The King's Courtesan (7 page)

Slow and sodden and unprepared, his target wheeled too
late, his curved blade just nicking his young attacker’s
cheek, and then the longsword caught him through the
belly and impaled him against the wall.

The child who’d never killed before blinked in shock. It
didn’t feel real. It felt like the force of surprise and his own
momentum had carried the thing, not him. But now he’d
lost both, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull out the
sword.

A liquor jug hit him full force in the back of his head,
knocking him off his feet.

“Bloody hell! Poor Humboldt! Killed by a marauding child!

And he was to marry his heiress next month.” It was the
blond man.

“Aye. A pity. And not how one wants to be remembered,”
the handsome one said to sniggers all the way round.

He scrambled backward on his elbows and heels,
desperately feeling for the dropped sword he’d seen
earlier. The moment he found it he jumped to his feet. He
pointed it at them, holding it steady. “Let her go!”

“Do you know what I’m going to do with that sword, boy?”
the rat man whispered. “I’m going to slit you from throat to
belly, and fry your entrails.”

Caroline, still struggling in Harris’s grip, managed to
loosen his chokehold on her throat. “Run, Robbie! Please
run! Run!” his sister screamed.

“I’ll let her go, lad, if you say so,” Harris said with a leer,
and then he lifted her high in the air and flung her hard
against the wall.

He had always been reserved and she the merry
prankster. Sister, boon companion and best friend, she
was his strength, her charm and personality both larger
than life. But when she hit the wall and slid to the floor in a
broken heap, she was so small…so fragile. She looked at
him a moment, willing something from him. He
whimpered, taking one step back as they advanced
toward him, and then his sword clattered to the ground and
he ran. He looked back one more time before he reached
the doorway, but she was gone.

He ran and ran as they shouted behind him, out of the
house and back into the night. He fell on his knees when
he could go no further. People were coming, running
toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great
screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood
and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He
threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl.

“JESUS!” H E WOKE WITH A LOUD GASP, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.

THE SECOND ROYAL MESSAGE, commanding his presence at Whitehal , came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force.

Men who saw the war and Charles the First’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth. They had once hailed Cromwel as a second Moses, leading God’s chosen people to the promised land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and forty deaths. One couldn’t blame the king for dealing with them harshly. Two of them were regicides and one a major general. His first thought upon learning his lands were forfeit was that he was suspected of being one of them.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. His war had been a personal one. His brothers weren’t Puritans and preachers, but the loose col ection of steely eyed soldiers who kil ed who they needed to, to get the job done. They cared little for religion and had few scruples, and their honor was to their fel ows, their craft and their word.

Even as his staff stored three generations of family heirlooms, he contemplated rejoining the fold. Provided, of course, he wasn’t arrested for treason. They were after al among the most highly prized mercenaries in Europe, and there were opportunities aplenty in Germany, the Netherlands and further afield. Though he’d thought himself weary of war, he couldn’t deny a prick of excitement. There was something about daring death head-on with only skil and luck to save you that could bring even the most jaded spirit sharply back to life.

He’d already claimed his two thousand pounds of goods in weapons, clothing and horseflesh. He would travel to London and satisfy his curiosity, trusting to his wits should things go awry. While there he would look to finding employment for his servants and a wel -paid position with a company of mercenary for himself. He’d also check amongst old friends and acquaintances to see if he might pick up a trail grown cold.

ROBERT STALKED THE LONG
stone gal ery at Whitehal with a ground-eating stride. His clothing was sober but elegant, and an oversize sword clearly meant for kil ing hung easily at his side.

He’d been waiting most of the afternoon and his patience was at an end. Now, as the orange glow from the west sank below the horizon and somber shadows lengthened to the east, he decided it was time to find some supper and a bed. He was not a petitioner, after al . It was His Majesty who had asked to see
him
. If his oath-breaking, manor-stealing monarch had need of him, let him come and find him at his lodgings. Tomorrow he’d—

“Captain Nichols!” A sonorous voice echoed through the near empty gal ery. “Captain Robert Nichols. His Majesty wil see you now.”

He stepped into a richly furnished chamber. In the center of the room, paral el to a sculpted marble fireplace flanked by Bacchus and Cupid, a beautiful oak table cast its own lustrous glow. His monarch sat there with his sleeves rol ed up and his crimson coat thrown over the back of a chair. He played cards with an auburn-haired beauty perched on his lap. It took a few moments before he looked up.

“Ah, Nichols! Here you are at last, and just in time. Do you play?” The king seemed to be regarding him with great curiosity.

“My lord.” Robert removed his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, and gave him a deep bow. “My Lady Castlemaine.” He gave her a deeper one. “Yes, I do. It’s a common pastime amongst soldiers.”

“Have we met?” the lady purred, her eyes traveling his length with obvious appreciation.

“I should have remembered if we had, madam, but tales of your beauty leave no doubt as to who you are.”

“Handsome, wel -mannered, with a modicum of charm. If we can…” The king made a frustrated gesture with his fingers as he searched for the right words. “If we can jol y you up a little, you just might do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

His Majesty shrugged. “I dare say some women find such a military air dashing, but you don’t want to look like a country parson. Particularly not this evening.”

“My Lord?” Robert was growing more confused by the minute. Was the man addled or drunk?

“I assure you he doesn’t look at al like a parson, Charles.

