The king was in his laboratory when they arrived.
A barge took them down the river, not so far as the tennis courts, but perhaps halfway, where there was a large plain building, recently whitewashed and pleasantly designed with windows. The king’s guards stood before the entrance, but they made way for them.
Ondine could not help but smile at the sight of the king. He was clad in a large apron, and he stood behind a table, busy with vials that steamed and smoked, intent as he measured one bubbling liquid against another, his dark eyes alive with interest.
He looked up at their arrival, a broad smile curling his full lip. “I’ve done it! I believe I’ve done it!”
Warwick arched a brow, approaching the scene. “Might I ask, Your Grace, done what?”
“Root and herb and sunshine, friend, ‘tis the trick. Why, I’ve ‘Bon vivant’!”
” ‘Bon Vivant’?”
“Ah, but you’re still too young a fellow!” the king said impatiently. “This was taught to me once in my wandering years by an old French chemist—‘tis a potion to ease certain strains of age, which we’ll not discuss! It’s a potion I’ve at last remembered, and perfected, which pleases me so much in fact—Justin Chatham!— that I am glad to see you returned!”
Justin, standing carefully behind Ondine, cleared his throat. The king set down his vials, removed his apron, and stepped forward. He, too, cleared his throat, and Justin came forward, kneeling down to kiss the king’s ring.
“Duly contrite, Justin?” the king queried.
“Duly so, sire!” Justin replied.
“Then get off your knees—and see that you don’t plague me with a knave’s behavior in the future. And then get out of my way, so that I might greet Lady Chatham, since I swear she is finer upon my eyes than either of the pair of you!”
Ondine quickly dropped him a curtsy. He drew her to her feet with both hands and kissed her cheeks. “My dear, you grow more beautiful. I know not why you’re here, but I’m glad to see you. Justin, take Ondine for a walk. If you must be about court, be useful. I need a word with Warwick.”
Warwick tensed and started to protest. Ondine felt a sinking misery grip her, for she knew that he feared to have her alone with Justin—for her safety, lest they both be fooled by emotion. Justin frowned, forced to an awareness that his brother did not trust him. But the king stared steadily at Warwick, then turned, saying something that only Warwick heard. Warwick grinned and waved to Justin and Ondine as he followed Charles back behind his laboratory table.
But it was too late, Ondine could tell. Justin now knew that something troubled Warwick deeply.
When Justin took her hand and they left the lab, she knew the king had given Warwick assurance, for guards followed behind them. Justin lowered his voice as they idly wandered trails of oaks.
“What is this, then, that my brother fears my protection is not enough for his wife?”
“Justin, it is not that. He is edgy, nothing more—”
“Nay! Don’t take me for a fool!” Justin cried, and she knew that he had been hurt deeply by his brother’s distrust.
“Justin—”
“He suspects me—his brother!—of some foul deed?”
“Nay!” Ondine protested lightly. “Surely ‘tis a foul mood—”
“Why, then, his mood?”
She managed to laugh at that. “You tell me, Justin! You are the ‘beast’s’ own blood!”
He eased a bit and chuckled with her, but then they both stiffened as the guard that followed them gave way to a woman elegantly dressed in velvet and lace in the deepest sky blue.
Lady Anne.
“Justin Chatham! Why, you lovely boy, so you are here with your brother and his … lady.”
“Aye, Anne, that I am,” Justin replied, bowing to her.
“And lady Chatham! How nice to see you at court again. You are such a fascinating creature. Of such wonderful mystery and intrigue! Oh, I do love a good mystery, don’t you, Justin?”
“Oh, most assuredly,” Justin replied, but Ondine was certain that he eyed Anne as suspiciously and warily as she did.
For there was, beyond a doubt, something very sinister about Anne today. She was so gloriously … smug. And happy. She was so very much like a cat, happy with cornered prey.
“Where’s Hardgrave?” Justin asked her.
“Lyle?” she asked, smiling sweetly. “Why, he’s about somewhere, I do imagine. A busy man, though, of course.”
