by Stella Riley
There was a long pause. Finally, Ashley said, ‘So your hands are tied. But what if they weren’t?’
Charles gave a bitter laugh.
‘That’s just the trouble. I can’t field an army without foreign help and that help isn’t forthcoming. The Dutch are busy fighting Cromwell at sea – not for me, but because the Commonwealth insists on searching their cargo vessels for French goods and expects them to dip their flags every time they catch sight of the English Navy. Spain and France are still locked in a struggle the rest of Europe finally put behind it four years ago. Spain, of course, recognised the Commonwealth like a shot and though Mazarin’s so far refused – and had his envoy tossed out of Whitehall as a result – I think he’ll give way before the year is out rather than end up fighting on another front while he’s still got Spain nipping at his backside. So who is there, do you suppose, with either the interest or the motive to help the beggar-King take back his own?’
‘The beggar-King’s followers,’ replied Ashley quietly, ‘because they’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain. Also, perhaps a few of your former enemies who are now dissatisfied with everything from trade to the absence of Christmas and Sunday football.’
‘Dissatisfied enough to budge from their hearths?’
‘As yet, probably not. But since we’re not in a position to issue a call to arms, that hardly matters. What does matter is nourishing the support Your Majesty already has, whilst exploiting the difficulties and divisions of your enemies. Two sides of the same coin.’
Charles sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ash. It’s too --’ He broke off as the door opened to admit Sir William Brierley and then, with relief, said, ‘Perfect timing, Will.’
‘Thank you, Sir. Sadly, however, I came to inform you that the Queen, your mother, desires your presence. And I should add that she has La Grande Mademoiselle with her.’
‘In which case,’ responded Charles dryly, ‘I won’t hurry. Meanwhile, perhaps you can convince our friend here that it’s too soon to start canvassing support again at home.’
‘Far too soon,’ agreed Sir William, advancing towards the fire. ‘His Majesty’s loyal subjects in England are busy keeping their heads down and their mouths shut. In short, Ashley, you can go to England, if you like – but no one is going to let you past the front door.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘Unfortunately, I can – and have numerous letters to prove it.’ He paused and then added, ‘I know how you feel – really, I do. But the time for action is not yet. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be patient.’
‘I’ve been patient!’ snapped Ashley. And, belatedly remembering the presence of his sovereign, ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I just can’t --’
Charles held up one long-fingered hand.
‘I know. And as soon as there’s work to be done, you’ll be the first to hear it. But brow-beating Ned Hyde and myself won’t make it happen any quicker.’
Colonel Peverell drew a long breath and released it. ‘No, Sir.’
‘Upon which note,’ said the King, ‘I shall go and try charming Mademoiselle into buying me an army. It won’t work, of course. But I draw the line at marrying the woman.’
As Charles left the room, Sir William awarded Ashley an acid-edged smile.
‘You see, my dear? We all have our crosses to bear.’
‘I’m well-aware of that but --’
‘Do you know, Ashley … I don’t somehow think that you are. But let us not quarrel. Instead, let’s remove ourselves from this depressing place and find a tavern. I suggest you spend a couple of nights at my lodging.’
‘That’s tempting – but what of Louise?’
‘Louise,’ said Will, in a tone defying either interpretation or question, ‘has decamped in search of better prospects. And so, like you, I am in need of a diversion. Luckily, I know just the fellow to supply it.’
Sir William’s idea of a diversion turned out to be an alarmingly clever fellow with a quick temper, a wild sense of humour and a very large nose. A man Ashley had heard much about but never previously met – and close acquaintance with whom, he later suspected, could take years off a man’s life. In short, it was Cyrano de Bergerac.
Towards the end of the third bottle, this gentleman announced that they must go to the Hôtel de Bourgogne. Ashley squinted at him and remarked that, if they had to see a play, he’d sooner go to the Marais.
‘But no, my friend,’ said Cyrano firmly. ‘I have business at the Bourgogne tonight. They are staging my new comedy, Le Pédant Joué. Last night, Montfleury mangled his role so badly that I ordered him to stay off the stage for a month while he learns his lines. Sadly, he hasn’t taken me seriously. And so, we go to the Bourgogne.’
