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

by Stella Riley

  ‘It’s not principle. It’s more than that.’ Athenais paused and added wryly, ‘I expected to be thrown out on my ear today, Pauline – and all because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut with a conceited old bugger who everyone knows is past it. But it’s taught me a lesson. I’m never going to risk being dismissed again – not for anything. Because I know I couldn’t bear it.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  THREE

  Four days later, in a dingy attic overlooking a crumbling courtyard behind the Bastille, Major Langley stared across at Colonel Peverell and said gently, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong … but with scarcely a sou between us, the rent unpaid for three weeks, our credit utterly exhausted and nothing left worth selling – it appears that our situation is becoming the tiniest bit precarious.’

  Idly casting dice, right hand against left, Ashley said absently, ‘Just a touch, yes.’

  ‘I’m so glad you agree. I wouldn’t wish to be unnecessarily alarmist. It’s just that my stomach is beginning to think my throat’s been cut.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘Quite. So unless Jem finds a rich pocket to pick --’

  ‘He’d better not,’ said Ashley.

  Francis sighed. The remark had been flippant. He was perfectly well-aware that Jem’s inexpert attempts at dipping had threatened to land him behind bars and caused the Colonel to threaten that Mr Barker could either desist or face a future without a certain vital piece of his anatomy.

  ‘No,’ said Francis mildly. ‘I suppose he hadn’t. So it appears that we’re left with only one option. Who do we know who can lend us some money?’

  ‘You tell me. No one I know has got any money.’

  This, also, was all-too-depressingly true. The entire court-in-exile was living hand-to-mouth in an ever-deepening quagmire of debt. Even the King, dwelling infelicitously with his mother in the draughty, unheated rooms of the Louvre, seldom had more than a couple of livres in his pocket. The meagre pension granted to him by the French crown rarely amounted to much by the time Henrietta Maria had extracted the exact cost of every crumb he ate; and, since Condé’s advance had caused the French royal family to retreat to St. Germain, it had ceased completely. As for his supporters, some were lucky enough to occasionally receive funds from their relatives in England. Others – like Francis, whose family had gone into exile ahead of him or Ashley, whose brother had embraced the winning side – had nothing but their wits.

  Major Langley examined the threadbare cuff of his coat. Time was when he’d believed it was better to starve than be shabby … but Colchester and the six months it had taken Ashley and himself to reach Paris had changed all that.

  At Colchester, he’d joked about eating turnips until the turnips were gone and the joke with them. Later, his insides heaving with revulsion, he’d watched hollow-eyed men killing dogs and cats to feed themselves and their starving families. And gradually, as day succeeded day, he had faced the ultimate horror. He’d learned that when your stomach was cleaving to your backbone, nothing existed in your head except a primitive urge to survive. And that was when Francis had looked deep inside himself for the first time and recognised something cataclysmic. All his life he’d believed that birth and privilege were an automatic passport to principle and the finer feelings generally unknown amongst the lower orders. Now he knew that, in extreme circumstances, the differences boiled down to little more than a smattering of education and the quality of one’s coat.

  Nothing, of course, could ever be quite that bad again. The months on the road with Ashley – taking work where they could find it, eating labourers’ fare and sleeping, more often than not, in stable-lofts – had left callouses on his hands, not his soul. He already knew he was no better than the man hoeing the furrow to his right … so he had nothing left to lose.

  Without looking up, he said, ‘All right. If you have an alternative suggestion, I’d be happy to hear it.’

  Colonel Peverell leaned back and crossed one booted leg over the other.

  ‘We could follow the Duke of York’s example and enlist under Marshal Turenne.’

  ‘You could,’ retorted Francis. ‘I’m likely to be shot for desertion.’

  ‘Unlikely. It’s been five years since you … discharged yourself from French service. Use a false name and no one will know you.’

  ‘You’ll excuse me if I prefer not to take the risk.’

  ‘Oh well. If you’re determined to be cautious …’ shrugged Ashley. And recommenced his pointless dice-game.

