“Go for a doctor.”
“Yes, anything for you, Bri,” said Danny.
“For Arden. I want a doctor to look at Arden.”
Arden saw the glance Danny exchanged with Sarah, and the nod Sarah gave him. She knew the midwife granted him permission to seek a doctor, but for Brian, not herself.
As Bonnie held the horse for Danny to mount, Arden heard her say: “Better see if you can bring back a priest as well.” Fortunately, Brian did not seem to take note of his cousin’s request.
“Are you sure you're all right, Arden?” Brian asked again, his gaze focused intently upon her.
“Yes, Brian, I am as right as rain,” Arden assured him, forcing herself to smile. “And you will be, too.” She turned to Sarah and asked, “Do you think we should move him into the house?”
“Yes, I do,” Sarah replied. “Bonnie, will thou bring us a thick blanket from inside? Fortunately, he is not a large man, and we can manage the task.”
“Wait,” said Brian. As Arden looked at him, smoothing the hair on his forehead, his expression changed. He seemed to look past her. “Arden, promise me—” he began.
She wanted to tell him he was foolish, that there was no need for this kind of conversation. But she could not. “Anything,” she said.
“Let the child always have Malley as part of her name.”
Her? thought Arden. Brian, what do you see? “Yes, of course,” she answered.
“And, Arden, I want you to finish my play. I want Sir William to have it performed.”
“Of course Sir William will have it performed. But I can’t bear this talk! You shall surely finish it yourself, Brian.”
“Arden, promise me! The play—”
“Yes! Yes, Brian, I promise.”
“Good. Arden?”
“Yes, Brian?”
“I love you.”
“I know, Brian. I love you, too.”
Arden bent to kiss him, but his eyes had already closed. He still breathed as the women got the blanket under him and slowly carried him indoors, still breathed as they gently laid him upon the bed he had shared with his wife. He still breathed when Danny returned from Oxford with the doctor and Father Fernaut, still breathed as the doctor proclaimed his own uselessness in the case and left. He still breathed while Father Fernaut gave him the last rites of the Roman Catholic Church, but he made no responses to the ritual. Arden never saw the light of Brian Malley’s living hazel eyes again, for he stopped breathing, soon after the sun rose.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Robert Courtenay forced himself to cut off Sam’s attempts to talk about Arden. I’ll go to her right after I see the King, he promised himself. “You can tell me later,” he told his valet. He carefully packed samples from the King's new port into the saddlebags of the horse Sam had brought to the docks for him. Tossing Sam another parcel, he swung up onto the fine bay animal’s back. “Take good care of that,” he admonished. He hoped Arden would like the slippers of hand-tooled Moroccan leather that rested with his own belongings within. He dug his heels in and guided his steed towards Whitehall.
When Courtenay arrived, a royal servant informed him the King probably still breakfasted. The man scuttled off, promising to announce Lord Robert’s arrival. After a few moments, the servant returned, ushering Courtenay into the royal apartments. The odor of kippers lingered, and Charles apparently had not yet completed his morning meal. Courtenay entered just in time to see Barbara Palmer lean her large breasts over the eggs and pop a delicate grape into the monarch’s large mouth. Though he remained quiet, he had been announced, and the King turned to look at him after a quick swallow.
“Robert, you’ve returned safely, how wonderful! I trust the sea was not too rough?”
“No, Your Majesty. Perhaps you and Mistress Palmer might care for a Moroccan orange?” Robert offered, reaching into the saddlebag he’d brought in with him.
Both the King and Barbara Palmer accepted the offered fruit, but the chief royal mistress asked: “Morocco? Lord Robert, whatever were you doing there?” She peeled her small orange globe. The scent of it began to subdue that of the kippers.
“Spying,” Charles replied quickly, despite having already slipped a section of citrus into his mouth. “It’s right across from Spain, Barbara. And if you will excuse us, my dear, I’d like to hear Lord Robert’s report.”
“Why can’t I stay, Charlie?”
“The kingdom's security, my pet.”
