“What orders?”
“You don’t understand?”
“No,” Milady said. “Please explain what you mean.”
“Since he mistrusted me and decided to guard you himself, Lord Winter sent me in his place to get Buckingham’s signature on your order of transportation.”
“But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?”
“How would I know what I was carrying?”
“I suppose that’s true. So you’re going to Portsmouth?”
“I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the 23rd, and tomorrow Buckingham sets sail with his fleet.”
“He sets sail tomorrow? For where?”
“For La Rochelle.”
“But he mustn’t sail!” cried Milady, forgetting herself in a momentary panic.
“Don’t worry,” Felton replied. “He will not sail.”
Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the young man’s heart, and there she saw written the death of Buckingham.
“Felton, you . . .” she said, “you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I’ll die with you. That is all I can say.”
“Quiet!” said Felton. “We’ve arrived.”
In fact, the bow of the boat was touching the side of the ship. Felton climbed first onto the ladder, then gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors assisted her, as the sea was still quite rough.
A moment later they were on deck.
“Captain,” said Felton, “here is the person I spoke of, whom you must convey safe and sound to France.”
“For a thousand pistoles,” said the captain.
“I’ve already given you five hundred.”
“That’s right,” said the captain.
“And here are the other five hundred,” said Milady, resting her hand on the sack of gold.
“No,” said the captain. “I’ve already made a deal with this young man that the other five hundred pistoles aren’t due until we arrive at Boulogne.”
“And will we arrive there?”
“Safe and sound,” said the captain, “as sure as my name’s Jack Butler.”
“Well,” said Milady, “if you keep your word, I won’t give you five hundred pistoles, I’ll give you a thousand.”
“Hurrah for you then, my pretty lady,” said the captain, “and may God send me customers like Your Ladyship more often!”
“In the meantime,” said Felton, “take me to the small bay at Chichester, near Portsmouth, as we agreed.”
The captain responded by giving the necessary orders, and toward seven in the morning the little ship dropped anchor in the designated bay.
During this passage, Felton told Milady everything: how, instead of going to London, he had hired the small ship; how he’d climbed the wall by fixing marlinspikes in the gaps between the stones, to give him footholds as he climbed; and how, once he’d arrived at the bars of the window, he’d attached the ladder. Milady knew the rest.
For her part, Milady undertook to encourage Felton in his scheme, but soon saw that the young fanatic had more need of restraint than encouragement.
It was agreed that Milady would wait for Felton until ten o’clock. If he didn’t return by ten o’clock, she was to set sail.
Then, if he was still free, he was to rejoin her in France, at the Carmelite convent in Béthune.
LIX
What Happened at Portsmouth on 23 August 1628
Felton took his leave of Milady the way a brother about to go for a stroll says goodbye to his sister: he kissed her hand.
At first glance he seemed to be in his customary state of calm, but there was a strange light in his eyes, as if he had a fever. His brow was unusually pale, his jaw was clenched, and he seemed to bite off his words, all indications something dark was working within him.
As long as he was in the boat carrying him to shore, he kept his face turned toward Milady, who stood on the deck, following him with her eyes. Neither was worried about pursuit, as no one ever entered Milady’s chamber before nine, and it would take three hours to get from the castle to Portsmouth.
Felton set foot on shore, climbed the narrow trail that led to the top of the cliff, saluted Milady a final time, and took the path toward town.
The path sloped downward, and after a hundred paces he could see nothing of the sloop but its mast.
He hurried toward Portsmouth, which he could see less than half a league away, its houses and steeples emerging from the morning mist.
Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels, whose masts, like a forest of poplars made leafless by winter, rocked with each breath of wind.
Felton, marching briskly, reviewed what ten years among the Puritans had provided him with accusations, true or false, against the royal favorite.
When he compared the public crimes of this minister—shocking crimes that seemed to him almost Continental—with the private crimes of which he was accused by Milady, Felton thought that, of the two sides of the man who was Buckingham, the side unknown to the public was the more guilty. This was because his love, so strange, so new, so ardent, made him regard the infamous (though imaginary) accusations of Lady Winter as if through a magnifying glass, expanding atoms smaller than ants into frightful monsters.
The speed of his march fanned the fire in his blood; the idea that he’d left behind him, exposed to a terrible vengeance, a woman he loved—or rather, worshipped as a saint—combined with fatigue and the tumult of his emotions to excite his mind to inhuman, feverish heights.
He entered Portsmouth about eight in the morning. The entire population was afoot: drums were beating in the streets and at the port, and the troops to be embarked were marching down to shore.
Felton arrived at the headquarters of the Admiralty covered with dust and streaming with sweat; his face, ordinarily so pale, was purple with anger and passion. The sentry wanted to turn him away, but Felton appealed to the officer of the guard and drew the letter he carried from his pocket. “An urgent message from Lord Winter,” he said.
At the name of Lord Winter, who was known to be one of His Grace’s closest friends, the officer of the guard allowed Felton to pass, all the more easily as he wore the uniform of an officer of the Marines.
