A Ship for The King

by Richard Woodman

  Stopping the night at an inn near Chippenham, he was tempted to carry one of the serving girls off to bed; though he had the money, he had not the nerve. Instead he fell asleep, his head whirling. Waking in the dawn he felt his erection and pleasured himself back to sleep. Much later, riding east again, he was full of a sorry mixture of self-disgust and apprehension. His ignorance of women, exposed by recent events, confronted him and reinforced the feelings of failure and inadequacy that he had thought to have thrown off since his return from Spain. But the freedom of recent weeks had combined headily with his contact with Julia Gooding whose image remained strong in his mind’s eye. Had she been full of lust for him? Or had she merely expressed a trenchant view with unbecoming, if intimate, forthrightness? Reflecting on their several meetings gave him no grounds for considering her aflame with passion for him in the manner he had conceived in his fantasy; on the contrary, what she had shown was a sober regard for him, an offer of friendship. But was not that in itself promising?

  And thus, unthinking of what might be awaiting him in London, full of lusty turmoil, self-loathing and awakening possibility, he arrived in the City in the early afternoon and repaired directly to the Trinity House in Whitehorse Street, Stepney.

  Five

  The King’s Whelp

  1627–1628

  ‘Kit! How very glad I am to see you. By God, your arrival is timely. You have left your horse in livery?’

  ‘I have, Sir Henry.’

  ‘Come, I have to attend the palace and you may accompany me thither, after which we shall dine, but on our way I can acquaint you of matters touching yourself.’ Mainwaring took his arm and turned him about almost as soon as he had arrived at the Trinity House.

  ‘Sir Henry, I was engaged—’

  ‘I know. In Bristol with ideas of a future there and sorry for the wretched state of things with Gideon dead, but all that is past. Affairs of state occupy us, Kit. And opportunity awaits.’

  Offering no further explanation Mainwaring clambered into a waiting hired carriage and motioned for him to follow. Faulkner sank into the rough cushions wearily. He was saddle-sore, tired and hungry. He wanted a glass of something strong, a hearty meal and a sleep.

  ‘I shall have to ask you to wait for me at Whitehall. I imagine that your arse is aching but there is much afoot,’ Mainwaring said. The coach had moved off, an uncomfortable equipage, rolling like a ship at sea over the uneven road and frequently slowed as, with various imprecations and frequent cracks of his whip, the coachman forced its lumbering frame through the thronged streets. Faulkner had trouble keeping his seat and, despite his long journey, would have preferred to have ridden, even walked, rather than submit to this crazy mode of transport. Mainwaring pressed on and Faulkner was obliged to give Sir Henry his full attention. ‘The expedition to La Rochelle has gone from bad to worse, as you may have heard. Richelieu’s forces have the upper hand, M’sieur Soubise is in trouble, as is My Lord Duke of Buckingham, he being likely to be impeached. The Commons are in unruly uproar and the King . . .’ Mainwaring let the silent inference hang heavily in the gloom of the coach. Then he lowered his voice into a confidential whisper, leaning towards Faulkner’s nearer ear. ‘The King is unreliable. Utterly. The conduct he manifested during his Spanish adventure was no aberration. All augurs ill and I am unhappy about what lies ahead.’ Then he straightened up and resumed his conversational tone. ‘However, whatever one thinks of My Lord Duke, he made the funds available himself for the construction and commission of the ten small vessels lately completed, one of which is presently readied at Deptford, and tomorrow thither thou shalt go to take command of her.’

  ‘I, sir? I command a King’s ship?’

  ‘You will sail with the King’s commission, though the vessel of which you shall have charge is owned by My Lord Duke of Buckingham.’

  ‘A letter or marque? Or,’ Faulkner said, greatly daring but with his mind racing, ‘am I to be a pirate?’

  Mainwaring sat back with a chuckle. ‘No, sir, a privateer at worst, but your commission will be from the King and your crew paid according to the new naval regulations.’