All of Paris appeared to know of Montfleury’s intention to perform. The theatre was full to bursting and the atmosphere was one of gleeful anticipation which rose to a positive zenith of excitement when Cyrano strolled in half-way through the first act.
Ashley glanced at Sir William and murmured, ‘Is this really necessary?’
‘Yes. Apart from making up the words as he goes along, Montfleury is as stiff as our sovereign lord’s cock.’
With every step Cyrano took, more and more voices fell silent until a deathly hush spread throughout the entire theatre while, on the stage, Montfleury gradually faltered to a stop, mid-sentence. Smiling, Cyrano hoisted himself on to the boards and advanced, implacably but without haste, until he was nose to nose with the quivering actor.
‘I warned you,’ he remarked calmly. ‘You should have listened.’
And picking Montfleury up by the collar of his coat, Cyrano dropped him in the pit.
The wits howled with laughter and, within seconds, were passing the unfortunate man hand-to-hand over their heads to the door.
‘Play the role yourself, Cyrano!’ shouted somebody; and suddenly it became a chant. ‘Go on – play it yourself!’
De Bergerac held up a hand for silence and eventually got it.
‘No, no, my friends. You have already had as much entertainment as is justified in the price of your ticket.’ He tilted his head and thought for a moment. ‘However … perhaps a brief ode?’
The pit roared its approval and, with a mocking bow, Cyrano embarked on a cripplingly funny extemporisation of Montfleury’s shortcomings. By the time he was done, Ashley’s stomach hurt.
Sailing out into the street some time later, the three of them drank some more and got into two fights. Ashley ended up with skinned knuckles and a graze on one cheek. It was not, he reflected blearily, a good long-term solution for boredom. Or not if he wanted to see his next birthday.
* * *
Returning to his lodgings two days later than expected, he walked in to find all their gear packed in a neat heap and the room once more reduced to its original dismal state. Raising an enquiring brow, he said, ‘Are we going somewhere?’
‘Yes,’ replied Francis coldly.
‘Voluntarily – or the other way?’
‘Does it matter?
‘I suppose not.’ Ashley paused and, when Francis continued to look icily aggrieved, said, ‘All right. Spit it out and let’s have done with it. I’m not in the mood for --’
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ remarked Jem Barker from the doorway. ‘Been busy as a body-louse, ain’t you, Major?’
‘Yes,’ responded Francis with asperity. And, to Ashley, ‘God forbid that you should feel impelled to account for your movements. But it would occasionally be helpful if you could come back when you say you will.’
‘Oh Christ,’ sighed Ashley. ‘Not again. You sound like somebody’s wife.’
‘Having had the dubious pleasure of sorting out your shirts, I feel like somebody’s wife.’
Jem laughed. ‘He’s got you there, Captain.’
‘And you can hold your tongue, too,’ retorted Ashley. ‘I also wish – if you must use my rank – you could get it right. We’re not on the High Toby now.’
‘Once a brid
le-cull, always a bridle-cull,’ averred Jem. And, glancing from Francis to the assembled baggage and back again, ‘So where we going, then?’
‘Sixteen, Rue des Rosiers.’
‘Whew!’ Jem rolled his eyes. ‘Gawd’s truth, we must be flush! We’ll be strutting about like crows in a gutter afore we knows it. So have you paid the old cross-biter – or are we shooting the moon?’
There were times when Francis found Jem’s vocabulary tiresome. This was one of them. He said, ‘I’d be grateful if, just sometimes, you could speak the King’s own English. However. The answer is yes, the rent has been paid and no, we won’t have to slink away after dark. Therefore, if neither of you have any further questions, I’ll go and hire a cart.’
‘Don’t fret your gizzard, Milord. I’ll see to that,’ offered Jem provocatively. ‘Reckon you done enough. And you’ll be happier when you’ve given the Captain here a good dressing-down.’ Upon which note, he disappeared.
