The Vizard Mask

by Diana Norman

  The rest of the house was quiet. She heard a creak on the tiny flight of steps that led to the passage between the hall and the solar. It did that sometimes. When she went out to check that nobody was outside the room, the corridor was empty.

  Returning, she opened the bedhead panel and pushed the door behind it. 'Are you all right?' Stale aii carr.e out at her.

  It was Benedick's voice. 'The old man won't scop praying.'

  'Stop up the holes.'

  'Then we can't breathe.'

  Damn the mm. Why had she taken him in? What had Puritans ever done for her except threaten her life, and now that of her son? She said quite seriously: 'Smother him if you have to.'

  She heard her son give a grunt of amusement. 'Is he here yet?'

  'No,' she said. 'Jeffreys isn't either.'

  'I meant Jeffreys.' 'Oh.'

  'I'm sorry I called the Viscount out.' Bless him, he's trying to please. 'I can see that you wouldn't want me to kill him. If he is my father.'

  'I do know, Benedick,' she said coldly.

  A bony-wristed young hand emerged out of the panel, felt about and found her hand. 'It'd be like that Oedipus fellow. Killing your father, I mean.'

  'Not quite,' she said. Eton education had done little to instil the full implication of Greek tragedy into her son. 'Oh, Benedick. I don't know if Muskett's plan will work. I don't know if he'll come. The grounds are full of soldiers.'

  'I'm a bother, aren't I?'

  She was transported back twenty years. Who'd said that and nearly broken her heart in saying it? Job. Her Ladyship's poor, brave Job. It's an omen. Job had died. Benedick would die.

  She cradled her son's hand against her cheek.

  'For God's sake, Boots, what's going on?' The Viscount had to bend his head to get through the door.

  She had wanted him to come so much and been so afraid that he wouldn't that she was disconcerted now that he had. 'Where have you been?'

  'Busy.' He looked down at her without warmth. 'So, from the looks of things, have you. What have you been doing, selling tickets?'

  While she was telling him, Muskett came marching into the room. 'Lights of Lord Jeffreys' retinue seen on the causeway, suh.'

  The Viscount walked to the window. 'We could evade that old tub of lard and any of his people. It's Nevis who worries me. Why's he here tonight of all nights?'

  'I think it's because Mudge Ridge has escaped. They think he's heading this way. And Nevis only wants an excuse. Henry, he knows Benedick is here. I don't know how he knows, but he knows. He's talking about battering down walls tomorrow.'

  'So we've got to get the boy away tonight.'

  'Muskett's got a plan,' Penitence said. Tell him, Muskett.'

  She watched his face as Muskett told him, committing it to memory in case the desperate, autumnal sadness that had settled on her was a true foreboding of loss. His nose was still too big; he wasn't handsome at all yet she only had to look at him to want him. She saw his eyebrows go up. 'Othello? I know the words but ...' He turned to Penitence. 'I've never played Othello in my life.'

  'Oh yes, you have,' she said, and if she knew anything she knew this: 'You've played him for the last twenty years.' He was taken aback. She stood up: 'I must go. Will you do it?'

  Instead of answering, he looked at Muskett. 'Think up this little gem all by yourself, did you, you bugger?'

  'Suh,' rapped out Muskett. The old carpet gentleman gave us the idea, suh.'

  His master nodded. 'Thank him for me.'

  Penitence went downstairs to greet the Lord Chief Justice.

  As Penitence, standing at the gatehouse, swept her curtsey, Jeffreys's major-domo muttered at the sight of his master: 'We've got the stone bad again. My, look at us. Want to piss. Can't piss. Think we can booze it away. There'll be tears before bedtime.'

  Judge Jeffreys had come prepared for a Bacchanalia. He'd brought nearly forty people with him, only a few of them respectable like Sir William Portman, the local Member of Parliament, and his wife, and Sir Ostyn, who'd invited himself. They already looked as if they regretted coming.

