Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ‘The fleet’s to be split,’ answered Matthew without looking at Alex. ‘Albemarle’s to keep sixty sail in case the Dutch come out and the Prince is taking twenty-four and hoping to get ten more from Plymouth. They’re moving the whole lot from the Nore to the Downs and His Highness will sail on south to intercept Beaufort.’

  There was another long pause. Alex looked again at Giles.

  ‘If Rupert doesn’t get his extra ships he’ll be two against three … and if de Ruyter does come out, it won’t be with less than eighty sail which gives Albemarle similar odds. I wonder,’ mused Alex, ‘how wise we are to put our faith in Captain Talbot?’

  Daniel, who had listened throughout with an air of suppressed excitement, surged to his feet. ‘Who cares? It’ll be one hell of a fight – and I don’t intend to miss it.’

  Giles directed a lazy smile at him. ‘In which case we can’t lose.’

  Danny grinned back. ‘Glad you realise it.’

  Freddy regarded him with interest. ‘You ever been to sea, Danny?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think just crossing the Channel counts.’

  ‘Me neither. Tell you what … if you go, I’ll go.’

  He was immediately impaled by six pairs of astonished eyes.

  ‘You?’ asked Julia, laughing. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Danny.

  Freddy nodded.

  ‘Are you sober?’ asked Alex.

  ‘No,’ said Chloë crossly. ‘Neither of them are.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Freddy simply. ‘I am.’

  Danny held out his hand. ‘Done. We’ll go together.’

  ‘Done,’ agreed Freddy, taking the hand. ‘When?’

  Daniel grinned sadistically. ‘Tomorrow. At dawn.’

  *

  Chloë managed to seize a few minutes alone with Danny before he left.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t go. You’re sure about it?’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure. I want to go. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just – oh, I don’t know.’ Then, irritably, ‘Yes, I do. I’ll miss you, damn it!’

  ‘Because I’m the only one who dances the couranto without treading on your feet?’ He paused and then pulled a face. ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  For a second Chloë stood, still and demure in her blue-green gown and then, without warning she put her arms around him in a fierce hug. ‘Good. Then you won’t stay to fight the whole war.’

  ‘No.’ Surprised and rather moved, Danny hugged her back and kissed her cheek. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’ And was gone.

  ~ * * * ~

  FIVE

  On the twenty-eighth of May, the eve of both the King’s birthday and the anniversary of his Restoration, the City of London planned to celebrate the double event with a Grand Banquet and Masque at the Guildhall. It was to be a memorably spectacular blend of food and culture, purposely designed to eclipse the similar function which would take place at Whitehall on the day itself and to which the Aldermen and Guild-masters had not been invited.

  It was certainly to prove memorable and, even, in its way, spectacular. The first sign that the occasion might not go exactly to plan was when a corner of the embroidered awning fell on the head of an Alderman. Mr Deveril watched through the carriage window as the afflicted gentleman strove to uphold the canopy while the Lord Mayor finished his lengthy speech of welcome. By the time it was over, he had changed arms three times and Alex remarked that he was glad it was only the royal party under there.

  Inside the banqueting hall, below the royal dais, chaos reigned as merchants and their wives jostled for the best seats. Alex glanced about him and then, looking at Chloë, said, ‘I suppose we could shout ‘Fire!’.’

  ‘We could,’ she agreed. ‘But not while we’re standing in the doorway. Let’s just find a seat. Any seat.’

  Mr Deveril took her arm and forged a path through the crush to a table where there were just two empty places. On one side sat the Earl and Countess of Falmouth … and, on the other, Mr Simon Deveril and Lady Sarah Marsden.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Alex, not quite under his breath. ‘It’s going to be one of those days when one should just have stayed in bed.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Chloë. And, choosing the seat beside Lord Falmouth, sank into it with a swish of cream shot-silk.

  Alex bathed Simon and Sarah in a too-bright smile.

  ‘How nice of you to save us a place,’ he said. And sitting down, ‘Let the games begin.’

  Chloë, chatting lightly with Charles Berkeley and his wife, was trying hard not to listen to that other conversation on her right and finding it difficult. She smiled at the Earl and asked him when he would be re-joining the fleet.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said cheerfully, ‘as early as I can manage it. I’d have returned today but that I’d rather face Albemarle’s wrath than the scold I’d have had for failing to escort my lady here this afternoon.’

  And Lady Falmouth, who was young, pretty and, in Chloë’s opinion, quite the nicest of the Duchess of York’s ladies, flushed and laughed.

  ‘I should think so too! Heaven only knows when I’ll see you again after tonight – and Her Grace released me specially so that we could come here together.’

  Chloë made a suitable reply and came to the conclusion that, though maintaining a happy ignorance might do for an ostrich, it wasn’t for her. With reluctant efficiency, she proceeded to lend an ear to what Cousin Simon was saying to Mr Deveril and promptly learned that what people said of eavesdroppers was true.

