better, in fact, than Gooding languishing in London.
Hannah delighted in her son, whose every achievement she considered quite remarkable. As for Katherine, she became adopted aunt to little Edmund, while Mistress Hargreaves insisted on cooking for the household. In retrospect Faulkner regarded the months they spent in Falmouth an idyll, despite his worries. Privately, he continued to be torn by mixed feelings regarding the war. Disappointment at not being given a command competed with the delight he felt amid the beautiful countryside and the society of Katherine, Hannah and the boy. From time to time he took the Hawk to sea, or up the lovely Helford River, discovering in the lazier occupation of yacht-cruising something infinitely more pleasurable than the charged and competitive racing he had been obliged to under-go on the Thames in order that the King or his brother might have the opportunity to win.
Even the autumnal gales – worse in Cornwall than in London – followed by the icy blasts of winter – which were less so – failed to disturb the idyll. At Christmas Faulkner and Katherine duly attended the parish church of St Charles The Martyr; Faulkner reflected that he never expected to have spoken to a saint, recalling to Katherine their own first meeting aboard the Prince Royal on her voyage to Spain to embark the young Charles I – then himself Prince of Wales – and Katherine’s infamous if distant kinsman George, Duke of Buckingham. On the way home they recalled the unhappy events of the voyage, which had precipitated the first of their long separations.
In January came the news that the plague had abated, and that the better-off were returning to London where the shops were reopening. At the same time they learned that France had joined the Dutch in their war against the English, curtailing Faulkner’s new venture of trading with Brittany. Selling his ship by the candle, as he had bought her, he paid his bills and, leaving the Hawk in the charge of Hargreaves until the weather improved, Faulkner, Katherine, Hannah and young Edmund began the long trip home.
Though less people were abroad than was usual they found Wapping unaltered. Gooding was absent, but the maid Molly greeted them with delight. ‘How is the mistress?’ Faulkner asked her, almost dreading the reply, but the girl bobbed cheerfully enough and declared all was as it had been when the master left.
Before the others settled in, Faulkner decided to see for himself, ascended the familiar staircase and paused before the door to Judith’s chamber. He had not ventured into the room for many months but now he did so, abruptly pushing the door open, stepping inside and closing it behind him. He had not known what to expect but it was certainly not what he found. Her brother’s long mental decline combined with his wild declarations about Judith’s intentions, her madness and her witchery had led him to expect a wildly deranged creature, unkempt, her hair in disorder, raving, even chained to her bed. Instead he found her cool, elegant, groomed to perfection, a figure in perfect possession of both her person and her mind. Faulkner suddenly understood why her brother had been convinced of her being a witch; certainly she seemed possessed of some supernatural qualities.
She had been sitting beside the window when he entered, and she turned, apparently unsurprised at his intrusion.
‘You are returned, Husband.’ She inclined her head as he bowed.
‘You look well, Madam,’ he said with icy formality, on his guard.
‘I do not have the plague, if that is what you mean. I hope that does not disappoint you,’ she added wryly.
‘It was always my hope that you would not catch the contagion.’
‘Was it?’ she arched an eyebrow. ‘It was not your brother-in-law’s.’
‘Whatever his motives, Madam, your brother was always assiduous in your welfare.’
‘The welfare of my soul, perhaps; otherwise …’
‘Madam,’ Faulkner interrupted, unwilling to drag the conversation down its present road, ‘do you not think it is time for you to forsake this mode of life? We have lost a son, we have acquired a grandson …’
‘But we live in a corrupt land, under a corrupt King and I find myself shackled – that is, I think, the word you mariners use – to a corrupt husband.’
‘Madam, the world’s corruption is much as it always has been.’
‘It was not so under the Commonwealth.’
‘Pah! Was the court of Cromwell less corrupt than that of King Charles? Folly and prejudice stalked about in solemn apparel. True, Charles flaunts his coxcomb, but it is arguable as to whether this is less pleasing to God than the sanctified cant and sober vice that put the money of the poor into the pockets of the indifferent gentlemen that held their military commands as tight as their purses.’
‘You become quite eloquent in your old age, Husband, but nothing will dissuade me from the righteousness of my cause.’
‘Not even Henry’s death?’
‘No, only that I failed him and, thank God, he had the courage to give his life to God’s cause, rather than allow the Great Malignant’s spawn to order his body be butchered.’
‘But, Judith, he lies in unhallowed ground, a mortal sinner.’
‘He lies in the Lord’s good earth. That it is unsanctified by the Established Church does not mean it is unhallowed by Almighty God; did not God look upon the earth as His creation and call it good?’