Reluctantly, Palmer rose from the breakfast table and left the royal apartments. She made sure the flowing length of her dressing gown swayed provocatively behind her.
“She knows, of course,” Charles said, after she had gone, and after he’d made sure she didn’t have her ear to the door. “But any talk of my Portuguese intended raises her ire to such a pitch that she storms about, casting valuable, breakable things to the floor with great deliberateness. No monarch’s treasury is that healthy.”
Courtenay laughed politely. He had no idea what Charles saw in the termagant Palmer.
“But tell me,” the King continued, “what think you of that particular portion of the Infanta’s dowry?”
“Well, there are the oranges, and the olive oil. Plus, the natives do lovely things with leather,” replied Courtenay, reaching into the bag once more and pulling out a finely tooled horse bridle. “My gift to you, Your Majesty.” He bowed low when Charles had taken the item from him.
“It’s splendid, Robert,” said Charles merrily, motioning for his subject to rise. He turned the bridle over in his large hands, examining it thoroughly. “I do like it, very much. But back to Tangier. No real riches? No gold mines?”
“No, Sire. Its primary value is just as you painted it for Mistress Palmer―strategical. A wonderful view of Spain, and also a wonderful port for trade.”
“I sense a caveat from you, Robert. What’s the draw-back?”
“Well, there will always be problems with the Mohammedans, and with the Islamic rulers from whom the Portuguese took the port,” Courtenay answered. “The good news is that they are in so many feuding factions they’ll never be able to put a significant threat together. Still, any garrison there will have to be wary of them.”
“Duly noted. Forgive me, Robert, for being an absent-minded host. Sit yourself down and have some breakfast ale. I can have more breakfast itself brought, if you’re hungry,” offered the King, pouring Robert a flagon.
Courtenay accepted the ale, but declined the breakfast. “If you will excuse me, Your Majesty, I think I shall see if I’m not too late to take my morning meal with Arden.”
“Er... Arden?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Arden, the actress?”
“It’s not a common name, Your Majesty.”
“No, no, it isn’t. Robert, I thought you knew.”
“Has something happened to her?”
“I thought it mutual―you have no idea, do you?”
Courtenay did not know what the trouble was, but he managed to control his worry for Arden long enough to read in his monarch’s face that she had not died, nor fallen seriously ill. A good thing, for without that knowledge he would not have the patience to suit his question to a royal audience. “If it please Your Majesty, would you tell me what you know, and what I so plainly don’t?”
“The way it all fell out, I thought you’d terminated your arrangement with her from abroad. But things did happen rather fast for that, now I think on it,” recalled the King.
“Terminated the arrangement?”
“Yes. I admit I thought you something of a scoundrel at the time. Arden was with child, and by all accounts, yours.”
“A child? Of course it was mine―the girl’s no common slut! Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I do not know,” the King replied, even though the question had not truly been aimed at him. “She left the apartments you set her up in, and married Malley.”
Courtenay jumped out of the chair the King had provided him. “Malley? The sc
ribbler?”
“Yes.”
“My God, why? Malley?”
“Apparently, she even loves him,” Charles confided. The touch of the King’s hand upon his shoulder was firm, but his black eyes were knowing―and a little sheepish. “I’d never have done this, Robert, were she still in your keeping. She shone so beautifully in the play Davenant presented on my birthday, though, that I had her delivered here afterwards. Beautiful girl. Lovely, well-mannered. Turned me down flat. Told me she wanted to be faithful to Malley.”
“Malley?” Courtenay sank back into the chair.
“I let her go, of course. I’ve no need to force myself on a woman.”
That the King had tried to sample his mistress’s favors didn’t really bother Courtenay. After all, the King had thought her rejected by himself―fair game, so to speak. But to turn down Charles II of England for the feelings of a poor assis-tant play-adapter! One she had only married because she was pregnant with his own child! A child. But maybe it wasn’t his. Maybe it was Malley’s.