He looks big and powerful and a little bit frightening, and not the least bit meek or mild.” The lady held her hand to her bosom and gave a slight shudder.

“Mmm. And that’s quite enough from you, my pet. Leave us now. I wil see you later.” The king gave his pouting mistress a pat on the rump that she returned with an angry hiss, and sent her on her way. “She has a point, though, Captain,” he said returning his attention to Robert. “You
are
very wel dressed for a fel ow who has just been stripped of his possessions.” He gestured toward the sword. “You came ready to do battle?”

“I came because you summoned me.”

“Yes?”

“And I was curious.”

Charles nodded. “Natural y. That’s a wicked weapon, Captain, if not terribly practical. Worth a good deal of money, I expect. Most prefer something lighter, with more flexibility. A rapier or cutlass perhaps.” Robert shrugged. “It is not meant for dueling or to impress the ladies, Your Majesty. You might cal it…a personal possession of sentimental value. It was left me by my father.”

“Ah!” The king looked at him with a grin. “Cal me Charles.

May I see it?”

The moment he drew the sword four men at arms stepped from the shadows, along with two gentlemen who’d been playing cards in an alcove across the room. Robert didn’t know if it was a display meant to warn him, but as an officer he was impressed. Charles motioned them back with a negligent wave and, after Robert laid his sword on the table, gestured for him to sit.

“Germanic perhaps. They do like their wolves.” He examined the blade with interest. “But I’l wager this is a Spanish steel.” He turned it over. “
Lex Talionis.
Tel me, Captain—” he leaned forward, and there was hint of playful chal enge in his voice “—on whom do you seek revenge?” Robert leaned forward, too. “If it were some fel ow seated in this room, Majesty, he’d already be dead.”

“God’s blood but you’re a bold and impudent fel ow!” Charles’s laughter rang through the room. “You’re not exactly what I expected, but damn me if I don’t think you’l do. Here. Take it back.” He slid the sword to Robert. “It’s bound to be an accursed nuisance when dancing. Have a care not to trip up the ladies tonight.”
Is our interview over? Why in God’s name did he summon
me to court?
“Your Majesty. I came here at your summons.

I’ve been waiting al day. Might I enquire as to—”

“Al in good time, Captain. Come. Hurry now or we shal be late.”

Robert knew the king was notoriously informal. It was said he attended private parties, taverns, even brothels, and played the country gentleman at New-market every fal . It was unheard of in any other court in Europe, yet he and his brother James could be seen frequently at dinner and supper, dispensing with formality for the sake of entertainment. It took remarkable courage and confidence in the love of his people to al ow them to see and interact with him as simply a man. He felt a grudging respect. But it was a shock nonetheless to be bundled into a carriage and told they were off to a party that his other mistress and he were hosting in their town house on Pal Mal .

It was almost May, a beautiful night, and though dusk had already settled it wasn’t yet ful dark when they rol ed to a stop in front of a grand three-story house on the desirable western end of the street. Shaded by elms, with a garden adjoining the king’s garden at St. James’s Palace, it backed onto the park. Several carriages were arrayed on the street out front, and it looked as if the gathering was already wel under way.

There were occasions in battle when despite training, planning and good intel igence, one found oneself cut off and lost in a situation one couldn’t foresee or control. When that happened, one trusted to one’s instincts and waited, going with the flow of things, watching for that moment when direction and momentum could be wrested back again.

Robert Nichols stil had no idea why the king who’d stripped him of his lands had summoned him to court and made him his boon companion, so with no answers forthcoming, he prepared to observe.

HOPE M ATHEWS HAD NEVER
felt happier. Hosting this evening with Charles and his friends made up for a thousand tiny hurts.

For the past year and half, just like Cinderel a, she would appear at Whitehal , set tongues to wagging, then hurry home at midnight with nothing but the remnants of a dream.

But tonight it was she who was hosting the bal ! Wel …

dinner party. Tomorrow would be May Day, and tonight was an informal private celebration for only his closest friends.

To hold it at her lodgings was to acknowledge her importance to him in front of those whose opinion he valued most. She knew she wouldn’t have him much longer, but while she did, she couldn’t help but love him for letting her enjoy the fantasy, and pretend for one night that
she
was his queen.

He had left her to manage it, tel ing her to spare no expense, and she was almost bouncing with excitement, waiting for him to see what she had done. She had worked day and night for two weeks to prepare, turning the house into a feast for the senses. A place to celebrate the summer to come, in luxury, comfort and ease. She surveyed it al with a wide smile, confident it was a night everyone would remember. A night that would make Charles proud.

The air was fragrant with scented beeswax candles, baskets of fruits and masses of flowers, many of which she had grown in her own beloved gardens under the tutelage of Charles’s gardener, her mentor in al things floral, John Rose. Boughs of greenery decked the banisters, mantels and arches, and flower-covered arbors and miniature maypoles marked private grottos both inside and out.

The servant girls wore floral garlands and the footmen were painted as jack-in-the-green and dressed in leaf-green linen. Music drifted through the salon from hidden alcoves, cheerful and unobtrusive, weaving into the happy hum of laughter and conversation as people flirted and gossiped and played at cards. A crystal chandelier blazed overhead and side tables sparkled with decanters of malmsey, Rhenish, sack and canary, and beautiful y wrought glasses trimmed in silver and gold.