by Mary Daheim
Barbara had found a fresh bottle of gin. “I may be mistaken,” she replied, “but I think Rudolf’s threats to you aren’t inspired by Harriet’s jealousy so much as by Bentinck’s. Pretty Keppel is rival enough for the dreary old mutt. The last thing he wants is a beautiful young virgin engaging the King’s affection. And that’s why you must go abroad with the court.”
Eden considered briefly. “But how will I find Max?”
“Max! Holy goat balls!” cried Barbara, moving somewhat uncertainly to her daughter’s side. “Forget Max! Only the King matters! You can be his mistress, you could even be his wife! Why do you care about that impoverished prince?”
In truth, that was the one question Eden would have thought her mother could answer. She stared at Barbara with bleak ebony eyes, hugging the Oriental shawl close. “But I love him!” she blurted, and realized that not only had she proclaimed the truth out loud, but for the first time in her life she had confided her deepest secret to the most natural recipient in the world—her mother.
But Barbara’s maternal instincts were unorthodox. “So?” She shrugged, the large ruby winking at her throat. “Eden, the world is full of men! You can love them all! Why waste yourself on just one? Handsome Max may be, but he’s poor! What could be worse, unless he were diseased as well?”
Max’s poverty might seem pernicious to Lady Castlemaine, but it held no threat for Eden. She was about to say as much when shrieks could be heard from the hallway. An instant later Nora flew into the room, a smudge on one pink cheek, a rip in the rust-colored brocade of Eden’s riding jacket.
“Milady!” she screamed, falling at Barbara’s crimson hem. “They tried to make off with me! They had knives! They meant to kill me! Help!”
Lady Castlemaine turned to Eden with a knowing, satisfied expression. “You see? Rudolf followed us, the pawky great stews-monger! Now will you go abroad?”
Staring at the shaking, sobbing figure who knelt before Barbara, Eden couldn’t suppress a shudder. No real harm had befallen the maid, but that was because she was Nora and not Eden. A vision of flashing knives wielded by blunt-faced men merged with the clash of swords at the Royal Exchange. Max’s blood had already been shed; this time it could have been her own.
Nora’s screams had subsided to whimpers while Barbara plied her with gin. But Lady Castlemaine’s eyes were fixed on her daughter. “Well?” she demanded in that husky voice.
Eden drew the shawl even closer; she felt chilled despite the fine May weather. “I’ll go,” she breathed. “I’ll follow the King.”
Barbara raised the gin bottle in a makeshift toast. “Of course you will! You wouldn’t be my daughter if you didn’t! I was beginning to think Jack had made a mistake!”
Inwardly, Eden winced. Lady Castlemaine was hardly the sort of mother she might have envisioned. Yet despite the ravaged face, overblown figure and unabashed vulgarity, there was some elusive sense of kinship that Eden couldn’t deny. Even as Nora removed the riding habit and handed her the items of clothing, Barbara confirmed Eden’s belief.
“You’ll find him there, too,” she said, with a trace of the youthful sparkle Eden had seen in the Lely portrait.
Eden blinked as she adjusted the ruffled steinkirk at her neck. “Him?”
Barbara flipped the last cherry at Cromwell, who had appeared from under the chaise longue. “Holy rat’s bung, don’t be dense, Baby Ducks! I have the most dreadful feeling that for you, kings and crowns don’t matter a ha’penny! There is only one him, and you’ll let the rest of the world go to hell in a handcart before you’ll give him up! How,” she wailed, a hand to her head, “could I have had the misfortune to bear such a faithful daughter?”
Chapter Ten
From a rise overlooking the valley of the Ourthe, Max gazed at Vranes and swore aloud. The House of Hohenstaufen’s banner fluttered from the ragged castle keep. The French mercenaries remained in place, no doubt in the pay of Rudolf. Max knew that even if he could rally his villagers and tenants, they would be no match for a fortified castle guarded by professional soldiers.
He was enraged by the Frenchmen’s presence, and saddened by the desecration of Vranes. The weathered stone castle that sprawled on a hill in the curve of the river had been Sophie Dorothea’s marriage portion, passed on through her Flemish mother and given with Rudolf’s grudging goodwill. Max and Sophie Dorothea had made their home within those ancient, mellow walls, with the village clustered around the castle and the farms spread out across the valley. In happier days Vranes had been a gladsome sight, prosperous and peaceful, with the tinkle of cowbells and the scent of newly mowed hay borne on the soft meadow air.
