The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3)

by Stella Riley

  Colonel Peverell fixed him with a cool, faintly impatient stare.

  ‘Why not? If His Majesty can swallow his pride, I’m not about to stand on mine. Francis – pass the bottle, will you? This is supposed to be a celebration. Doesn’t anyone know any funny stories?’

  Buckingham did and immediately embarked on an anecdote about a pair of startled lovers and a misdirected golf ball. Francis leaned towards Ashley and said softly, ‘George doesn’t like you, does he? Any particular reason?’

  ‘You’d better ask him.’

  ‘On the contrary. I think I’d better not.’ Amusement stirred behind the sapphire eyes and then was gone. ‘Why didn’t you say you were a colonel?’

  ‘I didn’t want to put you to the trouble of saluting. Does it matter?’

  ‘It shouldn’t. But I can’t help wondering why you didn’t want Nick to reveal it.’

  ‘No reason that will make you feel any better. Get ready to laugh. Buckingham’s building up to his grand finale.’

  Curiosity had always been Francis’s besetting sin and he had no qualms about indulging it. Fortunately, one golfing tale had a way of leading to another – so it wasn’t difficult to get the King and Sandy Fraizer started on the last game they had played together. Smiling, Francis turned back to the Colonel.

  ‘I’ve heard this one. It takes about ten minutes. So … where were we?’

  ‘Nowhere that I can recall. Don’t you like golf?’

  ‘Not as a topic of conversation. It ranks alongside Generals I have known and How I lost my leg at Naseby.’

  Ashley laughed. ‘My God. How do you pass the time?’

  ‘I read. Poetry, mostly. And I write a little.’ Francis re-filled both their glasses and sat back. ‘In truth, though I trained at Angers, I expected to spend my life at Court. It was the war that made me a soldier – and not, I’m afraid, a particularly good one. By the time we got to Marston Moor, Rupert had cured my worst faults and I learned a whole lot more at Colchester. But I’m no military genius … and I still prefer books to battles.’ He smiled again. ‘That’s my guilty secret. What’s yours?’

  Ashley drew a short breath and then loosed it.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘Rarely. But at least I’m asking you, not Nick.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you an enormous amount of good if you did. But there’s no need to show me the stick,’ came the dust-dry response. Then, with a slight shrug, ‘You wish to know if my military rank is a courtesy title? It isn’t.’

  ‘And The Falcon?’

  ‘Does things the Colonel can’t – and isn’t a sobriquet I either sought or want.’

  ‘I … see.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Ashley grinned suddenly. ‘But if you can’t live without at least one incident from my murky past … between Preston and joining Charles in late ’48, I took to the High Toby.’

  Francis blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I was a highwayman. Jem says I was a very bad one – but that’s due to a difference of opinion coupled with the fact that it was his profession long before it was mine. You must have guessed that, of course. His vocabulary is extremely … colourful.’

  ‘Incomprehensible, more like.’

  ‘Not to me, fortunately.’ Ashley stood up and stretched, then turned back to murmur wickedly, ‘You’re right about Buckingham, by the way. Asking him about me wouldn’t be very tactful.’

  ‘So I had assumed. Is there a good reason?’

  ‘He certainly thinks so. Her name was Veronique.’

  Charles and the doctor reached the end of their golfing reminiscences and the talk became general once more. By the time Jem Barker appeared with fresh supplies, the party was growing very merry and Buckingham was decidedly the worse for wear.

  Dumping his cargo on the table, Mr Barker said, ‘Here’s some more boozing-cheats for you – though I reckon you’ve all got bread-and-cheese in your heads already, going by the din.’ He bent a severe gaze upon the Duke and then, turning to Ashley, said, ‘Better watch that’n. Looks about ready to flay the fox, to me.’

  The door banged shut behind him and, amidst the laughter, Charles said unsteadily, ‘F-flay the fox?’

  ‘Throw up,’ translated Colonel Peverell obligingly.

  ‘In my presence?’ demanded the King. ‘He’d better not. It isn’t respectful.’ He paused, looking at Ashley. ‘You’re not drunk, are you? Why not?’

  ‘Because someone has to see you safe home again, Sir.’

