by Stella Riley
At this point, the face of a dark, Renaissance angel swam uninvited into her mind. Kate groaned and tried to banish it. She failed.
Why him? she asked herself. Why, out of all the men I know and all those I’ve yet to meet, does he have to be the one I can’t get out of my head?
But, though she might try to pretend, she knew exactly why.
Laughter flaring unexpectedly in midnight eyes; the tempting, sardonic curl of a lean, mobile mouth; and a voice in the dark, coiling round her like warm silk. None of which could make any difference.
Luciano del Santi was not for her. He’d told her so himself – which had been thoroughly annoying since she hadn’t needed telling. After all, just because someone had the power to make your blood run faster didn’t mean that you necessarily had to like them. And even if you did like them … well, the things you liked weren’t always good for you. And if proof of that were needed, you only had to look at Eden. Unfortunately, however, the fact that you could recognise and dismiss a man who was unsuitable did not mean that you would automatically encourage the attentions of another who wasn’t. All of which, decided Kate, was logical, sensible – and unaccountably depressing.
The result of these deliberations was that she embarked on a regime of enjoying Kit Clifford’s company whilst making it impossible for him to utter any declarations she wasn’t ready to hear. If he invited her to walk in the gardens, she made sure others went too; and when, as sometimes happened, they were unavoidably alone, she opened some topic of conversation which would make him temporarily forget his desire to flirt with her.
They discussed with perfect agreement the recently passed ordinance which defined how the Sabbath should henceforth be kept - strictly forbidding all the usual games; they wrangled about the Parliament’s intention to draft a Remonstrance listing every so-called error of the King’s reign – and laughed over Lord Digby’s discomfiture at having his idea taken up just when he’d got himself back into royal favour. And while Venetia, cynically misconstruing Kate’s motives, silently applauded her tactics, Lady Ellen Clifford came to the reluctant conclusion that the girl with whom her favourite child was so obviously épris might possibly be a lady after all.
The third week of September brought Kate a letter from Tabitha which contained a whole budget of news. Celia, it appeared, had been safely delivered of a son and was basking in everyone’s attention; Eden was as proud as a peacock; and the baby was to be named Jude. As for the rest, Father had been home throughout August but would return to London soon; Meg Bennet and Tom Tripp weren’t speaking to each other; Amy was full of airs at being a betrothed lady and talked of nothing but bride-clothes; and Mr Santi had visited them briefly to reclaim his sister.
‘Speaking of which, ‘wrote Tabitha, ‘I’ve found out a lot of things which are too interesting not to tell you. For example, did you know that Mr Santi and Ginny were born in London and that their father was executed on account of being a Catholic? Imagine it! Then, after he died, Ginny and Mr Santi and their mother had no money and nowhere to live, so they set off back to the rest of their family in Genoa – only their mother fell ill and died before they got there. Isn’t that awful? Ginny was only six years old and, although Mr Santi couldn’t have been more than twelve himself, he had to look after them both and earn money by sweeping floors and the like so they could eat. Then, when they got to Genoa, their uncle took Ginny to live with him and gave her all those jewels – but he just put Mr Santi to work as an apprentice. And that’s why Ginny treats her brother like a servant – even though, if it hadn’t been for him, she’d have died on the journey. Quite honestly, Kate, it makes my blood boil! So I gave Ginny a piece of my mind and we had a terrible quarrel which I’m sorry about of course, but I still think I was right. Don’t you?’
What Kate thought was that she’d like the chance to cross-examine Signorina Gianetta but that she almost certainly wasn’t going to get it. Also, if what Tabitha had written was true, it cast a new and interesting light on Luciano del Santi which, under the circumstances, was something she could have well done without. The only sensible course, therefore was to put the matter firmly from her mind and concentrate on keeping Kit at bay.
