Lady Merry's Dashing Champion (2 page)

"I will not force a marriage on you, Meriel, but I must warn you about the perils of the court and London for a young ... and I do freely admit it... a most beautiful young woman."

"Perils?"

"Aye. Kidnappers, pick-a-pockets, innocent country maids bought for whores as they enter the city gates, every evil temptation known to godless man on offer in the byways, not to mention in the coffee and chocolate houses. And theaters are even worse, m'dear, where the low and most licentious of this age bargain in the pit for the orange girls and—"

"But, sir, the king is said to be a most willing patron of—"

"Yes, yes, but what is suitable for a sovereign is not for a young and innocent maid."

Meriel bowed her head, unable to argue against such accepted logic, though Sir Edward did not know that she had left her chastity at the orphan's workhouse. It was no fault to a young girl when rapine was forced by a hulking, foul-smelling, grunting stable hand behind the byre. Nonetheless, she was determined to see for herself if all Sir Edward said was true. This was the age of proving by experiment, was it not? Galileo and Bacon had written so. Sir Edward taught her this, as well. So, how would she truly know if a thing such as the theater was licentious unless she observed such for herself? She decided, though, not to remind him of his own words. Men did not seem to admire a good memory in women.

"Ah, I see that sharp mind of yours at work. By the Lord of Blessed Name, I hope I have not ill suited you for the natural world. But I cannot blame myself. Who would not take delight in your intelligence? Why, you can cipher as well as any of my lieutenants, helm my shallop as well as any seaman, write a very fair hand and read where many an Oxford lad would be confounded." He sighed. "Yet you are a weak and helpless woman, and must be protected from that mind carrying you too far. Too far, Meriel!"

She nodded dutifully and hid her laughter, since he could read her face so well.

He frowned, cleared his throat and lowered his voice to emphasize the important instruction contained in his next words. "Although the king is head of the church in England, his court is an ungodly place, Meriel, though it is said the queen is pious, perhaps to excess, as she is also barren." He cleared his throat again. "I would be better in mine own mind if you were married within the year."

Meriel ran to him and knelt for his blessing. "Oh, sir, I am most grateful for all that you have taught me, and I will use it well, on my oath. I do not mean to get above myself, but I will know the man I can love when I see him."

"Very well," Sir Edward said, laying a hand on Meriel's bowed head in blessing as any kind master would do. "You are fortunate if you find a man to love and marry, since you have no property to dictate who you will marry and who you will not. Ah, yes, young Meriel, you may be very fortunate indeed."

Meriel looked up at him, because his usual jovial tone had fallen into sadness. She wondered if he had been forced to join property with property instead of finding true love, Her heart ached at the thought. He was more than a master to her. He had taken her into his home, helped her rise from low scullery maid to schoolroom nurse for his children and indispensable personal maid to his wife. When he had early discovered that she was quick to learn, he had taught her and delighted in her ability, passing from master to teacher, and finally at some time during the decade she had lived at Cheatham House, to the only father she'd ever known.

Two weeks later, as a very cold April turned to the flowering of mid-May in the year of our Lord 1667 and the seventh of the restored reign of Charles II, the Cheatham family and servants approached crowded London Bridge from the Kent road, their carriage followed by two wagons heaped with household goods.

Meriel was busy holding back the children, who wanted to hang out of the windows. Sir Edward fanned Lady Judith, who was in a faint from the city odors and perhaps the sight of traitors' heads mounted on pikes. But they drove quickly through the crowded bridge scarce twelve feet wide with all shops and houses perched atop.

Late-spring showers had not washed away the odious refuse of all kinds that lay in the narrow streets of Cheapside, but mixed it with the ashes of old London. The city had suffered a great fire in the last September, the greatest ever known, destroying more than thirteen thousand homes, churches and shops, a number Meriel could hardly conceive.

The king and Parliament had decreed that the new city rise in stone and brick so that fire would never destroy so much again. And so it was. From amidst the rubble, Meriel
could hear the sounds of the stone masons' chisels and the rasp of the saw pits. She was astonished to see that some houses were nearly rebuilt, standing two and three stories proud in the tumbled wilderness of charred ruins.

As the dizzying scenes of London's death and rebirth passed before her, she sensed that her own life was changing forever, but she could not imagine what that would mean.