  ‘I don’t want to be seen home. I don’t want to be discreet. And I’m sick of not being able to stir without a pack of preachers at my heels.’ The dark, Stuart eyes gathered an obstinate glow. ‘It’s got to change, Ash.’

  ‘It has changed, Your Majesty. You’ve been crowned.’

  ‘Not in England. Nor, without a united army, will I ever be – and amidst all the damned squabbling, I can’t see how I’m to get one.’

  ‘A royal progress,’ said Francis languidly. And then, when Charles peered owlishly at him, ‘Travel about those areas not occupied by Cromwell. Draw the people to you – and make sure that the Kirk is aware of it.’

  There was a short silence. Then Nicholas said hazily, ‘Rose-petals and banners, cheering crowds and hosts of pretty girls … fountains flowing with wine --’

  ‘In Scotland?’ murmured Ashley.

  ‘True,’ said the King. ‘But it’s a good idea for all that. Popularity is important.’ He paused, his face creasing in a tipsy, sardonic smile. ‘Not that I’m ever going to be popular with the Kirk unless I repent being born.’

  ‘Long-nosed canting miseries,’ grumbled Sandy Fraizer into his glass. ‘They fair give me the marthambles.’

  ‘Me too.’ Lurching to his feet, Buckingham grabbed a bottle and collapsed back into his seat with it. ‘Whole bloody country givesh me the marthambles.’

  ‘And Cromwell,’ pronounced Nicholas. ‘Let’s not forget Old Noll. Lucky Noll, warty Noll, Noll the nose.’ And sang, ‘Nose, nose, nose, nose – who gave thee that jolly red nose?’

  And with enthusiastic if imperfect unison, his companions responded, ‘Cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves – that’s what gave thee that jolly red nose!’

  One song led to another. Sir Nicholas climbed uncertainly on his chair and conducted the ensemble with a poker. Dr Fraizer beat time on the log-box, the King used a pair of pewter plates as cymbals and his Grace of Buckingham, slightly green about the gills, participated with a series of violent hiccups.

  Then the door burst open and Jem Barker flew backwards into the room on the end of someone’s fist.

  Nicholas fell off his perch.

  In the doorway, three men-at-arms made way for the stern-faced Moderator of the General Assembly and a pair of horrified ministers.

  ‘Shit,’ burped Buckingham. And threw up in the hearth.

  Silence engulfed the room and Ashley stared rather desperately at Francis.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said mildly. ‘Sackcloth and ashes all round, I think.’

  And gave way to helpless laughter.

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  TWO

  Although it necessitated a good deal of grovelling, the affair at the Fish Inn did not become common knowledge and Charles, having written to ascertain his mother’s views on a possible union with Lady Anne Campbell, wisely set off on an immediate tour of north-eastern Scotland. Unsurprisingly, Major Francis Langley and Sir Nicholas Austin were not amongst those permitted to accompany him – which meant that they had the pleasure of watching the second Duke of Hamilton’s return to Court occasion Argyll’s sulky withdrawal from it. And around the end of the month, Colonel Peverell disappeared again on undisclosed business.

  He went to Ireland first to see if things were really as bad as people said. They were. Thousands starved on a land devastated by war; and while Irish Royalists and Irish patriots continued to exist in mutual distrust, Commissary-General Ireton extended his grip on everything outside the mountain
s and the bogs.

  Disguised as a peat-cutter in clothes that itched, Ashley evaluated what he saw. And when both stealth and his assumed persona failed him, he despatched the problem in the usual unpleasant but extremely final way and put it from his mind. It wasn’t the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last but it was sometimes necessary. He just preferred not to keep count.

  He spent five days trying to talk sense into a clutch of O’Neils; and then, aware that he was wasting his time and wanting a bath more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, he took ship for The Hague.

  The crossing in a filthy, leaking tub was a bad one and the news at the other end no better. Ashley had known that William of Orange’s stubborn, solitary opposition to the Commonwealth had died with him. What he hadn’t known was that the Prince’s death had also allowed Holland to take the lead amongst the United Provinces, with the result that negotiations were even now taking place with Westminster. In vain did the exiled Royalists try to cheer him with descriptions of how difficult they were making life for the Parliamentarians envoys. Ashley merely shrugged and remarked that making Oliver St. John go about armed to the teeth with a couple of body-guards in attendance wasn’t going to solve anything. Then, leaving his compatriots muttering darkly to themselves, he left on the next leg of his Odyssey.

