The Black Madonna (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 1)

by Stella Riley

  Celia drank too and felt a sudden ripple of doubt. He was so good, so sure; why couldn’t she be like that? She said urgently, ‘Eden – you do love me, don’t you?’

  ‘I love you,’ he replied steadily. ‘Can you doubt it?’

  ‘N-no. It – it’s just that I’m not as perfect as you seem to think,’ she said heroically. ‘But you’ll always love me, won’t you? No matter what? I need to be loved.’

  ‘Sweetheart … you don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to be anything other than what you are.’ Eden took the cup from her and set it down. ‘I love you now – and will to the edge of my life.’ And, closing the space between them, he took her into his arms.

  For a second only, she remained taut against him and then the tension seeped out of her and her mouth opened like a flower beneath his. She felt the hardness of his body against her own and dark, sweet expectancy flowed out from the pit of her stomach into every vein and nerve. She felt his hands tracing the contours of her body beneath the flimsy night-rail … warm, confident and full of promise. Pushing the robe from his shoulders, she slid her arms about his neck and pressed herself even closer. Then, shutting her eyes, she let the tide take her.

  Eden untied the ribbons at her throat and let the pretty garment slither to the floor and filled his palms with the silken skin of her hips. Then, lifting her, he carried her to the crimson-hung bed. Inextricably laced with his hunger for her was his desire to give her pleasure and he hesitated, suddenly aware that his own driving need might over-power his self-control. Then her hands were reaching out for him and everything else ceased to matter. She was the flesh and substance of his dream … and tonight she would be his.

  * * *

  Half the house away, in the long gallery, the revelry continued till dawn when Francis led an inebriated consort of lutes and viols in a rendering of ‘Come Lasses And Lads’ beneath the window of the bridal chamber. By then, however, the Maxwell family – together with Luciano del Santi and his awesome servant – were half-way back to Thorne Ash, riding through the chill grey light in order to snatch a few hours’ sleep before preparing to welcome the bride and groom home.

  Kate’s brain was blurred with fatigue. It seemed impossible to believe that Eden was even now lying with Celia – and even more impossible to imagine herself getting into bed with Kit or Francis. The whole thing was too ludicrous. She really couldn’t imagine herself sharing her bed with any man at all.

  She indulged in a small, caustic smile, focused her gaze on the road ahead … and, without warning, experienced a terrifying discovery. Shock paralysed her lungs and froze her skin.

  Unsought, unwelcomed and unendurable, the truth hit her. It was not a case of any man at all – but of any man save one. And the most ludicrous thing of all was that, even if she could have him, she would not. For the simple fact was that she neither liked nor understood him … nor even wanted to.

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  THE RISING STORM

  November 1640 to January 1642

  Before the flames of war broke out in the top of the chimneys, the smoke was in every county.

  Lucy Hutchinson

  ONE

  Due to a fit of thriftiness on the part of the King, the new Parliament opened without the customary procession and settled down to the business of sorting out the usual batch of incorrect electoral returns. Since this resulted in the winnowing out of the Court party, His Majesty soon found himself less well-represented than he had been in April and immediately compounded his disadvantage by appointing the meek lawyer, William Lenthall, as Speaker. It was, as Richard Maxwell observed, like setting a mouse to tame a tiger. For against men like Pym and Hampden and the legal genius of Oliver St John, Mr Lenthall stood no chance at all.

  While Parliament settled in and the Scots minister, Alexander Henderson ended years of sneering at the Scottish accent by preaching to packed houses, Luciano del Santi received a discreet visitor from Whitehall.

  It did not surprise him. From the moment he’d returned to discover that the King had failed to get his own candidate installed as Lord Mayor, it had been obvious that the City would presently vote to postpone payment of their promised loan to the Crown. All in all, His Majesty was about to find himself up to his neck in financial embarrassment and would thus be seeking assistance. His assistance.