  Francis stared irritably through the dirty window and down into the courtyard below. Like a good many others, he’d been sold to the French army after Naseby. It had been the Parliament’s way, at that time, of disposing of Royalist soldiers who would otherwise have to be fed and housed in prison. At the first opportunity and without a single qualm, Francis had deserted and returned to England. Many of the others, he was fairly sure, had chosen to stay and forge a career. So it was all very well for Ashley to say no one would know him. The way his luck had been running recently, Francis felt there was a good chance he’d be recognised before he’d got both feet through the barrack door.

  This problem aside, something would have to be done – and fast. Quite apart from the daily question of how to afford a meal, he and Ashley were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. Francis was quite prepared to accept that there was fault on both sides. They were, after all, very different. But in the weeks since their arrival in Paris, Ashley had changed considerably. In Scotland, at Worcester and throughout their subsequent travels, he’d been possessed of the kind of energy and ability to plan that left lesser men dizzy. Now he was gradually becoming so damned lethargic that Francis was often surprised he bothered to get out of bed. His only interest appeared to be indulging in numerous cold-blooded flirtations just to see what havoc he could wreak. And worst of all, his sense of humour was vanishing beneath a layer of moody impatience.

  The culprit was inactivity. Unemployment plainly didn’t suit Ashley and he was reacting badly to it. Left to his own devices, Francis was happy to cruise the book-stalls, gorging himself on plays and poetry he couldn’t afford to buy or spend an hour or two trying to win the price of a meal at cards or dice. Ashley simply mouldered.

  Down in the square, a shabby sedan chair carried by two brawny youths came to a halt beneath their window. Francis eyed it with vague interest. People who lived in this district couldn’t afford hired conveyances and rarely had visitors who could. Then the door of the chair opened and a woman stepped out. She gave her red taffeta skirts a deft shake and glanced disparagingly up at the house.

  ‘Oh Lord. Now what?’ breathed Francis.

  Ashley looked up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Joy over-bounding,’ came the bitter reply. ‘The answer to one problem, perhaps … but the beginning of a hundred others. In short, it’s my sister.’

  ‘Ah.’ Colonel Peverell placed the dice neatly side by side and surveyed Francis thoughtfully. He had known that the Major’s mother hovered on the periphery of the widowed Queen’s circle, while his father dithered around Sir Edward Hyde … and also that there was a sister somewhere … but he’d never met any of them. He also suspected that, if the rarity with which they were mentioned was anything to go by, Francis saw precious little of them himself. Knowing what it was to be distanced from one’s family, Ashley did not find this particularly odd. And because, unlike Francis, he never indulged in idle curiosity, he neither speculated on the possible causes of the estrangement nor enquired into them.

  Even now, with the mysterious sister apparently on her way up the stairs to their door, he merely rose and said, ‘I’ll go, if you prefer it.’

  Francis turned, his expression smooth and brittle as glass.

  ‘No. Stay, by all means. She must want something or she wouldn’t be here - so with any luck, she’ll pay for our supper. And you never know, you may like her. I did myself, once.’

  There being no obvious reply to this, Ashl
ey sat down and maintained a discreet silence.

  ‘Very wise,’ drawled Francis. ‘Life can be tricky, can’t it? How much better if, like a play, there were a script for it.’ He moved to the door and the sound of approaching footsteps outside it. ‘Act One, Scene One. The curtain rises on a sparsely-furnished garret. Down-stage left, Colonel Discretion; up-stage right, Sir Threadbare Pride; enter Lady Wanton Coldheart.’ And he threw open the door.

  Taken by surprise, her hand poised to knock, Celia started violently and forgot to smile.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Francis!’ she said crossly. ‘You nearly gave me an apoplexy.’

  Francis’s expression did not flicker by so much as a hair’s breadth. Closing the door behind her, he said, ‘Good afternoon, Celia. I am delighted to see you, too.’

  Rising from his seat, Ashley instantly recognised the dark beauty he’d met at the Marais with One-Eyed Will and thought, Hell’s teeth. So that’s it.