  Arriving in Paris amidst the rain and wind of early March, he gave Sir Edward Hyde an unvarnished account of how matters stood in Scotland and received, in return, a gloomy picture of the latest obstacles being set in the way of his fellow agents in England, coupled with an alarmingly long list of recent arrests. Amongst these was a name worrying enough to set Ashley scouring Paris for the best-informed and most elusive spy he knew … which was how, two painstaking days later, he ended up in the crowded pit of the Théâtre du Marais.

  By the time he arrived, the play was already well under way. A florid, middle-aged actor was engaged in verbose seduction of a well-endowed actress somewhat taller than himself and demonstrably past her first blush. The female half of the audience appeared enthralled; the gallants in the pit brimmed with boisterous advice – of which ‘Get a box to stand on!’ seemed generally the most popular. Colonel Peverell sighed, shoved his playbill unread into his pocket and started looking about for One-Eyed Will.

  The theatre, which had originally been a tennis-court, was smarter than he had expected owing to a fortuitous fire which had caused it to be largely rebuilt some six or seven years ago. Lit by a huge chandelier, the proscenium stage was wide and deep with a good-sized apron surrounded by footlight candles. The old spectators’ galleries had been replaced by comfortable boxes – though, from most of them, it was only possible to watch the play by leaning over the parapet. Jostled on all sides, Ashley stood in the pit, systematically scanning faces until, in one of the front off-stage boxes, he recognised the distinctive black silk eye-patch and mop of wild dark hair belonging to Sir William Brierley.

  Since he was in the company of two other gentlemen and a lady, Ashley hesitated briefly and then, shrugging, started elbowing his way in their direction.

  With the mischievous restlessness around him fast approaching its zenith, this was not easy. On stage, the statuesque heroine swooned into the arms of her would-be seducer, knocking his wig askew. Undeterred and clasping her to his manly chest, the hero delivered another epic speech and attempted to haul her to a couch. Predictably, the wits advised him to make two trips. Casting his well-wishers a venomous glance, the actor concluded his speech and exited stage-left with a swish of his cloak to an accompanying chorus of stamping and whistles.

  Purposefully but without haste, Ashley pursued his winnowing course, vaguely aware that, on the stage, a girl costumed as a maid-servant had skimmed out from the wings to fan the recumbent leading-lady with her apron. The pit, now well into its collective stride, suggested various other ways of reviving Madame d’Amboise.

  ‘Get her corset off!’ shouted one.

  ‘Fetch a bucket of water!’ yelled another.

  ‘Send for the Vicomte de Charenton!’ howled a third.

  The pit roared its approval and, this time, even the boxes shook with laughter. Stuck between a fat fellow reeking of garlic and a world-weary slattern peddling oranges, Ashley reflected that he’d known quieter battle-fields and wondered how the actors stood it. Just now, for example, the girl playing the maid was still kneeling beside the leading lady. Neither showed any sign of trying to carry on with the play which, until the noise died down, was probably wise. Then, just as Ashley sucked in his breath prior to fighting his way closer to One-Eyed Will, the girl rose swiftly to her feet and stepped downstage into the blaze of candles surrounding the apron.

  The effect on the audience was immediate and remarkable. The stamping stopped; the catcalls withered into uncertainty; and the laughter turned into a medley of appreciative whistles before fading into something very close to silence. Ashley took a good, long look … and understood why.

  Seen properly for the first time in the full glare of the lights, the girl was mind-blowingly beautiful. A dainty, lissom creature with a hand-span waist, a torrent of glowing, copper curls and an exquisite heart-shaped face set with huge dark eyes; a fantasy made flesh … and guaranteed to stop any man’s breath for a moment. The only thing wrong, decided Ashley clinically, was that she clearly knew it and was enjoying the effect.

