“Nothing counts in this life but that the Stag God rises,” said de Silva. “Nothing. Not you, not me. Hardly even Noah. Nothing counts but that Charles rises anointed by more powerful and more ancient magic than your archbishop shall daub on his brow. We’re all irrelevant, John Thornton, save for Charles.”
Thornton did not know what to say to the man. The depth of his despair appalled him.
He rose, his buttered beer forgotten. “May the land rise to greet you, Louis de Silva,” he said, and as those words fell from his mouth, an unexpected vision filled his mind.
A great white stag with blood-red antlers raged across the sky, treading uncaring through the stars, and as he ran, so the land literally did rise up to meet him, filling the sky with forests and rolling meadows.
“Be well,” Thornton said, as a final benediction, and then he was gone.
Behind him, Louis de Silva’s head sank slowly until his forehead rested on the table.
Then, after a moment, he too rose and left The Broken Bough.
Louis wandered the darkened alleyways off the Strand as it wound down towards Charing Cross. The day’s events had exhausted him. He had failed to rescue Noah, he had been abducted by ancient giants and shown that he had no role to play in all that lay ahead —no role to play in Noah’s life—and he had just been pitied by John Thornton, Noah’s lover.
Could the day get any worse?
He’d wanted to castigate Thornton, but in the end had not.
He’d wanted to show him to what it was he’d left Noah—in the arms of the Devil himself—but in the end had been unable to.
What point driving Thornton into as deep a despair as himself?
Gods, what was he going to tell Charles?
Far away, on the other side of London, Noah twisted and turned in her sleep on her pallet in the kitchen of the house in Idol Lane.
She dreamed twice.
First she dreamed of the running stag, and of the forests and tumbling streams, and of all that could be, if only she endured.
The second dream seemed an extension of the first, for she stood on The Naked. She was alone, but was trembling in anticipation.
Soon a great faerie lord would be striding up the hill, striding to meet her. He was strong and powerful and humorous, and he loved her more than life itself.
And she him.
She felt him approaching, and she cried his name.
And then woke in shock at the sound of that name.
Four
Idol Lane, London
Noah and Jane woke early. Noah let Catling sleep on until the noise of the rattling pots woke her, then she washed the child’s face and hands, and dressed her, and set her at the table.
All this Jane watched from the corner of her eye as she tended the fire, and then set the morning’s porridge to cooking. She was so used to having the kitchen to herself at this time of day that the presence of another woman and a child seemed most strange.
It was particularly strange, of course, that she should be sharing it so companionably with Cornelia-reborn…and the daughter that Jane, as Genvissa, had murdered.
In an instant Jane’s eyes had filled with tears, and she had to stop stirring the porridge, overwhelmed by a sudden yearning for her own unborn daughter, who had died along with Genvissa.
“And that at my hands,” Noah said very softly, suddenly appearing at Jane’s side. “Jane, I am so sorry for what I did to you, and most especially for the loss of your daughter by Brutus. I had no quarrel with her, and yet I took her life also, when I took yours. That wrong is one of the reasons I am here now.”
Jane shrugged Noah’s hand away. “It is a loss long gone, Noah. Leave it alone.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Leave it!”
“Jane, do you remember what I said to you in our last life, the last time we met?”
Jane remained silent, grimly stirring the porridge.
“If ever you need shelter, Jane, then I am it.”
Weyland was in the parlour, one step away from walking through the doorway into the kitchen. He froze as he heard Noah speak, then leaned back so that neither Jane or Noah would see him.
“It is my nature—you know that—and I shall be bound to any who ask it of me. Jane—”
“For all the gods’ sakes, Noah, leave it alone!” Noah repressed a sigh, and stepped away, turning to the table.
In the parlour, just out of sight, Weyland frowned. Shelter?
He backed away, silently, moving towards the stairs, and his Idyll.
Just as Noah turned away, the kitchen door into the side alley opened, and Elizabeth and Frances entered. Both were yawning, their clothes rumpled and awry, as if they had only just been pulled on, and they sat at the table with only nods as greeting to the other two women.
Jane set out bowls on the table as Noah and Catling also sat. She ladled out the porridge, a thick, sweet mixture liberally laced with raisins and nutmeg.
Noah waited until everyone had begun eating, then looked at Elizabeth and Frances. “Where do you sleep at night? Why not stay here?”
“Would you stay here if you had the choice?” said Elizabeth, her voice bitter, and Noah had to concede the point.
“We sleep in a basement chamber at a tavern on Tower Street,” said Frances. “It is small, but comfortable, and the tavern keeper is paid enough to keep his clients away from us.”
“Time to yourselves must be precious,” Noah observed.
Both Frances and Elizabeth shrugged, more interested in eating their breakfast than discussing the merits of solitude.
“One day,” Noah continued, apparently not put out by their silence, “I shall show you the land.”
Jane looked at her sharply, and Noah raised her eyes to her. “And you, too, Jane, should you wish.”
“That might be dangerous,” Jane said softly. “Step warily in this house, Noah. Do not allow Weyland to know any of your secrets.”