  Irritated but determined not to show it, Celia smiled at her brother and tilted her cheek to be kissed. Then, when he awarded her no more than a cursory bow, she twined a cajoling hand through his arm and said, ‘Don’t be horrid. I know you don’t approve of me – but you must still love me a little bit.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Of course. I’m your sister.’

  ‘So you are.’ Disengaging himself in one fluid movement, Francis gestured towards Ashley and said, ‘You will perceive that we’re not alone. Allow me to present my friend, Colonel Peverell. Ashley … my sister, Celia Maxwell.’

  According Ashley the briefest of curtsies and scarcely looking at him, Celia rounded on Francis, saying, ‘Don’t call me that! I’m Celia Verney now.’

  Dark brows rose over mocking sapphire eyes.

  ‘Oh? He’s married you, then?’

  ‘Not yet. But he will. And sooner than you think.’

  ‘Pardon me if I don’t hold my breath.’ Then, as she would have spoken, ‘Celia. This bone of contention is already so well-picked as to make further exploration totally pointless, don’t you think? And I’m sure Ashley has no desire to watch us quarrelling.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Ashley lightly. ‘Quarrel away. I’m going out.’

  Celia looked at him properly for the first time, a faint frown marking her brow. She said slowly, ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we? At … at the theatre, I think?’

  Damn. He’d been hoping she might not remember. Summoning a smile, he said, ‘Indeed we did. Did you think I’d forgotten?’

  Celia always responded well to male charm and good looks. Dimpling, she said flirtatiously, ‘How would I know, sir? I’m sure you can’t recall every female face you see.’

  ‘Not all. Only the pretty ones.’

  It wasn’t entirely untrue, he thought. Although a little too plump for his personal taste, the glossy dark curls, long-lashed blue eyes and pouting mouth combined to make her a remarkably lovely woman. She was probably about thirty; ripe, luscious and wholly enticing. The sort few men would resist if she chose to crook her finger.

  From across the room, Francis said, ‘Dear me. How very intriguing. The two of you are already acquainted, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ returned Ashley, mindful of the obvious pitfalls. ‘And at the time we met, I had no idea that Mistress … Verney … was your sister.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Francis dryly. ‘You wouldn’t have. Do I take it that you also had the pleasure of meeting dear Hugo?’

  ‘Yes he did,’ snapped Celia. ‘And there’s no need to be sarcastic. Hugo loves me.’

  ‘So,’ responded Francis, ‘did Eden.’

  An odd expression crossed the beautiful face and, instead of answering back, Celia said, ‘Actually, it was Eden I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Ah. And there I was thinking you’d come purely to enquire after my well-being.’

  ‘That was part of my reason for coming, of course,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Naturally, I worry about you.’

  Francis’s mouth curled sardonically.

  ‘Don’t over-do it, Celia. Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘You might ask me to sit down.’

  He sighed. ‘Very well. Pray be seated. The chair by the table is the more reliable of the two.’

  She crossed the room in a rustle of taffeta and sat down gracefully but with some caution. Then she said, ‘I’d prefer to speak to you privately.’

  ‘Oh – for God’s sake!’

  ‘Well what’s wrong with that?’ She smiled coquettishly at Ashley. ‘As I recall, the Colonel said he was going out.’

  ‘On my account and yours. Not on his own.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Ashley held up an urbane but authoritative hand. ‘I believe I can speak for myself. And, having managed to get a word in edge-wise, I’d like to announce that I am, indeed, going out.’ He reached for his hat and walked past Francis to the door. Then, turning, he added, ‘Try not to kill each other, children – and remember that breakages have to be paid for.’ Then he was gone.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Celia, half-affronted and half-entertained. ‘He’s certainly original. But I’m not sure I like being treated like one of his junior officers. Indeed, if he wasn’t so extremely handsome, I’d be offended. As it is, however --’

  ‘Come to the point, Celia.’ Francis perched on the edge of the table, his face and voice imprinted with acute distaste. ‘What do you want?’

  She bent to re-arrange the folds of her skirt and took her time about replying. Then, still without meeting his gaze, she said rapidly, ‘I want you to help me get a letter to Eden.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘I … I want a divorce.’

