A Woman of the Road and Sea

by Amy Wolof

  “Viens,” he said, and Frances and I followed his elegant form. We left Apollo behind, briefly visited Mars, then strode through a bevy of rooms. When he motioned for a door to be opened, I gasped at what it revealed: his beloved back gardens!

  The fountains seemed even taller than they were on my last visit. The perfectly placed trees; the swirling greens in the shape of fleur-de-lises caused me—and I’m sure Frances—to not regret missing Versailles.

  Monsieur pointed proudly to a statue of Bacchus whose brow was crowned with grapes. He seemed about to lead us to an orangery when we all heard a hubbub.

  Monsieur’s face reflected disgust as a hunting party rode past, trampling his precious grounds. As the duke clenched his fist, the woman who led the hunt loped back, this time accompanied by a pack of barking hounds.

  “Ah, la Palatine,” said Monsieur, and I could tell from his tone he was not pleased to see her. “Vous vous absentez de mon lit, mais pas de la chasse.”

  She answered in accented French. There flew between them a flurry of words, spoken in raised, deep voices.

  “That is his wife,” Frances whispered, “and, from what I can gather . . . she will not honor her . . . conjugal duty.”

  I stifled a laugh as Frances continued.

  “She then accused him of blackening her name. Before Louis, that is.”

  Monsieur made an abrupt gesture, then tossed more heated French at his Elizabeth’s head.

  “He says,” Frances went on, “that she has done that herself by calling Madame de Maintenon the king’s . . . his-his whore.”

  During this quarrel, Monsieur turned his back, which gave me time to study the duchess. She was perhaps forty, with a broad figure and swarthy face that spoke of much time in the sun. My mind traveled back to the past, seeing Henrietta, such a young wisp of a thing! Still, I told myself, this woman might well have her good points . . .

  As I watched Monsieur stomp back to the house, I did not envy the woman who had to endure his moods. I wished to bid him farewell but was distracted by a lone figure who strolled across the garden. This man wore a blue cloak embroidered with a small cross while his hat was crowned with plumes. As he approached “la Palatine,” he glanced at me with suspicion. Curious as to his presence, I began to play a role: that of an English bumpkin.

  “Anglais!” I cried, pointing to me and Frances. “No Français. Non. I am sorry.”

  Giving Frances a wink, I admired her quickness she threw open both hands. The soldier merely smirked.

  As he and Madame conferred, she leaning down from her mount, I made quite a show of swooning over the Seine.

  “Look, Margaret!” I cried, bestowing my name on Frances. “There is Paris just over the river. I warrant not even King Louis has such a sweeping view!”

  She nodded, all the while sidling toward Madame. When the soldier at last strode off, I decided to give the duchess a true English farewell.

  “Good health, mistress,” I said. “Would to God you could make my friend happy! But I daresay those hounds mean more to you than him.” I gave such a flourish of bows that she smiled. “Please tell Monsieur we must take our leave, and, if you please, that we preferred Henrietta.”

  Hearing that hated name, she galloped off in a huff. I could hear the din of hounds as she rounded the fountains.

  “We should go,” I told Frances, and, with the long strides of a highwayman, tramped past a wing to approach the chateau’s front. “You must tell me all,” I said, as we re-entered our coach. “Do not leave out a single word.”

  Plots Aplenty

  As our coach left the driveway, Frances looked concerned.

  “I shall try, mama,” she said, “but to me, their discourse made little sense.”

  “That is all right,” I said. “Let us have it.”

  “Well, she addressed that soldier as ‘Captain.’ The first thing she asked him was, ‘Can Saint-Mars be dispensed with?’”

  “Hmm,” I said. “That name or place is unknown to me.”

  “Then,” said Frances, “he said, ‘That fortress cannot be assailed. What you ask of us is impossible.”

  “Hmm,” I answered. Who were “us”?

  “Madame became enraged,” said Frances, “and shoved her face close to his. ‘I was told the Musketeers were the best,’ she said. Ah ha! ‘Yet, you are a mere shadow of our Palatine guards.’ Then, he got red in the face, and said, ‘Madame, do not mistake me. We do desire to aid you. But the king himself keeps the prisoner behind several locked doors.’”

