Winsor, Kathleen (120 page)

All
around the room men paused in their eating to stare, dumfounded, toward the
doorway.

At
twelve o'clock the Sun Tavern, just behind the new-built Royal Exchange in
Threadneedle Street, was always crowded, for there the great merchants came to
eat dinner, transact part of their business, and discuss the news of the day.
Not a few of them had been talking about Buckingham, whose plight was regarded
with more sympathy in the City than it was at Court, when the Duke strolled in.

One
white-haired old man looked up, his weak blue eyes popping. "By God! What
d'ye know! Speak of the Devil—"

There
was nothing about his Grace to suggest a man in hiding or one whose life had
been jeopardized by his own treasonous acts. He wore his usual blond periwig
and a splendid suit consisting of black-velvet breeches and gold-brocade coat,
with a flash of long green-satin vest showing. He was as cool and
casual as any
gentleman stopping in at his favourite ordinary before the play.

But
instantly they left their tables and surrounded him on all sides. Buckingham
had taken pains to insinuate himself among these men and they were convinced
that he was the one friend they had at Court. Like them, he hated Holland and
wanted to see it crushed. Like them, he favoured religious toleration—and
though this was merely from personal indifference to any religion, they did not
know it. Out of all the scratch and rubble of his life Buckingham had saved
this much—the good opinion of the nation's most powerful body of men.

"Welcome
back, your Grace! We were speaking of you even now and despairing when we
should see you again!"

"There's
been a rumour you'd gone abroad!"

"My
Lord! Is it really
you?
You're not an apparition?"

Buckingham
strolled through them toward the fireplace, smiling, clasping the hands
outstretched to him as he went. The hereditary Villiers charm was a potent
weapon when he cared to use it. "It's I, gentlemen. No apparition, I
assure you." He gave a nod of his head to summon a waiter, told him what
he would have for his dinner and admonished the man to be quick about serving
it, since his time might be short. Then he spoke to a young boy who squatted
nearby, staring goggle-eyed and turning the spit on which a leg-of-mutton was
roasting. "Lad, can you carry a message?"

The
boy jumped to his feet. "Aye, your Grace!"

"Then
mind that you make no mistake. Go with all haste to the Tower and inform the sentry
there that the Duke of Buckingham is waiting at the Sun Tavern for his
Majesty's officers to place him under arrest." He flipped him a silver
coin.

A
murmur of surprised admiration ran through them, for it was no secret the Duke
would most likely lose his head if once he were brought to trial. The boy
turned and sped out of the room and Buckingham, surrounded by his cort
ége, strolled to
a table next the window where he sat down and began to eat his dinner. An eager
curious excited crowd had already begun to gather outside and they clustered in
the door, peered through the windows at him. The Duke gave them a wave and a
grin, and a great cheer went up.

"Gentlemen,"
said Buckingham to the men about him, talking while he took his silver fork
from its case and began to tear at his meat. "Gentlemen, I am willing to
give myself up to my enemies—though I know well enough how they may use
me—because my conscience will no longer bear my continued absence from public
affairs after our most recent disgrace." Their polite cries of approval at
these words interrupted him, but only for a few moments. He held up a hand,
asking to be heard further. "England has need of
some
men whose
interests are not wholly in the building of a new house or the getting of a
full night's sleep, at whatever cost to the nation."

This
brought a loud cheer from everyone in the room, and
it was taken up
and echoed outside by those who had no idea what his Grace had said. For public
resentment was strong against Clarendon's great new house in Piccadilly. And
during this past year no one had forgotten that Arlington had been asleep when
the order had come for Rupert to return and meet the Dutch, and that his
servants had not wakened him to sign it till morning. Next to criticizing the
Court themselves, they loved to hear it criticized.

"Aye,
your Grace," agreed one elderly goldsmith. "The country has been too
long under the mismanagement of incompetent old men."

Another
leaned forward and hammered his fist on the table. "When Parliament
convenes next time he'll be impeached! We'll call the old rascal to task for
his crimes!"

"But,
gentlemen," protested Buckingham mildly, gnawing at his mutton-joint,
"the Chancellor has handled matters as honestly and capably as his
faculties would permit."

There
was a storm of protest at this. "Honest! Why, the old dotard's bled us
white! Where else did he get the money for that place he's building!"

"He's
been as great a tyrant as Oliver!"

"His
daughter's marriage to the Duke made him think he was a Stuart!"

"He
hates the Commons!"

"He's
always been in cabal with the bishops!"

"He's
the greatest villain in England! Your Grace is too generous!"

Buckingham
smiled and made a faint deprecatory gesture, shrugging his broad shoulders.
"I'm no match for you, gentlemen. It seems I'm outnumbered."

He
had not yet finished his meal when the King's officers arrived—he had sent an
earlier messenger than the little boy, whom he had merely used as a dramatic
device to arouse their interest and sympathies. Two of them entered the room
out of breath and excited, obviously very much surprised to find his Grace
actually sitting there, eating and drinking and talking. They approached to
place him under arrest, but he gave them a negligent wave of his hand.

"Give
me leave to finish my dinner, sirs. I'll be with you presently."

Their
eyes consulted one another, dubiously, but after hesitating a moment they
backed off and stood meekly waiting. When he was done he wiped his mouth,
washed off his fork and put the case back into his pocket, shoved aside his
pewter-plate and got up. "Well, gentlemen, I go now—to surrender
myself."

"God
go with your Grace!"

As
he started for the door the two officers sprang forward and would have taken
his arms, but he motioned them aside. "I can walk unassisted, sirs."
Crestfallen, they trailed after him.