‘Enough. I have had enough of this endless cant! I would have done all in my power to save Henry—’
‘But you could not guarantee it,
and you knew in your heart that not all of your pleadings, no, nor the abject grovelling that you Royalists seem not to find demeaning, would have saved Henry. The King was determined to root out all opposition, and Henry would have faced execution – you know that, and do not try and persuade me otherwise.’
‘Then you had set him on the path of assassination.’
‘Inexorably.’
‘God, you are evil. Nathan is right.’
‘What? That I am a witch?’ She was smiling. ‘Is that woman with whom you share your bed – our bed – not a witch? Certainly she is a whore and you, my precious husband, are a whore-master; you have corrupted my daughter by association …’
‘Damn you! ’Twas you abandoned Hannah! Kate has shown her nothing but kindness!’
‘Hah! Kate, eh! Kit and Kate again! I’ll lay money that pleases your licentious King and his covey of poxy whores. Why, they shall yet burn in Hell-fire, devil take them all!’
‘Why, Madam, you swear with the ease of a cavalier trooper.’ Faulkner was incredulous. He stared at her for a moment and, realizing there was nothing more to be said, withdrew. Outside, on the landing, the door closed behind him, he sighed. He was almost convinced that she was a witch.
Once again an uneasy peace settled on Faulkner’s household. Slowly, trade picked up, and Edmund returned from the West Indies, having employed the Duchess of Albemarle in some local trading between Jamaica and the American colonies. He was much pleased with their profits and with his son. Only Faulkner rued the sum he remitted to Clarendon with a letter of explanation as to why the Duchess of Albemarle had been taken out of the East India Company’s service. Fortunately, no-one blamed Faulkner for doing so; indeed, there were those who marvelled at his shrewdness. Although the East India Company now considered her too old for further eastern voyages, the Company’s Court of Directors intimated that were Sir Christopher Faulkner to build a new ship, they would be happy to consider her for their service.
‘I shall,’ he told Katherine, ‘realize an old ambition and name a new vessel after you.’
‘Before you make such a declaration,’ she riposted, ‘you had better ensure you have sufficient funds. These last months cannot have been easy.’
‘No, indeed, they have not.’
Nevertheless, Faulkner resolved to consult Gooding on the matter until, a week later, all such thoughts were driven out of his head when he received a private letter. It was followed the following day by one bearing the Admiralty seal.
‘What is it?’ Katherine asked.
‘I am called to take command of the Albion,’ he said.
Part Three
Conflagration
1666–1667
Battle
May – July 1666
‘Your Grace.’
Introduced into the great cabin of the Duke of Albemarle’s flagship, Faulkner swept off his hat and footed a bow. He could not deny the thrill he had felt as the pipes had shrilled their harsh salute as he had ascended the battered tumblehome of the Royal Charles, to be greeted on the quarterdeck by the officer-of-the-watch and Albemarle’s secretary. He had looked about him for a moment, recalling the ship as the Naseby, Blake’s flagship, flying the Cross and Harp colours of the Commonwealth.
‘You have despatches for the Admiral?’ the latter asked.
A moment later and Faulkner was ushered in to the great cabin of the flagship. Albemarle looked up from the papers on his desk and, with an expression of genuine pleasure of his weather-beaten face, jumped to his feet, came round the table and seized Faulkner’s hand. ‘My dear Sir Kit, how glad I am to see you!’ Albemarle motioned to a man-servant to bring wine. ‘Take off your cloak, please do …’
‘Most kind, Your Grace.’ Faulkner laid aside his hat and cloak on the admiral’s secretary’s vacant chair. Albemarle was smiling at him. He hitched the satchel that he wore beneath the cloak.
‘How’s that Indiaman of yours?’ Albemarle asked conversationally as he took the proffered sealed packet from Faulkner, who briefly explained the fortunes of the Duchess of Albemarle. The admiral looked up from the packet, half un-opened in his gnarled hand. ‘I cannot comprehend why you have been left on shore so long.’
‘I did apply to serve.’
‘Huh! I cannot think you did otherwise. Still, you are here now and I am much in need of you.’ Albemarle motioned to a hovering man-servant and wine was served. ‘Pray take some wine,’ he said cordially to Faulkner as he riffled through the crackling pages. ‘Just give me a moment to digest the contents of these despatches.’
‘They are from the Admiralty but include one from the King,’ Faulkner said, sipping his glass of wine. Albemarle, meanwhile, shuffled through the papers, occasionally clucking his tongue. Then he laid them down, picked up his wine and joined Faulkner.
‘How d’you find the Albion?’ Albemarle asked conversationally. The two men stood side by side, each with his glass of wine, staring out through the stern windows of the Royal Charles. All around them Albemarle’s squadron lay anchored in The Downs.
