Anthony Underwood colours at this but an awkward smile draws my eye from his reddened cheeks. ‘I assure you it is nothing but a pleasure to attend on such a great man. He knows how to inspire loyalty.’
‘And has a keen eye for spotting talent,’ I add, turning my pointed gaze on Robert. ‘Perhaps we should recommend you for such a post, sir, so that you might understand the honour fully for yourself.’
‘Haha!’ Robert laughs. ‘It is generous of you to seek to further my career, my lady, but I prefer the freedom to come and go from court as I please. And besides, I should miss the time I can spend at my books. Your duties will not leave you much time for reading, eh, Anthony?’
‘Indeed not,’ he replies.
I narrow my eyes at Robert, now examining me closely over his cup of wine. His reputation as a gambler and lover of fine living is an established one; I very much doubt he spends his days in the library. ‘Ah, the joy of reading.’ I give an elaborately happy sigh. ‘You will have read Harrington’s Oceana then, sir, now that my sister Elizabeth has prevailed upon Father to sanction its publication. I myself find much to agree with in Harrington’s admiration for the political institutions and wisdom of the ancient Greeks and Romans. What is your view?’
He won’t have read it. My gauntlet thrown down, I wait for Robert’s answer, the silent seconds that spread between us more delicious to me than the sweetmeats the servants are now laying before us. He leans backwards, the pewter cup swilling in his hand, and I imagine his thoughts scampering after an answer like hounds after a hare.
‘I too admire our ancient forebears,’ he begins slowly, ‘but we must also avoid their mistakes. Harrington cautions against the private interests of men, does he not? It is a government of laws not of men that he advocates.’
Anthony Underwood shifts in his seat and I pause, caught halfway between annoyance and pleasure at Robert’s confounding my expectation, before addressing the real subject of his remarks: my father.
‘True. Though it is warring factions of men that I take to be his chief concern.’ I gesture around the Great Hall, assuming him astute enough to take my meaning. As if on cue, Uncle Desborough rises from his seat and barges from the room, knocking into a knot of courtiers gathered about Secretary Thurloe and John Claypole on his way to the doors. Instinctively I look to Father’s chair before remembering that he is not here and I am instantly aware, as never before, of the delicate balance of men that Father alone holds together by the sheer power of his presence and his diplomatic skill. I turn back to Robert: ‘Harrington acknowledges the need for lawgiving sovereigns to check these conflicts – if they themselves are constrained by an effective constitution, of course.’
Robert smiles. ‘An effective constitution, you say? A subject you’ll find on every pair of lips at our court at present. But remember the Romans thought their constitution the pinnacle of man’s achievements; they imagined they had designed it to withstand and defeat the over-mighty and ambitious. And yet the republic barely survived Sulla and it could not survive Caesar.’
I bridle at this and drop all pretence that we are discussing the ancient world and not our own. ‘Whatever my father is, sir, he is no Caesar.’
‘Oh listen, Frances, the music is starting.’ Mary places a hand on my arm and attempts to direct my attention to the group of viol players whose first twinning and weaving string notes thread towards us. I am aware of Mr Underwood’s awkwardness, as he has watched my exchange with Robert as a helpless spectator at a card game, but though I know I should make some effort to include him in the conversation I am too set on having the last word with my adversary.
Keeping my eyes on Robert, I drop my voice to a stage whisper as I lean across the table angrily: ‘Caesar, Sulla, Augustus. They were men who lusted after their own glory. Men of conquest seeking power, not men of God seeking peace.’
‘Of course.’ Robert inclines his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reclines languidly, refusing to meet my anger with his own. Despite the two concluding words through which he delivers his familiar note of gracious superiority, I sense for the first time a hint of admiration.
Our duel concluded, I mean to lean back in my chair, determined to lose myself in the music, but Robert is not quite finished with me.
‘You are wise to search for wisdom in the past, my lady,’ he whispers, leaning across the table to meet me so that our faces almost touch beneath the candles: his smiling and mine simmering back. ‘We have much to learn from the classical world. The search for eudaimonia for instance – the well-being and happiness that comes from realising one’s true nature.’