  “Did they,” I asked, leaning forward, “call the prisoner by name?”

  “Yes,” said Frances. “At first, the man called him ‘Phillipe.’”

  “Phillippe,” I mused. “Could this be Monsieur’s son?”

  “Oh no!”

  “Pray, go on.”

  “Well,” she said, “they lowered their voices and I could not really hear. But at the end, she said, ‘king’s nephew,’ and he took a step back.”

  “Good Lord!” I cried. “It is my friend’s son! King Louis must fear that he will usurp the throne.”

  Poor Frances only stared, not accustomed, like me, to the plots that ensnare a kingdom. When we arrived back in Paris, I thought on what I should do: after lately being near-killed while fighting over a throne, should I now fight for another? Yet, in my mind I saw Monsieur, a truly good man and friend. Was I now to desert him while his son languished in prison? What if he did not know, unaware that this false wife laid plots along with his brother?

  “Frances,” I said, “there is only one man alive who can make sense of this.” I patted her knee and smiled. “Happily for us, he is very close to our family.”

  Time seemed to pass so slowly that those fifty-odd leagues to Calais might have been fifteen-hundred. Frances spent the journey counting cows from our coach window, while I continued to fidget until we reached the port. I saw Frances’ expressions change along with the tide: everything from wonder at the ships’s masts to sorrow at its cracked pier. Leaving the coach behind, I led her down to the docks.

  “Is that really the ocean?” she asked.

  “Part of it,” I said.

  “It is beautiful. I have seen drawings, of course, but they cannot equal this. The water before us must stretch to the end of the world.”

  “At least to England,” I said. “Tell me—under which flag should we sail? I see French and Dutch.”

  “Oh, English, if you please!” she cried. “I wish to study my people.”

  “Don’t look too closely,” I mumbled, then set off to find a captain who would admire my guineas.

  That did not take long, and we soon boarded a ship. Though I chafed as the hours passed, Frances spent the whole voyage gazing over the side.

  “How I love this,” she said. “I believe I could be happy with a life at sea.”

  I laughed.

  “It is our good fortune,” I said, “to be on a merchant vessel. You might regret your days as a sailor if this craft were one-tenth the size.”

  She nodded, but I could see in her eyes fancied journeys to come. When she spotted Dover from across the canal, she gasped as if it were Faerieland.

  “England!” she cried. “At last.”

  She was actually weeping as the two of us disembarked.

  “There, there,” I muttered, giving her shoulder a pat. I had not the slightest notion of how to comfort a child!

  “What do we do now, mam—Megs?” she asked, staring as we passed some shops on our way to the livery.

  “We retrieve my horse,” I said, doing just that. “And secure one for you.”

  I chose a quiet mare, rather small in stature, then motioned for Frances to mount.

  Seeing her look of terror, I remarked, “You have never ridden.”

  “No.”

  “She won’t hurt you,” I said, cupping my hands to give her a boost. As she landed in the saddle, sideways, I lifted the reins to her hands.

  “You must take them,�
� I said. “And be sure to face front.”

  She did so with such hesitation that I wanted to shout. Patience, I told myself. Use Jeffries as a model.

  “Hold on,” I instructed, leaping onto my Bay and keeping to a slow walk.

  “Whoa! Not so rapid!” Frances cried from beside me.

  “It gets better,” I said. “Try to keep your rear firmly in the saddle.”

  She managed, and as we found the Dover Road, I saw her limbs untense.

  “That is the way,” I said. “A few more rides, and you’re sure to make a—” I stopped myself. What was I thinking? She was no young Megs being trained for the road!

  Though I felt proud as Frances kept her seat, still, I silently fumed as three coaches wheeled past. No, I told myself, the old ways must die. It is high time to retire . . to marry . . . someone . . . and give Frances a father . . .

  Once we arrived in London, Frances showed no signs of fatigue. She stared at the narrow, cobbled streets; noisy herds of animals, and even noisier crowds. I thought she might cry out as we came to Covent Garden with its riot of fruit and flowers . . . and the ever-present women, forced there by misfortune . . .