“The pair of them went off to spend the summer and the rest of Arden’s confinement in Oxfordshire―healthier, you know,” Charles continued. The King's words barely penetrated the whirlwind of Courtenay’s thoughts. The baby had to be Malley’s―why else would Arden have married him? He could only imagine the quantity of liquor Malley would have needed to pour down her lovely white throat in order to get her with child. But with the scribbler so shy, Arden would have had to take things in hand―all too literally. The more he thought, the more Courtenay’s anger rushed hot through his veins. Charles attempted a few more questions about Tangier, but they tumbled from his lips as awkwardly as the replies came absently from Courtenay.
“It matters not,” the King said, finally. “I have decided on the Infanta already anyway, even though the man I sent to Bombay hasn’t returned yet. I’ve written to the Portuguese princess, you know. She has written back. Charming letters. She seems quite mild and biddable.”
Lord Robert recovered himself momentarily. “I wish you every happiness in your marriage, Your Majesty.” He meant it, despite his belief that neither Catharine of Portugal nor any other woman would ever put an end to the King’s philandering. He must also have said the words about happiness like a man who expected never to have any of his own. After Charles thanked him and escorted him to the door of the apartments, the monarch laid his hand upon Courtenay’s shoulder once more.
“I know it’s early, Robert, but go to a tavern, or go to a brothel. Have a few drinks, get a wench. Life will look better by the next morning, in spite of the headache you’ll have.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Courtenay took quick leave of the King. As he mounted his horse in the Whitehall yard, Charles’ advice grew more and more appealing to him. To think how many Portuguese tavern wenches he had turned down on Arden’s account! He had even slipped out of a special invitation to sample a harem kept by one of the wealthier Mohammedans in Tangier. Why? He had certainly made no lover’s promise to her. If anyone had been expected to remain faithful, it would be the kept woman.
Yet instead of heading for the nearest house of ill repute, he guided the bay towards the theater district. Without truly thinking about it, Courtenay found he had stopped his horse in the street, directly in front of the apartments he had leased for Arden. The part of the building that had been hers was still and silent, the windows blank.
He stayed in the saddle long moments, just staring. Why? Not as if she might suddenly open the door and appear on the threshold. God, he’d never even seen her in this house―except in his imagination. He'd thought of her so many times as he lay in his cot, listening to the ocean lap against the sides of the ship.
“Why, Lord Robert! You’re back!”
His horse shifted beneath him and he looked down, seeing Kitty Brinks. On her way to the Duke’s Company for rehearsal, he assumed, in apparel simple but revealing. This actress certainly knew the best way to display her talent. Most of it spilled over the low u-shaped neckline of her dress.
“What are you lookin’ at, sir?” Then Kitty apparently followed his glance to her own bosom. “I mean, what were you lookin’ at, before I changed the scenery on you?”
In spite of himself, Courtenay smiled. His scowl returned quickly when he answered. “That house.” He dis-mounted and approached Kitty.
“Arden sure didn’t stay there long,” said Kitty, her tone slightly accusatory.
“No,” said Courtenay flatly. He moved closer to the actress. He looked more intently at her face than he ever had before. Plump, pink cheeks, a light dash of freckles over the nose, pale blue eyes, wavy red hair. Pleasant enough― different enough―and her body better than her countenance. “Would you like to see the inside?” he asked, trying with voice and brow to make sure Kitty caught his true meaning.
She caught it, all right, but she weighed his proposition. He thought he knew why. “He’ll never know, Kitty,” he told her, referring to Kitty’s keeper. “There’s not a soul in the street but you and me. We’ll slip in very quickly.”
“I’ll just bet,” Kitty chuckled. “Oh, why not?” she decided. She slipped her arm through his as he searched for the key with his other hand. The key he’d carried upon his person, but had never used before today.
From the entranceway, one could see the dining room in the dim light allowed by the heavy drapes. The table and chairs were covered with huge white cloths to keep off the dust.
