The man hastily withdrew. Garnthorpe considered. Why did you stare at me so, Mr. Pitman? What make you here?
—
What make you here? thought Pitman, staring at the vacated rail of the box above.
He knew the man who’d looked down. Had seen him before; twenty years before, in a battle—or rather, in the aftermath of one. He had hoped never to see him again. He now discovered that twenty years had not diminished that hope one jot.
So lost was he, failing to dodge his memories, that it took him a while to note the persistent poking of his arm. His eyesight cleared and he glanced up into the familiar face of Captain Coke.
“I think you’d better insert yourself on the inside of the bench, sir,” Pitman said. “My size has already been much abused, and if I assume that position, we will be the target for orange peel throughout the performance.”
“I am hardly small myself, sir. And there is no space there.”
“Oh, but there is.” Pitman pushed hard sideways. Two people popped up farther down, and a yelp came from the far end of the bench.
Coke dropped into the small space, widening it with determined thrusts of his hips. “ ’Twill do,” he said, looking up at the bigger man. “I was tapping at you for a while. You seemed to be in a world you like none so well.” He took in the riot around, the cries of “Orange-orange-oh!” and “Fine ales!” and “Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!” rising from the cacophony of names called, insults traded, reunions noisily greeted. “Is this too much sin for one so godly?”
“Nay, Captain.” Pitman glanced again to the box above. “I have just seen a ghost.”
“Have you, by God. Whose?”
“Lord Garnthorpe’s.”
“I do not know him.”
“No? He was perhaps more notorious on our side of the wars than on yours. A colonel with the London Trained Bands, he had … a way of dealing with those who displeased him.”
“Harshly?”
“I once watched him whip three deserters to death. He wielded the whip until he tired, then had a corporal carry on, a brute, name of—” He squinted. “Nay, I forget his name. I had mercifully forgotten Garnthorpe’s too until just now.”
“Many terrible things were done. Many that I would forget and cannot.” Coke shook his head. “The best way I’ve found is to drink them away. What say you to a bottle of strong ale?”
“If you are buying.”
Coke placed thumb and forefinger and rubbed down either side of his moustache. “A slight problem. I have no money.”
“What happened to the forty you had of the Jew?”
“Gone.” Coke sighed. “Five was my hazard and I rolled my main.”
“Captain, tell me you did not lose forty guineas at dice?”
“Certainly not. A considerable portion went on a cock, Diavolo, whose name was the fiercest thing about it. Then there was a fighter named Glazier, whose jaw was also made of glass.” He clapped the other man on his shoulder. “So, Pitman of the Pit, it’s your round.”
“You will scarce be surprised how stale that joke already is. The alderman of my parish, who sits yonder and was most astonished to see me here, would not, like a dog that returneth to its own vomit, let the phrase alone. Still, it cost him, for the parish owed me three months’ wages and even that paltry little adds up.” He delved into a pocket, produced a florin. “Do not tell my wife. You fetch the beer while I hold this place.”
Coke took the coin, slid out. In a short while he was back with two bottles. Both men forced their bungs out, then toasted each other.
“Now, sir,” Pitman said, wiping froth from his beard, “as to the hunt for our murderer, I have had some thoughts on how we should proceed.”
Yet before he could share them, there was an upsurge of twittering in the house. A man in crimson livery had appeared in the largest box. Now he bellowed, “All rise for the king!”
Charles entered, arms raised as he beamed at the acclamation, the huzzahs and the impromptu rendition of a popular song:
Here’s a health unto His Majesty
With a fa-la-la-la-la-la-la
Confusion to his enemies
With a fa-la-la-la-la-la-la
And he that will not drink his health
I wish him neither wit nor wealth
And yet a rope to hang himself
With a fa-la-la-la-la-la-la.
Charles bowed, then helped a lady to the seat beside him. She wore a mask, and behind fluttering fans the crowd speculated on whose face was beneath it. Most decided that the woman, wearing a pea-green dress cut to emphasize a sizable bosom and the slimmest of waists, was Frances Stuart, the new favourite of the king’s, rather than the older Barbara Castlemaine, whose figure was differently shaped, having already borne the king five bastards.
