by Stella Riley
‘Venetia?’ she said weakly, trying not to let her eyes slide past her friend to Kit and the unknown man who was with him. ‘You said you wouldn’t be back till after Twelfth Night – and the roads are appalling. How on earth did you get here?’
‘With difficulty,’ responded Venetia crisply. ‘But I thank God we did. I’ve been with Her Majesty too long to desert her now. And Ellis has been in the Low Countries and seen Prince Rupert, so naturally he wanted to – oh! This is Ellis, by the way.’
Kate grinned at the satin-clad exquisite, complete with chestnut love-locks, a single earring and a moustache and saw that he didn’t appear in the least put out by this careless introduction.
‘Mistress Kate, I presume?’ enquired Ellis Brandon, performing a graceful bow. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at last – having had your praises sung to me, a capella and basso ostinato as it were, throughout Yule. And no --’ as Kate looked at Venetia, ‘- not by my beautiful betrothed, whose mind is almost wholly concerned with political matters these days. So I will leave you to guess who you must blame and confess instead that we share a common embarrassment. The Commons, in fact – for I understand that your father sits in it, just as mine once did.’
Amusement faded and Kate raised her brows. Seeing it, Kit said quickly, ‘Not everyone disagrees with their father on principle as you do, Ellis. And now let’s get out of this crush so Kate can tell us what’s been going on.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ nodded Venetia. ‘Come on. I know a little room.’
So, as it happened, did Kate but she forbore to mention it and instead, when they were all seated, embarked on a concise resumé of the past three weeks. Mention of Colonel Lunsford caused Ellis’s eye to brighten and he said, ‘Sounds as if old Tom’s been having fun. He’s a real Roaring Boy!’
‘He certainly is,’ returned Kate dryly. ‘It’s just a pity, as my brother would say, that he seems to think with his stomach.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Venetia. ‘But tell us about the Queen. What are people saying?’
‘That Pym means to impeach her. He’s supposedly received evidence from a kinsman of his in Ireland that she authorised the rebellion there in defence of the Catholic Church. Whether or not it’s true --’
‘Of course it’s not!’ snapped Venetia hotly. ‘Oh, I know she favours the Papists … but how can anyone think she’s stupid enough to stir up the Irish?’
‘Because the Irish themselves have been saying so,’ replied Kate, ‘and it’s taken the King until today to deny it. If he’d done it right away, the Queen might now be in less danger and the Londoners wouldn’t be getting hysterical at the thought of Papist forces over-running England.’
‘Is that what they think?’ asked Kit slowly.
‘Well, of course. You know what people are like. And right now, with rumours spreading like wildfire and violence erupting on every other street corner, it probably doesn’t seem so far-fetched to them.’
For a moment there was silence and then, her voice oddly strained, Venetia said, ‘The King will never allow the Queen to be impeached. He can’t.’
‘No,’ agreed Kate. ‘He can’t. And if the gossips are to be believed, he’s spent today trying to bribe Pym by offering him the Exchequer again – only Pym, of course, refused. So they say the post’s gone to Culpeper instead and that Lord Falkland’s been made Secretary of State. But what will happen next is anybody’s guess.’
‘If you ask me,’ remarked Ellis languidly, ‘it’s high time His Majesty ceased pandering to these impudent dogs and took a stand.’
‘I imagine he probably will,’ retorted Kate. ‘But the question that’s obsessing the rest of us is – how?’
A little later, when Venetia had gone to report her return to Lady Carlisle and Ellis was making his bow to the King, Kit looked at Kate and said, ‘You think we’ve reached the point of no return, don’t you?’
‘What other conclusion is there? The King can’t give way on this and Pym knows it. So the only loophole will be in how he chooses to act – and he hasn’t got many options.’
‘Short of having Pym assassinated, I can’t think of any,’ replied Kit. ‘However. That’s not what I wanted to say to you.’
Something shifted behind Kate’s elegant green bodice and she kept her eyes on her hands.
‘No?’
‘No. Quite simply, it’s this. If matters reach a crisis, I imagine your father will have you out of here with all possible speed. And that being so, you and I no longer have the luxury of as much time as we’d hoped.’ He paused, his colour slightly heightened. ‘The circumstances are a little awkward but I’ve taken what steps I can to do things properly. I’ve obtained my father’s permission to address you and have in my pocket a letter from him to your father. What I need to know is whether or not I’ve your consent to – to deliver it.’ He stopped again and grasped her hands. ‘Oh God. I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I? Kate … I love you. Will you please marry me?’
There seemed to be a fog inside her head and she felt rather cold; but for the sake of safety and good sense and peace of mind, she knew what she had to do. So she swallowed, drew a long, steadying breath and then said remotely, ‘Yes, Kit. If my parents give their approval, I will.’
* * *
By mutual consent they elected to keep their understanding strictly to themselves until Kit was able to speak with Richard; and Kate – on seeing Kit’s transparent happiness – silently salved her conscience by vowing that he should never, ever know to what he owed it. Meanwhile, for better or worse, there were more important things to think of.