“Not much to see,” said Courtenay, ushering her in among the sheathed furniture. “At least, not in terms of the surroundings.” Kitty stood with her back against the sheeted dining room table, and Courtenay cupped her breasts with his hands, kissing her roughly. She responded, and he grasped her ample buttocks, lifting her up onto the table. He pushed up her billowing skirts and petticoats, and Kitty brought her still-booted feet up to rest upon the table as well, her silk-stocking legs spread invitingly before him. Beneath the petticoats Kitty was bare, and proved a natural redhead. Sufficiently roused―amazing how easily so, once in such close proximity to a woman after so long a time―Courtenay loosed his breeches enough to free his manhood, and thrust home. Fortunately for his mood, Kitty seemed to require little in the way of preparation. She received him smoothly. Both braced their hands against the table’s edge, pushing against each other furiously, rapidly. With Kitty panting in his ear, Courtenay burned with white heat, pounding, pounding until Kitty began to pierce the formerly still air of the house with the sharp cries of her ecstasy. She seemed to care nothing for the hard surface beneath her, any possible pain banished by the sensations of the hard friction within. From time to time, the quivering of her inner realm ceased against him, as did her voice. Yet she still struggled towards even further release, clinging to him, returning the assaults of his mouth, biting at the skin beneath his shirt.
When Courtenay’s own white heat exploded, he separated from Kitty abruptly, amazed at his own emptiness. He never used to feel like he’d just been sick in a slop jar after sport with a lusty wench. “Arden, what in the name of Hell have you done to me?” he whispered, adjusting his clothing.
Gradually, he became aware of Kitty’s cheerful prattling. “And to think I almost didn’t accept your kind invitation on account of the way you treated Arden.”
“The way I treated Arden?” Courtenay’s interest in Kitty returned instantly.
“Yes, Lord Robert. I should hope you’d be kinder to me if I prove with child after today.”
Courtenay mentally crossed himself against the thought of producing offspring with Kitty Brinks. He had committed sins in his life, including this extremely recent one, but surely God would spare him such an awful punishment. “Then, Arden’s child is mine?” he asked Kitty.
“Of course it’s yours! Arden’s not like—well, she’s not like me,” chuckled Kitty. “And that was cursed cruel of you, Lord Robert. Leaving word with that Shire fellow to give her money to get rid of it—”
“Get rid of it? What do you mean, ‘get rid of it?’”
“Oh, Lord Robert, surely you know. A potion, to start, and if that doesn’t work—well, you know.”
Yes, he knew. He knew what women sometimes did, and he knew how women sometimes died. “Arden didn’t try that, did she?” He knew she’d married Malley, still pregnant, but if she had been in even a moment’s danger, he would never forgive himself.
“No, Brian offered to make an honest woman of her, and that’s the path she took,” said Kitty. “So I guess no real harm came of what you did.”
“Kitty, I left no such word with Shire.” As he spoke, Courtenay’s emptiness filled again. Anger pervaded him even more thoroughly than lust had flowed through him before. Shire. His betrothed’s second cousin, hired as a favor to her family. But surely the Braquilanges would understand that Shire had abused his generosity beyond hope of reconciliation. As of this moment, Shire was no longer in his employ. Now all that remained was to inform Shire of this fact with all possible haste.
Courtenay held his rage in check long enough to gently escort Kitty from the apartments, locking the door behind her. He leapt back upon his horse, spurring it, applying whip to withers as the galloped down the street and towards the Strand. He did not even feel the wind through the hole Kitty had torn in his shirt with her teeth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You are the only one with whom I can be honest,” Arden told Father Fernaut, as the two of them strolled down the road where Brian’s horse had reared. Two months had passed since she had become a widow, and this was the priest’s second visit of comfort to the bereaved family. Ironically, Fernaut wore Puritan garb for his walks with Arden so he would not be recognized as a shepherd of Rome’s flock.
“Bonnie knows more than the others, of course,” Arden continued. “But still, I don’t know if she realizes how much I’ve truly wronged her cousin.”
“I’ve told you, my child, you are not responsible for Brian’s death. The ways of God are mysterious, and we must all accept it. You did nothing but give Brian a happiness he never had before.”
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