“Well, I hope it is a fair amount, for whenever thou err, I shall have to cover for thee,” said the Quaker. To Robert she announced: “Mr. Thompson and I shall be preaching and witnessing all over London.”
He looked at her for a moment, the way he had always looked at Fanaticks before. Why in Hell had she come to him with this cock-and-bull story just so she could get his valet to help her rant and rave at innocent people in their own homes? To say his head hurt remained an understatement. Then he began catching up with her logic. Some of those people might not be innocent at all. “So, one of the things you'll be hoping to ‘witness,’” Robert said slowly, “is Helena or Bonnie, somewhere they shouldn't be.”
“Yes,” confirmed the Quaker.
“Or even someone behaving like he has something to hide,” contributed Sam.
“And every so often,” added Mistress Brown, “we shall come back to Arden's neighborhood, so as to try not to miss any hints we might find in her own habits.”
“Without her seeing us, of course,” Sam clarified.
“Well, it sounds as though the pair of you have this all planned out. And it's as good a plan as any,” admitted Robert. “Shall I come with you?”
“Oh, no, sir!” the Quaker protested immediately. “Future lord or no, thou art far too well known to accompany us.”
“She's right,” put in Sam.
“Thy part,” the girl continued, “will come after we have found them. Thou will lead the rescue.”
Robert nodded his assent, and his new pair of allies left the room.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Arden could not have told how she survived the passing months, but she did. She managed to subsist on only the most occasional crumbs of Treadwell’s assurance that Helena still lived, and that her appetite stayed adequate. Of course, such assurance came unpleasantly seasoned with remarks about how utterly under the power of himself and his co-conspirators she and Bonnie remained. Arden felt mixed emotions at her stepfather's grudging admission that Helena no longer cried as much. Of course she didn't want her daughter to be miserable, but she didn't want her to forget her mother, either. She remained silent, despite her torn feelings. If Treadwell knew her fear on this point, he'd probably do everything in his power to help Helena think of Bonnie as her new mother.
How Arden got through the Christmas revels at Whitehall seemed a mystery as well. Granted, she avoided as many of the festivities as one of King Charles' favorites safely could. That still left more than enough occasions to try to sidestep Castlemaine's petty gestures of spite, or to face the heartache of looking the Queen in the eye. When it came to the latter, Arden prayed she looked just grave enough to communicate her sympathy and regret, but not so miserable as to cause good Queen Catharine to ask her husband why he forced himself on a woman who plainly did not want him.
When it came to Christmas songs, Arden felt she did well enough singing along with the jolly ones that celebrated culinary excess and other forms of seasonal depravity. The hymns to the innocence and purity of the divine infant, however, wrung her heart. To sing along with these, she found she had to consciously reduce each word to its relatively meaningless syllables in order not to betray her secrets.
At least the King's Boxing Day gift to her did not stir her longings for Helena. When Charles presented Arden with a perfectly cut emerald brooch as the prelude to one of their winter trysts, her mind promptly recalled Robert Courtenay's face, the first time he'd told her she had eyes like emeralds. After that came a pang for the giver of the gift, whom she knew she used most traitorously. Still, it would not do to displease the King, so Arden smiled at the brooch's beauty and inwardly hoped that after her sentencing to be drawn and quartered she would be able to find someone trustworthy to pass it on to Helena. If Treadwell kept his word and the child survived.
Naturally, Arden's fame as an actress had only increased after her liaisons with the King became well known. She had lost the joy of acting, though, and the Duke's Company's productions had become both something to be gotten through, and a way of occupying time between royal trysts and sleep. Her friends in the Company, like the Davenants and Kitty, knew something wasn't right. Arden managed to keep most of their questions at bay, however. She couldn't help feeling touched when Kitty said, “You're not happy anymore. I don't know why you bother with any of this, if it don't make you happy. Though why the bloody hell you're not happy bein' the King's mistress, I have no idea.”