  He surveyed Secretary Windebanke clinically. The man was a Catholic – and that, presumably, was why he had been sent. Someone had had the bright idea that a fellow Papist might be able to make a stronger appeal. Foolish of them. Luciano del Santi had not spoken to a priest nor paid any observance to religion since the day his mother had been buried. He’d decided then that piety and honour and sentiment were traps set for the stupid… and he hadn’t changed his mind.

  Secretary Windebanke was starting to fidget under the long silence. Finally, he said, ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself quite clear? His Majesty is anxious to --’

  ‘There is no need to repeat yourself,’ interposed the pleasant voice. ‘His Majesty wishes me to advance him sufficient money to pay the Scots. I understand perfectly. But what you must endeavour to explain to him is that even if I could foresee the remotest prospect of regaining my capital – which, of course, I can’t – my resources are not unlimited.’

  ‘Yes, yes. We understand that. But surely it’s possible for us to come to some arrangement? The City was going to begin by supplying twenty thousand. You could manage that, couldn’t you?’

  Luciano’s gaze grew openly derisive.

  ‘Perhaps. But why should I wish to? I lend money for profit, Mr Secretary. And, if you will permit me to say so, I can see no profit in lending further sums to the King. The Crown’s finances have been ill-managed for the last fifteen years and are now almost beyond redemption. Even by me. And I have tried, believe me. Unfortunately, as you must know, His Majesty is far too inclined to follow the advice of the last person he spoke to. Certainly, had he followed mine with any kind of regularity, he would not now be in such a difficult position.’ He paused and smiled coldly. ‘I am very much afraid that I can’t help you.’

  Secretary Windebanke lost a little of his polish.

  ‘Damn it – there must be something you want! A title, perhaps?’

  The Italian laughed. It wasn’t a particularly comforting sound.

  ‘A title? Il Magnifico, Duke of Cheapside? Hardly.’

  ‘Then what? A monopoly on something or other? A lucrative wardship? An official position? Men like you always have their price … so why don’t you stop wasting time and name yours?’

  There was another long silence into which Luciano del Santi finally said, ‘It’s possible that you are exceeding your brief, Mr Secretary. You are certainly exceeding my toleration. You may leave.’

  A dark flush, partly of irritation with himself and partly pure indignation, rose to the other man’s cheek. He said stiffly, ‘Perhaps I’ve expressed myself a trifle strongly – but the case is urgent. Couldn’t you just --’

  ‘I think not.’ Quite without haste, the signor rose from his seat, his long fingers resting lightly on the polished surface of the table. ‘I wish the King well … but that’s all. So make me no offers you are not empowered to fulfil – for my terms, should I have any, may not be what you expect. And now I’ll bid you good-day.’

  Windebanke’s eyes narrowed. The fellow appeared to be hinting at something – but what? He rose, saying abruptly, ‘I’ll consult with His Majesty and return to tomorrow. Just in case you have … reconsidered.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The beautiful voice did not change at all but something gleamed briefly in the heavy-lidded eyes. ‘I cannot, of course, promise that I’ll be here to receive you. There are many calls on my time these days.’

  The Secretary gritted his teeth and silently damned a situation that made it necessary for him to put up with the impudence of low-bred knaves. He said, ‘I see. Well that makes the position fairly clear, doesn’t it?’ And snatched up his hat.
/>   ‘Not at all,’ came the urbane reply. ‘It merely places the pieces on the board. What moves will be made have yet to be seen.’

  A few minutes later, Giacomo came in to find his master seated alone at the table staring thoughtfully at his hands. Then he looked up and gave a long, slow smile.

  Giacomo drew a deep breath and said in Italian, ‘It begins, then?’

  ‘Soon. It begins soon.’ He paused and then, in a more business-like tone, added, ‘The gentleman will call again tomorrow. I shall not be at home to him.’

  ‘Why? You have waited so long.’

  ‘Yes. So long that a few more days cannot matter. To me, that is. To them a delay can only increase the urgency of their position and make them readier to give me what I ask.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘You’d better send Selim to me. If all goes well, there’ll be work for him – so I think it’s time I took him into my confidence.’

