She had smelled something delicious the moment she entered the room. Her nose led her to a small covered basket sitting upon one of the smaller tables. Arden lifted the lid and discovered a roasted fowl of some sort, still hot. Pheasant, if she had to guess. Also still hot was a loaf of bread. Protected from the heat of the rest of the meal by a polished wooden partition was a bunch of grapes and a bottle of wine. Even further from the hot food stood the blue glass vase holding the fragrant, shimmering unguent. The snare by which I've trapped the King, she thought.
Not far from the basket, she found a large soft pile of dark fur. Upon further examination, the pile consisted of two large blankets of sable, folded neatly. Arden smiled sadly at Charles' thoughtfulness. She only hoped he'd have time to take some joy from his own preparations before Treadwell and his dark league acted.
She loved her King. She loved Robert more, but that pained her too much to think about. Having some hope for Helena, however, had given her some hope for Charles as well. Or maybe just hope for her own reputation, her own escape from infamy. She knew she had no real reason to trust the mysterious message she had received, but somehow she trusted it anyway. Enough. Three-quarters of her, at least, believed someone knew and that someone planned to help.
That three-quarters made enough to decide on taking a risk. She would throw herself in front of the King when Treadwell and his fellows attacked. Possibly it would only buy Charles a few moments more of life, and they'd push her limp corpse aside and run him through. Perhaps, though, it would be enough to throw the whole scheme off, and the King would survive. In any case the world would know she had not, at the last, been a regicide.
Arden mused upon these points as the King entered his chambers. She turned and smiled upon him when she heard his boots on the threshold.
“You are truly looking forward to this, aren't you, my pet?”
“Oh, yes, Your Majesty!”
“Someday, I'll cure you of formality for longer than the end of an evening,” Charles II remarked wryly. He gathered up the blankets with one long arm, and the baskets with the other hand.
“Forgive me, but I sincerely doubt it, Your Majesty,” Arden replied.
“Follow me, my dear,” said the King, turning to leave the room. “I know ways out of this rabbit warren the chambermaids have never heard of.”
True to his word, the King led Arden through many winding passageways. Some proved so narrow he had to turn sideways, holding the basket before him and the blankets behind. Eventually they came out into the yard behind Whitehall. They turned their backs on the Thames, and slipped along the side of the palace to Charing Cross. Once they walked over the wide road, they entered St. James' Park.
“By the canal?” asked Charles.
“Yes.”
Though the trees lining the canal had only recently been planted, the King had been able to obtain specimens of a reasonable size for this portion of the park's landscaping. Spring thus far had been mild, and the buds of their leaves appeared large and almost ready to burst open. The canal area had certainly not reached its full glory, but Arden thought the spot Charles chose to spread one of the sable blankets seemed quite pretty in the moonlight. “The other one is for warmth, if we need it later,” he explained, inviting her to lie down beside him. He had not yet removed his clothing, but only his fine black leather boots, which he stood next to the extra sable at the blanket's border.
“So, Arden, love,” he said, once she had stretched opposite him, propped up on an elbow. “Shall we eat first, or see what magic the moonlight holds for us?”
“If it please Your Majesty, I would like a moment to decide.”
“As you wish.”
Arden did not know how to choose. If she chose to start with a picnic, and the conspirators already lurked nearby, she would not have to expose her body or engage in intensely private acts before them. If Treadwell and his henchmen did not yet lurk about, then perhaps she and the intended victim could conclude such acts before they arrived? And be assaulted in a more dignified pose, munching on roast pheasant?
Arden looked around. They had seen no one except a scruffy vagabond passed out in the middle of Charing Cross on their walk here. Now, of course, she could see no one but the King. She closed her eyes and listened, tried to feel for the presence of another person nearby. (Though “person” made quite the compliment if one meant Treadwell or any of his voluntary associates.) She sensed nothing and no one but herself and her royal companion. Well, there might be someone, walking out behind St. James’ Palace. If so, that individual seemed solitary to Arden, not part of a cabal. Some insomniac passing the time until morning, with an extremely large building between him and the tryst. “I am far more hungry for Your Majesty's touch than I am for food,” Arden said at last.