Collecting the Major’s irritable gaze, Ashley said crisply, ‘All right, Francis. I apologise for any inconvenience caused by my delayed return. As it happens, I spent some time trying to give His Majesty something to think about other than women – whilst also talking myself into a brief, exploratory visit to England. The first may have worked but won’t last; the second may come off when everyone with a say in the matter has talked themselves to a standstill.’
The blue gaze remained largely inimical.
‘I suppose,’ drawled Francis, ‘that it never occurs to you that it’s a touch unreasonable to expect everyone to leap into action every time you speak?’
‘I don’t expect it. But --’
‘That’s not how it sounds. And as for Charles … he may be a rakehell but he’s also been cap in hand to every damned ruler he can reach, looking for an army.’
‘Very well. Perhaps I expect too much.’ Ashley drew a short, explosive breath. ‘But if we’re going to sit on our arses for another year doing sod all, I want my life back.’ He stopped abruptly and, moderating his tone, said, ‘So tell me. Who paid the rent and why are we removing to the Rue des Rosiers?’
‘I invested the last of our money in a dice game and was lucky,’ shrugged Francis. ‘The rent is paid and I still have a few coins in my pocket. As for the new lodgings, Celia arranged them. After her recent failings and still with no reply from Eden, she’s trying to find a way back into my good graces. Of course, as soon as Eden writes to say the only way she’ll ever marry Verney is over his dead body, we’ll have to shift for ourselves. But in the meantime, the rooms in the Marais are clean, lice-free and cheaper than here.’ He paused and then added casually, ‘They’re also possessed of additional attractions.’
‘Oh God,’ groaned Ashley. ‘I might have known. We’re moving so you can bed the landlord’s daughter.’
‘Not quite.’ His good humour restored, Francis gave a slow, seraphic smile. ‘She’s not the landlord’s daughter – though she has both father and chaperone. And I’ll wager you’ll be casting as many lures as I. Possibly more. In short, she’s our own very favourite red-head.’
For a long time, Ashley just stared at him. Finally, his voice curiously flat, he said, ‘Is that a joke?’
‘Not at all. We are going – with crumhorns and tambours – to live in the Rue des Rosiers with Athenais de Galzain.’
There was another silence.
Then, ‘Bloody hell,’ said Colonel Peverell.
~ * * ~ * * ~
ENTR’ACTE
London – August, 1652
At about the time Francis and Ashley were preparing to move to the Marais, Eden Maxwell was staring broodingly down upon Cheapside from the window of Luciano del Santi’s parlour. Despite the fact that his Italian brother-in-law hadn’t set foot in London for seven years, whereas he himself had been living there, on and off, for the last four, Eden still thought of it as Luciano’s house – and probably would even when his younger brother, Toby, arrived to set up his own goldsmith’s sign there.
Not that he was thinking of that now. Now, the only thing on his mind was the much-travelled and aggravatingly tactful letter he held crushed in his hand. In some corner of his mind, Eden recognised that Francis meant well … that if a letter from one’s brother-in-law made one want to smash something, a letter from one’s bitch of a wife would probably have one climbing the walls. But until today, except in one particular which he generally managed to avoid thinking about, Eden had believed himself cured – only to discover that it wasn’t completely true.
It had been eight years. Anyone who couldn’t get over a woman in that time must be feeble-minded. All right; so Celia’s betrayal was inextricably linked with the death of his father … and because his daughter probably wasn’t his daughter, he’d become a virtual stranger to his son. But his days weren’t empty of purpose, nor his nights of pleasure. He had work he enjoyed and friends he valued. His life might have been changed – but it hadn’t been ruined. Neither, since the day he’d found her in bed with Hugo Verney, had he ever wanted Celia back. So why in Hades did Francis’s letter make him feel as if he’d been kicked in the stomach?
He half-considered reading it again and then changed his mind. He knew what it said. Celia wanted a divorce – and, being Celia, thought that to want was to have. Francis clearly knew better, understanding that Eden might be averse to becoming fodder for the news-sheets. In fact, his only miscalculation lay in the delicately-phrased suggestion that Eden might, by now, be ready to consider marrying again. He wasn’t.