September gave way to October and the Court grew progressively more uneasy. News from outside spoke of widespread unrest; of unemployed soldiers turned robber, rioters pulling down fences and bands of poachers in Windsor Great Park. In Puritan districts, statues were removed from churches and whitewash covered paintings of the angels. And in Scotland, a plot to solve many of the King’s problems by kidnapping the recently-elevated Marquis of Argyll was revealed before it came to fruition. The implications of this last caused the Queen to lose a little of her sparkle; but she kept her head high and continued her programme of canvassing support through a stream of discreet visitors.
Discussing these issues with Kate and his sister, Kit had admitted that things looked pretty black but voiced the opinion that it couldn’t get much worse. The passage of a few weeks proved him wrong. He, like everyone else, had forgotten about Ireland. And then the O’Neills rose in force to remind them – taking Carricmacross and Newry and lighting a torch of desperate and dangerous rebellion.
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ said Venetia flatly. ‘The King will ask for an army to put down the Irish rising and Parliament will refuse. And then Pym will start convincing everyone that it’s not a rising at all but just some action on behalf of the King’s friends.’ She paused to draw a long, unsteady breath and the amethyst eyes blazed oddly. ‘The world is running mad. We’ve had two wars with Scotland, the quarrel between His Majesty and the Parliament is getting worse every day and breeding civil unrest throughout the land – and now Ireland is in flames. Can’t you see where all this could be leading us?’
Kate surveyed her friend in silence and felt a chill slide slowly down her back. Venetia was right … and the unspeakable thing she had refused to name was actually possible. For months now – even years, perhaps – the old comfortable life had been gradually changing. Old laws had been overset and new ones made; the traditions of the church had been turned upside down and private religious practices were coming under suddenly strict scrutiny; and, most serious of all, the King’s position – which had always been the rock on which everything else was founded – had been so undermined that he stood on a knife-edge. No one, as Venetia had said, knew where they were any more. And unless they were all very careful, the next step could take them over the precipice and into the abyss.
‘What are you saying?’ asked Kit slowly. ‘That the present difficulties could lead to rebellion here?’
The girls stared at him without speaking.
‘But that’s preposterous! This is England, not Germany. We like our peace too much. What you’re suggesting would amount to civil war - and that could never happen here.’
‘No?’ said Venetia.
‘No,’ echoed Kit flatly. ‘For if we don’t believe - and go on believing - that it’s impossible, it may become possible. And I’m not sure that any of us could bear it.’
* * *
By mutual consent, they did not refer to the matter again and, three days later, Kit was cheered by news of a different kind.
‘Rupert’s been released!’ he announced, catching Kate around the waist and whirling her across an otherwise empty antechamber in a wild fandango. ‘Hurrah for the King’s ambassador!’
Kate waited for his excitement to abate and then said, ‘Rupert?’
‘Prince Rupert of the Rhine – the Elector Palatine’s younger brother. He’s been the Emperor of Austria’s prisoner for the last two years. You must have heard of him! He’s the King’s nephew.’
‘Oh,’ said Kate. ‘Yes. Isn’t he a soldier?’
‘A very good one, my dear,’ grinned Kit. ‘And, since the terms of his release apparently forbid him taking up arms against the Emperor again, the burning question has to be who he will choose to fight for.’
Kate’
s breath leaked away. ‘Uncle Charles?’
‘Uncle Charles,’ agreed Kit. And then, ‘But only if necessary. And he’s said to be a splendid fellow, Kate. Just the mere fact of his being here will cheer the King up no end – and ought to make Pym think twice before provoking matters any further.’
‘Or make Pym doubt the King’s intentions even more than he does already?’
‘Oh. Yes. Well, there is that I suppose. But look on the bright side. It will probably be months before the Prince gets here – and meanwhile, Pym’s got other things to worry about. They say that disbanded troops are daubing threatening slogans over every tavern in the City and that Parliament’s being guarded by trained bands for fear of violence.’
‘If that’s supposed to comfort me,’ snapped Kate, who had heard exactly the same gossip, ‘I can only say that it’s wide of the mark. Have you forgotten that my father sits in the Commons?’