After Charles had helped her sit, and before he himself did, he took a long look around the house, with a smile of equal warmth for both ladies and orange girls, all curtsying revealingly low. He acknowledged the occasional gentleman with a nod—and paused a fraction longer when he saw Coke, the slight dip of his head showing that he knew exactly who he was.
“He truly misses nothing,” the captain murmured, as first the king and then the audience settled, though the gossip was only suppressed by the clarion blast of a trumpet, followed by the subtler tones of viola, violin and flageolet. The ensemble played eight bars and then from behind one of the wings, on which was painted the Rialto bridge of Venice, stepped Thomas Betterton. His face and hands, as befitted the role he was about to perform, were painted a mahogany brown. Yet it was not in the character of Othello that he spoke now but as the leading actor of the Duke’s Company:
Like savage beasts that in their jungles lie
To leap and rend unwary passersby,
So we, the lions in this city’s glade,
Seek so to ambush lady and gay blade.
Alas!
Coke had never liked these prologues, which appeared to offer modesty and crave forgiveness, when truly they puffed up both player and audience. “ ‘The play’s the thing,’ ” he murmured. “For mercy’s sake, let’s to it.”
“Do you know this piece?” whispered Pitman as Betterton concluded, people clapped and the small orchestra struck up again.
“No,” replied Coke, “and I confess I find Old Will dull. I’m for a comedy and a dance when all’s said. Why, last year at Drury Lane, I saw—”
He did not finish, for two players walked in from opposite entrances onto the forestage, acknowledged the applause with a bow, turned their bodies square to the audience, their faces to each other and began to converse.
The play proceeded, though oranges were still sold, their sellers groped, and beer bottles popped explosively. “She does not have so much to do, Mrs. Chalker,” Pitman said at one scene’s end. “She is the villain’s wife, the mistress’s maid and nothing more?”
“She told me her main part is later. Now hush! For here comes Mrs. Absolute.”
Lucy entered and the crowd laughed. It was partly her gait. She played the role of Bianca, the courtesan, but not in the usual style of scheming vizard. This courtesan had paid a price for her lasciviousness: a belly swollen by it.
“She has it pat.” Pitman laughed. “My Bettina has been waddling so these two months.”
Coke did not laugh, knowing that the padding was not much and the walk near her natural gait. He glanced up at the boxes near the sovereign’s, inhabited by Charles’s closest cronies. But Rochester, the man responsible for the waddle, who had vowed to make amends, was not among them.
Coke had been distracted. The scene had ended and Charles was rising, applauding, so the rest of the audience did too. A break was being taken. King, courtiers and commoners would go to their separate stations, be it commode, closet or convenient wall, to void. “Come,” the captain said, “shall we go see the ladies?”
“Between acts? Is it done?” asked Pitman.
“Aye. It’s where the king’s going. Betterton will feed him, and off
er him a more discreet place for the royal piss.”
It was unfortunate that they arrived backstage after His Majesty. The royal party and those who ogled them formed a barrier to progress. Coke himself had no desire to see Charles, nor be seen by him—their interchange at the Banqueting House had been more than enough. Pitman, however, resisted Coke’s tugs to go around the mob. Indeed, for a man who’d spent a considerable part of his life trying to defeat the king’s cause, he seemed inordinately fascinated by the king himself.
“Amusing, is he not?” Pitman whispered.
“Hilarious,” answered Coke. “Now, if you would—”
“Hark! Betterton’s just praised him for being the one who allowed women on the stage—an addition I do think good myself. Let’s hear what he has to say, eh?”
“Saw ’em on the Continent during our exile, didn’t we, Jamie?” Charles was addressing his brother, the Duke of York, who nodded. “The French have had women players for years. My brother monarch Louis maintains it has led to a notable decrease of sodomy in his kingdom!” Cheers arose, which the king loudly topped. “Now, while I admire a comely lad as much as the next man, I do not desire one. I require a woman with whom to fully explore my feelings. Is that not right, my heart?”