“Of course. Yet strange, isn’t it, that we all travel about the country at the same time?” Justin asked politely.
Anne smiled a vibrant smile, and Ondine felt heat quake through her. Anne was beautiful. A cat that might crawl into beds, she was still stunningly lovely.
“Strange? Maybe,” Anne murmured elusively. “And just how are you, child?” she asked Ondine. “Do you survive married life well?”
Her expression was bland. Ondine returned to her with all the sweetness she could muster.
“I adore married life, Anne. And all the wonderful… endowments it brings to one!”
“Ah! There they are!”
The king’s voice stopped them all. Charles and Warwick appeared on the trail. The king greeted Anne with a frown.
“I heard that you had returned.”
“The North was too quiet.”
Charles raised a dark brow, but said nothing more to her. He took Ondine’s hand and started down the path with her, leaving the others to follow as they chose, but clearly displaying his desire for them to remain a distance behind.
Ondine longed to turn around; longed to discover why Warwick’s voice was low, and why Anne laughed so beguilingly.
She did not. In a low voice Charles claimed her attention. “I am deeply distressed. It had been my belief that Warwick was plagued by sorrow and guilt; now I know that murder haunted my hospitality, my court. You were attacked?”
“Frightened near to an early grave,” Ondine admitted.
“There will be guards about you always,” the king promised. Then he hesitated. “He asked me today that I arrange a divorce. I told him that I am not, of course, the Church.” He sighed. “Yet we all know that such things are possible.”
She gasped. “He asked you—today—to arrange for a— divorce?”
” Aye.” Charles’ s wonderful dark eyes found hers with empathy and curiosity. “He feels now that his plan to marry you was a careless one. Lady, he does not want you harmed.”
He does not want me at all, and certainly not as wife! she thought with such ardent anguish and dismay that she feared she would scream or burst into tears before the king.
“I asked him about his child, and he betrayed by his baffled expression that you are not enceinte. When you leave here this time, he plans to go home but a night to see to all your things, then send you to the Colonies by way of Liverpool.”
She lowered her head, still unable to speak.
“I am warning you, my dear, of his plans, for although he is among the best and most valued of my friends, I have yet to betray a woman with your beauty, honesty, passion—and honor. Perhaps you may find you are forced to desert his cause to see to your own.”
She found her voice at last, though it was hoarse and broken. “You have not told him—who I am?”
“I do not betray what I consider to be a confidence.”
“Thank you. Bless you, sire,” she whispered.
“No tears! Tonight we banquet together. And I claim the dances again. The future will come, and when I may help you, know that I will.”
She nodded, aware only that they had paused and the others were behind them. She could not speak at all as they walked to the river to board the barge.
Justin was silent. Only the king, Anne, and Warwick found conversation, and Anne’s was exceptionally merry. Ondine caught Anne’s eyes frequently upon her, and she was very wary, for it seemed that Anne knew something she did not and was, perhaps, preparing to strike.
Strike?
Ondine queried herself uneasily. Was it possible? Could Anne have taunted her in cape and talons at Chatham? Had she, in fact, taunted Genevieve unto death?
This did not seem such a thing. It was more open; blatant, perhaps, as if she held some prize.
Ondine lowered her head, weary of it all, numb. Warwick would have to pursue his own demons. If he intended to send her to the Colonies, she would have to start worrying about her own future. The Colonies! She couldn’t leave England! There was still the matter of her own life and the treachery played against it to be solved!
In the courtyard at Hampton they parted ways, Justin seeing Buckingham and determining to speak with him, the king muttering something inaudible, and Anne waving to Hardgrave across the walk, laughing gaily at Ondine, and rushing off to join the viscount.
Ondine had nothing to say to Warwick as they returned to their chambers, nor did it seem to matter; he was so withdrawn. Her head splitting, she decided to lie down for a while and left him in the outer chamber.
