Winsor, Kathleen (86 page)

Frances
smiled coolly. "Could you, madame? You're welcome to try— But I think I
please his Majesty quite as well as you—even though my methods may not be the
same—" • Barbara made a sound of disgust. "Bah! You squeamish virgins
make me sick! You're no good to any man, once he's had you! I'll wager you my
right eye that once his Majesty lays with you he'll—"

Frances
gave her a bored look and as Barbara chattered on, the door behind her swung
slowly open. His Majesty appeared in it. He motioned her to silence and stood
lounging against the door-jamb, watching Barbara, his dark face moody,
displeased and glowering.

Barbara
was beginning to shout. "There's one place where
you can never
get the better of me, Madame Stewart! Whatever my faults, there's never a man
got out of my bed—"

"Madame!"

The
King's voice spoke, sharply, from the doorway, and Barbara swung about with a
horrified gasp. Both women watched him come into the room.

"Sire!"
Barbara swept him a deep curtsy.

"That's
enough to your bawdy talk."

"How
long have you been there?"

"Long
enough to have heard a great deal which was unpleasant. Frankly, madame, at
times you exhibit the worst imaginable taste."

"But
I didn't know you were there!" she protested. And then suddenly her eyes
narrowed, she looked from Charles to Frances and back again. "Oho!"
she said softly. "Now I begin to see something. How cleverly the two of
you have hoodwinked us all—"

"Unfortunately,
you're mistaken. As it happened you passed me in the hall without seeing me,
and when I found where you were going I turned around and followed you back.
You looked as though you were about some mischief." He smiled faintly,
amused at her discomposure, but instantly his face sombered again. "I
thought we had agreed, madame, that your behaviour toward Mrs. Stewart was to
be both polite and friendly. What I heard just now sounded neither."

"How
can you expect me to be polite to a woman who slanders me!" demanded
Barbara, quick to her own defense.

Charles
gave a short laugh. "Slanders you! Ods-fish, Barbara, you don't imagine
it's still possible? Now, Mrs. Stewart is tired, I believe, and would like to
rest. If you'll make her an apology we'll both go and leave her alone."

"An
apology!" Barbara stared at him with horrified indignation, and turning she
swept Frances contemptuously from head to foot. "I'll be damned if I
do!"

All
good humour was gone from his face now replaced by that sombre bitterness which
lurked there at all times. "You refuse, madame?"

"I
do!" She faced him defiantly, and both of them had forgotten Frances who
stood looking on, tired and nervous, wishing that they would quarrel elsewhere.
"Nothing under God's sky can make me apologize to that meek simpering
milksop!"

"The
choice is your own. But may I suggest that you retire from Hampton Court while
you consider the matter? A few weeks of quiet reflection may give you another
view of good manners."

"You're
sending me from the Court?"

"Put
it that way if you like."

Without
a moment's hesitation Barbara was in tears. "So this is what it's come to!
After the years I've given up to you! It's a shame before all the world that a
king should turn away the mother of his children!"

He
lifted one eyebrow, skeptically. "My children?" he repeated softly.
"Well, some of them, perhaps. But there's nothing more to be said. Either
make Mrs. Stewart an apology— or go elsewhere."

"But
where can I go? The plague's everywhere else!"

"For
the matter of that, the plague's here too."

Even
Frances snapped out of her weary lethargy and both women repeated at once:
"Here!"

"The
wife of a groom died of it today. Tomorrow we move to Salisbury."

"Oh,
my God!" wailed Barbara. "Now we'll all get it! We'll all die!"

"I
don't think so. The woman has been buried and everyone who was with her is shut
up. So far there've been no new cases. Come, madame, make your choice. Will you
be going with us tomorrow?"

Barbara
looked at Frances who, feeling her eyes shift to her, suddenly straightened and
raised her head—meeting her glance with cold hostility. Suddenly Barbara
slammed her fan to the floor.

"I
will not! I'll go to Richmond and be damned to you!"

Amber
went back into the kitchen and continued getting Bruce's meal. She wanted to do
as much as she could for him, while she was still able to do anything at all.
For by tomorrow she would be helpless and a new nurse would be there—someone
perhaps much worse than Spong had been. She was more worried about him than
about herself. He was still weak and in need of competent care, and the thought
of a stranger coming in, someone who would not know him or care what happened
to him, filled her with desperation. If she'd only come in time, she thought,
maybe I could bribe her.

Once
the first horror of discovery was gone she accepted with resignation and almost
with apathy the fact that she was sick. She did not, actually, expect to die.
If one person fell ill of the plague in a house and lived, it was thought a
good omen for all others in that same house. (Spong's death she ignored and had
almost forgotten; it seemed to have occurred in some distant past unconnected
with either her or Bruce.) But apart from superstition she had strong faith in
her own temporary immortality. She wanted so much to go on living, it was
impossible for her to believe that she could die now, so young and with all her
hopes still to be realized.

She
had the same symptoms Bruce had had, but they came in swifter succession.

By
the time she started into the bedroom with the tray her head was aching
violently, as though a tight steel band had been bound about her temples and
was drawing steadily tighter. She
was sweating and there were stabbing
pains throughout her stomach and along her legs and arms. Her throat was as dry
as if she had swallowed dust, but though she drank several dipperfuls of water
it did no good. The thirst increased.

Bruce
was awake, sitting propped up as he could often do now, and though there was a
book in his hands he was watching the door anxiously. "You've been gone so
long, Amber. Is anything wrong?"

She
did not look at him but kept her eyes on the tray. Dizziness swept over her in
waves, and when it came she had a weird sensation of standing in the midst of a
whirling sphere; she could not tell where the floors or walls were. Now she
paused for a moment, trying to orient herself and then, setting her teeth, she
came determinedly forward.