  ‘I see.’ Faulkner neither saw, nor understood. His mind was in turmoil as the unsprung coach lurched down Ludgate Hill leaving behind the vast bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral, with its immense spire black against the sky. ‘I had hopes that in Bristol—’

  ‘Whatever plans you were cooking up, Kit, I must ask you to lay aside.’ Mainwaring looked sideways at his young friend. ‘Is this entirely contrary to your liking? Gooding is a good man – no pun intended – and I think that we must trust him, at least for a while.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I am sorry; my mind has been much diverted by the death of Captain Strange and consequent events.’

  ‘Is she lovely?’ Mainwaring asked shrewdly.

  Faulkner pulled himself together. The question was not serious; a joshing to jolt him out of his preoccupation. Sir Henry could have no idea about Julia Gooding’s effect upon him. Nevertheless, he tested his patron. ‘Is who lovely?’

  ‘The woman you have obviously met in Bristol. I cannot think that you wish to suddenly become an owner of merchantmen, sitting in your counting-house all day, fossicking over your dusty ledgers. When a young man of your abilities even contemplates the possible attraction of such a thing there is usually a woman at the bottom of it.’

  ‘You are wide of the mark, Sir Henry, on both counts. If I went to Bristol with any prospect in mind it was not to turn owner, but to take command of the Swallow, or another of the ships in which I have shares, but I had not considered those better experienced that presently hold command, and though I might have found a ship of my own, your summons terminated my adventure.’

  ‘Well then, that is something in the favour of writing letters. And glad I am that mine was timely. Had there been a woman, it might have proved more difficult to persuade you to come.’ Mainwaring slapped him affectionately on the thigh and lifted the window curtain with the handle of his cane. ‘Nearly there. By God this thing rattles like a tumbrel!’

  On their arrival at the rambling complex of buildings that in their entirety constituted the Palace of Whitehall, Mainwaring descended stiffly from the coach and waited while Faulkner followed him. It wanted about an hour to sunset and already the shadows were lengthening. Waving airily along the thoroughfare of Whitehall, Mainwaring remarked, ‘You may walk here awhile, I shall be gone about an hour. See, there beyond the Abbey and St Margaret’s, the light of a tavern. That is The Grapes and I shall meet you there. Order yourself something, but save the best of your appetite for our joint pleasure.’ And then he turned away.

  Idly, Faulkner watched him go, walking with a vigorous stride towards the brick gatehouse of one wing where a pikeman leaned on the wall. The soldier straightened himself up at the approach of Mainwaring, and Faulkner saw another emerge, a courtier by his dress, who greeted Sir Henry and then turned back under the gate with him. Faulkner looked around, reviewing the crowded street. It would take him less than ten minutes to reach The Grapes so he began to saunter, pressed by the populace that inhabited the busy environs of the palace. He saw a girl selling oranges and was reminded of the apple-seller in Bristol who had initiated the fortuitous meeting with Mainwaring and Strange, and set him on this queer road. Odd, he thought, this business of cause and effect: who would think that a common trollop of a street vendor could metamorphose a starving boy into a gentleman? And never to have known the wonder of her agency! Was that the blind workings of luck, or of fate, or perhaps of God himself? He was, he considered in a moment of self-assessment, a virgin, innocent and rather unworldly gentleman; he also had to concede that he would have to – no must – do something to remedy that. He was no more than five paces from the orange-seller and noted she was pretty, in an ordinary way. He found himself measuring her against Julia. She had not Julia’s looks, of course, but she showed a good deal of the other parts of herself that, on the evidence of their display, m
ade up for the deficiency. He smiled at the thought and thereby caught her attention.

  ‘Oranges, sir? Two for a ha’penny, five a penny . . .’ She held one out and he felt, for one moment, like Paris. But his smile and his preoccupation with the orange-seller had caught the attention of others; two tall-hatted, black-suited Puritan gentlemen walked past, tut-tutting with disapproval. Faulkner looked at them and wanted to explain that it was one such as stood expectantly beside him that had lifted him from the gutter. But the moment was as short as his explanation was long, and he was left foolishly next to the lass who had now convinced herself that he was about to purchase an orange or two, or even make her a better proposition.