  I sighed. What a fate! But at least Frances had a protector to ward off the evil in men. I found this somewhat heartening me as I knocked on Moll’s door.

  “Dear Margaret!” Moll cried. Her face was still limned by sadness. “And—?”

  She looked down.

  “Moll,” I said, exhaling, “you are the second of us to know. This is my daughter, Frances.”

  “Oh!” Moll clapped her hands. “A daughter! Lord help me!”

  I could tell by her searching look that she wondered as to the father.

  “Pleased to meet you, madame,” said Frances with a small curtsey.

  “Ho! Who’s this?”

  I heard a voice from behind the door.

  “Charles III!” I cried, embarrassing him by touching my lips to his cheek. He, however, barely saw me: his full gaze was directed at Frances.

  “Charles Jeffries, I said, “this is Frances de Castillo. She precedes you in age by one year.”

  “How d’you do, mistress,” he asked with a bow. “I am well acquainted with Megs, the fiercest high tobyman ever. Except for my father, of course.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, sir,” said Frances. “Monsieur Megs esteems your father as the greatest who ever was.”

  “True,” said the son. “And I mean to follow his path.”

  “Charles!” cried Moll. “I thought we had agreed. You are to enter banking.”

  He merely gave a sly smile.

  Moll opened the door wider, motioning us inside.

  “Moll,” I said, “though we would love to stay, I must find Aventis. That is why I have sailed from France.”

  “Ah,” she said, “he did return from the west and paid me a visit here. Looking for you, he said. As to his present whereabouts—I fear I haven’t a clue.”

  “Do not worry, mother,” said Charles, standing to his full height. “I know the haunts of Carnatus, and, where he prowls, there must also be an Aventis.”

  “Spoken with the wisdom of Jeffries,” I said, tousling his long dark hair. “Pray lead the way, Mr. Banker!”

  He took up his hat with a grimace. As he led us through the streets, I could not help but think that he looked like a smallish captain, especially in his black coat. After leading us on a short walk, he stopped before an alehouse on a block that hosted five.

  “I would bet,” he said, “that Carnatus is within.”

  “Please do not say so before him,” I pleaded.

  With a hand on Frances’s back, I tried to look menacing as our party entered. I saw the usual patrons: men, mostly drunk, yelling and cursing, while the servers—God bless them!—attempted to save their pewter. At the center of this melee, roaring loudest of all, was of course Carnatus, clad in scarlet and green. To my mind, he looked like one of Robin men!

  “Seven-to-five,” he was yelling, “they land between five and seven!” He promptly threw down some dice. “Six!” he yelled, scooping up a fistful of gold. “Who wants to go again?”

  “Carnatus,” I said quietly, reaching up to touch his shoulder.

  “Megs!” he cried, giving me such a firm embrace that my feet left the ground. “Young Charles, and—?”

  “That can wait,” I said, gazing round the smoky room. “Carnatus, are you sure it is safe for you to be out like this?”

  “Of course!” he laughed. “Have I not bribed all in sight not to utter a word?”

  I nodded, somewhat relieved.

  “Carnatus,” I said, “I must find Aventis.”

  “You have not far to go,” he answered, pointing to a corner table where a man dressed in black sat.

  I confess I nearly ran there.

  “Aventis,” I panted as I stood before him. “You are just the man I need.”

  “Apparently, only in London,” he said. “Not so much in Somerset.”

  “Oh, Aventis,” I cried, “you know why I left.”

  “Perhaps,” he said with a sort of a twisted grin. “But, as a rule, I prefer to be informed.”

  “Aventis, I am sorry,” I said, hanging my head. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  He rose from his chair and offered his hand.

  “Do I not always?”

  It was then that Charles and Frances ran up to us both.

  “Charles,” said Aventis, “are you sure your mama would approve of your being in such a place?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Do I not drink wine at home?”

  “Indeed,” said Aventis with a smile. Then a cloud came over his face as he stared at my other young friend. “It is not . . .” he began, but his voice caught, and he stopped.