But now the castle walls were smoke-scarred, weeds sprouted from the roofs of village homes, and tangled vines trailed out of jagged windows. Chimneys had fallen down, and some of the narrow streets were strewn with rubble. Even the ancient Church of St. Hubert seemed to exude an aura of defeat.
Squinting against the sun, Max could make out the wing of the castle where he had lain with his bride and where the nursery had been prepared for their child.
Then Sophie had gone into that ghastly, torturous labor. For almost three days her screams had knifed through Max’s brain, and the walls of Vranes had reverberated with her sobs. When at last the child was born dead, Sophie had looked straight into Max’s dazed face and said, “Forgive me.” With her hand stretched out to him in helpless appeal, she had closed her eyes forever.
Forcing himself to look away from the bedchamber’s broken window, Max conjured up an image of Eden. While he dared not hope for the future, he knew it was useless to dwell on the past. He touched his spurs to his mount and turned his back on Vranes.
Her face drained of color and her hands trembling on the reins, Eden sat stiffly in the saddle, awaiting the signal for the hunt to begin. Sidney Godolphin, who had complied with Lady Castlemaine’s request for Eden to join the court, watched benignly from his place on a spirited gray gelding. Amiable and avuncular, he had insisted that Eden take part in the hunt at Dieren if she hoped to remedy her initial impression at Whitehall.
“I’ve seen boars,” she whispered in a shaky voice as blue and gold-liveried lackeys passed around cups of ale. “They’re horrid ugly creatures with big tusks. As for the stags, they’re too handsome to kill. I’d rather eat fish.”
“At the moment you look as if you’ve eaten something nasty.” Godolphin smiled, raising his voice to make himself heard over the barking of the shaggy kuishunds. “See how good-humored William is in the saddle. Why, he even tolerates my tainted company. He’ll certainly look more kindly on you after the hunt.” Godolphin motioned with his riding crop toward the King who was exchanging jocular remarks with Keppel and Ned Villiers, Harriet’s obsequious brother. “His Majesty looks younger in his homeland, don’t you think?”
“Younger than who?” grumbled Eden. “Moses?” Yet it was true, and she was immediately contrite. Her kindly mentor didn’t deserve such impertinence. Not only had he made arrangements for Eden to join the court in the United Provinces, he had augmented the purse from her mother by paying for her passage from Margate to Oostende. She had landed two days after the royal party, discovering that they had already left the Hague for William’s favorite hunting ground at Dieren. Now, less than twelve hours after her arrival at the lodge, she was in a fever of anxiety. “I’m sorry I was rude,” she apologized, an unsure hand at her mare’s neck. “It’s just that I’m so worried about … my father.”
Sidney Godolphin was a perceptive man. “And Prince Maximilian, as well.” He gave Eden a sympathetic look as the Master of the Hunt readied his horn. “No news is good news, Mistress. He’s probably in Brabant, pursuing his properties.”
“Is Brabant far from here?” Eden scanned the horizon, as if she could see beyond the Gelderland to wherever Max might be.
Godolphin considered. “Two days of hard riding. Vranes is in the Ardennes Forest.”
Two days in the saddle definitely daunted Eden
. Yet if she could hire a coach …. She jumped as the horn sounded. The kuishunds were released, King William raised his arm, and the party was off.
With a maximum of reluctance and a minimum of confidence, Eden prodded her mare, Circe, into a walk. The morning dew still clung to the grass, the sun slanted in shafts of light through the trees, and the wood smoke from the foresters’ stone chimneys lingered in the air. As Eden and her mount picked their way across an ancient bridge that led into the Veluwe Forest, she was alarmed at how swiftly the other members of the party were disappearing among the tall trees. Fortunately she could still make out Godolphin’s portly form. But to keep up with him, it was necessary to spur Circe into a trot. Gritting her teeth, Eden urged the mare into the next gait as they approached the Warnsborne thicket.