‘And what is your true nature?’ I fire back instantly, unsettled by his intimate tone.
‘Ah.’ Robert chuckles, something in his auburn hair and self-satisfied smile putting me in mind of Aesop’s fox when it has flattered the unsuspecting crow into dropping its cheese. ‘That you must discover for yourself.’
At the end of the week we return to Hampton Court in time to take advantage of a spell of unseasonably warm weather. I sense a slight relaxation in the court but it feels temporary, as if the factions in the late dispute over the Militia Bill have withdrawn into their respective camps to draw up their battle plans. But still it does everyone good to come away from the nervous intensity of Whitehall and when, over supper in our private apartments, Elizabeth tells the family that she is with child once more, the happy news is a further tonic to us all. Despite my many nieces and nephews, I still find these announcements embarrassing, the unfamiliar acts of love that they conjure in my mind’s eye irreconcilable with the siblings and spouses who sit so sedately around the dining table.
Happily I am distracted by Father who leaps to his feet to dispense kisses, clasps and handshakes; his guise as doting grandfather and paterfamilias fitting so snugly with his role as father to the nation. Keen to find more beneficiaries for his largesse, Father sends servants to summon his closest friends to smoke a celebratory pipe and compose verses with him and John after supper – Mary and I can still hear their lusty attempts as we ready ourselves for bed later that night and we add Master Hingston to our list of prayers, hoping the music master is fast asleep and unable to hear the tuneless din.
Despite his late-night revels, the next morning Father rides out early to hunt, John and Dick too along with Robert and a number of the gentlemen of the court. It is such a fine, clear morning, the snowdrops under the great beech trees heavy with dew, that Mary and I ride with them; our custom on such occasions is to ride around the edge of the great park while the men hunt the deer across it and rejoin them at the end of the sport for a glass of Rhenish wine.
Although I am no fine horsewoman like Mary, I enjoy the ride, the watery February sunshine warming my skin and sparkling on the river that bends wide around the park, a light breeze skimming my horse’s mane as I sift my gloved fingers through her coarse hair. Time passes quickly with the whole park to gaze upon and Mary and our ladies-in-waiting for company. I catch up on gossip with my beautiful cousin Lavinia, before talking idly with Katherine, whose glowing cheeks and sprightly rising trot reassure me that her sudden marriage to Chaplain White has not been altogether displeasing to her. When, later that morning, we see the hunters regroup and turn back to the palace we cut across the park to join them. Seeing us, Robert breaks away from the pack and brings his grey horse into step beside mine. I glance across at him and see the breeze whisking his hair as it curls beneath his feathered hat, the tawny tips flashing red-gold in the sunshine.
‘You ride well, Lady Frances, despite your indifference to horses. Did you learn on your father’s farm?’
I pull the reins a little tighter as his words bite into me like midges. I don’t know why he must always cut me down to size; why any compliment needs to be delivered with his back hand. Robert Rich may be of a noble house but his grandfather, the powerful Earl of Warwick, commanded the navy on Parliament’s side in the war and fought beside Father, who counts hi
m a firm friend. If the earl can adjust to our exalted status, I don’t see why his wayward young grandson can’t do the same. But I will not rise to his bait, nor challenge the satire of our impoverished origins among the yeomanry he so obviously enjoys.
‘Oh yes.’ I keep my voice light, dancing over the words. ‘We girls had to work in the fields and forage for food when we were but a few years old, else we did not eat. We are but a family of East Anglian farmers, as I have heard you say before.’ It is an exaggeration of course: even in the family’s leanest years when Father had sunk from the ranks of the gentlemen to the status of a tenant farmer, there was always food on the table. And our luck turned for good before Mary and I were born. But I never risk giving the impression that I am inflating my upbringing; far better to own our story and to be proud of it in the way Father does.