"The palace!" shouted young Edward, pointing.

Meriel squeezed past the boy to get her first glimpse of Whitehall, her new home, after all.
Mine and the king's,
she thought, and with a nervous inner laugh at the rush of warmth carried on this thought...
Lord Giles's.

She had expected battlements, a curtain-walled castle, but what she saw was a forest of chimneys, a huge and rambling white timber and red brick building, or rather series of buildings connected by stairs and steps, courtyards and gates running in every direction, like a giant puzzle not well put together. A long garden walk beside the Thames was full of strolling lords and ladies in lavish plumed costumes.

"The Royal Horseguards Parade," murmured Sir Edward, answering her unspoken question.

A line of servants in scarlet-coated livery carried their goods behind them as they were shown through endless rooms and down numberless marbled, mirrored halls to their apartment. Although Lady Judith was disappointed in its size, Meriel thought the three large rooms, an anteroom, two bedrooms (one for the master and mistress and one for the children and her own sleeping pallet) were wonderful, especially since they overlooked the river full of boats of every description. She stopped arranging Lady Judith's clothes and her many physic bottles to stare as the royal barge, banners flying, docked at the palace water stairs.

Her ladyship complained from her own tapestry chair. "Don't dawdle, Meriel, when I am sick unto death."

"Aye, Meriel," Sir Edward said, concern crowding his voyage-weathered face, "the rough roads have quite undone your mistress. Go for a royal physician and bring him quickly. Ask any guard where to find their offices."

Meriel rushed to this new duty and an opportunity to see more of the palace, which Sir Edward had said contained more than two thousand rooms, a tiny number of which she had glimpsed, wide-eyed, during their swift passage from the parade ground. But she had no more turned a corner, then another, and she was hopelessly lost.

"Please, sir . .." But her appeal was not heeded. Everyone was rushing somewhere, with candelabra, platters of steaming meats, bowls of towering fruits, pitchers of drink.

She hurried on and rounded another corner, colliding with a stern-faced older man, of narrow hooded eyes and pressed lips. He bowed low. "My dear Countess of Warbor-ough, what a delight." His voice held no delight, but Meriel quickly looked behind her to see whom he bespoke.

"Quite amusing, Lady Felice," the man said, although he didn't smile. "You are dressed as a servant for masquerade. Or an assignation, since I do not see Lord Giles at your side. Let me guess which it is, since you are unmasked."

A shock at the familiar name surged through her. Was her secret affection for this lord writ plain on her face for anyone to see? She stepped back. "Sir, you have mistaken me for another. I am on a duty for—"

The man twisted his lips into what he obviously thought was a smile. "My lady, you have wit, but even you do not have the skill to deceive William Chiffinch, the king's spy-master. It is a truth you would do well to remember. ... During your ramblings in the city ... and beyond."

She tried to squeeze past him, but he took her arm, squinting in her face. "Leave hold, sir, or I will tell my master, Sir Edward Cheatham, that I have been accosted on my first night in the palace. As he did warn me."

Chiffinch laughed heartily now. "Excellent imitation of an innocent country wench. I would believe it most readily if it were not for—" He held her wrist hard and lifted the hair behind her left ear, then stepped back so suddenly, Meriel was pulled forward. "Where is the scar? Who are you?" he demanded.

"Well, sir, for a spymaster, you do have trouble hearing plainspoken words. I speak in no foreign tongue, sir. You mistake me for another. My name is Meriel St. Thomas and I am in service to Sir Edward Cheatham, who is here at His Majesty's request, and he will certainly hear of this."

William Chiffinch looked hard at her, and Meriel had a sinking feeling that her face and form were being memorized. "Have you seen all, sir?" she said, her anger at such treatment completely escaping a servant's natural caution when confronted by the rude behavior of her betters.
Hey, well, there are limits to even a savant maid's forbearance!

"My apology, Meriel St. Thomas," he said, and left her shaken and greatly bewildered, even frightened, most especially when she heard him laughing heartily. The laughter echoed from hall to hall as she hurried uneasily to her duty.