Sunlight, shadow, glossy shrubs, spiky hedgerows, white blossoms on green leaves—the dense spring growth surrounded Eden, cutting her off from the others. Desperately, she tried to remember the route Godolphin had sketched. It was filled with strange, foreign names for swamps and copses that meant nothing to her.
Distraught, she reined in the mare, then cautiously turned her around. Once again, Eden knew failure. There would be no opportunity today to make a favorable impression on the King. The most she could hope for was to find the lodge and avoid the humiliation of having a search party sent after her.
There must, Eden thought, be a way to skirt the thicket. Her blue riding habit had already been caught by brambles, and there was a rip in one kidskin glove. Carefully she dismounted, leading Circe to the left of the clearing. The sound of rushing water guided them to a tumbling brook, which formed a shallow pool among moss-covered rocks. Eden let Circe stop to drink, and her gaze wandered downstream where she saw movement in a little copse of birch trees. The mare also sensed the unknown presence and pricked up her ears. A moment later, a magnificent six-pronged stag emerged. The animal paused, stared suspiciously at both horse and human, then moved toward them with stately grace. Eden could scarcely believe the stag’s boldness and smiled in spite of herself.
“I’m not in the least bit a hunter,” she said in a low, soothing voice. “I don’t even like horses.” With a pang of remorse, her eyes darted toward Circe. “Though as horses go, she’s rather nice. We won’t bother you.” The mare blinked uncertainly at the stag, then resumed drinking.
Remembering that Keppel had given her some paper twists filled with sugar in case she needed to win her mount’s goodwill, Eden withdrew them from her riding habit. She had no idea if deer liked sugar, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. Carefully bending down to sprinkle the contents of the twist onto a fallen leaf, she frowned. The substance looked too coarse to be sugar. Eden licked her finger. “Zut! ’Tis salt!” She gave both animals an apologetic look.
But the stag was ambling toward Eden, its dark nose twitching eagerly. He stopped by the leaf, lowered his head with those wonderful antlers and began licking at the salt with enthusiasm. It was devoured in seconds. The stag raised great pleading eyes to his benefactress and waited patiently.
Eden had an inspiration. She kept the paper twists in one hand and grasped Circe’s reins in the other. “Come along, my four-footed friends,” she said in a gentle voice. “We shall return to Dieren. I much prefer bringing home live animals.” With a triumphant little hitch of her tall riding hat, Eden led the way across the brook, around Warnsborne thicket and in what she prayed was the direction of the royal hunting lodge.
She was passing the edge of a meadow dotted with orange and crimson poppies when both animals stopped and tensed. Eden followed suit, hearing hoofbeats nearby. The hunting party, she thought, and wondered if the stag would take flight. But a moment later three soldiers rendezvoused across the meadow. Retreating into the thicket, Eden watched the men confer. No doubt they were on a scouting expedition, though it occurred to her that King William would hardly hunt in a vicinity where the enemy might be lurking. He’d just missed being assassinated on such an outing in England.
A single phrase, uttered with a laugh and carried by the gentle spring breeze, made her stiffen with alarm: “Prince Maximilian is too tall to hide under beds ….”
Fear enveloped Eden like a hostile hand. The men were going off in different directions. Clearly, they were searching for Max. Godolphin had said he was probably in Brabant. He might be wrong. He must be wrong.
Eden led her mare into the meadow. To her surprise, the stag followed, apparently craving more salt. Suddenly it dawned on Eden that if she sent both animals into the woods, it would create a diversion. If Max were hiding nearby, he might be able to slip away while the soldiers pursued the false quarry.
Wincing as she raised her crop, Eden whispered an apology to Circe. “I’m grateful for your gentle mien, but I really must spur you on. I’ll find a dozen apples for you at Dieren.”
One slap was all the mare required before she bolted off across the meadow and into the woods. Eden sighed with relief, then turned to the stag. “Go!” she commanded. “Run! The hunters are coming!”
The stag stood motionless, the huge dark eyes reflecting Eden’s anxious gaze. She was afraid to take the crop to the animal lest he retaliate with those dangerous antlers. Eden shook out another twist of salt. The stag lapped up the contents, then followed Eden as she began walking again.