On Monday January 3rd, the King followed Lord Digby’s advice and had his six main opponents accused of high treason before the House of Lords. Pym’s name headed the list – followed by Hampden, who’d fought so hard against ship-money, Strode and Haselrig for their part in the Militia Bill, Denzil Holles for just about everything else and, last but not least, the principal architect of opposition in the Upper House, Lord Mandeville.
The plan had been for Digby to propose their immediate arrest but, unreliable to the last, he somehow failed to do so – with the result that both Houses joined in hasty consultation and announced that the said accusation constituted a further breach of parliamentary privilege.
Before evening, His Majesty had retaliated by making the articles of treason public. He also forbade the Lord Mayor to send any Trained Bands to guard the Commons and called all the gentlemen volunteers at the Inns of Court to stand ready to defend both King and Kingdom.
All that night and into the next day, the tension at Whitehall was so strong as to be almost tangible. The Queen stayed closeted in her rooms with only the Duchess of Richmond, Lady Carlisle and a handful of other trusted confidantes – while in the palace at large, the same questions were to be read in everyone’s eyes.
Will His Majesty manage to lay Pym by the heels?
Will the House thwart him again?
And, in either case, what will happen then?
Kate spent the morning gleaning what news she could in between letting Kit hold her hand. Then, tense to the point of screaming, she went off to prowl restlessly about the antechamber outside the Queen’s door … which was how, at a little after two, she came to see Lucy Carlisle emerging hurriedly from the royal presence.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded her ladyship sharply.
‘Nothing,’ said Kate with perfect truth. ‘I just thought I’d stay within call in case I’m needed.’
‘Well you’re not. Her Majesty has the Duchess with her and doesn’t require you,’ came the tart reply. And then, ‘Ah. Is that your cloak?’
‘Yes.’ Faintly surprised, Kate glanced to where it lay across a chair. ‘I went outside for a breath of air and couldn’t be bothered taking it --’
‘I daresay you’ve no objection to my borrowing it?’ Even as she spoke, Lady Carlisle had crossed the room and picked the garment up. ‘I, too, need a little fresh air – and I’ll see that it’s
returned to you presently. In the meantime, I suggest that you go and seek occupation elsewhere.’ And with that, she was gone.
Kate stared thoughtfully after her and toyed with the notion of following. However, before she could reach any conclusion on the possible usefulness of this course of action, Venetia flew into the room saying, ‘Kate – have you seen Ellis at all?’
‘Not since this morning. Should I have done?’
‘No. It’s just that he and Roxburgh and quite a few others I could name are nowhere to be found. And I’ve got a feeling that it’s because something is happening.’
Kate eyed her broodingly.
‘Something, perhaps, that might account for Lucy Carlisle rushing out of here in my cloak? Yes. What a pity I didn’t follow her, after all. If a new crisis is brewing, it would be nice to know what it is, wouldn’t it?’
* * *
After an uneasy morning in the Commons, Richard Maxwell would also have given a good deal to know what was going on – for it did not need a genius to work out that something was. For one thing, after the fears and alarums of the previous week, the House had that morning unaccountably chosen to quit the Guildhall and return to Westminster; and, for another, it seemed damned odd that Pym, Hampden, Haselrig, Strode and Holles should all be present and correct upon their benches when they’d only yesterday been accused of high treason. It looked very much as though His Majesty – if he wished to lay hands on the five – was virtually being invited to breach parliamentary privilege yet again by doing so with force in the House. And if that were so, it was as nicely baited a trap as Richard had ever seen. All that remained was to see if the King would step into it.
They spent the morning trying to countermand the orders His Majesty had given overnight and then paused to fortify themselves with the noon-day meal, after which Richard resumed his seat with the rest and prayed that the afternoon might be uneventful. It was, he realised, too much to hope for. At around three o’clock word came that the King was coming in person to Westminster, along with all his guard, his pensioners and two or three hundred soldiers and gentlemen.
It was all Pym had been waiting for and, rising, he immediately asked the Speaker’s permission for himself and his friends to depart. It was granted and within minutes they were gone – dragging a plainly reluctant Strode out of the Hall by his cloak. Then, almost before the House had resettled itself, the King was at the door.
Richard watched him come in, that small slight man on whom the grievances of years had now fallen and thought, He ought not to have come himself. They’ll never forgive him.
The doors were open and, through them, as he rose with the rest and removed his hat, Richard could see soldiers playfully levelling their pistols. The Earl of Roxburgh and a maliciously smiling individual whom Richard did not recognise leaned against either side of the door, while the Elector Palatine followed his uncle down towards the Speaker’s chair.
Punctilious to the last, Charles had also uncovered his head and, reaching William Lenthall, said gravely, ‘Mr Speaker … I must for a time make bold with your chair.’
Lenthall made way for him but the King did not sit, merely standing upon the steps surveying the House before finally saying, ‘I would not for anything break your privilege, gentlemen. But I fear that treason has no privilege…and I am come for those five members whom you know of. Is Mr Pym here?’
Silence.
‘I ask you again. Is Mr Pym here? Also, Mr Holles and the rest?’ He waited but still received no answer. Then, sharply, ‘Speaker Lenthall – are the five I seek present within the House?’