He has no answer to me and we ride the final yards towards the palace in silence. ‘What did you make of Anthony Underwood?’ Robert tries a new subject on for size. ‘A fine fellow, nobly bred, though not bookish enough for you perhaps. Never mind.’ He smiles reassuringly as he scans the flushed and windswept riders who mass and weave before us like the shoals of tench that swell the fen rivers around Ely. He gestures to Nicholas Baxter, a Gentleman of the Horse and John’s deputy in the stables, who has dismounted and is directing the grooms and pages who filter between the steaming flanks of the horses, taking reins and helping the less nimble to dismount. ‘What about Nicholas? He’s a good horseman and a devil at billiards. Nick!’ Robert calls out to him. ‘Come and help Their Highnesses dismount, would you?’
Nicholas strides towards us, long-limbed, his cheeks ruddy from the exercise, a streak of mud on his forehead underneath wisps of red hair. He helps Mary down first, as the elder, and then does the same for me, catching my waist in his broad hands as I slip from the saddle. I thrill at the brief feeling of his strength and push my hair out of my eyes, sweeping a stray ringlet behind my ear. I see Mary watching us in the corner of my vision and wonder, in a rush of excitement laced with concern, if this is a man we might both admire. A servant hands me a glass of wine and I gulp it quickly.
‘Highness.’ Nicholas smiles at me before bowing and hastening off to some other duty.
‘Aha. More success here, I believe,’ Robert whispers, leaning down so close to me that the feathers at the back of his hat tickle my shoulder. ‘Though, on second thoughts, Nick may be a bit too wedded to his horses for your liking. Perhaps he may suit your sister better.’
I flinch, turning my shoulder away from him and looking around for Father.
Laughing, Robert bows his leave. ‘I will see who else I can throw into your path at next week’s entertainment for Parliament.’
‘If such sport pleases you, sir,’ I say without looking at him. ‘Though I would not wish to take any of your valuable time away from your studies.’ Catching Father’s eye, I push my way towards him, longing suddenly for his warm, straightforward company above all others.
The entertainment planned for Parliament is indeed an exciting prospect. It has become Father’s custom, whenever Parliament is sitting, to invite all its members to dine with the court in the Banqueting House once or twice in each session. These occasions are sumptuous and Father has instructed his Master of Ceremonies, his cousin Sir Oliver Flemyng, to spare no expense this time. Four hundred dishes of meat are planned and all of the court suppliers – the brewers, butchers and fishmongers, purveyors of wine and spices – have been stretched to meet our orders. The palace kitchens, cellars and slaughterhouse are a hive of aproned activity. Above stairs, Master Hingston has composed some new pieces which he has been rehearsing with his musicians, and a number of additional performers have been hired from the City for the occasion. Finally, of most excitement to us, the court tailor Mr Hornlock has made new dresses for Mother, Elizabeth, Mary and me, though Bridget declined his offer.
My gown is cut in the latest Spanish fashion with sleeves so full and bunched I can barely see my arms within them. I feel with pleasure the eyes of the other young women at court follow me as I move around the Banqueting House, the ceiling painted with Master Rubens’ great adulation of the old Stuart King James soaring noisily over my head in a riot of jewel colours framed with shining gold. We are all dressed finely this evening but I fancy the oyster-pink shade of my dress has the edge over Betty’s mint green and Mary’s sapphire blue; and I feel a sudden and almost frightening confidence, as if my whole body is charged and primed like a musket.
In stark contrast to our joyful surroundings, all talk is of the trial of the Whitehall assassin, the Leveller Miles Sindercome, which took place a few days ago in Westminster Hall and every moment of which has been related with relish in the newsbooks. Speaking of this while standing in the Banqueting House, I cannot help my mind slipping back to the scenes I have imagined of another trial that took place beneath the ancient hammer-beamed ceiling of Westminster Hall – that of the tyrant King Charles and of his execution on a scaffold just outside this very room; Rubens’ celebration of his father’s divine right to rule and ascension to heaven almost the last thing the traitor king saw on this earth.
‘But to be hanged, drawn and quartered.’
Mary’s visceral words bring me back to the present.
‘It is horrible, barbaric.’
I shiver at the thought, picturing the man writhing and screaming as he is dragged to Tyburn on the hurdle, the instruments of his torturous death shown to him as he is strung up on the gibbet. However much I hate Sindercome for the violent deaths he imagined for us when he planted his gunpowder in the palace chapel, I cannot help wishing his own were more peaceful, his life snuffed out quietly like a candle.