  Francis’s eyes narrowed. He said, ‘One presumes you’ve wanted a divorce for eight years. Why ask Eden now?’

  This time she looked up, her expression hard with defiant determination.

  ‘Because Hugo’s wife died a month ago.’

  Francis expelled a long, slow breath. Finally, he said, ‘I see. You want to re-marry.’

  ‘Well of course I do! I’ve always wanted it – we both have. But Hugo couldn’t divorce Lucy, so --’

  ‘Just a moment. Hugo couldn’t divorce his wife – but you have no qualms about divorcing Eden?’

  ‘Everything’s different now,’ she shrugged. ‘Hugo’s free. And I’d have thought you’d be pleased to see us married. God knows you’ve always despised the fact that we’re not.’

  ‘Your dubious status is only part of the problem,’ he remarked. ‘I am even less enamoured with the alacrity with which you abandoned your children. But let’s stick to the point. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that I manage to get a message to Eden and that, after a celebratory jig or two, he agrees to do as you ask. Just what do you expect to happen then?’

  ‘Well … I don’t exactly know. I suppose he’ll have to make a petition to somebody or other and there’ll be papers to sign and so on.’ She spread her hands. ‘I don’t know how these things work. How should I?’

  ‘My dear simpleton, I don’t know how they work either. But one thing I do know. Divorce can take years and is singularly unpleasant for all concerned. Remember Lord Essex? By the time he’d got rid of the trollop he married, the whole country was sniggering behind its hand and called him a cuckold. I doubt very much if Eden will want to go down that particular path. And even if he did … with him in England and you here, the pair of you could be in your dotage before it’s all over.’

  Celia’s expression remained stubborn.

  ‘Then the sooner we begin, the better. And we won’t know what Eden thinks unless we ask him, will we?’

  ‘We?’ asked Francis gently.

  ‘Yes. You’ll help me, won’t you? You must!’

  ‘I don’t see that I must … and I’m not sure that I will. I might, however, be persuaded to think about it.’

  It took her a moment to catch his meaning. Then she said contemptuously, ‘Oh. You want money, I suppose. I�
��m not surprised. That coat is a disgrace.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ A faint, disconcerting smile touched his mouth. ‘However. Odd as it may seem to you, I need money in order to eat. Not just today – but also, if possible, tomorrow. And, if we are not to be evicted from this hovel, it would help if we could pay the rent.’

  She hesitated, not sure whether to believe him or not. Then, deciding that the only thing which really mattered was getting him to do as she wanted, she stood up, unlaced her purse and tossed five livres on the table beside him.

  ‘That’s all I have. Odd as it may seem to you, Hugo and I aren’t exactly well-off either.’

  ‘No. But you do manage to afford one or two of life’s little luxuries, don’t you? Tickets for the play, for example.’

  ‘So we occasionally take a box at the Marais,’ she shrugged. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Simply that there’s another trifling favour you might do me.’ Francis’s smile grew but somehow Celia knew it was not for her. ‘I understand that the Marais is reviving Le Cid. There is also talk of Clermont having left to join the Hôtel de Bourgogne and being replaced with a young unknown. More alluring still, one hears of an exquisite young actress.’

  ‘My word!’ she remarked acidly. ‘You do hear a lot, don’t you? But what has all this to do with me?’

  ‘I’d like you to invite Ashley and me to share your box for the first night of the Cid. I’ve a feeling Ashley would enjoy it – and he has so little fun, poor fellow. As for myself … well, I’ve always had a penchant for red-heads.’

  ‘You mean you had a penchant for Eden’s shrew of a sister. But you’re welcome to share our box on Thursday – provided you can be civil to Hugo. In fact,’ she concluded with an air of victory, ‘I’ll look forward to receiving your decision about Eden.’

  She left soon after that and, when Ashley returned an hour or so later, it was to find Francis gloating over a large loaf of bread, some cheese and three meat patties.

  Tossing his hat to one side, Ashley surveyed the feast and said, ‘And what did you have to do to earn that? Or shouldn’t I ask?’