There
was an explosion of shouts and cheers as Buckingham appeared in the doorway,
grinning broadly and raising one hand to them in greeting. The crowd in the
street had now grown to monstrous size. It was packed from wall to wall and for
a distance of several hundred yards in both directions all traffic had come to
a standstill. Coaches were stalled, porters and carmen and sedan-chair carriers
waited with more patience than usual; all nearby windows and balconies were
full. This man, accused of treason against King and country, had become the
nation's hero: because he was out of favour at Court he was the one courtier
they did not blame for all their recent and present troubles.

There
was a coach waiting for him at the door and Buckingham climbed into it. It was
but little over half-a-mile to the Tower and all along the way he was greeted
with clamorous shouts and cries. Hands reached out to touch his coach; little
boys ran in his wake; girls flung flowers before him. The King himself had not
been greeted more enthusiastically when he had returned to London seven years
before.

"Don't
worry yourselves, good people!" shouted Buckingham. "I'll be out in a
trice!"

But
at Court they thought otherwise and in the Groom Porter's lodgings they were
betting great odds that the Duke would lose his head. The King had stripped him
of his offices and bestowed most of them elsewhere. His enemies, and they were
numerous and powerful, had been unceasingly active. He had, however, at least
one ardent supporter—his cousin, Castlemaine.

Just
three days earlier Barbara and her woman Wilson had been driving along Edgeware
Road in the early evening, returning from Hyde Park. All at once a lame
tattered old beggar appeared from some hiding-place and dragged himself before
the coach, forcing it to stop. The coachman, swearing furiously, leaned down to
strike him with his whip but before he could do so the beggar had reached the
open window and was hanging onto the door, holding a dirty palm toward the
Countess.

"Please,
your Ladyship," he whined. "Give alms to the poor!"

"Get
out of here, you stinking wretch!" cried Barbara. "Throw him a
shilling, Wilson!"

The
beggar hung on stubbornly, though the coach had started to move again.
"Your Ladyship seems mighty stingy for one who wears thirty thousand
pounds in pearls to a playhouse."

Barbara
glared at him swiftly, her eyes darkened to purple. "How dare you speak to
me thus? I'll have you kicked and beaten!" She gave his wrist a sudden
hard rap with her fan. "Get off there, you rogue!" She opened her
mouth and let out a furious yell. "Harvey!
Harvey,
stop this coach,
d'ye hear!"

The
coachman hauled at his reins and as the wheels were
slowing the
beggar gave her a grin, displaying two rows of beautiful teeth. "Never
mind, my lady. Keep your shilling. Here—I'll give you something, instead."
He tossed a folded paper into her lap. "Read it, as you value your
life." And then, as the coach stopped and the footmen ran to grab him he
dodged swiftly, no longer limping, and was gone. He turned once to thumb his
nose at them.

Barbara
watched him running away, glanced at the paper in her lap and then suddenly
unfolded it and began to read. "Pox on this life I'm leading," she
whispered. "Expect me in two or three days. And see that you do your part,
B." She gave a gasp and a little cry and leaned forward, but he was gone.

Barbara
was scared. She had heard the rumours too—his Majesty's patience was at an end
and this time Buckingham must suffer for his treacherous impertinence. Exile
was the easiest punishment they saw for him. And she knew her cousin's malice
well enough to realize that if he went down he would drag her with him. Every
time she saw Charles she begged him, frantically, to believe that the Duke was innocent,
that it was a plot of his enemies to ruin him. But he paid her scant attention,
merely asking her with lazy amusement why she should be so concerned for a man
who had done her very little good and some harm.

"He's
my cousin, that's why! I can't see him abused by scoundrels!"

"I
think the Duke can hold his own with any scoundrel that ever wore a head. Don't
trouble yourself for him."

"Then
you
will
hear him out and forgive him?"

"I'll
hear him out, but what will happen after that I can't say. I'd like to see how
well he can defend himself—and I don't doubt he'll entertain us with some very
ingenious tale."

"How
can
he defend himself? What chance has he got? Every man in your council
wants to see him lose his head!"

"And
I doubt not he has similar hopes for them."

The
hearing was set for the next day and Barbara was determined to get some kind of
promise from him, though she knew that the King regarded promises much as he
did women —it should not be too much trouble to keep them. As usual, she sought
to gain her ends by the means to which he was least amenable.

"But
Buckingham's innocent, Sire, I know he is! Oh, don't let them trick you! Don't
let them
force
you to prosecute him!"

Charles
looked at her sharply. He had never, in his life, done anything he actually did
not want to do, though he had done many things to which he was indifferent in
order to buy his own peace or something else he wanted. But he had endured
years of stubborn conflict with a domineering mother and hated the mere
suggestion that he was easily led. Barbara knew that.

Now
as he answered her his voice was hard and angry. "I don't know what stake
you have in this, madame, but I'll
warrant you it's a big one. You'd never
be so zealous in another person's cause otherwise. But I'm heartily sick of
listening to you. I'll make my own decisions without the help of a meddlesome
jade!"

They
were walking along the southeast side of the Privy Garden, where it was flanked
by a row of buildings containing apartments of several Court officials. The day
was hot and still and many windows were open; several ladies and gentlemen
strolled in other nearby walks or lounged on the grass. Nevertheless Barbara,
growing angry, raised her voice.

"Meddlesome
jade, am I? Very well, then—I'll tell you what you are! You're a fool! Yes,
that's what you are, a fool! Because if you weren't you wouldn't allow yourself
to be ruled by fools!"

Heads
turned, faces appeared at windows and then hastily retreated out of sight. All
the Palace seemed suddenly to have grown quieter.

"Govern
your tongue!" snapped Charles. He turned on his heel and walked
off.