Giles Mathew Harringdon, the Earl of Warborough, stood by the heavy tapestry curtains held up by golden eagles atop the king's bed and positioned double steps for the royal feet. "Your Majesty," he said in the low, measured tone of a Gentleman of the Bedchamber, "the sun is rising over the river, and I recall we are to have some swordplay." He heard a delightful girlish laugh, which told him the king had been at play of a different kind. No one slept alone in Whitehall Palace, as indeed he did not, although not with his wife, and not through desire. He satisfied his manly need only. His wife had long ago turned his heart to ice, though his cod seemed not to know it and to rise hot and demanding with great frequency. He frowned, not much liking the bitterness that ate away at his natural light heart.

Two little spaniel dogs jumped from behind the curtains, and long manly legs followed until Charles II stood naked on the floor. "My lord Giles, we seem to have misplaced our breeches," he said, amused as he was quite often in the morning. Further feminine laughter erupted behind him.

Giles bowed, expressionless, and went to a chair near the vast fireplace to retrieve the embroidered suit and fine small clothes laid out sometime during the night. "Your breeches, sir," he said, acting as valet, which was one of his duties.

A timid knock sounded on the door leading to the king's privy closet, barely audible over the sound of his many closet clocks striking the hour.

"Enter," the king called, and a barber with steaming bowl and gleaming razors on a towel-covered tray hurried in while the king sat to receive his morning shave. "My lord earl," the king said, waving a hand toward a food-laden table, "unless you have eaten, it would please us to see you break your fast. Try the figs from Her Majesty's own tree."

From the other side of the royal bed, a naked young woman with exquisite curving buttocks exited. Carrying her gown and slippers, she tiptoed to a side door. "A merry farewell, m'dear," the king called cheerfully through his san-dlewood-scented lather. "You take with you your sovereign's gratitude."

Giles knew that the king's gratitude also consisted of good payment doled out by His Majesty's keeper of the privy closet and chief pimp, William Chiffinch.

Giles poured a glass for himself and one for the king, then took some bread, dipped it in his wine and parted the draperies on the windows overlooking the Thames. A low fog hung above the water.

He forced himself to a calm he didn't feel and his mind fled to Harringdon Hall, his ancient home in Norfolk. On a morning such as this, the bright May sun would soon be swallowing the dew on the buds in his rose garden. His es-paliered apple and cherry trees would be in full blossom against the warm south brick wall of his small private garden. He should be there, his wife beside him, children tumbling in the long grass while a nurse tried in vain to manage their youthful spirits. His wife's hand would steal into his and they would look long at each other, knowing that they were blessed.

But this was an old scene played out long ago. The loving husband and happy wife had been his mother and father, the children his sister, long dead of the smallpox, and his young brother, torn to pieces by a Dutch cannonade.

Giles steadied himself by widening his stance, as if he stood aboard ship.

All that was left of that happy time was Giles Harringdon, a peer of the realm, with title, manor, wealth and all of everything except the family he yearned for. His wife, Felice, continued to betray him in every way a man could be betrayed. At first she had hurt his heart, but no longer. He had numbed himself to real love with every eager lady, of which there was a great supply in this most bawdy palace in Europe.

For three years, Felice had seemed a willing partner in every drunken, ribald, lascivious charade of the court of Charles II. A court ruled by Barbara Castlemaine, the king's fascinating and sexually insatiable chief mistress. A court where husbands and wives were laughed at if they objected to cuckholdry; where satiric poems were written about them by Lord Rochester and pinned to their doors at night; where ribald plays about them were performed at the Theater Royal for the commoners in the upper galleries to enjoy. Giles had withdrawn into naval service, or into his gardens in Norfolk, and when at court, he seemed uncaring, taking a mistress to show his indifference to all who might think otherwise, a mistress whose beautiful face he could not remember the moment he left her bed.

Giles drew in a deep breath and caught the musky scent of the king's recent dalliance. Although his sovereign had no legitimate children by the queen, he had many bastard children, whom he loved extravagantly. Giles expelled air from his lungs in a whoosh. Damn all! He wanted to be like the king, to take love for a night or a month, make bastards and then happily move on. But he was not such a man. Nothing could recompense him for not being able to pass on something of himself to an heir who would go on after him into the centuries to come. When there was no love, no children, what did honors mean? Even the blue sash of the Garter at his waist only held up his breeches.