  The rest were soldiers such as Colonel Kirk of the Tangier Regiment, who was joined by Nevis and Lieutenant Jones, and Assize luminaries like the Prosecutor and Deputy Clerk, or lesser courtiers who'd travelled down from London — Penitence recognized a couple of the fops who'd attended her farewell performance at the Duke's.

  Kirk greeted her with over-familiarity. 'We remember the old days, don't we, mistress?' As if they'd slept together. In fact, it was his sister, Mai, a fervent theatregoer, who'd known her. She'd been a maid of honour at court — a title she lost by sleeping with James when he was the Duke of York. Now that Penitence came to think of it, Mai had also slept with Monmouth himself. It was thanks to her that Kirk got his first commission. Monmouth had given it to him. Apart from long eye-teeth which gave him a wolf's smile, Kirk radiated amiability where Nevis didn't but it was from Kirk that the Lambs had gained their reputation for terror. He had two women hanging on to his arm who, from the look of them, had been trawled from the stews of Taunton. There were more attached to some of the other male guests. All of them were drunk.

  Their behaviour, even as they stepped down from their coaches, showed an expectation of later sexual activity — with whom seemed unimportant.

  Do they think I'm a trollop? The insult, she felt, was to Rupert and Rupert's house. By the time dinner was half-way through she felt more offence than fear and from her end of the table - she'd had to fight the major-domo, who'd wanted her next to Jeffreys, to take her place at the head of her table - was inhibiting her guests' worst excesses with an expression of hauteur that might have caused Elizabeth Tudor to wonder if she was using the right knife.

  She had no help from Henry. Half-way down the right- hand side of the table, he was absorbed in eating and staring down the cleavage of a dark-haired female who sat between him and Nevis and who appeared willing that he should. His was the only head not turned in the direction of the Lord Chief Justice at the other end of the table from hers.

  Penitence knew she was inhibiting an orgy, but only just. Soon most of the guests, including Jeffreys if he kept drinking as he was, would be out of control.

  She had managed to turn the conversation away from sexual badinage, only to have it concentrate on the day's trials, which, as it turned out, were grosser. Jeffreys was boasting. 'She was pleading for him to be handed over unmutilated. And I said to the woman, "Certainly, madam, since you plead so eloquently, you shall have what part of his body you love best and I shall direct the Sheriff accordingly."'

  Sir Nicholas Fenton, whom Penitence remembered from Charles II's court, laughed inordinately and patted the Chief Justice's hand: 'Wonderful, my lord. Give her the prick. Give 'em all the bloody prick. How many today, my lord?'

  Sir George's mouth emerged black and glistening from his wine cup, leaving Penitence with the impression that he had been drinking blood. 'Two hundred and seventy-two.'

  The Deputy Prosecutor stretched. 'A number to go down in the annals as never has been, never will again be tried in one day.'

  'Two hundred and seventy-two,' quavered Sir Nicholas. 'Wonderful, wonderful.'

  Colonel Kirk shouted: 'What of the Maids, my lord? When do you try the Maids?'

  Penitence stopped pretending to eat and listened. She had hoped to appeal to Jeffreys to order the children's release. Poor Mrs Yeo traipsed over the moor every day to visit her daughter in Taunton prison.

  The Lord Chief Justice drew himself up. Kirk had overstepped the mark. 'They shall stay where they are. I am not in the business of trying schoolgirls.'

  'Schoolgirls. Bloody wonderful.'

  'Nevertheless, my lord,' persisted Kirk, 'they'll fetch a pretty penny. I hope you'll remind the King to reward his soldiery with some of the profit.'

  Jeffreys shrugged. 'The judiciary as well as the soldiery need reward. But let their canting families buy them out as they will. It's no business of mine.'


  Penitence turned to Sir William Portman who, seated on her right, was looking increasingly uncomfortable. 'What can he mean? What's to happen to the girls?'

  Lady Portman leaned across her husband: 'It's rumoured that they'll stay in gaol until their parents buy them out. They're to be given to the Queen's maids of honour for the profit.'