‘But that is the way it must be, Mary,’ Dick says, his voice placid. ‘Rich, don’t you agree?’
Robert Rich, passing close by us with an entourage of younger Members of Parliament, pauses. ‘Highness?’
‘Sindercome.’ Dick sips his wine. ‘He must have a traitor’s death. My young sisters would prefer him to live a quiet life of retirement here at the palace.’
I shoot him the exasperated look that only an older brother can provoke, though I know his jesting masks real concern for us.
‘He must indeed, Your Highness. It is a horrible thing to contemplate, ladies,’ Robert says, turning to us. ‘But I’m afraid it must be so; it is the only way to ensure your continued safety.’
His gaze rests on me, his expression set in such a serious cast it occurs to me that these are the first words I have heard him utter plainly, loosed straight as an arrow.
‘Well said.’ Dick grins at him. ‘But come, Rich, I must tell you of this horse race I’m sponsoring in Winchester. I’ve given thirty pounds for the winner. It’ll be fine sport – the first to be had now the ban has lapsed. You must come down and watch it with me. I’ve heard talk of a fine gelding due to run …’
The talk is lost in horses then and I in turn lose all interest in it.
The feast itself is magnificent and, sitting between Mary and Dick, I thrill to look up and down the long tables at so many active and powerful men gathered together, the government of the nation their meat and drink. We eat course after course as the wine flows and I find my stays growing uncomfortably tight as the evening wears on. But it is too hard to resist the extraordinary dishes placed before me: there are pies and pastries, poached salmon and potted shrimp, roast chickens dripping with fat and great haunches of beef and mutton on beds of steaming vegetables. There is goat’s cheese, sheep’s cheese, candied fruits and walnuts, lemon ices, apple jelly and a new delicacy called gingerbread which leaves a fine dusting of sparkling sugar across my fingertips and a warm fuzz on my tongue.
The effect of the hundreds of candles, banked along the colonnaded walls of the Banqueting House in mighty sconces, is overpowering. Massed in this way they give off a powerful heat against the winter night and when finally the meal ends and Father rises from his chair in search of amusement, I follow suit
, moving over to one of the great latticed windows to cool myself. I try to peer outside into the evening bustle of White Hall Street, but the candlelight is so strong that the fog-fringed glass simply mirrors the swirling dresses and colourful suits of the courtiers behind me as they shimmer among the flames like butterflies and fireflies in a jar.
I only have a few moments to myself before I feel a light hand on my bare shoulder and cannot but smile at a familiar, lilting voice.
‘Principessa.’
It is Signor Giavarina, the resident ambassador from Venice.
‘Ambassador, you know you mustn’t call me that,’ I smile, always pleased at the company of the dark, courtly Italian.
‘And why not, my dear? As a proud republican I have made a particular study of the monarchs and courts of Europe in my travels. And none is quite so regal, so divinely monarchical as your dear father, despite his best efforts at the contrary.’
I chuckle at that. ‘Come now, Ambassador, you tease me. I am no more a princess than the King of Spain is and besides,’ I lower my voice conspiratorially, ‘you will be well enough informed to know our royal or non-royal status to be a delicate subject at court at present.’
Giavarina laughs and raises an eyebrow. ‘I do enjoy these events. They are the only times I ever set eyes on “King” Oliver, thanks to his guard dog the “little secretary” Signor Thurloe but I can also enjoy the company of his delightful daughters. And the youngest, naturally, is the most delightful and, I might add, the most astute.’
I am pleased with this compliment though try not to show it too much. ‘Do I infer that you still have had no audience with my father, Ambassador?’
‘Not since our last meeting, when he promised assistance in our war with the Turks. It was unfortunate that I have suffered some illness myself precluding my further attendance, but nor have I received anything in writing. It is your father’s most regal attribute to reserve issues of foreign affairs for himself and Signor Thurloe, and to make promises he will never keep. It is a gentle, regal hypocrisy, seen in every royal court in Europe.’
The Puritan Princess Page 6