Driven into an impossible corner, William Lenthall did the only thing he could think of. He knelt before the King and said loudly, ‘I pray you to excuse me, sir. I am the servant of the House and have neither eyes to see nor tongue to say anything but what I am commanded.’
For a long moment he was subjected to bitter scrutiny. Then, ‘No matter,’ said the King with irony. ‘I think my eyes are as good as another’s – and I see that my birds are flown. I expect, however, that the House will send them to me. And if you do not, I shall be forced to seek them out myself that they may stand their trial for a most foul treason.’
And, so saying, he descended the steps and trod briskly out of the chamber, his footsteps ringing loud in the continuing deathly hush.
* * *
News of the King’s failed coup broke quickly at Whitehall, turning nervous excitement into appalled grimness. Kate, knowing that her departure from Court must now be imminent, told her maid to start packing and went to wait in the Stone Gallery with Kit. When – as she had expected – Richard arrived, she said baldly, ‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad enough,’ he replied, briefly kissing her. ‘Shops are shut and the streets are full of people. Some idiot’s even handing out leaflets saying “To your tents, O Israel!” So if the King lets any of his young hot-heads try to drag Pym out of the City, I wouldn’t wager a groat on there not being a mass riot.’
Kate had already guessed as much so she merely said, ‘And you want me to come home. Yes. I’ll go and see if Jenny has finished packing. But, in the meantime, Kit would like a word with you.’ And she was gone.
Richard looked resignedly at Mr Clifford and thought, Blast. I really could do without this right now.
And, seeing it, Kit said ruefully, ‘This isn’t a good moment, is it? So perhaps it would be best if I simply gave you this letter from my father and asked if I may call on you at home.’
‘Much the best,’ agreed Richard, accepting the missive. ‘With the roads as they are, it will be a while before I can get Kate back to Thorne Ash. I assume this is to do with Kate?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Kit, colouring a little.
‘Ah. Well, don’t be too despondent. I’ve no objections to you that I’m aware of – and my wife approves of you – though we’d both prefer an informal arrangement at the present time. However, if your father’s happy with the match and Kate herself wants it, the only real problem you have is the same one facing us all.’
Something altered subtly in Kit’s face.
‘Rebellion?’ he asked gravely.
‘No,’ came the flat, terrible reply. ‘Civil war.’
* * *
During the week that followed, Richard’s reluctant prophecy seemed to come ever closer. The King entered the City with promises of a free Parliament and security of religion only to be greeted with cries of “Privilege!” In defiance of the lord Mayor, petitions were drafted against Papists and Sir John Byron’s command of the Tower – while apprentices built barricades against the King’s marauding Cavaliers. Sailors and river-boatmen flocked into the City swearing to live and die for Parliament and the London Trained Bands took to drilling in the streets.
It was at this point that the King, realising the full extent of his failure to subdue his opponents, left Whitehall under cover of darkness and took his wife and three eldest children to the greater safety of cheerless, unprepared Hampton Court.
* * *
That was on Monday January 10th. On Tuesday 11th, Luciano del Santi at long last met the old man who for almost two months had been refusing to see him. Justice Samuel Fisher.
Just as Richard had done before him, Luciano followed the slatternly maid up the rotting staircase. The only difference, though he did not know it, was that this time the odour was of fish. And then he was in the hot, foul atmosphere of Mr Fisher’s room.
For a moment, neither of them spoke and Luciano was happy to have it so while he mastered his sudden nausea. Then the old man said slowly, ‘So. The traitor’s brat, I presume?’
‘My name,’ came the carefully controlled reply, ‘is Luciano del Santi. But you may call me whatever you like. I’m only here because I understand you’ve some information to sell.’
‘Not so fast, my buck – not so fast. I don’t know yet that I choose to do business with you. First you can come over here into the light so I can get a proper look at you.’
Justice Fisher examined his visitor from head to foot, taking in the elegantly-cut black coat and the beautiful lace collar lying beneath long, lightly curling dark hair. Then, erupting into wheezing laughter, he said spitefully, ‘My God – it’s an Italian crookback! Fortune certainly didn’t smile on you, did it? Gallows-meat for a father and deformed to boot. Born that way, were you?’
‘Due, I’m told, to inexpert midwifery, yes,’ responded Luciano coolly. And then, ‘You won’t annoy me, you know. So unless my physical imperfections have an especial fascination for you, I suggest we progress to the matter that brought me here.’
‘Which is?’
‘The case of Alessandro Falcieri.’
‘Your father, you mean.’
‘That is your assumption, Mr Fisher. Cling to it if you will – but try to remember that I do not confirm it.’
With an irritable grimace, the Justice shifted his position in the carved chair.
‘Cautious, aren’t you?’
‘What did you expect? Impassioned confidences and entreaties? If so, prepare yourself for a disappointment. All I have to offer is a simple business transaction which can be accomplished in a few minutes and leave you substantially better off. Well?’
There was another long silence. Then, ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘First of all,’ said Luciano remotely, ‘whether or not you had any dealings with Alessandro Falcieri’s trial.’
‘And if I did?’
‘The names of the chief prosecution witnesses.’