by Stella Riley
‘Do I need to? You must be perfectly well aware that the dogs have gathered and are already snarling. Soon they’ll be at each other’s throats and it will be impossible to separate them. And, in the meantime, I think Mr Pym will try to remove the Earl of Strafford from his path by means of an impeachment.’
Richard thought so too. He said slowly, ‘You are uncommonly well-informed.’
‘So is every merchant of substance in the City. It’s necessary. I also know John Pym. I’ve occasionally dealt with him in his capacity as a shareholder of the Providence Company – which, incidentally, is floundering. It isn’t hard to catch the tenor of his mind. And did he not say years ago that the Commons would never leave Strafford while his head was still on his shoulders?’
‘His very words. The question now, I suppose, is how far he meant it.’
‘No. It is how many of you will support him.’
‘Meaning me? It’s not something I can tell you without first hearing the evidence.’
Luciano del Santi gave a short, derisive laugh.
‘Strafford’s doomed, then. It’s said that the English love the law – and certainly they’re adept at using it to their advantage.’
‘That’s unjust,’ said Richard calmly. ‘And it works both ways, you know.’
‘Perhaps it does – if you’re an Englishman. But if I were Strafford, I wouldn’t care to rely on it. And I think – His Majesty permitting – I’d continue to absent myself.’
* * *
Whether on the King’s command or not, the Earl returned to London the following week and, on November 11th, took his seat in the Upper House to accuse Viscount Saye & Sele, amongst others, of having induced the Scots to invade. He was still speaking when Mr Pym arrived to impeach him on a charge of subverting the laws of England. He was delivered into the hands of Black Rod and his sword taken from him; his request for bail was denied and, less than a week later, he was lodged securely in the Tower.
November slid into December and Richard watched events begin to gather momentum. Ship-money was finally declared illegal; Messrs Prynne and Co. received sixteen thousand pounds’ compensation; and the Commons acquired the right to pry into the doings of the Privy Council. Then, while Strafford began pressing for an open trial and Laud and Finch were both also impeached, Secretary Windebanke decided that discretion was definitely the better part of valour and fled to France before his turn could come.
* * *
Luciano del Santi heard of Windebanke’s defection without surprise and with well-concealed irritation. They would, of course, send someone else and the inevitable delay was the least of his worries. What concerned him more was whether, at the end of the day, he’d get what he wanted. And already he suspected that he would not.
Blandly and without explanation, he had asked Windebanke for a transcript of the 1628 case of Rex versus Falcieri or – failing that – for a list of the prosecution witnesses. For a full week the Secretary had hummed and hawed and scuttled to and fro between Whitehall and Cheapside like a mouse on a hot griddle before grudgingly promising the transcript. And that was the last the signor had seen of him.
It was perhaps fortunate that, while being forced to possess his soul in patience, there were other things to be attended to. He had done well in the last four years and was now worth substantially more than the loan he’d originally taken from his uncle; but his profits, naturally enough, had been re-lent or invested and were therefore not to hand – so the loan he had made to the Crown represented a very large portion of the capital he kept available. And, in just three months’ time, he was due in Genoa with the annual interest.
He therefore spent his period of waiting working profitably at his bench at the craft that still meant more to him than anything else. He fashioned a pair of goblets for Lord Craven, an ornate salt for the Earl of Bristol and an emerald-studded chain for the Duchess of Richmond. He put Gino to work on a set of buttons for Harry Jermyn, restrung Gianetta’s pearls and still found time to supervise Toby’s first attempt at engraving on silver. Then, on a day towards the middle of the month when, despite his best efforts, his temper was beginning to shorten, Giacomo came down to tell him that one William Murray had arrived to see him.
Luciano washed his hands and, taking his time about it, thoughtfully resumed his coat. He knew about Will Murray. He was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber and supposedly deep in the King’s confidence. Or as deep, reflected the signor dryly, as anyone could be with a man who vacillated as much as Charles Stuart did. Still, it was comforting to think that his business was not apparently being bandied about Whitehall. Yet.