His life was well-ordered and the very last thing he needed was another wife. In the months since Worcester, he’d been required to do very little fighting. Instead, he’d been sitting on this committee and that while Cromwell and the rest laboured to devise a workable government. The most recent scheme, which had involved crowning the young Duke of Gloucester, had foundered like all the others before it. Despite fixing a date for its dissolution, the Rump lingered on like a bad smell, occasionally managing to put a spoke in Oliver’s wheel; an Act of Union, joining Scotland to England, had been mouldering away in committee for four months without reaching resolution; and Henry Ireton had continued knocking the stuffing out of Ireland until it had succeeded in killing him the previous November – after which, despite a formal treaty of surrender at Kilkenny, the Irish continued to fight on in small pockets and recognise defeat, piecemeal.
The Dutch War had started back in May when Admiral Blake and the Dutch Admiral Tromp had clashed at the battle of Dover. A month later, Dutch ambassadors had arrived to protest about England interfering with their trading vessels all around the coast and a month after that, a state of war between the two countries had been somewhat belatedly declared in the wake of Admiral Ayscue’s attack on Dutch ships off Calais. Further afield, meanwhile, Prince Rupert was picking off English merchantmen in the West Indies – thus annoying those islands which had seen the wisdom of recognising the Commonwealth.
In London, while all this was going on, Eden compiled dossiers and wrote reports and started to understand why Gabriel Brandon had predicted that one day the Army would be no place for soldiers. Fortunately, before the boredom became too much for him, chance revealed a talent he’d never previously had much use for and caused him to be seconded into the intelligence service. Years ago at Angers, Eden had fallen in love with the intricacy of ciphers. Now he spent a large part of his time breaking Dutch and Royalist codes for Thomas Scot who was still in charge of foreign intelligence and devising others for the use of the Secretary of State’s growing network of domestic network of spies and informers. Eden wasn’t especially fond of John Thurloe. He was, however, forced to admit that – judging by the last four months – the fellow was someone who specialised in getting wheels working within wheels. So much so, thought Eden, tossing the letter down on the table, that it was tempting to wonder if Thurloe wouldn’t be the very person to secure one a quick and totally discreet divorce.
A door slammed below and there was a sound of
feet running up the stairs. Then the parlour door opened and Nicholas Austin’s head appeared round it to say, ‘Sam would like to call on you later, if it’s convenient – something about the Moderate.’
Sighing, Eden turned round. He didn’t know which piece of folly was worse; inviting a Catholic Royalist to inhabit the spare bedchamber – or letting him get thick as thieves with Sam Radford. The first wouldn’t do much harm provided Eden’s superiors didn’t get wind of it; but the second created a potentially explosive combination of Leveller and Cavalier – poles apart except on the issue of wanting to reduce the power of the Army.
‘If it’s convenient?’ queried Eden. ‘As far as I’m aware, Sam never gave a tinker’s curse for anybody’s convenience save his own.’
Nicholas grinned. ‘I put that bit in myself. He’ll be here around six.’
‘I may be out. Are you going to Shoreditch?’
‘Later, perhaps. Bryony gave me a message for Annis, so --’
‘You really needn’t make excuses to me, you know,’ interrupted Eden blandly. And watched the younger man flush.
Not having felt up to taking responsibility for a seventeen-year-old girl, Eden had turned to Gabriel Brandon’s foster-family. He’d persuaded the Morrells to care for Verity – in return for which she helped Annis in the house and looked after five-year-old John. The arrangement seemed to suit everyone and had also finally shaken Nicholas out of the apathy that had lasted a full month after they’d reached London.
At first, Eden had let him wallow – then irritation had set in, causing him to say abrasively, ‘Are you going to mope about forever? Or are you going to pick yourself up and make the best of a bad job?’ Then, when Nicholas hadn’t answered, he’d added, ‘You might at least spare a thought for young Verity. She burned her boats to keep you alive and now you’re all she’s got. So what are you going to do about her?’
Nicholas had turned an empty brown gaze on him and, in the tone of someone asking for the salt, said, ‘Do you want me to marry her?’