‘Knocked about somewhat, but sound enough I think, Your Grace, though I see you too have had a fair share of it.’ Faulkner indicated the patched, shattered panes, and the damaged wood-work about the flagship’s stern windows.
‘Indeed. It’s been warm work, and there is more to do – more than I wish to contemplate.’ Albemarle sighed, cast a rueful glance at his littered desk and sipped his wine for a moment. ‘Pity about young Verney,’ Albemarle went on, referring to the Albion’s late captain who had died suddenly. ‘He handled himself well off Lowestoft,’ he said with a sigh. ‘That’s the pity of it, and now, my dear Sir Kit, it is left to us old men to fend off these God-damned Dutchmen. They fight like the Devil, as you well know, and they are most ably commanded.’
‘As are we, Your Grace.’
Albemarle turned towards him, a wry smile crossing his face like a sword-slash. ‘Damn it, Sir Kit, you have been too long ashore and picked up courtier’s ways. The truth is I am at my wit’s end. The King has sent Rupert to the westwards, having heard that the French fleet is ordered into the Channel from the Mediterranean. I have scarce fifty men-o’-war, and now the wind lies in the east.’ There was a note of exasperation in Albemarle’s tone. ‘De Ruyter will not miss the trick, and he has van Tromp and Evertsen with him; their strength must exceed eighty sail, and the Thames lies open but for us …’ He waved his wine glass in an encompassing sweep, taking in the ships lying at their anchors, their colours and flags waving gallantly in the breeze, their boats plying between them with the punts of the Deal hovellers hanging in wait, like the gulls themselves, in case anything fell to their advantage. ‘I am in want of powder, shot …’
‘I am to tell you several hoys are coming from the Medway with powder, wads and shot.’
‘Good. Will they be here before nightfall?’
‘I should hope so.’
‘What about men?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. At least none that I know of.’
‘Odd, is it not,’ Albemarle observed with a dry resignation, ‘that when one wants men to put to sea the government is in want of them, yet when the poor devils are wounded in the state’s service and put ashore to lick their wounds, that is about all that they can do, for the government complains there are too many of them and does nothing. Then, of course, it is the responsibility of the Trinity Brethren to help them, the King’s ministers washing their hands of it all.’
‘I can only say that I agree with you, Your Grace.’
Albemarle sighed and looked at Faulkner with a sad smile. ‘I wish you could say otherwise.’
‘As do I.’
‘I wrote to the King,’ Albemarle confided, ‘and said that if I met the Dutch, then honour bound me to fight, notwithstanding the odds against us. The point of my plight seems lost on him, pleasure boating making him an expert in these matters. Now he requires me to weigh anchor at once and cruise between the Longsand Head and the Galloper, in o
rder that de Ruyter does not pen me here.’
‘I understand he has recalled Prince Rupert.’
‘Yes, he tells me Rupert is to reinforce me at once. I should have sent a cruiser to watch the Dutch, but I am so damnably short …’ The admiral’s voice tailed off. There was no doubt that he should have sent a cruiser; certainly not in Faulkner’s mind. ‘You used to do the job rather well, I recall,’ he added, turning to Faulkner. ‘Truth is, Kit, I am grown old …’
‘Well, Your Grace, we may still give a good account of ourselves.’
‘I hope so,’ Albemarle said with a grim laugh. ‘I suppose one may as well die in action as in a bed.’
‘I’d prefer the bed, Your Grace,’ Faulkner said drily, finishing his wine, ‘and preferably not alone.’
He made to take his leave, but Albemarle stopped him and asked: ‘How is your wife?’
Faulkner bridled at the awkward question, especially following his facetious remark. Talking of death, he had thought not of Judith, but of Katherine, glad that in his absence she had moved to live with Hannah. The poisonous intrusion of Judith, even if by way of Honest George’s enquiry, was disconcerting. Something of this train of thought must have crossed his face, for the admiral added quickly, ‘I ask as a friend.’
‘Your Grace is very kind,’ Faulkner said hurriedly. ‘You have likely heard she is deranged, or some such thing.’
Albemarle dodged the implied query. ‘I had merely wondered if her condition was what had prevented your coming to sea.’
‘No,’ Faulkner replied shortly, then unbent. ‘To tell truth, Your Grace, she confines herself to her room, sees no-one but her brother and blames me for the loss of our son.’
‘Who took his own life …’
‘Who took his own life after she had embroiled him in a plot against the King, as you may recall.’
‘Yes, yes, I spoke to the King in your interest.’
Faulkner inclined his head. ‘For which I am most grateful.’
‘Huh,’ Albemarle said ruefully. ‘I don’t doubt but that our Royal Master made you pay for it.’
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