Arden knew her real acting these days more concerned the people in her life than her actual stage audiences. From Charles himself to Treadwell, she had to hide her absolute horror of the plot in which the latter had involved her. Though her love for Robert Courtenay continued as a dull ache constantly at the center of her being, it felt easy enough to love the King―although never in a way that let her heart be broken by his enthusiasm for women in vast quantity. In truth she gave thanks on the nights he sent for her. Not only because it ensured Helena's safety for another few days, but because she gave herself willingly to the physicality of it, losing herself in the sensations of sex. On a few occasions, Charles had greeted her at the beginning of a tryst with the question: “Well, Arden, what particular demons are we exorcising tonight?” Then she would redouble her efforts to be light and frivolous for as long as she could manage. Once the New Year had passed, however, Arden could not help noticing that every night the litter brought her home, the air felt warmer. She knew her time grew short.
Thus it did not surprise Arden when Treadwell showed up one afternoon with a blacker look than usual. “My fellow servants of God grow impatient,” he told her. “And we grow weary of putting up with your wailing brat and her sullen nursemaid. Even disciplining the latter has grown dull for me. Besides, Arden, the nation has suffered long enough. We must strike, and we must strike soon. You must secure an outdoor assignation with the ruling Stuart.”
Arden nodded, not really knowing she did so. She had known the command would come, but numbness still stole over her.
“I'll come every afternoon until you give me a date and an hour,” Treadwell glowered.
“He'll not likely send for me tonight,” Arden protested. True enough, but she knew she mostly tried to buy time.
*****
Despite Arden's protests, Treadwell kept his word and returned the next day.
“I told you he would not send for me!”
“Well, his ardor for you had better not be cooling now. Your brat will suffer for it, if you don't have a date set up for me when I see you next,” Treadwell warned.
Though the King followed his routine and did send for Arden the evening following, she could not bring herself to ask for the outdoor assignation. She knew what she had to do. She had to ask for the glittering ointment again, under the moonlight. But her King seemed unspeakably dear to her that night, and she covered his long body with her kisses, unable to bear the thought of causing his death. She knew she had to save Helena, but she wanted so badly to save him, too. She tortured her mind in the brief span before she allowed him to enter her, trying desperately to think of some way both he and Helena could come out of this alive. It should not be so bloody damn hard to outsmart Treadwell, she thought, and then Charles penetrated her. She let herself savor it, let all thought be lost in the rhythm beginning. “Oh, God, Charlie!” was both prayer and outcry.
Predictably, Treadwell became irate when she did not have a night set for the assignation. “I'll be back tomorrow,” he threatened.
“He won't send for me again tonight,” Arden protested yet again.
“It doesn't matter,” growled Treadwell. “I'll have something that will stop you dragging your feet.”
The next day, he returned, an excited satisfaction on his face. He held something behind his back. Before Arden could ask―and she did not want to ask―he brought it round to his front. A plain cloth sack, held closed only by his fist. A spot of red colored its bottom corner.
Arden's gorge rose in fear. Treadwell
noticed, and smiled. He loosened his hold on the bag so that he could plunge one hand in. He brought up a small wad of baby-fine black hair―still attached to a tiny piece of bloody scalp. “You'll have a date for me tomorrow night, yes?” he chortled, brandishing the object of horror.
“You hideous creature!”
“Not so loud, or there will be far worse,” Treadwell warned. “I'll make it easy for you, slut. The Almanac predicts a full moon for Wednesday next fortnight. Set it up for then. Or your brat will scream a lot worse than she did at this.”
Arden wanted so badly to fling herself at his throat and choke the life from him. But whether she managed or didn't succeed, what would happen to Helena? Against her will, against her better judgment, she raised her hand to him. Too slowly, and Treadwell caught her by the wrist, squeezing it cruelly. “Wednesday, next fortnight,” he repeated.
