Tidelands

by Philippa Gregory

  And would he not be certain to remember the gentlemen and ladies who had called upon him in his time of troubles? Would he not reward those who had invited him to visit, stretching his parole in lengthy jaunts around the island, sent him game from their estates, fruit from their forcing houses? Would he not repay those favored few who had ridden with him in the enormous lumbering royal coach which had been shipped with such trouble, to block the narrow lanes of the island? When he was Charles the king again, would he not be obliged to remember those who had treated him with the most obsequious respect when he had been Charles the prisoner?

  Mr. Hopkins’s house was as easy to enter as the royal court had been in the grand old days in London, when any wealthy man might walk in to gaze on his monarch and the royal family. The king believed that his dinner table should be on view in his dining hall, as an altar should be on view in church. There was divinity in both. Here in Newport, although there was a brace of guards on each door, they did not challenge anyone: if a man was richly dressed, he could enter. The king was free to come and go as he wished, bound only by his given word not to leave the island. The street outside was crowded all the day with gorgeously dressed well-wishers, parading up and down the freshly swept cobbles, remarking loudly on the simplicity of the town and the poverty of the buildings, besieged by common people wanting a glimpse of a man who claimed to be semidivine, constantly circled by beggars and the sick. King Charles was famous for the healing powers of his long white fingers. A sick man or woman could kneel before him and be restored with one light touch of the hand and a whispered blessing. No one was refused access to the king’s powers. Already a young woman was claiming that he had cured her blindness with his divine grace. Everyone knew that the king was not a mortal man. He had the holy oil on his sacred breast, he was the descendant of ordained kings, he was only one step down from the angels.

  James took care to keep the boys away from the sickly paupers, and paid a guard a small coin to allow them to stand below the window where, they were assured, the king was studying papers sent from parliament. Everyone said that the parliamentary commissioners would arrive within the week and they would work through the many clauses of an agreement with the king so that he might return to his throne and rule with the consent of the houses of parliament. Now the Scots were defeated, the king and parliament would have to agree: he had lost his last gamble. He would always be king, but no longer could he impose his will on the people. Finally, he would have to come to an accord. Peace—after two civil wars—would come to the country and the court.

  The boys waited, craning their necks to look up at the overhanging window; the church bells of Newport started to chime all around the town for six o’clock. There was an excited murmur among the crowd, one side of the leaded window swung open, and the graying head of the King of England poked out. Charles looked down at the people waiting below, he smiled wearily, and raised one heavily ringed hand.

  “Is that him?” Rob asked, the nephew of an army man, born and bred a roundhead, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

  “It is,” James confirmed, pulling his hat from his head and looking upwards, hoping to feel a flush of loyalty, of passionate devotion, but experiencing nothing but anxiety.

  “No crown?”

  “Only when he’s on the throne, I think.”

  “Then how can you be sure it’s him?” Rob persisted. “Without a crown? Could be anybody.”

  James did not say that at his seminary the novices had been shown portrait after portrait of the dark tragic face of the king to assist in their prayers for his safety. He did not say that he had dreamed of the day when the complicated conspiracy would finally fall into place with loyalists on the island, the Prince of Wales’s fleet waiting offshore, and a loyal ship’s captain engaged to sail at midnight with a mystery passenger. “I suppose I just know,” was all he said. “Nobody else would wave from his window.”

  “Hurrah!” Walter suddenly jumped up and down and waved. “Hurrah!”

  The heavy-lidded eyes turned towards the sudden cheer and the king raised his hand again to acknowledge the boy’s fervent loyalty. Then he withdrew, the window was slammed shut, and the shutters closed.

  “That’s it?” Rob asked.

  “Same every day,” a woman beside them answered him. “God bless him. And I come every day to see his sainted face.”

  “We’ll go to dinner,” James said, before the three of them attracted any attention. “Come on.”

  They went back to the Old Bull on the Street, where James had reserved private rooms, and James ordered a hearty dinner for the two boys, allowing them each a glass of wine. “I’m going out while you eat,” he said. “I want to take a look around and find a ship to take us home tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Can’t we come?” Walter asked. “I want to look around too.”

  “I’ll come back for you,” James promised. “We can walk through the market and along the riverside before we go to bed.” He pulled his hat low over his face and went out.

  The streets were still busy as he went down the narrow lanes to the harbor and looked at the boats bobbing at the quayside. The dull clatter of the cleats against the wooden masts reminded him of all the other quaysides, of the many ships in his young life of constant traveling. Every port had the same rattle of rigging, just as every town had an hourly carillon of church bells. He thought that one day he might have lived so long at peace that he would be able to hear it without knowing that it called him to secret dangerous work. He hoped that one day he might hear it without dread.

  “Is there a ship, the Marie, in port?” he asked a man, who was pushing past him with a coil of rope under his arm.

  “Come and gone,” the man said shortly. “Were you meeting her?”

  “No,” James said, lying instantly. “I thought she was always here.”

  “Because if you had been meeting her, I would have told you that the master told everyone that he would not meet his good friend after all, and he set sail this morning.”

  “Oh,” James said. A small coin found its way from his pocket to the waiting hand. The man hefted his rope and started to go on.