Felton rushed into the mansion that housed the Admiralty headquarters. Just as he entered the vestibule, another man entered the courtyard, likewise covered with dust and out of breath. He alighted at the gate from a post-horse that immediately sank to its knees, exhausted.
Felton and the new arrival addressed Patrick, the duke’s confidential valet, at virtually the same moment. Felton said he represented Lord Winter, but the stranger wouldn’t say from whom he came, insisting he could reveal that only to the duke. Each was determined to gain entrance before the other.
Patrick, who knew that Lord Winter had ties of both friendship and service to the duke, gave the preference to the man who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, aggravated and cursing the delay.
The valet led Felton across a large hall, in which were waiting the emissaries from La Rochelle, headed by the Duc de Soubise.111 They entered a private room where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his grooming, to which, as always, he was paying extraordinary attention.
“Lieutenant Felton,” said Patrick, “on the behalf of Lord Winter.”
“From Lord Winter!” repeated Buckingham. “Show him in.”
Felton entered. Buckingham was just tossing aside a rich robe de chambre edged with gold brocade to don a blue velvet doublet embroidered with pearls.
“Why didn’t the baron come himself?” Buckingham asked. “I expected him this morning.”
“It is my duty to inform Your Grace that he very much regretted not having that honor,” Felton replied, “but that he was detained by the guard that he is obliged to keep at the castle.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Buckingham. “He has a prisoner.”
“And it is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to
Your Grace,” Felton said.
“Well, then, speak.”
“What I have to say is only for your ears, Milord.”
“Leave us, Patrick, but stay within sound of the bell,” said Buckingham. “I’ll call for you shortly.”
Patrick went out.
“Now, Sir, we’re alone,” said Buckingham. “Speak.”
“Milord,” Felton said, “Baron Winter wrote to you the other day to request your signature on an order of transportation regarding a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”
“That’s correct, Lieutenant, and I replied that if he would bring or send me that order, I would sign it.”
“Here it is, Milord.”
“Give it here,” said the duke. Taking the paper from Felton, he scanned it quickly. Recognizing it as the expected order, he placed it on the table and picked up a plume to sign it.
“Begging your pardon, Milord,” said Felton, stopping the duke, “but is Your Grace aware that Charlotte Backson isn’t the real name of this young woman?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I know that,” replied the duke, dipping the plume in the inkwell.
“Then, Your Grace knows her real name?” Felton asked sharply.
“I know it.” The duke put the pen to the paper.
“And, knowing her real name, Milord, you’d sign it all the same?” Felton said.
“Absolutely. Given the chance, I’d sign it twice,” Buckingham said.
“I cannot believe,” continued Felton, his voice becoming sharper and more ragged, “that Your Grace knows this order concerns Lady Winter . . .”
“I do know it, perfectly well, though I’m astonished that you know it!”
“And Your Grace still signs that order without remorse?”
Buckingham gave the young man a haughty look. “Gad, Sir,” he said, “why do you ask such strange questions, and how can you think me fool enough to answer them?”
“Answer, Milord,” said Felton. “The situation is more serious than you may believe.”
It occurred to Buckingham that the young man came on behalf of Lord Winter, and doubtless spoke in his name, so he took a more moderate tone. “No, no remorse,” he said. “The baron knows that Milady Winter is guilty of serious crimes, and it’s an act of clemency to reduce her sentence to transportation.”
The duke poised his plume over the paper.
“You will not sign that order, Milord!” Felton said, taking a step toward the duke.
“I won’t sign this order?” said Buckingham. “And why not?”
“Because you will obey the dictates of conscience, and render Milady justice.”
“I would render her justice by sending her to Tyburn,” said Buckingham. “Milady is a criminal who deserves no better.”
“No, Milord—Milady is an angel, as you well know, and I demand from you her freedom.”
“Gad!” said Buckingham. “Are you mad, to talk to me this way?”
“Excuse me, Milord! I say what I must, and don’t mean to offend. But consider what you’re doing, Milord, and beware of going too far!”
“What’s that you say? God blind me!” cried Buckingham. “I do believe the man threatens me!”
“No, Milord, I still pray, and I say this: one drop of water is enough to make the full vase overflow, and one small sin may be enough to bring punishment down on a head that has been spared despite many crimes.”
“Lieutenant Felton, you are dismissed,” said Buckingham. “Withdraw, Sir, and immediately place yourself under arrest.”
“You will hear me to the end, Milord. You have seduced this young girl—you have outraged and defiled her. Make restitution for your crimes against her, let her go free, and I will require nothing else of you.”
“You, require of me?” said Buckingham, regarding Felton with a look of astonishment and drawing out each syllable of the words as he said them.
“Milord,” Felton continued, growing more excited as he spoke, “Milord, take care! All England is weary of your iniquities. Milord, you have abused the royal power, nearly usurped it; Milord, you are an abomination in the eyes of God and men. God will punish you later, but I will punish you now.”
“Bah! This is too much!” cried Buckingham, taking a step toward the door.