She nodded vigorously, and he released her arm. Arden watched him walk away down the alley before she re-entered her flat building. She made it to a chamber pot before she vomited. Thanks to Margaret, she felt fairly certain the cause had been Treadwell’s mad cruelty, rather than the beginnings of another royal bastard.
*****
Sam had seen the black-draped Fanatick threatening Arden. He'd seen him pull something from a sack, but stood hidden too far away to see what it was. Given Arden's reaction, he had a hard time stopping himself from running up and beating the blackguard about the head and shoulders. He managed, however, to control the impulse. Sam waited until Arden had vanished inside to begin trailing her tormentor down the street. He counted on his own borrowed Quaker garb to render him unimportant if the Fanatick turned round and spied him.
Chapter Fifty-Three
After Sam had trailed the man he had already begun to call “the abductor” to a lair deep in the heart of the City, he walked to where Mistress Brown resided with her aunt and uncle. They and their son Jed knew him by now; Mistress Brown had explained the actions in which the pair had involved themselves. The Densens, all three, had supported their efforts. Sam wondered, however, how all of the Quakers present would react to his news. They had no real reason to love the King, unless they charitably believed the rumors Charles II truly wanted a more religiously tolerant England, and only Parliament prevented this end.
“The men who have Bonnie and Helena are plotting to assassinate the King,” Sam blurted when Mistress Brown came downstairs, not even greeting her first.
The young woman did not display any of the shock or surprise he had expected, though her relatives obliged him with the proper gasps. “How dost thee know this?” Mistress Brown asked.
“I heard them. This man, this Fanatick—” He'd said it without thinking, before remembering Quakers, too, were tarred with the same term. Still, nothing for it but to continue. “He threatened Arden, I saw him. With something in a sack. So when he left, I followed him.”
“He did not see thee?” asked Mistress Brown.
“No, I'm certain. I followed him all the way into the City. Cocky bas—cocky chap never looked back, had no idea someone could be trailing him. Anyway, when he gets to this old house, he gives some complicated knock, and this other chap comes to let him in. The one holding the door says, 'Do we have a date yet?' And the other one, the one what threatened Arden, he says: ‘Not for certain, but God willing, the King will die a fortnight from Wednesday.’”
“And Bonnie and Helena?” Mistress Brown asked. “Didst thou see them in the house?”
“Uh, no,” Sam replied, feeling suddenly sheepish. “But they have to be there, don't they? This has to be the answer!” To wait and watch so long, to come so close, and still not be sure of Bonnie's whereabouts? Sam's heart sank.
“It probably is the answer,” said Mistress Brown, soothingly. “But we have to be sure. For instance, those might well be the men who have Helena and Bonnie, but they might be keeping them in another location. First thing tomorrow, Mr. Thompson, we must go there and preach.”
“Not tonight?” asked Sam. He really didn't think he could take any more suspense.
“No, I think to show up that late in the evening would only look suspicious,” said Mistress Brown. “Now, Mr. Thompson, be sure and tell Uncle George and Jed exactly where this house lies. And tell Mr. Courtenay, too, when thou gettest back to him. That way, if we should not return by, say, four o'clock in the afternoon, they may come to our aid.”
She really is very clever, thought Sam, nodding at Mistress Brown in agreement. He looked at the young Quaker's relatives, and they gestured their agreement as well. He took his leave of the family after describing the conspirators' location, and headed for his employer's house.
When he arrived there, he found Mr. Courtenay supervising his latest delivery of wine. Sam thankfully observed that these bottles, like the delivery before it, had been taken directly to the cellars. Courtenay himself had said: “Let the deliveries continue. Let the word about town continue that I am drinking myself senseless. Who can tell but that word otherwise might reach the abductors and put them on the alert?”
“We've finally had some luck,” Sam told Courtenay when he looked in his direction. He explained the afternoon's events, and Mistress Brown's thoughts upon them. Courtenay admitted the Quaker girl had probably come up with the best approach. Sam gave him directions to the house they planned to visit, just in case they had not returned by four o' clock. Now he had only to wait until tomorrow, and to try to sleep through the night.