  “Any idea how I can hire another ship?”

  “Ask ’em,” he said unhelpfully, and pushed past.

  James paused for a moment, almost winded by the disastrous news. Everything had depended on the ship sailing at midnight, as they had agreed, but now the ship had failed him. His only comfort was that the openness of the failure probably showed that they were not detected. The master had cold feet at the thought of rescuing the King of England, and had set sail, but he had not been arrested. The plot could still go on with a new ship. James would have to find a master so loyal to the king that he would take the risk, or so easily bought that he would do it for money. James looked up and down the quayside and thought that there was no way of judging, no way even to ask the question without running into terrible danger.

  He did not dare to draw attention to himself, going up and down the quayside before dinner. He thought he had better come back later, stroll around the quayside taverns, find a way to have a more discreet conversation. He closed his eyes for a moment so that he would not see the forest of masts. His life had been on a knife-edge for so long that another venture did not excite him. He just felt bone-weary. More than anything he wanted this rescue to be successfully done, and all over. He did not even anticipate a sense of triumph tomorrow. He had set his heart on freeing the king, he had set his name to contracts and letters, and he had set himself to the task. He was faithful; and he thought that God would guide him, so he turned from the harbor to make his way back to Mr. Hopkins’s house. The door, set into the rear garden wall, was unlocked and unguarded, and James slipped into the darkened garden and went quietly towards the kitchen door, which stood open for the cool evening air.

  It was chaos inside. The king was a picky eater, but his importance had to be advertised by serving twenty different dis
hes at every meal. It was a strain on the provincial cooks, who were running out of recipes and ingredients. There were a few guards that James could see through the open door to the dining hall, but their task was to follow the king when he walked abroad, not to prevent anyone from coming into the house. The king’s own servants were responsible for keeping his rooms free of unwanted strangers and admitting noble guests, but they were newly appointed and did not know their way around the rambling house, nor friend from stranger. The king had added half a dozen courtiers to his entourage since being released from the castle, and they too had their servants and hangers-on who came and went without challenge. There were too many strangers for anyone to notice another.

  James waited for a few moments in the garden, watching the disorderly service, and how the servers ran to and fro from the kitchen, through the dining hall, and up the stairs to the king’s rooms. Then he took off his hat, straightened his jacket, and boldly went through the back door as if he belonged there. It was stifling: there was a roast turning on the spit over the fire, saucepans bubbling on little braziers of red-hot charcoal, vegetables stewing by the fireside, and bread being shoveled from the ovens. The servers were rushing in and out, demanding dishes for their own tables, sometimes snatching a dish intended for Mr. Hopkins’s table. Mr. Hopkins’s cook was among it all, trying to keep order, her apron stained, her face sweaty with anxiety and heat.

  “The king’s carver,” James said to her, respectfully. “Can I assist you, Cook?”

  She turned in relief. “Lord, I don’t even know what he’s had yet. Have you not taken the joint up to him?”

  “I am here for it now,” James said smoothly.

  “Take it! Take it!” she exclaimed, gesturing to a leg of lamb that stood on the table being dressed clumsily by a kitchen server with bunches of watercress.

  “This is for the lords!” the server exclaimed.

  “Take it!” She thrust it at James. “And tell me if anything is missing from his table.”

  James bowed and went through the door, past the guard at the foot of the stairs, and up to the door of the king’s rooms. The porters at the royal door hesitated, but James held the dish high and said, “Quick! Before it gets cold!” and walked unhesitatingly towards the closed door, so the porters threw it open for him.

  They closed it behind him, and James, never hesitating for a moment, walked into the king’s dining room and put the dish on the table before him.

  The servant behind his chair, the page holding his gloves, the server with the wine, his fellow with the water did not look twice at James as he took up the long sharp knife and carved paper-thin slices of lamb and fanned them out on the Hopkinses’ best silver plate. He bowed and put the plate before the king, leaning over his shoulder. With his face so close to his ear that he could feel the tickle of gray ringlets and smell the French pomade, he whispered: “Midnight, tonight. Open your door.”

  The king did not turn his head and gave no sign of hearing.

  “Clarion.” James said the password that he had been given from France, the password that said that the plot came from the queen, Henrietta Maria herself.

  The king lowered his head as if he was saying grace, and his hand, hidden beneath the table, made a small gesture of assent. James walked backwards to the door, bowed his head to his knees, and withdrew.

  Back at the Old Bull inn, the boys were eating sugared plums and cracking nuts, and jumped up as he came in.

  “Is there a fair?” Rob asked. “It’s so noisy.”

  “There’s a market and some strolling players,” James said. “We can go and see what’s going on.” He found that he was grinning broadly, almost laughing in his relief that the first stage, getting access to the king, had been so easy. He had been planning this and working with great men to consider every step, yet in the end he had simply walked towards a door and the porter had opened it for him. He almost did not care that he had no ship. If the luck was running his way, it would run all the way to the high seas and the rendezvous with the prince’s fleet.

  “Does the king come out again tonight?” Walter asked.