"Nothing's
wrong," she repeated, but even to her her voice had a strange fuzzy sound.
She hoped that he would not notice.

Slowly,
for she felt very tired and her muscles seemed heavy, she set the tray on the
bedside table and reached down to pick up the bowlful of syllabub. She saw his
hand reach out and close over her wrist and when at last she forced her eyes to
lift and meet his, she found on his face the look of self-condemning horror she
had been dreading.

"Amber—"
He continued to stare at her for a moment, his green eyes narrowed, searching.
"You're not—sick?" The words came out with slow forced reluctance.

She
gave a little sigh. "Yes, Bruce. I am—I guess I am. But don't—"

"Don't
what!"

She
tried to remember what she had started to say. "Don't— worry about
it."

"Don't
worry about it! Good God! Oh, Amber,
Amber!
You're sick and it's my
fault! It's because you stayed here to take care of me! Oh, my darling—if
only
you'd gone! If only you'd— Oh, Jesus!" He let go of her wrist and
distractedly ran one hand through his hair.

She
reached down to touch his forehead. "Don't torture yourself, Bruce. It's
not your fault. I stayed because I wanted to. I knew it was a chance—but I
couldn't go. And I'm not sorry— I won't die, Bruce—"

He
looked at her then with a kind of admiration in his eyes she had never seen
before. But at that moment she felt the nausea begin to rise, flooding up
irresistibly, and even before she could reach the basin halfway across the room
she had started to vomit.

Each
time it happened it left her more exhausted, and now she hung for a minute
longer over the basin, leaning on her hands, with her burnt-taffy hair
concealing her face. All at once she gave a convulsive shudder; the room seemed
cold, and yet the fire was burning, all the windows were closed, and the day
had been an unusually hot one. At that moment there was a sound behind her. She
turned slowly and saw Bruce
beginning to get out of bed. With a last desperate
surge of her strength she ran toward him.

"Bruce!
What are you doing! Get back—" She began to push at him, frantically, but
her muscles seemed useless. She had never felt so weak, so helpless, not even
after her children had been born.

"I've
got
to get up, Amber! I've got to help you!"

He
had been out of bed only once or twice since he had fallen sick, and now his
body was shining with sweat and his face was violently contorted. Amber began
to cry, almost hysterical.

"Don't,
Bruce! Don't, for God's sake! You'll kill yourself! You
can't
get up!
Oh, after everything I've done you're going to kill yourself—"

Suddenly
she dropped to her knees on the floor, put her head in her arms and sobbed. He
fell back against the pillows, wiping his hand over his forehead, surprised to
find that he was dizzy and that his ears rang, for he had thought himself
farther recovered than he was. He reached over to stroke Amber's head.

"Darling—I
won't get up. Please don't cry—you need your strength. Lie down and rest. The
nurse will be here soon."

At
last, with an intense feeling of weariness, she forced herself to get to her
feet and stood looking about the room as though trying to remember something.
"What was I going to do—" she murmured at last. "Something— What
was it?"

"Can
you tell me where the money is, Amber? I'll need it for supplies. I had none
with me."

"Oh,
yes—that's it, the money." The words slurred, one over another, as if she
had drunk too much cherry-brandy. "It's in here—I'll get it—'sin secret
panel—"

The
parlour seemed a great distance away, farther than she could possibly walk. But
she got there at last, and though it took her a while to locate the panel, she
finally found it and scooped out the leather wallet and small pile of jewellery
that lay there. She brought them back in her apron and dropped them onto the
bed beside Bruce. He had managed to lean over and pull out the trundle and now,
when he told her to he down, she collapsed onto it, already half unconscious.

Bruce
lay awake through the night, cursing his own helplessness. But he knew that any
violent strain now would only make him worse and might kill him. He could help
her best by saving his strength until he was well enough to take care of her.
He lay there and heard her vomit, again and again, and though each time when
she had done she gave a heavy despairing groan, she was otherwise perfectly
quiet. So quiet that he would listen, with mounting horror, for the sound of
her breathing. And then the retching would begin again. The nurse did not come.

By
morning she lay flat on her back, her eyes fixed and wide open but unseeing.
Her muscles were perfectly relaxed and she had no consciousness of him or of
her surroundings; when he
spoke to her she did not hear. The disease had made much swifter progress than
it had with him, but it was characteristic of plague to vary its nature with
each victim.

He
decided that if the nurse did not appear soon he would get out of bed and talk
to the guard, but at about seven-thirty he heard the door open and a woman's
boisterous voice called out: "The plague-nurse is here; where are
ye?"

"Come
upstairs!"

Within
a few moments a woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall and heavy-boned,
perhaps thirty-five, and Bruce was relieved to see that she looked strong and
at least moderately intelligent. "Come in here," he said, and she
walked forward, her eyes already on Amber. "I'm Lord Carlton. My wife is
desperately sick as you can see, and needs the best of care. I'd give it to her
myself, but I'm convalescing and not able to get up yet. If you take good care
of her—if she lives—I'll give you a hundred pound." He lied about their
marriage because he thought the truth was none of the woman's business, and he
offered a hundred pounds because he believed it might impress her more than a
larger sum which she would probably not expect to get.

She
stared at him in surprise. "A hundred pound, sir!"

She
drew closer to the trundle then and looked at Amber, whose fingers were picking
restlessly at the blanket Bruce had thrown over her, though but for the nervous
movements of her hands she would have seemed to be totally unconscious. There
were dirty green circles beneath her eyes and the lower part of her face was
shiny with the bile and saliva which had dried there; she had not vomited at
all for the past three hours.