“Good,” the King said simply. “Two nights without you has crept by slowly for me.” He rose to his feet and helped her to her own. He stepped in back of her and started to unfasten her dress. “I've seen this one before,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Arden agreed. She did not normally like to wear gowns she associated with Robert to her trysts with the King, but this night could be her last. Besides, the silver shone lovely in the moonlight.
“I don't mind,” Charles commented. “It's almost as becoming as what I'm going to put on you.” He pushed the dress down from her shoulders, and she slipped her arms out of the sleeves. After lowering it to her waist, he reached around with both huge hands to give her breasts a brief caress, then proceeded with undoing her skirts. Arden felt the cool, soft breeze upon all of her skin.
“Shall I put it on you first, or shall I—”
“No, let's be more mutual, Your Majesty,” interrupted Arden, starting on the buttons of his shirt. The King had dressed himself simply, to avoid recognition had they encountered any people. His height and coloring tended to make him stand out among his countrymen, however. No matter, thought Arden. Those miscreants know exactly whom they seek. She accomplished disrobing him quickly, and he picked up the vase of unguent.
“Flecks of silver this time,” said Charles. “To complement the moonlight.” He poured some of the creamy liquid into her hands, and some into his own. The same spicy, exotic scent as before perfumed the air around them.
They stood naked, opposite one another. She began with his face, reaching up, as he began with hers. As they progressed downwards, Arden saw the shimmering flecks on her own skin as well as her royal lover's. Such beauty we make, in our last moments. She tried to concentrate on the sensations of his strong fingers, massaging the creamy liquid into her skin. When he slipped one into her, she gave a little gasp of pleasure, but she wanted Robert. She wanted to pretend Robert was the one who touched her, who pleased her, since it could well be her last night on earth. Arden believed, however, that she owed her King―who had never been anything but kind to her―more than that. She looked full into his dark shining eyes as he pulled her down upon the soft sable.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Captain of the King's Guard made the village idiot back in Chichester look like a sage. Courtenay could only hope the men guarding the Duke of York had more sense―enough sense to take heed of the anonymous note telling them to take extra care in protecting their charge this night.
Of course, it could be age, Courtenay thought. George Goring had reached his seventies now. Really, the King needed a younger, sharper man in charge of his safety. “You, Mr. Courtenay,” Goring had said, drawing out his name to emphasize the change his disinheritance had wrought, “are a jealous voyeur who only wants to humiliate the King. I ought to take you straight to Newgate! Just because he stole the jade you lost your senses and fortune over!”
Emerald, Courtenay had thought, seeing Arden's eyes before him. Not jade. Aloud, he had protested his status as a loyal subject of the King. His family's history as royalists, his own shared exile with the King. When none of this availed, he had demanded of the Captain of the Guard: “Ask him. Ask His Majesty if h
e still trusts the word of Robert Courtenay.”
“I shan't disturb His Majesty for your amusement,” the old fool replied.
Thus Courtenay had ended up alone behind St. James' Palace. He had brought his rapier, but he knew Arden's hideous old lecher of a stepfather headed the traitorous plot. The Fanatick did not strike Courtenay as a man of honor. So he had also brought along his father's flintlock pistol, which the old man had fortunately bestowed upon him when he'd left Chichester. He'd be able to get off a quick shot, anyway. He had additional balls, wadding, and powder, but he had no idea whether he would be able to make use of them.
He moved out from behind St. James' Palace, intending to walk out towards the canal. As he did so, he thought he could see something distinct from the lawn between two of the trees. It lay low to the ground. Taking care to step quietly, he walked closer. All too soon, he realized what he viewed, and he quickly averted his eyes. He sought shelter behind some bushes approximately half-way between the Palace and the canal. Knowing the King and Arden entertained each other nearby, Courtenay surveyed the park for anyone who might look like a member of a group of Fanaticks determined on assassination. He didn't see anyone, so he sat down cross-legged with his back to both the bush and the canal.