  ‘Sir . . . ?’ she said appealingly, so that he returned his regard to her big brown eyes and her grubby cheeks. He fished in his pocket for some coppers and was in this process when he heard his name called.

  ‘Lieutenant Faulkner! Is that you, sir?’ The voice was peremptory; he spun round and found himself staring into the exquisite face of Katherine Villiers; she was peering at him from an arrested sedan chair.

  ‘Mistress Villiers!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a most fortunate turn . . .’ He stepped forward and bowed over her extended hand.

  ‘What a pleasure to see you, sir,’ she said withdrawing her hand with a lovely smile. ‘But pray do not let me interrupt your transaction.’

  He shrugged and half-turned to the orange-seller. She was furious at her lost sale but he already had a penny in his left hand and tossed it to her before confronting Katherine Villiers.

  ‘What brings you to London?’ she asked. ‘I imagined a lion like you would be with My Lord of Buckingham under the walls of La Rochelle.’

  ‘My duties have taken me elsewhere, ma’am.’

  ‘I hope that is not a euphemism to say that you were dismissed for the importunities of trying to teach a poor young girl the rudimentaries of seamanship?’

  ‘It came close, ma’am.’ He laughed, grinning widely. ‘Heard you that I was in disgrace?’

  She smiled and he felt ravished by the attention, and by the fact that she referred to that long-lost moment of intimacy. Did it prick her as much as it did him?

  ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I heard quite the contrary; that you had impressed Sir Henry Mainwaring, that you had impressed My Lord Duke, that you had impressed Prince Charles and were like to ride higher in his favour now that he is King.’

  ‘You mock me, ma’am.’

  ‘I do. But you were not quite sure for a moment.’

  He felt suddenly emboldened by her playful air. ‘I have not been quite sure for a long time, Mistress Villiers. I had hoped that I might have exchanged a word or two on the homeward passage, after the admiral’s untimely intervention.’

  He thought that a cloud had crossed her face, a moment of uncertainty, but she recovered herself instantaneously. ‘I thought the admiral’s intervention was quite proper, sir,’ she said archly, adding acidly, ‘not that the Earl has proved much of a friend to the Villiers family . . .’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it, ma’am.’

  ‘’Tis no matter. But –’ she dropped her voice, causing him to lean in towards her so that he caught the odour of her perfume, the warmth and sweetness of her breath and noted the richness of her lace and the gorgeous silks of her ornate dress – ‘I am glad to see you in good health. I am obliged now to attend His Majesty and must begone. I hope that fortune will play another pleasant trick upon us, Lieutenant. And before too long, perhaps.’ Then settling back in the chair, she cried, ‘Pick up!’ and was at once lifted and disappeared into the crowd, heading towards the gatehouse into which Mainwaring had passed a lifetime ago.

  ‘Amen to that,’ he whispered to himself, his spirits suddenly soaring. He had not behaved like a milksop virgin, but with something at least of the dash of a cavalier.

  ‘Oranges, sir? You never took any, sir . . .’

  He turned to the girl. ‘No, no thank you . . . But here, here you are for your pains. Get thyself a decent meal and a clean bed . . .’

  ‘I got a clean bed!’ she protested, insulted until she opened her fist and saw the dull gleam of a silver shilling. ‘An’ any time you want to share it, you’m welcome!’ she added with opportunistic quick-wittedness.

  For an instant he thought of bedding her, of losing his lack of experience that very night, and then, curbed by the sudden image of Milady Villiers, he thought better of the notion. Brenton’s warning about the pox steadied him and he resumed his promenade towards the now glowing light of The Grapes. Already night was falling and the damp chill and stink of the street egged him on, so that once inside he called for a bottle of wine and two glasses, settling himself at a table in anticipation of Mainwaring’s arrival and – more importantly – a good dinner.

  He had drunk three glasses before Mainwaring puffed in, full of apologies as he removed his hat, tore his wig off and scratched his pate. ‘God damn me, Kit, but I find playing the courtier a confoundedly tedious business.’