  'Maids to maids,' said Penitence, 'I see.'

  'Shshh,' said Lady Portman, warning her to lower her voice, but Sir Nicholas Fenton took up the phrase. 'Maids to maids. Wonderful.'

  What have I to do with these people? She could not bear that they were here in her hall, not just for the danger they posed but for their butcher-shop souls. Behind Jeffreys's head hung Rupert's portrait and she imagined it reproached her. He had given her this house and she had desecrated it with these vulgar people, even, God help her, with the physical joy she'd found in bed with another man.

  The clarity of this beautiful room was being drowned by the profane conversations and the languorous tunes now played by the Lord Chief Justice's musicians in a corner by the stairhead. The great, pure line of its shape was confused by the bowls of flowers and resined torches in their sconces with which the major-domo had seen fit to decorate it, overcoming its elusive scent of incense.

  The only indigenous thing that was in accord with the swine at her trough was the north-east gargoyle. It gibbered at her, trying to attract her attention, and theirs. She could swear she heard the thing whispering.

  The sight of the table itself made her gag; she'd not seen such food in weeks. There was too much meat, too few sallets. Blood and fat oozed, glistening, out of the baron of beef, the mound of pickled pigs' feet ('our favourite' according to the major-domo) had been knocked so that trotters rolled between the dishes, the fried sweetbreads and liver of veal overflowed their rich, dark red sauce.

  'Not eating, dear madam?' boomed Jeffreys down the table at her.

  'I have no stomach for it.'

  Strangely, he understood. 'My 'domo tells me you were disquieted by Jack Ketch's work in the market this morning.'

  'Yes,' she said. The rest of the table had gone quiet.

  'Regrettable, regrettable.' Gravy and wine dripped on his chin. 'But an example had to be made here, now, at the start, though the tender heart of a lady cannot see it. Tender heart.' He lingered over the thought as if he'd eat it. Then he shook his lace cuffs at her. 'But I promise you, madam, there'll be sound sense to show mercy in other towns of the Assize, now the point is made.'

  'And a sound profit.' There was absolute silence. What are you doing? She couldn't believe she'd said it. You may need this man.

  Jeffreys's little eyes became smaller. He wasn't pleased but he allowed himself to be diverted by Sir Nicholas Fenton's guffaw: 'Sound profit. Wonderful.'

  Kirk brought attention back to her. 'Talking of profit, my second-in-command suspects Mistress Hughes of kidnapping rebels that she may claim the reward. He says three such have been seen near the precincts. One of them Hurd, no less.' He was joking; he didn't believe it. She'd seen him arguing with Nevis.

  'Kidnapper. Wonderful.'

  What's this? What's this?' Jeffreys had picked up a scent.

  'I've extracted a description of Hurd's likeness from some of the rebels he commanded.' Nevis was delving down the side of his boot. He was producing a piece of parchment. 'He was seen being carried off the field in this direction.'

  From somewhere Penitence produced a shrug. 'The major has seen fit to search my house twice, my lord, with no result. And I protest, my lord. It's hardly likely I'd shelter the enemies of Prince Rupert's nephew.' Remind them of who you are.

  But the parchment was going the rounds of the table.

  'Not unlike you, only younger, Viscount,' said Sir Ostyn, the fool.

  Henry stretched out a hand for it: 'Not as handsome.'

  When it reached Penitence she managed a creditable sneer: 'He looks like Hamlet's ghost. Perhaps you should look for him on the ramparts, Major. Except that we have no ramparts.'

  'Wonderful. No ramparts.'

  'Come, Major,' said Jeffreys. 'You've searched the place and done your duty as you see it. Now let this sweet soul be. I order it.'

  For a moment, Penitence thought Nevis would persist; for all his instinct, the man had no perception of how to be graceful even when it was in his interest to be so, but he saw the sense of bowing. 'I'll keep a ring of men round the house nevertheless.'