‘Hell. I’m sorry.’ Kit took her hand and pulled her down beside him on a window-seat. ‘No one will touch your father, Kate. It’s Pym they’re after – and even that probably won’t last. Or Venetia says not. And, much though I hate to admit it, she generally has a sounder grasp of these things than I do.’
Kate relaxed a little and summoned a smile.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.’
Somewhat to her surprise, he continued to frown down at her fingers, still clasped in his own. Then he said abruptly, ‘I want to marry you, Kate. How much longer do I have to wait before asking?’
The suddenness of his declaration scrambled Kate’s wits and, unable to bear her silence, Kit released her hand in order to grasp her shoulders and pull her round to face him.
‘Listen. It’s obvious that if – if you felt as I do, you wouldn’t be hesitating. But what I have to know is whether there’s any hope. If there is, I’ll wait as long as you like. If not … well, if not, it would be kinder to tell me now. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, is it?’
‘No,’ said Kate truthfully. ‘Not at all.’
‘Well, then?’
‘I – I don’t know. I like you very much indeed. And if there is anyone I could consider marrying at this time, it would be you. But that isn’t an answer.’ She paused to look him straight in the eye. ‘I think what I’m trying to say is that, with the world as it is, we have to be doubly sure. And I’m not.’
‘I see.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘That’s plain speaking with a vengeance. But I can’t pretend I didn’t ask for it.’
‘N-no. But you do understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes. And you’re right, damn it. We do have to be sure.’ He lifted one hand and lightly traced the line of her cheek. ‘My misfortune, however, is that I already am.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
SIX
In the end, Richard Maxwell was sufficiently satisfied about his eldest daughter’s security to remain at Thorne Ash until just before Parliament re-assembled on October 20th. And then, since the family was not due to join him until the end of the month, he divided his time between listening to Pym’s continued attack on the King’s authority and making a concerted attempt to find the one man who might just possibly be able to tell him the truth about Alessandro Falcieri.
He was still not entirely sure why this mattered – or whether, if Justice Fisher should prove helpful, he would pass the information on to Luciano. But, having begun, he found the task absorbing enough to justify the effort required; and it made a pleasant diversion from Pym’s depressingly long catalogue of the King’s mistakes or Ned Hyde’s incessant bickering with Oliver Cromwell over control of the armed forces. The first, so far as Richard could see, was only going to kill any possibility of compromise; and the second ought to be set aside in favour of some discussion on the rapidly escalating rebellion in Ireland.
It took him over two weeks to trace Samuel Fisher to the decaying grandeur of a mansion in Lambeth and a further week to persuade the old man, by letter, to receive him. By then, Dorothy, Amy, Tabitha and Celia but not – Richard was unsurprised to discover – the baby, had all arrived to join him and the house had become a hive of preparation. Eden, it appeared, had elected to follow later in order to keep Nathan Cresswell under his eye for as long as possible … and Richard, beset by pre-nuptial chaos, was rather inclined to regard this as a shrewd move.
The crumbling exterior of the house in Lambeth accorded perfectly with the moth-eaten hangings and faint odour of cabbage inside it. Richard followed a pock-marked maid upstairs, hoping the rotting wood would bear his weight, and entered a room with a roaring fire where the smell of cabbage was all but lost in things even less pleasant. And there before him, his body spilling out of a great carved chair, sat the bloated remains of the man who had once been the sharpest lawyer in London.
Thinning grey hair hung in matted wisps around a vast, pendulous face and numerous chins rested on a filthy, food-encrusted coat. The swollen hands ended in long, blackened claws; a mountainous stomach sagged over heavy thighs; and, propped on a stool, one foot was unskilfully wrapped in foul, reeking bandages.
Half-choking in the stench and already recoiling from the heat of the fire, Richard said abruptly, ‘It’s not my place to interfere – but is there no one who can look after you better than this, sir?’