Before Noah could answer, Weyland himself stepped through the doorway from the parlour into the kitchen. He looked well rested and cheerful, and his demeanour contrasted sharply with that of everyone else in the room.
Everyone at the table, save Catling who was still eating, paused with spoons half lifted to their mouths.
Weyland grinned, and sat himself down. “Secrets, Noah?”
“I have a world full of secrets, Weyland.”
“Then I shall enjoy discovering them. Jane, hand me the jug of milk, if you please.”
As everyone finished, Jane and Noah rose, both intending to clear the table.
“Noah,” said Weyland, “sit down. Elizabeth, Frances, you may help Jane.”
“But we have to…” Frances began.
“You are relieved of your duties for the day,” Weyland said. “Noah shall cope, instead.”
He looked at Noah, wondering how she would take this.
She was pale, but otherwise composed. “As you wish, Weyland.” Then she looked at Catling. “Mind what Jane says, now. She shall be your mother for the morning, while I am earning our keep.”
Weyland had to repress a grin. Noah was very good. He wondered how far she was prepared to take it.
“Jane shall be your mother for the afternoon and evening as well,” he said, keeping his eyes steady on Noah. “Noah has more than enough to keep her busy for the entire day. Londoners are in a celebratory mood as they await their returning king. Apprentices are downing tools and counting out their coin, sailors abandoning their berths and preparing to spend their sea pay. Where else better to spend it, eh, than making love with some accommodating woman? Pretend a moan or two of pleasure, Noah, and they’ll be so happy they’ll pay an extra penny.”
To her credit, Noah did not even look strained. Again, she inclined her head, and Weyland began to feel mildly irritated.
He turned his head slightly so he could see Jane. “Noah will need another poultice tonight, Jane. Although not for her back, methinks.”
He sm
iled as Noah finally reacted. She’d gone paler as he’d spoken, and had shot a look of some concern at Jane.
Weyland wondered what had disturbed Noah the most. His insinuation at mention of the poultice, or the fact that he’d known about the poultice Jane had prepared for Noah the previous night?
I can see much leaning over the balconies of my Idyll, he thought. More than ever you think.
Noah regained her composure quickly. “I am ready for whatever you wish,” she said.
Weyland smiled. I doubt that very much, my lady. “Good,” he said, rising. “Come with me.”
He led her up the stairs, listening to her footfalls behind him.
They were steady, and did not stumble.
If Weyland could hear Noah’s footfalls, then he could feel her presence with every fibre of his being. It was as strong as when he’d felt it that day in Woburn village. A powerful, heady presence that disturbed him in some manner he could not quite define.
He was leading a goddess up the stairs of his house, leading her into whoredom. Who would break first? Noah…or himself?
He took her into the first room on the right at the head of the stairs on the first floor. It was a tiny room, dank and grey. The only furniture it possessed was a narrow bed clothed in creased, waxy sheets as filthy as the room.
“I’m sure you won’t mind the grime,” said Weyland, turning to face Noah.
Finally he was rewarded with a flicker of something in her lovely eyes.
Without thinking, he reached out, and touched her cheek briefly.
“Do you think to train me?” she said.
“I think to try and make you a little more desirable!” he snapped. From her cheek his hand went to her hair, and he pulled out pins, sending her hair tumbling to her shoulders.
She was still defiant, and it infuriated him. He pulled her close, and kissed her, hard and angrily, a contrast to the teasing softness of Woburn.
As abruptly as he had kissed her, he pulled back, keeping one hand clenched in her hair at the nape of her neck.
“A kiss is so intimate, don’t you think?” he said. “More intimate than anything else a man and a woman can do with their bodies. No sweaty, frantic copulation can ever attain the sheer intimacy of a kiss.”
“You’re quite the poet.”
Ah, she was deliberately goading him! He kept his face calm, and then pulled her to him again for yet another kiss.
This one was different from the first. This one was a brother to that he’d given her in Woburn.
This time, he felt her confusion.
Again he kissed her, first on the mouth, then on the neck, and then, his hands drawing back the material of her bodice, on her collarbone.
Finally he lifted his head. “What would hurt you more, Noah? To push you to the bed, and to there copulate with you? Or…to ask you for shelter?”
Her eyes flared in naked panic, and she stiffened in his arms.
Finally he’d managed to disturb her. What was this “shelter”? Why was it so important?
“What would degrade you the greatest, Noah? What would humiliate you more than the other?”
He gave her a moment, a moment in which he could see her struggle for every ounce of self-control she owned, and then he smiled, smooth and easy, and stood back, letting her go.
“Why do you do it?” she said, and Weyland knew she was changing the subject deliberately. “Why degrade Jane and Elizabeth and Frances and gods alone know how many other women in this way? What pleasure can it possibly bring you?”
“Every time I degrade a woman, any woman,” Weyland said, “I degrade you. That’s what makes it so enjoyable, sweeting. That I have the power to take a goddess and turn her into a whore with every woman I force down to that bed beneath the sweating, hungry body of a sailor, or apprentice, or some vicious soldier, angry and violent from the murder he has inflicted in the name of crown or country.”