He found Mr Murray in the parlour making audacious compliments to Gianetta. For a moment, Luciano remained unnoticed in the doorway and absorbed the rare sight of his sister actually smiling. Then she saw him and, her face freezing into its usual disdainful hostility, she said petulantly, ‘I might ’ave known it. Always you come to spoil things when I ’ave visitor. And ’ow many times ’ave I tell you that if I must be in this ’ouse, I ’ave this room for my own and don’t want you ’ere. You not even knock.’
Luciano’s hand clenched hard on the door-latch. He had heard it all before and thought he’d mastered the art of letting it flow over him. It shouldn’t hurt any more … yet somehow it did. A gust of temper shot through him and, disregarding Will Murray’s presence, he said softly in Italian, ‘Permit me to tell you that your manners belong either in the nursery or in the scullery. I can’t decide which. But one thing I do know – and that is that if you don’t swiftly learn to address me with at least the appearance of civility, I’ll have you shut in a convent until you can. And now I suggest that you run along. I have business to attend to.’
For a moment she simply stared at him, white-faced with shock. In the whole of her life no one had ever spoken to her like that and she didn’t know how to begin to deal with it. Then, fury getting the upper hand, she crossed the room like a tornado to spit a brief but particularly vulgar Genoese epithet at him and fled upstairs to her bedchamber.
Will Murray stood like a stone watching her go and it was several seconds before he remembered to close his mouth. Then he said feebly, ‘I thought she was your sister?’
‘She is,’ came the curt reply. ‘And not, I am afraid, a subject for discussion.’
‘Eh? Oh – yes. Just so.’ Mr Murray took the hint and struggled to remember what he’d come for. ‘His Majesty asked me to give you this. I believe you’ve been expecting it.’
Luciano del Santi accepted the folded and sealed document and turned it over in his hands.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Well, I expect you know what it is, then.’
‘One lives in hope, Mr Murray … but it is never wise to be too hasty. Will you take a glass of wine while I examine it?’
‘Why not?’ said William insouciantly. ‘I’m in no hurry and someone – I forget who – told me that you keep a damned fine cellar.’
The Italian barely heard him. Having poured the wine and handed it to his guest, he walked away to the window; and there, above the noise and bustle of the busy street, he drew a long, slightly unsteady breath and shattered the royal seal to unfold several tightly scripted pages. The first glance told him that the thing was a copy – but he had expected that. What he had not expected, as he skimmed steadily through it, was that it should tell him precisely nothing.
He reached the end and, leaden with disappointment, turned back to the beginning in the frail hope that he’d missed something. But no. According to the document in his hand, Alessandro Falcieri had been arrested on suspicion of conspiracy and a search of his home had produced numerous incriminating letters from his fellow-plotters – none of whom could be found. He had been confronted with the evidence of his perfidy and eventually confessed to passing information to the French regarding the Duke of Buckingham’s planned expedition to take La Rochelle. The court had therefore found him guilty of treason and sentenced him to be hanged.
&nbs
p; And that was it. No names, no dates, no details; no references to any threats against Buckingham personally. As a record of the workings of a court of law, it was laughable; and to the man whose father had been at the centre of it, it was no use at all.
Luciano turned slowly to look across at Will Murray and said crisply, ‘Someone must take me for a fool. This … farrago … isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Murray appeared neither surprised nor dismayed. ‘Well, I can’t help that. What were you expecting?’
‘The truth. This, however, isn’t even a convincing lie.’
Will sighed, drank the last of his wine and stood up.
‘I’ll have to take your word for that. But to save time, I’ll tell you that what you’ve got there is all there is.’
Luciano’s mouth curled into something that ought to have been a smile but wasn’t.