  Kirk slapped him on the back and turned to Jeffreys. 'No harm in that, my lord, just for the night. The man could have hid out in the grounds. Nevis has a nose for these things. It's your safety we think of.'

  Over in the dark corner beyond the fireplace the gargoyle gibbered and chattered.

  Jeffreys nodded: 'Very well. If it does not interfere with our entertainment, hostess?' It wasn't really a question.

  Penitence rose. 'On that matter, sir, I must go and prepare it.' As she passed his chair to go to the stairs, Jeffreys put out a hand and grabbed her arm, pulling her down so that her face was close to his. She smelled the wine and meat on his breath. He'd become amorous. 'Play Desdemona for me. 'Twas when I loved thee first. Dost love me, Peg?'

  Who could not?' Keep it playful. 'Will you be my Othello, my lord?'

  He whispered: 'A pox on Othello. Green-eyed cur. Give me a kiss. I'd not kill thee on that bed, Peg, except with love.'

  She couldn't tolerate being near him. Heat rose out of his big body and enveloped her. She smiled down at him, kissed his sweating cheek and stared into his eyes. 'Until then, my Moor must be more murderous. Who 'tis will surprise you, I think.' This sounds like Dryden at his worst.

  She was pulled down further and nearly toppled as his mouth tried for hers and found her chin instead. 'Play Desdemona for me. 'Twas when I loved thee first.'

  Lord, how she loathed drunks and their reiteration. But as she scurried along the passageway to her bedroom, she could have sung. She'd thought she might have to manoeuvre the Lord Chief Justice into requesting an excerpt from Othello; instead he'd done it voluntarily. So far so good.

  Muskett had found two more looking-glasses and set them on to tables. Her dress, cloak, wig and shoes were laid out on one. On the other was a jar of lampblack, a long piece of bed- curtain and Rupert's best travelling cape lined with scarlet sarcenet. 'The theatre lost a fine dresser when you went into private service, Muskett.'

  'Thank you, mistress.' He went outside. With him guarding the door while she changed, it meant that she could open the bed-panel. 'Are you ready? Let me see you.' She studied the head thrust through the hole, kissed it and echoed Sir Nicholas Fenton. 'Wonderful.' Is it? Would it fool Nevis? 'And once you're back in the Netherlands, stay there.' She slammed the panel back in place as the door opened.

  It was Henry. Immediately he sat down at the dressing- table. 'Where's the sodding looking-glass? God Almighty, I'm too old for this.' Smearing lampblack on his face, he squinted over at her: 'And so are you. Did my eyes deceive me or did you just now encourage the dishonourable intentions of the gentleman in the ruby flush?'

  She was busy before her own glass. 'He's got to be kept sweet. We may need him before this night's out.'

  'How?'

  'I don't know.' How could she know? 'If Benedick's discovered ... we could plead his connection to Rupert.'

  'Boots, the King has just beheaded his own nephew. Jeffreys isn't likely to overlook your son's treachery merely because the boy got on well with Rupert. Or because you tickle his fancy.'

  You don't know. She'd got herself out of one of the worst parts of the worst prison in England by selling herself to a man. She'd become an actress by selling herself to another. You don't know what men will do for lust. The heat rising from Jeffreys's body wasn't different from the heat of George, or Killigrew.

  With a start she saw he was watching her. 'Great God Almighty,' he said. 'You'd do it.'

  And she would. The thought made her flesh creep, it wiped all colour out of present and future, but if it c
ame to it and Benedick's life was the prize, she would do it.

  She could hear her name being shouted from the hall. Her audience awaited her.

  'Decus et Dolor,' she said and went out.

  Chapter 6

  The setting was wonderful. As she'd begun to explain that afternoon what she wanted for the entertainment, the major- domo had patted his nose: 'If there's one thing we know about, dear lady, it's drama. We've seen enough. Leave it to me.' There'd been little time to do anything else and the man had flung himself into the role of theatre manager with abandon.