  As swiftly as the thought had come, he realised it was wrong. Although he couldn’t read her eyes from where he stood, he could see indecision in the line of her shoulders and the way her hands were gripping her apron. A smile curled his mouth. At a guess, she had a few lines – probably pitifully few – and, since she didn’t want to waste them on an audience that wouldn’t shut up, she’d stormed downstage. Only now the audience had shut up, she’d realised that she was out of position. Ashley’s smile grew as he waited to see what she’d do about it.

  What she did was to draw a very deep breath. The effect this had on her body had Ashley and most of the men around him drawing one with her. The audience was absolutely silent now, waiting for her to speak. She lifted her chin, smiling a little. Then, seizing a candle from the nearest sconce, she embarked smoothly on her opening speech and swirled back to the couch to twitch an ostrich feather from Marie d’Amboise’s head-dress, singe it and wave it under that lady’s nose.

  Madame d’Amboise coughed and regained consciousness with remarkable, if unconvincing rapidity. Ashley was startled into a choke of amusement, the gallants in the pit hooted with laughter and the acrid smell of burned feathers drifted into the front boxes. Avoiding the leading lady’s furious glare, the girl played the rest of her brief scene without apparent deviation and exited to an unexpected storm of applause.

  Ashley Peverell watched her go and wondered if, under the paint, she looked as good close to as she did from a distance. Then, reminding himself that he hadn’t come here to watch the play, he turned his attention back to the business in hand.

  By dint of a good deal of unmannerly shoving, he eventually reached his goal and immediately found himself impaled on Sir William’s one and only eye.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ drawled that gentleman lazily. ‘A face I never thought to see again … back from the dead and come to haunt me. How are you, Colonel?’

  ‘Bruised,’ replied Ashley. And with an audacious smile at the pretty brunette, ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to invite me into your private haven?’

  She smiled coquettishly.

  ‘By all means, sir. Come and be welcome.’

  Needing no further telling, Ashley hoisted himself over the parapet and bowed over the lady’s hand. ‘Madame, you are a pearl amongst women and may count me your most willing slave.’

  She gave a trill of laughter.

  ‘William – your friend is charming. Aren’t you going to introduce him?’

  ‘He’s a rogue and a mountebank,’ remarked Sir William calmly. Then, with a wave of his handkerchief, ‘However, mes amis … allow me to prese
nt Colonel Peverell, formerly of His Majesty’s Horse and latterly of God alone knows where. Ashley … meet Mistress … er …’

  ‘Verney,’ supplied the brunette firmly and with something resembling defiance. ‘Lady Verney.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Will, watching Ashley kiss the lady’s hand. ‘Also Sir Hugo Verney … and Jean-Claude Minervois, Vicomte de Charenton.’

  Mechanically going through the obligatory courtesies, Ashley was aware of several things. Sir Hugo looked uncomfortable; the Vicomte was not in the best of tempers; and Will’s eye was brimming with wicked amusement.

  Oh God, thought Ashley. It’s a ménage à quatre. Cinq, if you count that busty piece on the stage. How long before I can get Will away?

  As it happened, he didn’t have to wait very long at all. The third act drew to a close amidst increasingly ribald comments from the pit and, after some desultory discussion on the merits of the play and whether or not Arnaud Clermont was past his professional best, Sir William said suavely, ‘Celia, my angel – you’ll forgive me if Ashley and I desert you? So much gossip to catch up on and, one suspects, so little time in which to do it, you know?’ Then, barely giving her time to nod, ‘Hugo, my dear fellow … such a pleasure to see you. You must both sup with me one day soon. And Jean-Claude … what can one say? One had no notion that your liaison with the delectable d’Amboise was so widely known. But naturally one sees that the cachet it gives the lady is bound to place a strain upon her discretion. So difficult for you, mon brave. One cannot but sympathise.’

  Still smiling and with the merest hint of a pause, Sir William turned to Ashley.

  ‘Come, my loved one. The play is about to resume and we must not interrupt it. Farewell, one and all. Bon nuit!’ Upon which, he swept Ashley away.

  ‘And that, as they say, was definitely better than the play,’ he remarked, linking arms with Ashley. ‘It’s not Marie d’Amboise’s fault that the whole of Paris knows Charenton’s bedding her. It’s milord himself who does the boasting. And then he gets disgruntled when the wags make a game of him. The man, my dear,’ finished Will blandly, ‘is an absolute prick.’