‘Indeed? You’ll have to forgive me if I say I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s up to you. All I know is that you apparently asked to see the records of some old trial or other and His Majesty sent for them. I was in the room when he read them - and his reaction wasn’t that much different to yours.’ Mr Murray picked up his hat and hesitated for a moment, turning it round and round between his fingers. ‘Look. The situation’s fairly simple. The King doesn’t remember the case himself – and, if you think about it, you’ll have to agree that’s reasonable enough. In those days, Buckingham handled just about everything and, like as not, he handled this too. Now it looks as though he may have suppressed the original trial record in favour of the one you’ve got there – but he’s dead so we can’t ask him.’
‘How very convenient.’
‘It’s not convenient at all. It’s just the way things are,’ snapped Will, coming to the end of his patience. ‘I’m sorry if you don’t like it. But His Majesty – in case it’s slipped your mind – has more important things to worry about right now. Good-day.’
He had been gone for several minutes before Luciano stirred himself to walk almost aimlessly to the hearth and gaze down into the fire.
‘Hell,’ he said bitterly, ‘and damnation. Why is everything always so bloody difficult?’
~ * * ~ * * ~
TWO
At Thorne Ash the weather worsened, bringing icy blasts and flurries of snow. Christmas came but Richard did not and so, although Dorothy arranged all the normal festivities, it was a tame affair which only Amy – due to having a susceptible young man in the house – enjoyed as much as usual.
The gentleman had arrived from Dublin with a letter for Dorothy from her brother, Ivo Courtenay, and had been prevented from completing a cycle of such deliveries by the state of the roads. Red Irish and Catholic, Daniel O’Flaherty was possessed of a wide grin and quantities of easy charm – and Amy stalked him with a relentless vigour which he, being good-natured, was more than ready to meet half-way. Within three days, they were regularly encountering one another by chance in deserted corridors and, in just over a week, had progressed to less random assignations in the linen-closet.
Celia might have enjoyed Yule had she not started feeling queasy on the morning of Christmas Eve. She put it down to the previous day’s fish and, when the process was repeated next day, ascribed it to the venison patties. By Twelfth Night, she’d blamed everything from candied cherries to the October ale and was slowly coming face to face with a truth which ought to have been welcome but wasn’t.
She kept it successfully to herself until Eden awoke one morning to find her retching into the chamber-pot. And then his concerned enquiry released a pent-up storm that surprised her as much as it did him.
‘No – I’m not all right!’ she snapped, pushing back her hair to glare at him. ‘And I’ll get a whole lot worse before I’m better. I’m going to have a baby.’
Half out of bed, Eden took several seconds to take this in; and then an expression of mingled joy and wonder crept into his eyes. Rising, he moved towards her, holding out his hands and saying, ‘Celia – sweetheart, that’s wonderful!’
‘Wonderful for you, no doubt. You don’t have to go round getting fatter and uglier every day. All you have to do is look smug and accept everybody’s congratulations.’
Her first words had checked him half-way across the floor. But he could not believe she meant it so he said, on a tremor of laughter, ‘My heart, nothing in this world could make you look ugly. Ever.’
‘This can! In a little while none of my clothes will fit --’
‘Then you’ll order new ones.’
‘And I’ll be shapeless and – and matronly. And my waist will never be the same again – never!’
A faint frown contracted Eden’s brow.
‘And if it isn’t … won’t that be worth it? This is our very own baby we’re talking about. Yours and mine. You want children, don’t you?’
Something in his tone stopped her. She drew a short, sharp breath and made a terrible discovery. She was utterly addicted to the pleasures of love-making but had never given a thought to their natural consequence. And the unfortunate truth, she now realised, was that she hadn’t the slightest desire to have children – now or ever; but because everyone took it for granted that all women automatically wanted to become mothers, she couldn’t possibly say so. For a moment, pure rebellion seethed inside her and then, realising that she had to make some sort of answer, she said sulkily, ‘Yes. I – oh yes. I suppose so. But not yet! We’ve scarcely been married two months and I wanted to go to London this spring. It’s all spoiled now; even if we go, I’ll look horrible. I’m young, Eden. I want to have some fun before I have to become dowdy and fat and be surrounded by screaming infants.’