Charles asked this last of the masked lady at his side. Rouged lips beneath the gold vizard shaped a smile. The voice was husky. “I cannot speak to your feelings, sir. Though, God’s my life, I know all about the exploring of your fingers.”
The loudest laughter came on this. Coke gave up pulling at Pitman and left him there gawking, going solo in search of the mistresses Chalker and Absolute.
He found them by the open rear door, in an enclave whose walls were made of racks of dresses. They were sitting on stools, Sarah with her arms around the younger woman, who looked pale. He bowed, then sat beside Lucy, taking her hand. “Lass, are you well?”
Sarah answered for her. “She was—until she realized Rochester was not with the king. He has never yet missed her first performance in any play. Yet no note has arrived, no messenger.”
“I am sure he has his reasons.” Lucy’s voice was weak, quite unlike her courtesan’s upon the stage. “All will be well, I am certain.”
“I will see that it is well,” Coke growled.
“Ah, my gallant,” murmured Lucy, squeezing his hand.
Sarah passed Lucy a glass of cordial. “Drink, my dear.”
Coke rose as did Sarah just as a man stuck his head through the dresses and said, “Mr. Betterton has given us the nod. A few minutes, ladies.”
“Mrs. Chalker.”
“Captain.”
Sarah led him a little way apart. “You need to know, sir. Lucy is ill.” Coke stiffened. “It is not the plague?”
“Nay. It is her woman’s state alone. But the worry does not help. I fear that the earl dallies with her. He promised her much last week and since has made no contact.”
Coke sighed. “I feared as much. I know Lucy has hopes of him, but a nobleman and an actress? It never ends happily. The most she can hope for is a settlement, which I shall strive to get her. Should we not persuade her of this and begin to ease her toward her new situation? I doubt she can remain much longer upon the stage.”
“We should. But not today.” She took the captain’s arm. “Let her believe what she will for now. She will know the truth soon enough.” They both glanced at her hand upon him and she drew it away. “Do you enjoy the play, Captain?”
“I do. Though not as much as Pitman does. He is enraptured.”
“Ah, yes. I noted him. Hard to miss, isn’t he, our Pitman in the Pit?”
“It is not an analogy I would belabour. He is already mightily sick of it.”
“I am sure.”
Both laughed. Both fell silent. Then, “Are you recovering, Mrs. Chalker?”
“No,” she replied, “but I am sustained. With the hope that you will keep the pledges you and Pitman made to me last week and aid me in finding John’s killer.”
If he’d had any doubts in his constancy to this cause—and he had—they vanished in her presence. “Indeed, madam, Pitman has some ideas of where such a search could begin.”
“I have been thinking much on this. This may be nothing—but there was a certain lord who was bothering me, whom John—”
She was interrupted by a young male voice. “Shelter me! Hide me! For mercy’s sake, sanctuary!”
The rack of dresses burst apart. Thrusting gowns aside, panting and sweating heavily, was the Earl of Rochester.
21
THE CLOSING
“Johnnie!” Lucy rose, stretching out her hands to him. “Whom do you flee? Oh, come to me.”
But whatever sanctuary he sought, it was not in Lucy’s arms. “You?” he cried. “No, it is the king I need—the king!” He swung around. “Majesty, where are you?”
“Here!” Through the dresses the earl had parted, Coke saw Charles step from around some furniture. “Well, sir? What means this clamour?”
“Sire!” Rochester threw himself down at the king’s feet. “You must protect me!”
“From whom? Get up, for pity’s sake.”
But the earl did not move and then did not have to answer, for through the rear doors charged three large men. “We have you!” the first of them cried, as the trio strode toward the prone nobleman. Men equally large intercepted them: the king’s bodyguards, interposing themselves between hunters and quarry.
Seeing their way was blocked, the earl’s pursuers began shouting, demanding him. The crowd below and a new one forming on the stairs, drawn from the theatre by the noise, also gave tongue.