A peculiar wheezing sound that might have been laughter emanated from the carved chair. Then, in a voice that – though breathless – was surprisingly strong, Justice Fisher said, ‘No, my fine gentleman, there isn’t. Neither do I want a pack of servants poking round my house, eating their heads off at my expense. And you’re right. It’s not your business. So if I’m not a pretty enough sight for you, you can take yourself off. Nobody asked you to come.’
‘True,’ agreed Richard. ‘But I came to ask a question.’
‘Ask it then.’
‘I’m interested in a case that would have come to court in May of ’28. The defendant was condemned for treason. The accusations, as I understand, involved spying for Richelieu, a Catholic plot and threatening the life of the Duke of Buckingham. The man’s name was Alessandro Falcieri.’
Between the puffy folds of flesh, Mr Fisher’s eyes seemed suddenly to focus and there was a long, echoing silence. Then he said softly, ‘And what can the fate of a dead traitor possibly be to you, Mr Maxwell?’
‘Very little,’ responded Richard with apparently careless caution. ‘I merely seek confirmation of a story I’ve been told.’
‘By whom?’
‘A friend. Does it matter? All I’m asking is whether, to the best of your knowledge, such a trial ever took place.’
‘All? All?’ Again that creaking laugh. ‘I may be unsound of body but I’m not senile. Which one of them sent you here?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Deaf, are you? I asked who sent you.’
‘No one sent me.’ Richard’s stomach was beginning to rebel and he could feel himself sweating but he guarded his patience. ‘You said “which one of them”. Which one of who?’
‘Never you mind!’ The old man relapsed into silence again and then said, ‘I’ve been out of the world long enough for it to have forgotten me – yet someone has given you my name. Either tell me who it was or get out.’
Suspicion stirred, then solidified in Richard’s mind and he decided to put his theory to the test.
‘Who do you think it was? One of your four witnesses?’
The heavy jowls quivered. ‘And who might they be?’
‘You tell me,’ invited Richard. ‘You might as well – for I think you’ve already answered my original question. Alessandro Falcieri was indeed executed as a traitor … and I suspect that you handled the prosecution.’
‘Who sent you?’ Mr Fisher hissed. ‘Who?’
‘Confirm what I’ve said and I’ll tell you.’
‘Be damned to you, then! You’ll get nothing from me.’
‘Then I may as well leave.’
A tide of apoplectic colour filled the gros
s countenance as Justice Fisher struggled with himself.
‘Go, then – and good riddance. Don’t think you’ll trick me into telling you who they are. You don’t know anything. If you did, you wouldn’t be here.’
‘True. However, I begin to have the distinct feeling that you sent a man to his death on evidence which you knew at the time to be – if not entirely false – at the very least questionable,’ remarked Richard. ‘For example, by the time Buckingham was assassinated by that lunatic, Felton, Alessandro Falcieri was already dead; which tells me, as it must have told you, that at least one part of the charge was untrue. And if one – why not all?’ He paused, shrugging slightly. ‘And that is what I came to find out.’
This time the silence was of epic proportions and Richard had almost given up hope of an answer when the old man said slowly, ‘Falcieri had children.’
It was unexpected but Richard merely raised his brows and said nothing.
‘Children,’ muttered the Justice. ‘A son, perhaps? Yes. That’s it. It has to be. When a man’s been dead for thirteen years, who else remembers or cares but his son?’ He paused and gave a flabby, unpleasant smile. ‘He ought to have come himself.’
‘You really do jump to conclusions, don’t you?’
‘I’m a lawyer – or was. It’s what we do. But I’m right in this. I can smell it. You’ve come from Falcieri’s son.’
‘I’ve come of my own volition and know no one bearing that name,’ responded Richard with selective honesty. ‘But if you’re willing to tell what you know to the man’s son – supposing, of course, that he had one – why not to me?’
‘Because I don’t waste my time on lackeys,’ wheezed Mr Fisher. ‘But I’ll say this. You can tell your Italian master that if he wants to know more than he does, he’d better come himself. And then we’ll see whether I feel like indulging him … and, if I do, whether he can meet my price.’