  With a deep breath I said, “It is.”

  I am not sure how she knew, but somehow, she did.

  “Father,” Frances whispered.

  She took a step toward him, but he was already there, hugging her tightly to him. After a few long moments, I finally cleared my throat.

  Aventis let go reluctantly.

  “Oh, Father,” said Frances, “I have heard so much of you.”

  “That cannot be good,” said Aventis with a wink.

  I motioned Carnatus over.

  “Please sit,” I said, doing the same. “Carnatus.” I cleared my throat. “I would like you to meet our daughter—” I gestured to Aventis.

  “Wha-what?” Carnatus sputtered, taking a large swig of ale. “You mean—?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Like you, we have a child.”

  “Only one,” added Aventis.

  “Aventis, you sly dog!” Carnatus roared, reaching across the table to slap him on the shoulder. “The priest and . . . and Margaret!” He burst into a grin. “It is too delightful!”

  “Wait,” said Charles, looking confused. “Who is this Margaret?”

  “Margaret is Megs,” said Carnatus.

  “Megs is my mother,” said Frances.

  “Margaret will be my wife,” said Aventis.

  Charles looked almost ill.

  “I need some wine,” he proclaimed, then took Frances away by the hand.

  “Good Lord,” roared Carnatus, “I think I need a barrelful!”

  “Then order it, please,” I said, “but we must talk of another matter. Surely you both know I have not come without a purpose.”

  “Our practical Megs!” cried Carnatus. “God’s legs, you are worse than Jeffries! Pray give us your news, though it can’t be as sweet as the last!”

  “Indeed, it is bitter.”

  I related all that had passed at Saint-Cloud.

  “Dam’d tyrant!” yelled Carnatus. “Has that lunatic Louis really locked up his own nephew?”

  “Shhh,” cautioned Aventis. “But for what reason?” he asked. “Does not Louis himself have a son born of his queen?”

  “Unlike our late king’s,” said Carnatus, “his is not a bastard!”

 
“Well?” I asked Aventis. “I have come seven-hundred miles to seek your advice.”

  “Hmm,” he said, intent. “‘The king’s nephew.’ This princess from Palatine surely would not be mistaken. As wife to Monsieur, she is privy to all the court gossip.”

  “If she did not misspeak,” I asked, “then what reason would Louis have to keep Monsieur’s son in prison?”

  “None,” said Aventis. “Remember, Marga—Megs, there is more than one king in this world.”

  “Well do I know it,” I said, taking a gulp of wine as Sedgemoor flashed through my mind.

  “Could it be . . . ?” Aventis muttered, putting his head in his hands. “Yet, it is so . . .

  preposterous . . .”

  “Tell us,” insisted Carnatus.

  “You must,” I urged.

  Aventis raised his head and looked directly at me.

  “From your report and rumors I heard in Somerset—"

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “James may not be a monster. Perhaps after his nephew begged on bended knee, the king took pity on him.”

  “Surely, you do not mean—?” I cried.

  “Nonsense!” roared Carnatus, nearly spilling his tankard of ale. “I was there—at his beheading on Tower Hill. It was a bungled affair—it took Jack Ketch five blows—but I saw Monmouth killed as surely as I sit here.”

  “Or what you saw was a double,” said Aventis.

  “But why would Louis agree to take the duke?” I asked.

  “He cannot stay in England,” said Aventis quietly. “Perhaps James pleaded with his cousin to keep Monmouth in France—after all, the two kings are Catholic. As to this St. Mars: I have not heard of such a place. Perhaps it is a person.”

  I felt my head sway, and it was not with wine. In some respect, what Aventis had said made sense, if one could believe that James was merciful. Having never set eyes on him, I could not remark on his character.

  “Well?” I asked as I looked round the table, first at Carnatus and then Aventis.

  They both stared down at the wood.

  “Do you think,” I said, “that Jeffries would sit idly by while the man he fought for—gave his life for—sits forever in chains?”

  Aventis sighed as Carnatus emptied his cup.