But one voice above them all bellowed a single word: “Silence!”
Immediately the king’s command was taken up. “Silence for His Majesty! Silence!”
“What means this uproar?” demanded Charles. “For God’s sake, Rochester, get off my boot, will ye! Stand and face your pursuers, man. I will not let them take you. I do not know who they are. Who are you, damme?”
The first man, his large face heated to a carrot red, now fully realized in whose presence he was. “Sire,” he said, removing his hat, “we are constables of the parish of St. Martin in the Fields. And we have come to arrest that villain.”
“No villain I,” shouted the earl, standing at last, “unless love be a crime, I am none.”
Some of the courtiers cheered this, some people on the stairs too. Charles waved a hand. “This is the Earl of Rochester, Constable. By what right do you pursue him?”
“By the right, begging Your Majesty’s pardon, that he has committed a heinous crime in our parish. A most heinous one.”
“And have you a warrant drawn for this crime allegedly committed?”
“I require none. For the outrage was committed not half an hour since and we are even in pursuit of him from the scene.” The man drew himself up still taller, not much intimidated by the royal presence. “He will be indicted once we have him in Newgate.”
“But what has he done?” demanded the king.
“Not twenty minutes since, by Charing Cross, he tried to abduct Elizabeth Mallet!”
A gasp arose at the constable’s announcement. Obviously some there knew the name. Coke did not and raised eyebrows at Sarah. “An heiress,” she whispered. “Very young, I believe, but possessed of two and a half thousand a year when she comes of age.”
“Is this true, Lord Rochester?” The king’s tone was severe.
“Sire,” the earl answered, “it cannot be a crime, surely, when the victim is willing.”
“It can if she is below the age of consent. The crime is not against her but her parents. They are the ones you robbed. Failed to rob, you double idiot!” He shook his head. “I warned you off her, Johnnie. Time and again I told you, do not—Ach!” He put a hand between the earl’s shoulder blades and pushed him. “Take him, Constables. Do your duty, since he knows none.”
The king’s bodyguards and the courtiers gave back. Only one sta
yed quivering in the path of the advancing men. “Ma-Majesty,” stuttered Sir Charles Sedley, “you cannot let one of us be put in—” he swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing “—Newgate.”
“Why not?”
“You cannot! Unhand me, oafs!” squealed Rochester, as men took his arms. “Sire, I beg you! Do you not rule here?”
The king pivoted, his one walleye appearing even glassier. “I do, Lord Rochester. And I have vowed to see that the laws of England apply equally to every man.” He glanced up. “Here is someone arrived who will confirm me in my opinion. Is that not so, my Lord Chancellor?”
All turned. Standing on the stair was Sir Edward Hyde. “I am sure you do not need my confirmation on anything to do with the law, Sire.” His voice, oft likened to dry leaves rubbed, barely crackled.
“But would value it anyway. If you feel able to give it, Edward—you look exhausted, man.”
“I have been up these several nights upon a matter I would speak to you about with some urgency. It is why I am here. It is your opinion I need, Majesty.” Sir Edward sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is the crime for which they would take you to Newgate, my lord?”
“Love,” shouted Rochester.
“Abduction. Attempted, anyway. Of a minor,” said the king.
“A capital offence, then. You could hang, sir.” Hyde lowered his hand. “However, since you are a nobleman, you can claim the axe rather than the rope. Indeed, since you are a nobleman—” he yawned “—you can claim the Tower over any other prison.”
“The Tower?” Rochester ceased struggling. “I’ll take the Tower. That’s where nobility lies.”
The chief constable spoke. “If I can have him before my justice of the peace back in St. Leonard’s, and he says it’s acceptable, I’ll turn him over to the king’s justice and the Tower.”
“Very well. All settled. So it is prison for you, my lord, one way or t’other, and no more than you deserve.” Charles looked around. “And now that we have had quite enough drama off the stage, shall we return to the professionals? Can my opinion wait on this other matter, Edward?”
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