*****
Arden dared not think of Treadwell's last token of her daughter, for fear the horror would show on her face before her royal lover. Nor dared she think of that lover himself. She could only allow herself to think about the steps she needed to take to get the King to accompany her to St. James' Park on the night of the full moon. She chanted these steps to herself while riding in the litter to Whitehall―completely inwardly, not even letting herself whisper. She could not chance the litter bearers nor the page overhearing her.
Now, at last, Arden's wait for Charles II ended when he opened the door to his chambers. She had pulled a sheet from the mattress, wrapped it artfully around herself, and stood beside the bed as the King entered.
“What game tonight, Arden?” he called to her, black eyebrows raised in amusement.
“I have a boon to ask of you, Your Majesty,” said Arden, as brightly as she could manage. “Do you remember that oint-ment, the one that shimmered and sparkled so?”
“Yes, love. Do you want me to have someone fetch it to us?” Charles asked, moving closer to her with one great stride.
Arden ducked under the long arm reaching for her and raced to the other side of the huge, canopied bed. “Oh, no, not tonight,” she protested coyly. “Remember, Your Majesty, how I asked you if we could take it outdoors one night, and use it under the moonlight? Well, the Almanac says we'll have a full moon a fortnight from Wednesday. Would that not be—perfect?” Arden lingered over the last word with her best imitation of a purring house cat.
Charles' eyes looked upward, and Arden recognized his inward focus. Counting days, she thought.
“But that won't fit in with our regular schedule,” he said, turning his black-eyed gaze back to Arden.
“Oh, but if Your Majesty took a two-night rest from me, right before the full moon, I could reward your patience beyond measure,” Arden countered. She allowed him to approach her now, and boldly stroked the royal chin.
“That does sound intriguing,” Charles admitted.
“In St. James' Park,” Arden continued, pressing her advantage. “No one else, just you and me.”
“Well, of course, no one else,” Charles said quickly. “What do you take me for, love?”
Even underneath her mental anguish, Arden felt a twinge of amusement. She had heard rumors the King had held late-night “parties” with Castlemaine and another woman―or two. If she had to make a choice between believing or not believing, Arden would have to guess it true. She had more reason than ever now to be
grateful of the King's kind consideration for her sensibilities. On the other hand, if we invited Castlemaine, too, and Treadwell shot her by mistake—
Charles interrupted her escape fantasies. “Very well, my dear. If that is your wish, that is how it shall be.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty!” Arden tried to sound more excited by the naughtiness of her scheme than desperately grateful at having her request granted.
“But what shall we do tonight, then?” asked Charles.
“I trust Your Majesty will think of something,” said Arden, dropping the sheet.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Sam stood with Mistress Brown before the entrance to a dilapidated house in the City. Mistress Brown had insisted they should not make the attempt before ten o'clock in the morning, and so ten o'clock it was. Sam knocked, figuring he could create more sound than his girlish companion. Then they both waited, and while they waited, Sam worried. What if no one answered? Forcing the door would arouse suspicion. He placed his ear against the door. Mistress Brown, catching on immediately, did the same. Sam could not vouch for what she heard, of course, but he heard footsteps. People definitely moved in there now.
And then it came―the loud wail of a baby, abruptly cut off. Mistress Brown turned to look at him with wide, triumphant eyes. Then she frowned, and whispered, “Shall we knock again?”
Sam gestured for her to wait a moment. Just plain knocking again probably wouldn't gain them entry. He tried hard to remember the pattern he'd heard the nasty old Fanatick use after he'd trailed him here. He prayed God he had it close enough, and someone inside proved stupid enough to be fooled. Then he attempted rapping the pattern, and both he and Mistress Brown held their breaths.
In a moment, they heard footsteps approaching. Soon after that, the door opened wide enough for a younger man ―not Sam's original grizzled Fanatick―to see them and be dismayed.
Arden's Act Page 29