Felton barred his passage. “I ask you humbly,” he said, “to sign the order that sets Lady Winter at liberty. Think, Milord: you owe it to this woman you have dishonored.”
“Withdraw, Sir,” said Buckingham, “or I will call and have you put in irons.”
“You will not call,” said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and the bell that stood on a silver-chased end table. “Beware, Milord, for you are in the hands of God!”
“In the hands of the devil, you mean,” cried Buckingham, raising his voice to attract attention without directly calling for it.
“Sign, Milord. Sign the liberty of Lady Winter,” said Felton, holding a paper before the duke.
“By force? You can’t be serious. Hey, there! Patrick!”
“Sign, Milord!”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“Guards!” the duke shouted, and at the same time sprang for his sword.
But Felton didn’t give him time to draw it. He pulled out the knife that Milady had stabbed herself with and was upon the duke in one bound.
At that moment Patrick entered the room, calling out, “Milord, a letter from France!”
“From France!” cried Buckingham, forgetting everything else at the thought of from whom that letter came.
Felton took advantage of Buckingham’s distraction to plunge the knife into his side up to the hilt.
“Ah! Traitor!” cried Buckingham. “You’ve killed me . . .”
“Murder!” Patrick howled.
Felton spun around, looking for a way out. Seeing the door open, he darted into the antechamber, rushed past the emissaries from La Rochelle, and made for the staircase. But on the first step he met Lord Winter who, seeing him pale and wild, with blood staining his hands and face, took hold of him, crying, “I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, damn me! Damn me for a fool!”
Felton put up no resistance. Lord Winter turned him over to the guards, who took him out onto a little terrace overlooking the sea while awaiting further orders. The baron hurried into Buckingham’s chamber.
At the duke’s cry, and Patrick’s scream, the man Felton had met outside had also rushed into the duke’s chamber. He found the duke lying on a sofa, his hand clenched on his wound.
“La Porte,” said the duke, his voice weak, “La Porte—do you come from her?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied Anne of Austria’s loyal servant, “but perhaps too late.”
“Hush, La Porte! Someone might hear you. Patrick, no one is to enter. My God, I’m dying! I’ll never know what she had to say to me!” And the duke fainted.
Meanwhile, Lord Winter, the emissaries, the commanders of the expedition, and the officers of Buckingham’s household had all pushed into the chamber, and cries of despair arose on all sides. At the news, the headquarters echoed with groans and laments, and word soon spread throughout the city. A cannon was fired to announce that some new and unlooked-for event had occurred.
Lord Winter tore his hair. “Too late by a minute!” he cried. “Too late by a minute! Oh, my God! My God, what a thing! What a terrible thing!”
They had awakened the baron at seven that morning with the news that a rope ladder had been found hanging from one of the castle windows. He had immediately run to Milady’s chamber and found it empty, with the window open and the bars filed through. He remembered the verbal warning d’Artagnan had sent with his messenger; fearing for the duke, he’d run to the stable. Without waiting to have his horse saddled, he’d jumped onto the first one he’d come to, and ridden belly to the ground to Portsmouth. In the courtyard he’d leaped from the horse, run up the stairs—and met Felton on the top step, coming out.
But the duke was not dead.
He came to, opened his eyes, and hope revived in all their hearts.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “leave me alone with Patrick and La Porte. Ah! Is that you, Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning. Look what a state he’s put me in!”
“Oh, Milord!” the baron cried. “I’ll never forgive myself for this.” “And you would be quite wrong, old friend,” said Buckingham, giving him his hand. “I don’t know any man for whom it’s worth destroying your life with regrets.”
The baron went out, sobbing, leaving only the wounded duke, La Porte, and Patrick. A doctor had been sent for, but hadn’t yet come.
“You will live, Milord, you will live,” repeated Anne of Austria’s messenger, kneeling before the sofa.
“What does she write to me?” Buckingham said feebly, streaming with blood, but fighting back the pain to speak of the woman he loved. “What does she write to me? Read me her letter.”
“Oh, Milord!” La Porte said.
“Obey, La Porte. Can’t you see I have no time to lose?”
La Porte broke the seal and held the parchment so the duke could read it, but Buckingham was unable to focus on the writing. “Read it!” he said. “I can’t see—read it! For soon I may not be able to hear, and then I’d die without knowing what she’s written to me.”
La Porte put up no more resistance, and read:
Milord:
By what, since I’ve known you, I have suffered by and for you, I implore you, if you have any care for my repose, to halt your mighty armament against France. Give up this war, for which it’s said aloud that religion is the ostensible cause, but for which it’s whispered that your love for me is the real motive. This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon France and England, but also upon you, Milord— and for that I could never forgive myself.
Guard your life, which is threatened, and which will be the dearer to me when I am no longer obliged to regard you as an enemy.
Your affectionate, ANNE
Buckingham had gathered all his remaining strength to listen. When the reading was over, he seemed to have suffered a bitter disappointment.
“Is that all you were told to tell me, La Porte?” he said.
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