She was about to reply, but there came a sound from the front door, and Weyland cocked his head. “Unclothe yourself,” he said. “I hear a knock at the door.”
Weyland led the man up the stairs and to the door of the room.
Noah lay on the bed, her face turned to the door. One of the filthy grey sheets was pulled up to her shoulders.
Weyland looked at her, but could find in her eyes and face no hint of fear or nervousness, so ushered the man into the room.
He was tall, and burly, with a huge pendulous gut.
And he was eager. He groaned with lust the instant he set eyes on Noah.
Weyland leaned against the doorjamb, feeling unaccountably tense.
The man almost stumbled in his haste to get to the bed. His hands fumbled with his breeches, his chest heaving in his anxiety, then he pulled out his erection.
Weyland saw Noah’s hands whiten where they held the sheet.
The man reached down, his breath now a continuous rasp, and jerked the sheet violently away from Noah.
He pulled Noah’s legs apart, knelt down between them, and—
Weyland grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him off the bed. The man, furious with lust, leapt to his feet, and pulled back a fist, ready to strike Weyland.
Weyland’s form shimmered. For a moment it appeared as if a man-bull stood there, and then it was gone, and all that could be seen was Weyland’s fist driving into the man’s face.
“Get out,” said Weyland. “Begone from this house!”
The man was slowly backing towards the door. His nose dripped blood, and his hands fumbled at his breeches. “I’ll see you ruined for this, you foul whoremaster!”
Weyland took a threatening step forwards, and the man almost fell in his haste to get out the door.
“Ruined!” he cried, then bolted down the stairs.
Weyland drew in a deep breath, then turned back to the bed.
Noah was now standing on the other side, the sheet wound about her.
“Get dressed,” Weyland snarled, then he turned and left the room.
Barely had he reached the bottom of the staircase when Weyland heard a commotion in the lane outside the house, and then a banging on the front door.
Weyland strode to the door and flung it open, half-expecting to see the frustrated client there.
When he saw who it actually was, his mouth dropped open.
The deacon of St Dunstan’s stood on the step, his face flushed with excitement. Normally the officers of the church had nothing to do with their near neighbours—they knew well enough what service the members of this household provided—but now all that seemed forgotten in the deacon’s excitement.
“The king!” he cried. “The king! The king!”
Jane appeared at Weyland’s shoulder. “What news of the king, then?” she said.
“They say his ship lies off Dover, and that he shall land this very afternoon. Charles is home!”
And with that he was gone, and, from the sounds drifting down the laneway, most of London had by now heard the news.
The king was off Dover, and his feet would tread English soil once more this very afternoon!
Weyland pushed the door shut, then looked first at Jane, and then very slowly turned and looked up the stairs to where Noah stood at their head, still with the sheet wound about her.
“So your lover is home. How glad is your heart, Noah?” Weyland smiled, cruelly, intent on recovering all the ground he had lost when he tore the man away from Noah. “I think it is time we thought about preparing a small and very private reception for him, don’t you think?”
Noah stared at him. Then she drew in a breath, visibly trembling.
“It was you who came to me and healed my back, wasn’t it?” she said. “You are the strange physician.”
Five
Dover, south-east England
Charles II’s fleet set anchor off the south-eastern port of Dover during the evening of the 24th of May 1660. Charles was in no hurry to land. He did not wish to appear anxious, nor as if he arrived in arrogan
ce, nor even as if he was the invader and needed to rush ashore with blade drawn. The king had also heard from a delegation which had rowed to his flagship that the reception at Dover still needed a few hours to arrive at its full magnificence. Thus it was he told his officers that they would spend the night on board, breakfast, attend to some pressing matters of business during the morning (unlike the decades of his exile, Charles now had to attend to all matters of state that needed the king’s attention and decision), and then row ashore during the afternoon of the 25th.
There was one other public consideration in this dallying. It lacked but four days to Charles’ thirtieth birthday, and the king had expressed a wish to enter London on his birthday, that being a fortunate coincidence, and a propitious one at that.
Preparations for the landing commenced just after two in the afternoon. While there was a general and highly excited hustle and bustle on deck, Charles spent a quiet moment with Catharine in their cabin.
They were both accoutred splendidly for the occasion. Charles wore a deep blue velvet suit with a sparkling silver and gold vest. Ribbons and jewels adorned all his fingers, as well as the sleeves and cuffs of his coat and the buckles of his shoes and the wide band about the hat that currently sat waiting for the king’s favour on a table. Charles’ abundant, wavy black hair had been washed and left to lie about his shoulders and his moustache had been freshly groomed: his entire appearance sparkled and snapped with authority and joy and majesty.
Catharine wore matching clothes, although the fabric of her gown was primarily the silver and gold of Charles’ vest, and her accessories—ribbons, bows and swathes of elegantly draped silk—were of the same deep blue velvet as her husband’s suit. Her hair, like Charles’, had been freshly washed and groomed, and hung in heavy wings to either side of her face before rising into a complex knot on the crown of her head. Pearls and diamonds wove their way through her braids and about her delicate neck. Her fingers gleamed with diamonds, rubies and emeralds.
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