He could not be sure he did not imagine it, but every so often he thought he heard soft sighs and small catches of breath floating on the night breeze. Courtenay was sitting there solely because he wanted to prevent the King's assassination, and yet his own fingers itched to close around his monarch's throat. He wanted to beat Charles II bloody, to challenge him to a duel, or at the very least, haul him bodily off the beautiful form of the love of his life.
If he did the last, he felt sure the King would forgive him. What it might mean in terms of Helena and Arden's safety, however, he didn't know. Would his presence deter the conspirators and send them back to their lair to discover their hostages missing? Would they then take this out on Arden? Courtenay wanted to take a few things out on Arden as well, but he surely did not wish Treadwell to do any more damage to her than he already had. He concluded he needed to sit there, stealing a look every now and again to make sure the would-be assassins had not arrived. Meanwhile, he tried to think about Helena, in order to stop unwanted images from playing in his mind.
****
At the last, Arden had to call on her acting skills one more time with the King. Though he felt good to her as always, knowing what she knew, she could not quite reach her goal. Astride him, she arched her back and increased the frenzy of her movement upon him. Then she cried out, “Oh, Charlie!” and stiffened herself for a few moments before collapsing, genuinely exhausted, upon his glimmering chest. As she had stiffened, Arden felt the King spend within her. Sharp against the low moan of his release, however, she heard a loud, metallic click.
“Never let it be said I'm not kind, Charles Stuart,” said Treadwell, his voice harsh against the quiet night. “I let you finish.”
Arden's first instinct was to throw herself as far from the King as possible, and cover herself immediately. She remembered her plan to sacrifice herself, though, and stayed still.
“I fear you have me at a disadvantage, sir,” the King laughed. The laugh ended abruptly when he saw the flintlock pistol pointed at him.
“I ought to shoot you where you lay,” continued Treadwell, “like the licentious dog you are.”
“How dare you talk to His Majesty like that!” Arden protested. She wondered at Charles' own coolness. She didn't sense much fear of the pistol from him, but he also did not seem overly insulted by Treadwell's complete lack of respect.
“You mind your tone, Arden,” said Treadwell. “After all, you've reached the end of your usefulness. Get off him so he can stand to meet his Maker.”
“You know this man, Arden?” asked Charles, as they disentangled and stood up at Treadwell's gesture.
“He is my stepfather.” She tried to let distaste smother the shame in her voice. The look in the King's dark eyes hurt her almost as much as Robert's look when she told him she'd become the latest royal mistress. She glanced back at Treadwell. She knew she had to time things perfectly. Too soon, and her nemesis would simply hold his fire and have an associate or two drag her away. Too late, and the King died right then, without the chance she wanted to give him. Treadwell's gaze held steady at the King's chest, and Arden saw his long, bony forefinger stretch toward the trigger. Then he started to count, and she had to stifle a crow of triumph at how much easier he made her task. On “three,” Arden threw herself at the King's chest.
A loud shot broke the silence of the perfect spring night. Another began before the first had ended.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Arden awoke to searing pain. She could also feel strong, warm and familiar arms cradling her. Confusing, because she saw Charles II close before her, still naked―and still very much alive―pressing his wadded-up shirt to her left shoulder.
She would have let herself lapse back into unconsciousness then, if she had not heard: “Arden, you're alive!” from directly behind her. That voice held her eyes open.
“Of course she's alive, Robert,” said the King, sticking one arm into a coat offered him by one of the larger members of his Guard. “It only hit the poor lamb in the shoulder.” He changed the hand he used to press his shirt to her wound, allowing himself to put his other arm through the coat and fasten it. “Is the ball still in, or did it shoot clean through?”
Arden felt Robert moving her gently, his hands probing her shoulder from the back. “No wound in back,” Robert replied. “Must still be in there.”