Lying down, she slept and, sleeping, dreamt. Her visions came and went like whispy clouds, but none was soft. She saw the jailer in Newgate, rotten-toothed and leering, then that image faded and returned, and the face she saw belonged to the masked creature in the chapel. She fought that masked creature and saw herself on her father’s arm, at the king’s side at Westchester, saw a sword rise and fall, heard screams and the rage of guards …
She saw blood, red blood, staining the stone floor—her father’s blood. In her dream she remembered the anguish, the terror, and herself running and running, for if she did not escape, none would believe her pleas …
She did not know that she screamed aloud until she was startled awake. Her arms flailed wildly, and the cry she sounded was only stopped by the hand that was fitted tightly over her mouth.
“Sshh! What demon you wrest, lady, I know not, but you’re about to raise the palace in arms!”
Warwick’s voice was tender; he held her gently to his chest and for long moments she lay there, gasping, fighting to escape all the shadows and lingering ghosts. The strength of his arm was a tower to which she might cling; the steel of muscle beneath fabric was security; the living, vibrant wall of his chest a great harbor.
“Lady, tell me, what battle do you wage?”
She stiffened at the question, pushing furiously from him. He’d asked the king for a divorce that very day, and now he quizzed her. He wanted her to be a commoner, easily cast away. By God, she’d never be more to him! She would never betray the truth of her birth to him, or the mysteries and deceit that plagued her past.
“None who you will ever meet, Chatham!” she snapped. He caught her wrist and forced her eyes to his.
“What new venom is this, lady? You dream, and I soothe you, only to find your claws more deeply drawn.”
She jerked at her wrist. He did not release it, but held it taut.
“No new venom,” she told him wearily. Perhaps he did care for her safety. “Only that which has always been. Warwick, please! Will you leave me be!”
He released her and stood, staring down upon her. “Aye, milady, for now I’ll leave you be! Yet I think there is a graver fear, for Anne and Hardgrave whisper and plot, and I wonder what discovery has been theirs.”
She froze, shaken anew. Was that Anne’s great pleasure that afternoon? Had she found out that Ondine was the old Duke of Rochester’s daughter?
Warwick turned to leave her, bowing deeply at the door. “We leave for dinner shortly, if you would prepare.”
She sat long, quaking with fear. Then something settled over her, something that was perhaps a sense of fatality. She stood and was not pleased with the gown she had chosen to wear to dinner. Tearing through her trunk, she sought another and settled upon one with a bodice and looped sleeves in organdy, and an overskirt in deepest mauve. Pearls gleamed elegantly from the hem, and she knew that once she had dressed her hair, she would appear striking in any crowd. If Anne meant to do her harm, Ondine decided she would not hide from the attack.
She exited that inner chamber with her head high to find her husband at the mantel, his elbow against it as he sipped a whiskey. He raised a high arched brow at her appearance and gave her a dashing bow.
“My lady, I grant you this: You are no coward.”
“Shall we go?”
“If you’ve sins in your past, perhaps it might be best to confess them now.”
“Warwick Chatham, of all men, you’ll never be my confessor.”
He shrugged and took her arm, leading her from the room. But at their door he paused and pulled her close.
“Ondine, eternally you forget one thing: You are my wife.”
About to be cast out! she thought, feeding the fury that held her tears in check. She could not betray the king’s confidence.
“And you eternally forget one thing, great Lord of Chatham. I truly do not give a damn.”
“This night you should; the sharks are waiting.”
“Sir, then I shall sink or swim.”
“Perhaps you might need an arm.”
“Never yours!” she cried in fury and watched his eyes narrow darkly, felt the grip of his fingers wind tightly around her arm.
“Then, lady, drown if you will!”
She lowered her eyes, afraid of the fear enveloping her. Why? Oh, why on this night had she battled him so, despised his offers of assistance?
There was no help for it; it was done. Stiffly they walked into the hall, and desperately she worried what Anne might say.
She did not have long to worry or wait. They had barely reached the dining hall, peopled with nobles and ladies, chatting and laughing, when a man’s voice, harsh with vengeance, cried out upon them. “There they are now! Chatham—and his lady!”