After several false starts, Eden found her way back. The servants goggled when she walked over the bridge with the big stag ambling behind her. William was just as astonished when he rode toward the hunting lodge and caught sight of Eden approaching with her new pet. Indeed, she thought with a flash of foreboding, he looked out of sorts. Judging from the paucity of game, she could guess why. Except for half a dozen rabbits and two scrawny boars, the hunt had not been a success.
“Mistress,” said William, waving away a groom who would have helped him from the saddle, “what is this?” The King brandished his riding crop at the great stag, which, at all the commotion, hesitated for the first time.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eden saw a disgruntled Bentinck, a curious Keppel and a bemused Godolphin. But before she could reply, the stag leaped, streaked past the assembled company and escaped through an opening in the stone wall.
“Oh!” exclaimed Eden with dismay. “I had hoped he would make friends with the rest of you!”
William took a labored breath and a considerable amount of umbrage at Eden’s candor. “We don’t make friends with animals, Mistress! We hunt them, as sensible men and women do if …” he broke off, suddenly assailed by a coughing fit.
Keppel bounded to his master’s side, proffering an elegant lace kerchief. “Enough, Mistress! You’ve upset the King!”
Unsettled by Keppel’s reproach and William’s severe hack, Eden bit her lip. “I apologize for causing any harm, but His Majesty’s accusation isn’t quite fair.” Shaking off her distress, she boldly interjected herself between the King and Keppel. “Here, Sire,” she urged, firmly gripping William by the elbows, “lift your arms and breathe deeply.”
The courtiers murmured with a mixture of amazement and censure, but the coughing stopped almost at once. “There,” said Eden with relief, “ ’twas only a cris de nerfs. Triggered here,” she added, tapping her temple, “rather than in the lungs.”
William eyed her with reluctant gratitude. “You practice medicine better than some of our doctors, especially that fool of a Radcliffe in London.” The voice was gruff, the brown eyes narrow. “Though you speak as bluntly as he. What do you mean about not being fair? We are known for our fair-mindedness.”
Eden avoided flinching under the intense dark gaze. “I meant with regard to the animals, Sire. Your Majesty is famous not only for hunting them, but for nurturing them in your tame zoo at Honselaardijk. What is the difference between capturing an elephant and a stag?”
The brown eyes went very still, then the hint of a twinkle surfaced. “The difference? My dear, have you ever tried to eat an elephant?”
At that sally, the entire compan
y burst out laughing. Eden did, too, as merrily as the rest. With obvious diffidence, William took her hand. “We don’t know your name. We have met, though we can’t recall where or when.”
Eden felt the color rise in her cheeks. This was a critical response, and the only way she knew how to phrase it was with the bald truth. “I’m Eden … Churchill, kin to Milord Marlborough. My fan met Your Majesty’s wig at Whitehall.”
“Ah!” William put a hand to his graying hair. “Of course! You have a penchant for the extraordinary!”
Eden was encouraged by the faint smile on William’s face. “What sort of mixture do your doctors prescribe for your cough?” she politely asked.
Before William could answer, Keppel put a hand on his master’s arm. “Doctors be damned, Your Majesty. What you need now is a strong, cool drink and a lively game of cards.”
William of Orange seemed to shrivel as he leaned on his young favorite. “Excellent advice, my good Joost. There is, we fear,” he went on with a melancholy look at Eden, “nothing that helps, but we thank you for your concern.”
“I beg to argue,” Eden said quickly as the King and Keppel started to turn away. “There are many beneficial plants and herbs I’ve seen on my short visit to your homeland. You must let me brew up some of them.”
Over his shoulder, William’s gaze was skeptical. “Mayhap,” he said with a heavy sigh. “We shall consult with Dr. Bidloo when we return to the Hague.” His step dragged as he walked away with Keppel toward the ancient lodge.
The rest of the hunting party dispersed, leaving Eden alone in the courtyard. Despite William’s apparent dismissal of her medical knowledge, she felt the faintest flicker of optimism. She had helped him stop coughing, she had made him laugh, and she had discovered that he did not hold her in contempt for the episode at Whitehall. While Eden could hardly chalk up these little accomplishments as a conquest, at least she felt less gloomy.
Or did, until a dozen soldiers rode up, one of them leading her horse. “We have a message for Milord Bentinck. Has he returned?” the captain called as Eden hurried to meet her mare.