“We'll take her back to Whitehall, and have my surgeon meet us there,” said Charles. Again, Arden considered passing out, but instead she strained to see around the King.
“Easy, darling,” Robert soothed, in response to her movement. “Everything is all right.”
She managed to see that one of Treadwell's minions lay motionless on the ground, unattended. The others, including Treadwell himself, stood bound and weaponless, surrounded by men of the King's Guard. As she ascertained this, old Goring, the Captain of the Guard, came rushing up. “Robert,” he called, breathlessly. “I do so apologize!”
“It was ‘Mr. Courtenay’ a few minutes ago,” Robert said tersely. “Good thing your second-in-command doesn't have to fight senility.” Goring said something meekly in reply, but his words flowed into each other and made a rushing river to Arden's ears. Her eyelids fluttered and closed once more.
*****
The next time Arden awoke, she found herself looking directly into the face of a beautiful little girl. Helena's baby features had matured somewhat during their separation, but not enough to confuse her mother, even in her somewhat opiated state.
“Mama?” Helena cooed, from a black-clothed lap.
Arden tried to reach for her daughter, and grunted in frustration when her left shoulder did not cooperate.
“Here, take her in thy good arm,” said Margaret, who proved the lap's owner. She set Helena on her feet upon the floor, and the little girl walked hurriedly to her mother's bed and nestled in the crook of her right arm.
Arden burst into tears. “Such a small thing,” she sobbed to Margaret, “that I missed seeing her first steps! When it is such a miracle I can hold her now!”
“Mama,” repeated Helena happily.
“And that she remembers me!” cried Arden, squeezing the child once more.
Suddenly, Arden felt all traces of opium disappear, and panic surged through her. “But how long will it last?” she asked Margaret. “Am I under arrest?”
“I don't believe so,” the Quaker answered immediately, leaving her chair to stand beside Arden's bed and pat her good shoulder reassuringly. “This is a room in Whitehall,” Margaret said. “His Majesty ordered thee brought here, and had his own surgeon remove the ball from thy shoulder.”
Relieved of her most pressing concerns, Arden could move on to others. “Where's Bonnie?”
&
nbsp; “Back at thy apartments,” Margaret replied. “Hopefully she is sleeping.”
“Is she—?”
“She is not significantly injured,” said Margaret, cautiously. “She is exhausted, though.”
Arden read Margaret’s hesitation and interpreted it, even though she had started to become pleasantly drowsy once more. “He got her, didn't he?” she sighed.
“Not thy stepfather, apparently,” Margaret answered. “One of the younger ones.”
“Small favor.”
“She is alive,” said Margaret kindly. “She will heal.” After a time she added: “Sam seems to be a kind, understanding man.”
“Did you give her some of the infusion?” asked Arden.
“Yes, just to be safe. She was having her courses when we freed her, so all should be well.”
“Good. Sam won't have to be that understanding,” said Arden. “Still—the poor dear.”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed.
After a moment, Arden asked: “Is everyone else all right? I mean, I saw one of my stepfather's friends probably dead on the ground, and he can rot in Hell for all I care. Especially if he's the one who hurt Bonnie. But, Robert, is he unharmed? And His Majesty?”
“Yes, Mr. Courtenay and the King are completely unhurt. As for the fallen conspirator, God will forgive thy hard heart―just as he forgives my own.” Arden could not detect even the slightest trace of a smile from Margaret during the last part of her utterance. She herself, however, had difficulty meeting the Quaker's sincere gaze with a straight face. “Has Robert seen Helena?” she asked.
“Oh, yes!” Margaret replied. “Mr. Courtenay took great delight in their reunion. Helena seemed happy enough, but I don't think she truly recognized him as she did thee.”
As Margaret finished her sentence, the door to the little room burst open. Charles II stood upon the threshold. He wore far more formal garb than when she had seen him last. Margaret stood and made a deep curtsey. Once the King nodded to her, she scooped Helena up to carry. “I'll take her back to Bonnie,” she told Arden.
Arden's Act Page 31