The last was said with sarcasm. Ondine stiffened. A pathway parted between the crowd, and she saw Lyle Hardgrave, sneering as he approached them.
Warwick stiffened, hard and primed as a blade. A hush fell; the crowd drew back.
Ondine felt herself pulled forward on her husband’s arm. She realized that Justin had appeared from the crowd and stood in back of them, ready at his brother’s defense.
She doubted if Warwick even knew. His eyes were gold, a blaze upon Hardgrave.
“Aye. ‘Tis Chatham and his—lady. Do you say, sir, that it is not so?”
Ondine heard a whisper from the crowd. “Someone should summon the king!”
Hardgrave and Warwick ignored all else but one another. Hard-grave openly leered at Ondine and bowed low with graceless mockery. “Nay, good neighbor! I say no such thing. ‘Tis the lady Anne by chance discovered from whence she came.”
Anne stepped up from behind Hardgrave’s shoulder, in the greatest, most dramatic pretext of agitation.
“Warwick! I am ever so sorry! Let there be no discontent here!”
“Yes!” thundered a voice of authority, and the king stepped in amongst them. “Let there be no discontent here!” He frowned severely at the assembly, whirling to Anne.
“What is this?”
“Your Grace! ‘Tis true she is no lady!”
“And why is that?”
“I’d rather not say—”
“Then, madam, may I suggest that you don’t?”
Traitor, traitor! She will call me traitor, Ondine wailed within. She didn’t know how she stood in those moments, her fear was so great.
“Your Grace!” Hardgrave said. “She came from the gallows! Warwick Chatham married a common poacher, pulled from the hangman’s noose!”
“She’s a common wench, straight from the streets!” Anne announced.
The king turned about, mildly interested, appearing as if he knew nothing of the matter.
“Is this true?” he inquired with polite interest.
Seconds passed. Ondine did not know whether to be relieved that the real truth was not known, or horrified that Anne had chanced upon this damning information. And, oh, what a perfect moment for Warwick to turn against her! H
e could cry that she bewitched him, and plead that he be rid of her on account of sorcery …
He did not. At that moment he turned to her, his amber gaze a glorious fire. He drew her hand slowly to his lips, bowed over it, and kissed it most reverently. His eyes met hers, lingering, as if he were, indeed, bewitched. And then he returned his gaze to the king, still holding her hand tight.
“Your Grace, it is true. Yet, who could blame me? Across a great expanse I saw her face, the beauty in her eyes, the pride in her fair countenance. Never had I seen a more glorious creature called woman, condemned to such a terrible fate. I came to her and, seeing her, knew that never again would I find such sweet beauty, never would I know such a chance for love, and so, aye, Your Grace, I did marry her, then, on the spot, and, by God, sire, what man would not reach out so for a touch of heaven?”
Charles was still for a moment, slowly smiling, bemused and quite taken with Warwick’s witty salvaging of the situation.
Charles laughed and applauded, and the assembly applauded with the king, all taken with the wonderful romance of it. Charles pummeled Warwick upon the back.
“By the rood, Chatham, most wonderously stated, and most certainly, I could not have passed such a great beauty by!” The king bowed whimsically and gracefully to Ondine. “Lovely creature, you are indisputably a countess; I claim you to be among the greatest ladies of all my domain. Now, shall we have dinner?”
The king walked by; the assembly followed him.
Hardgrave and Warwick continued to stare at one another; Anne appeared furious and deflated.
Ondine trembled with a rush of warmth that brought color to her cheeks, and she felt faint. Oh, dearest God, after all, he had defended her, with far more than mere appearance would dictate. She did not want to be grateful, but she was. Breathlessly so. Achingly so. No threat or rage of his could have ever humbled her. The amazing reverence of his kiss upon her hand had done what words and warning might never accomplish. She wanted to thank him; she didn’t know how.
“Hardgrave,” Warwick said icily, “slander my wife, and you slander me. She might be defenseless to your malice and your sword; I, most assuredly, am not.”.
Ondine Page 26