  Faulkner filled the second glass and called for another bottle and two meat pies. After Mainwaring had quaffed a deep draught he sat back and blew out his cheeks. Faulkner waited and their eyes met.

  ‘The King has granted you a commission but it is his wish that he presents it to you personally.’

  ‘Personally . . . ?’ Faulkner was astonished.

  ‘Yes. You will accompany me hither tomorrow afternoon. The King will grant you audience . . .’

  ‘But why? I mean why on earth does the King . . . ?’ Faulkner broke off, dumbfounded.

  ‘It seems he remembers you; besides he has despatches for My Lord Duke. It is a particular mark of His Majesty’s favour that he has asked for you to carry them to the île de Rhé.’ Mainwaring stopped to take another mouthful of the wine, emptying the glass in the process. Faulkner refilled it, puzzled, confused, and aware that much of the royal favour was attributable not to him, but to Mainwaring. ‘You have come a long way, Mr Rat.’

  Faulkner felt an unmanly welling of emotional tears in his eyes. ‘I know, Sir Henry . . . I know.’

  Seeing the young man’s eyes brighten, Mainwaring smiled. ‘Well, that was what was in our minds when we took you up, Kit. It was intended that you should be a King’s sea-officer. It is well within your capabilities.’ He paused then, seeing the approach of two steaming pies, he sat up, replaced his wig and smiled at the serving-girl. ‘Thank you, m’dear.’

  The following afternoon found the two men again approaching Whitehall in the rocking coach. Faulkner, his sword upright between his knees, was dressed in a fine suit of black slashed with grey that had – or so the tailor pressed that morning to provide and adjust it assured him – ‘just that hint of fashion necessary to make an impression, without any pretension to dazzle’. Certainly he felt a sensation of excitement which, partly due to the possibility of seeing Katherine Villiers at court, surmounted his nervous apprehension. He realized he was barely listening to Mainwaring’s briefing.

  ‘. . . should His Majesty extend his hand, drop to your right knee and kiss it lightly by briefly touching your lips to it. There, that is all you have to remember.’

  Faulkner was appalled and his feeling of self-conceit was rapidly replaced by one of gut-wrenching terror. He had heard hardly a word Sir Henry had said yet could not possibly ask him to repeat it. In the end he simply sat still in a cold sweat and was shaking as though palsied when the coach stopped, and, just as he had watched the previous evening, they were met and conducted into the gloom of the palace. Faulkner never afterwards recalled anything about the maze of corridors and the brief glimpse of the sky as they traversed a courtyard only to plunge into more gloom on the further side. He did, however, remember the courtroom as heaving with people, of a canopy above them at the far end, its draped velvet parting above the backs of two ornate gilded chairs, both on a dais, one slightly higher than the other. Between the summit of the canopy where the gold-fringed velvet was gathered into a mock cro
wn, yet above and behind the twin thrones, hung the Royal Coat of Arms borne by its golden lion and white unicorn. The room was hot and the air thick with sweat and perfume, the stink of tobacco smoke and rank breath, for everyone was talking at the tops of their voices. The fluted ceiling high above seemed as remote as heaven itself and the tall windows, ranged along one side of the large space, were grimy with the smoke from fires of sea coal. He caught Mainwaring’s eye and Sir Henry made a face before jerking his head for Faulkner to follow, and they pushed forward, causing some disgruntlement in the process. Having reached what appeared to be the front of the assembly, Mainwaring took his station and Faulkner, his left hand upon the hilt of his sword, struck what he thought a pose suitable for the occasion and searched the serried ranks of the courtiers for the face he most wanted to see. He was thus vainly employed when three sharp knocks of a chamberlain’s staff reduced the throng to almost instantaneous silence; a fanfare sounded from trumpeters in a gallery somewhere behind them. Then, in a wave of sibilance that was eloquent of submission and subservience, the gentlemen removed their hats, thrust their right legs forward and bowed, while the ladies sank in low curtsies. Faulkner followed suit in a deep bow, some of what Mainwaring had said coming back to him.