‘And so you shall,’ he promised. ‘Just not this year. It’s not so great a sacrifice, surely?’
‘Yes is it. I want to see Francis and Father – and all my friends at Court. It isn’t fair!’
There was a long silence and finally Eden said slowly, ‘I see. Aren’t you even the tiniest bit pleased?’
The glance she sent him was one of faintly apprehensive defiance.
‘No. I’m not. And it’s no good pretending I am. Oh – I daresay I may feel differently after it’s born … but till then the best I can do is to put up with it.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Eden, in a gentle tone which accorded ill with the frozen hurt in his eyes, ‘that may not be enough. You may say what you choose to me. But I’d be glad if you could manage just a small show of pleasure in front of the family – mainly to preserve yourself from appearing childishly selfish.’
Celia flushed and twisted her hands together. It was the nearest he had ever come to criticising her and his coolness was alarming. She said, ‘I – I don’t mean to be selfish. I just think you might try to understand a little.’
‘I do understand. I can even sympathise to a degree. I’m sorry you feel all your pleasure is to be spoiled. I’m even sorrier you can’t welcome our child – and I hope that, once you get used to the idea, you’ll change your mind. But in the meantime I think we should delay making a grand announcement until you’re more ready to accept everyone’s good wishes gracefully.’
‘Yes.’ She looked doubtfully at him. ‘Are you … you’re not angry with me, are you?’
‘No.’ His smile was bleak and slightly awry. ‘I’m not angry.’
‘Good. And at least you’re pleased about the baby.’
His brows rose.
‘I’d an idea that my feelings in the matter were superfluous. But since you ask … yes, I’m pleased – and would be more so if you were too. The fact that you’re not does rather tend to take the gloss off, you know. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and dress. I’ve a number of things to do today.’
And for the first time ever, he walked away without either kissing her or giving her a chance to reply.
It could not be called a quarrel but it did bring about a certain air of tension. Celia allowed it to last for three days whilst she
progressed from angry resentment to nervous insecurity to physical frustration; and then she flung herself tearfully into Eden’s arms, uttered a string of incoherent excuses and vowed she’d die if he didn’t promise to go on loving her. It was, of course, a master-stroke against which he had no defence whatsoever. He smoothed her hair, told her he worshipped her, promised they’d visit Paris the following year – and took her to bed. Next morning they told the family their news and Celia, finding herself the centre of everyone’s attention, told herself that having a baby might not be the end of the world after all.
* * *
January became February and the weather showed no sign of improving. Letters from Richard ceased completely and the only news to arrive at Thorne Ash was that which Eden managed to glean in Banbury. It was rumoured that Lord Keeper Finch – the gentleman who Lord Falkland said had ‘prostituted his own conscience and had the keeping of the King’s’ – had escaped impeachment by fleeing to Holland; but Archbishop Laud – less quick or less cowardly – was apparently in the Tower.
Mr Pym and the Parliament, meanwhile, were continuing to attack both His Majesty’s policies and his position. They had taken charge of the royal revenues and ordered the customs officials to put no more money into the King’s coffers than was needed to pay the daily expenses of his household – an innovation which Eden said was probably no bad thing but which Dorothy found rather shocking. They had also seemingly ordered all Papist officers to resign from the army and given command of it to the Earl of Essex.
‘Essex?’ said Daniel O’Flaherty. ‘Sure and isn’t he the one they call the Great Cuckold?’
‘He is,’ replied Eden defensively. ‘But his marital misfortunes don’t make him a bad soldier.’
‘Ah. Well … you’d know best, I daresay,’ came the peaceful response. ‘The only thing I know is that Black Tom – my lord Strafford, that is – has done a power of good for the Irish. And a lesser man, so Mr Ivo would tell you, will not be holding Ireland at all.’ He smiled cheerfully. ‘I hope your busy Parliament finds the time to remember it.’