  “No, he only waves from his window before his dinner and then they close the shutters for the night. But we might see him tomorrow. I think he walks out in the morning,” James said, knowing that the king would be on the prince’s ship at dawn. “He goes to church.”

  “Is he free to go anywhere?” Walter asked.

  “When parliament decided to make an agreement with him, they had to release him so that he could sign the documents as a free man. Now he can go anywhere that he likes on the island; but he has given his word not to leave.”

  “Is there a dancing bear?” Rob demanded. “I’ve never seen a bear.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” James replied. “This is a godly town, or at least it used to be. But we can stroll round the market, and you can buy a fairing for your mother. Perhaps some ribbons for her hair.” He found that his throat was suddenly dry at the thought of her fair hair.

  “No, she always wears a cap,” Rob replied. “But if there are some little tokens for sale, I’d get them. She likes old coins, little tokens. Come on.”

  The two boys walked through the market, looking at the stalls and laughing at the tricks of a small dog who was trained to jump through a hoop and would stand on his hind legs at the command of “Ironsides!” The stalls went down the narrow streets towards the harbor where the River Medina wound through the town, and the boats bobbed at the quayside. James was looking out for ships that had newly arrived, or might be ready to set sail, when Rob suddenly exclaimed: “Da! My da!”

  James wheeled round and saw a brown-faced, dark-haired man jerk up his head at a familiar voice. He caught a glimpse of the strange face, looking astounded. Then the man turned and plunged away into the crowd.

  “That was my da! That was my da!” Rob shouted. “Da! It’s me! Rob! Wait for me!” He took to his heels, darting forward, worming his way through the crowds, and though the man’s dark head bobbed ahead of him, Rob was quicker. When James and Walter caught up with him, he had laid hold of the man and pitched himself into his arms. “It’s me!” he announced, joyously certain of his welcome. “It’s me! It’s me, Da! Rob.”

  The man’s guilty eyes met James’s gaze over his son’s head. “Rob,” he said, patting the boy’s back. “Oh, Rob.”

  Rob was fawning like a puppy. “Where’ve you been?” he said. “We didn’t know! We’ve been waiting and waiting! We thought you were drowned!”

  James saw that the stranger was looking at him with a sort of desperation, as one man to another, in this terrible failure of fatherhood.

  “They thought you had been pressed into the navy,” James prompted.

  “Ah! I was. That I was!” the man said, suddenly glib. He hugged his son and then stepped back to see his face. “I didn’t recognize you, you’ve grown so tall. And dressed so fine! I can see you’ve done well enough without me!”

  “We haven’t! Where’ve you been?” Rob insisted.

  “It’s a long story,” the man said. “And I’ll tell you all of it some day.”

  “Why didn’t you come home?”

  “Why didn’t I come home? Why, I couldn’t come home, that’s why!”

  “But why not?”

  “Because I was pressed, Son. Snatched up by the navy press gang off my boat and taken to serve in the navy for the parliament. Served as a common seaman and then rose through the ranks since I knew the seas around Sealsea Island and all the way to the Downs.”

  “But why didn’t you send a message to Ma?”

  “Bless you, they don’t let you go ashore! They don’t give you high days and holy days off! I was on my ship and spoke to no one but the other poor curs who were pressed alongside me.”

  James watched Alinor’s son, raised to love and trust, struggle to believe his father. “You couldn’t even get a message to us? Because we waited and waited for you to come, and Ma still doesn’t kn
ow if you’re alive or dead. I’ll have to tell her when I get home. She’ll hardly believe me! She’s been waiting. We’ve all been waiting for you to come home!”

  “Oh, she knows.” He nodded rapidly. “It’s better for her to act as if she doesn’t. But you know your ma, Son. A woman like that—she knows in her bones. She knows in her waters. She doesn’t need a message to tell her what’s what. The wind and the waves tell her. The moon whispers to her. The birds in her hedge are her familiars. God knows what she knows and what she doesn’t know, but you needn’t worry about her, ever.”

  An icy sweat of sheer hatred washed over James as he saw the boy struggling to comprehend this, the puzzled frown on his young face, as the faithless father told the boy that his mother was faithless too.

  “I don’t think she does know,” Rob said tentatively. “She would’ve told us when we asked where you were.”

  “Well, you’re doing well enough for yourself anyway,” his father said cheerfully. “Fine clothes and fine friends.” He turned to James. “I’m Zachary Reekie,” he said. “Captain of the coastal trader Jessie.”

  “I’m James Summer,” James said, not offering his hand. “Tutor to Master Walter Peachey here, and to your son, who is his lordship’s server of the body and companion.”

  “In the Peachey household?” Zachary demanded of his son. “Didn’t I say there was no need to worry about your mother? What did she have to do to get you in there? Imagine I know! Is Mr. Tudeley still the steward there?”

  Rob flushed scarlet. “My mother keeps the stillroom for the Priory,” he stumbled.

  “It was I who asked for Rob to be Master Walter’s companion,” James said, making sure that his cold rage did not creep into his smooth tone. “Mrs. Reekie was wise to accept the place for him. He is in service and paid by the quarter, and when Master Walter goes to university I hope to get Rob apprenticed to a physician. He is skilled with herbs and medicines and he’s studying Latin with me.”