  Giacomo sniffed. ‘Him? What use is he? He understands nothing.’

  ‘He guards my back,’ came the dry response. ‘As for the rest, I think you’ll find that he has absolutely no difficulty in understanding vengeance. None at all.’

  Selim showed no excitement at the prospect of finally learning what his master was about. He merely gave the usual courteous inclination of his head, maintained his impassive expression and sat down to listen.

  ‘Such restraint,’ marvelled Luciano. ‘You’ve spent three years watching me establish my business – and, though you must have suspected I had some deeper purpose, you’ve never asked a question. Haven’t you been curious?’

  ‘Curiosity,’ declared Selim, ‘is for women. I will know what it is fitting for me to know when the time is right for you to tell me.’

  ‘As it now is.’

  ‘Then I am content.’ The magnificent teeth gleamed. ‘You saved me from the galleys, efendim. If you have an enemy, it will be my pleasure to kill him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ came the faintly amused response. ‘But at the moment, all I require is your continued silence. Even from Aysha.’

  ‘It is done.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll begin at the beginning and be as brief as possible.’ The Italian stared down at his clasped hands. ‘When I was twelve years old, my father was arrested on a charge of treason. He was accused of involvement in a Catholic plot, threatening the life of the King’s best friend and selling sensitive information to the French; and, after weeks of imprisonment and torture, he was discreetly tried and executed. The truth, however, is that the charges were false and the evidence all lies. I don’t know if he was used as a scapegoat to cover a genuine conspiracy or whether certain of the men to whom he’d lent large sums joined forces to do away with him in order to be free of their debts. All I do know is that my father was apparently condemned on the testimony of four men. He said so himself – albeit somewhat obliquely – only minutes before he died. And I want to know who they were.’

  Selim thought about it. ‘Are there names?’

  ‘Not yet. But I am hoping – by putting the King under an obligation to me – to acquire them.’

  ‘And when we have the names … then we find the men.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And kill them?’ Hopefully.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Oh. But if we do not kill them,’ said Selim reasonably, ‘why are we looking for them?’

  ‘So that I may know the truth,’ came the implacable reply. ‘And, knowing it, administer my own punishment. A punishment that English law neither can nor will inflict. But I should make one thing crystal clear. If there is murder to be done, it will be because other means have failed … and I will do it myself.’

  ‘It shall, of course, be as you wish, efendim. But if men have destroyed your father, do they not deserve to die?’

  ‘Probably.’ A chilly smile curled Luciano del Santi’s mouth. ‘But I think I’m capable of devising something better.’

  * * *

  Richard Maxwell’s first week in Parliament passed in a blur of activity in which he and his fellows set up various committees and received a multitude of petitions. Edward Hyde presented the grievances of the North and George Digby – currently out of favour at Court and feeling peevish – those of the West. The poet, Edmund Waller, denounced ship-money – again; and a whole clutch of members hurled themselves on the system of episcopacy so vigorously that the House presently condemned every single cannon recently rushed through Convocation.

  Through all this, Richard was aware that Pym’s real goal was the removal of Archbishop Laud and the Earl of Strafford. Both were unpopular, both were close to the King – and Laud immediately came under attack in a speech which concluded that ‘a Pope in Rome would do less harm than a Patriarch in Lambeth’. This resulted in Digby proposing that a Remonstrance be drafted against the ministers responsible for the King’s civil and religious policy. The motion was carried and yet another committee was formed to collect information.

  On Saturday morning, Richard sat through a discussion on the cases of Prynne, Bastwicke and Burton. All three had been imprisoned for publishing inflammatory Puritan doctrines and, having read some of their rantings for himself, Richard had little sympathy with them. The bulk of the House, however, felt differently and the debate ended with a resolution that the trio be brought in for enquiry. Richard abstained from the vote, stayed to hear it carried and then walked into the drizzle outside. It was time, he decided, to take a half-holiday from the affairs of the nation and call on his younger son.

  He was crossing Cheapside when, between the press of carts and drays, he saw a familiar figure emerge from Luciano del Santi’s door and get into a waiting carriage. Richard’s eyes grew thoughtful and he drew a number of shrewd conclusions. Then he continued on his way and entered the shop. The Italian was deep in conversation with his servant and did not look very well pleased. Then, seeing Richard, his expression lightened and, switching to English, he said, ‘You’ve come to see Tobias. And I, alas, cannot produce him.’

  ‘Buried him under the floorboards, have you?’ responded Richard sympathetically. ‘Most understandable.’

  Laughter touched the lean face and then vanished.

  ‘It hasn’t come to that yet. I’ve merely sent him out for an hour with Gino. They’re both suffering from an excess of high spirits which I was beginning to find a trifle wearing. But please – come upstairs and take a glass of wine. You’ll have to meet my sister – but no doubt you’ll survive the experience.’

  Gianetta del Santi was sitting at a window, scowling down into the street. A discarded tambour-frame lay in her lap and, as usual, her person was strewn with indiscriminate jewels. She did not move until her brother introduced Richard and then, turning her head, she regarded him out of luminous, dark-fringed eyes.

  Smiling, Richard went forward to take her hand, saying, ‘I’m happy to meet you, signorina.’

  She allowed him to bow over her hand and then withdrew it, her brow creasing in a slight frown. Then she said laboriously, ‘Ah. I ’ave it. You are the father of Toby. Is so?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘Then I am please to meet you. ’E is funny boy. ’E make me laugh.’

  ‘I’m glad someone does,’ remarked Luciano, moving to pour wine. ‘You’ll join us, Gianetta?’

  ‘No.’ She rose abruptly and allowed the embroidery-frame to fall unheeded to the floor. ‘I not drink with you. But you, Signor Maxwell … I ’ope I see you again. You may visit me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Richard appreciatively.

  ‘Niente.’ And, executing a flawless curtsy, she sailed regally through the door.

  Richard stared wordlessly at the Italian and accepted the glass he was being offered. Luciano looked astringently back and said, ‘She was reared by my uncle – who has no daughters of his own and was in love with our mother. Need I say more?’

  ‘No. An over-indulged princess, no less.’ Richard sipped his wine and thought about it.
‘And the … er … jewellery?’

  ‘My uncle again. She refuses to be parted from it – even, I suspect, in bed.’

  ‘You don’t let her loose in the street like that, do you?’’ asked Richard, aghast. ‘Someone’s likely to carve her up into little pieces for the sake of those baubles.’

  ‘I don’t let her loose at all,’ came the flat reply. ‘I daren’t. She’d be stowing away on the first boat home. But enough of that. Tell me how your business is progressing in Parliament.’

  ‘The excitement,’ replied Richard, seating himself, ‘is crippling. Yesterday we set up a committee to investigate the quality of the King’s advisors and today we’ve ordered the release of a trio of fanatical Puritans. You’re aware, I’m sure, that feeling is running high against Catholics?’

  ‘When does it not?’ The Italian smiled faintly. ‘But it has nothing to do with me. I attend neither mass nor confession. In fact, I practise no religion at all.’

  ‘None?’ asked Richard, somewhat shocked.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘I … see. You do, on the other hand, consort with known Papists. And you’re still, I would guess, lending money to the King.’

  ‘The point being that no one will bother to find out whether I’m Catholic or Presbyterian? Naturally.’ There was a brief silence. Then, ‘You saw Windebanke leaving this house, I suppose. And, having deduced what his business must be, you’re wondering if I obliged him.’

  ‘Yes. And did you?’

  ‘In part. Enough, you might say, to pay off the Scots for another few weeks – but less than half what was asked for.’ The firm lips twisted wryly. ‘His Majesty finds himself reluctant to simply fulfil my requirements. For a man in his position, he is remarkably squeamish – a disadvantage he’ll need to overcome, if I read the current situation correctly.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Richard. ‘Enlighten me.’