  ‘But, of course, dear Chloë is so very … challenging, is she not? I know that Gresham finds her so.’ The soft voice held a thinly veiled innuendo. ‘And we all know how His Majesty admires her.’

  ‘Do we?’ asked Alex mildly. ‘But you know … one could almost believe that you are jealous. The only question is – of whom?’

  And that, thought Chloë, definitely took care of that.

  Her husband, meanwhile, had turned to Lady Sarah.

  ‘Still without your estimable spouse, I see?’

  She shrugged. ‘At home in bed. He hasn’t been well lately – his heart, the doctor says.’

  ‘Really?’ The pleasant voice was reproachful. ‘I’m surprised you chose to leave him.’

  ‘I have nursed him,’ returned Sarah grittily, ‘for three days and now he’s much better. He has his man-servant and he said I was to go and enjoy myself – so I have. Is there anything wrong with that?’

  ‘You tell me,’ invited Alex. ‘But how fortunate that my cousin was able to escort you. What you might call keeping it in the family.’

  The food began to arrive, borne aloft on silver salvers by line upon line of liveried servers. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with it; on the contrary, it was well-cooked, artistically presented and carefully-served. It was simply that there was too much of it. For in an orgy of competitive pride, the butchers had striven to outshine the fishmongers and the pastry-cooks to demonstrate their superiority over the bakers – and the result was a menu of unrivalled variety and imagination. And in it came on relentless feet and in no particular order, scenting the air with an exotic blend of aromas and filling every available space until the boards creaked beneath the weight.

  Alex surveyed it in fascination and said, ‘They’ve catered for the five thousand.’

  Chloë looked and felt her appetite disappear along with an impulse to giggle.

  Sirloins of beef lay flanked by cheeses and jellies; the hams jostled the syllabubs and the lobsters lay cheek by jowl with strawberries and quails; roasted geese looked down on oysters and custards and a suckling pig, its mouth full of apple, glared balefully at a panoplied peacock; the mackerel breathed over the sweetmeats and the salmon slyly nudged the fruit tartlets, while delicately placed piles of oranges loomed ominously over venison pasties and cream darioles. There were chickens and melons, cakes, pies, rabbits, pears and flans – all arranged in flagrant and rioto
us disorder – and, not to be outdone, the wine-merchants had provided untold casks and bottles of their best wares. The City of London had surpassed itself.

  Chloë drew a long bracing breath and turned to look at her husband, who grinned quizzically.

  ‘Take your pick,’ he said waving to the laden table. ‘Choose the lobster and you’ll upset the butchers – take the peacock and the fishmongers will never forgive you. Less a feast, you might say, than a competition.’ He offered her a parsley-trimmed salmon. ‘For what we’re about to receive, may the Lord make our digestions sturdy.’

  ‘Amen,’ sighed Chloë, resignedly helping herself from the dish.

  For the next two hours each of the City’s two hundred guests tried [to a greater or lesser degree, depending on their capacity] to do justice to the banquet – and failed. Indeed, a few of them failed before that and were forced to retire to places less public. One of these, as luck would have it, was Simon Deveril and, smiling vaguely, Alex watched him go.

  ‘He that eats and runs away… ,’ he murmured.

  With funereal pomp, the remains of the feast were cleared away and some of the boards withdrawn to make room for the entertainment. Chloë observed that, though by no means drunk, Mr Deveril was at that hazy stage some way removed from sobriety. She sat back to watch the masque.

  ‘Oh Majesty enthroned with Sceptred Rod

  Oh King in Might; Oh Crown, oh Throne - - ‘

  ‘Oh God,’ said Alex, looking across at Lord Falmouth. ‘They didn’t commission John Ogilby to write it?’

  The Earl nodded. ‘Bludworth liked his verse translation of Aesop. Personally, I’d call it an acquired taste.’

  ‘You mean it’s awful.’

  ‘It’s awful,’ agreed the Earl, ‘but perhaps this will be better.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Alex, settling back in his seat. ‘So let’s enjoy it.’

  The narrator, meanwhile, had raised his voice to something approaching a shout.

  ‘Our task tonight good Masters is to tell

  In epic lines, a tale of danger fell

  From which our King was plucked by Fortune’s smile

  To rise like Phoebus o’er his Foemen vile.’

  ‘They’re doing the King’s escape after Worcester,’ said Lady Falmouth gently. ‘I think perhaps they’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Probably,’ replied the Earl. ‘But His Majesty will love it even if it’s abysmal.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Lady Sarah freezingly, ‘some of us are trying to listen.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Alex. ‘It would be a shame to miss poetry like this.’

  ‘O Woe, thrice Woe! The battle’s roar is done

  And all is lost beneath the setting sun.

  The fated sky grows dim; the angels weep –

  ‘And pinching Shakespeare’s words is pretty cheap,’ finished Alex, folding his arms. ‘Are we in for spot-the-quotation time?’

  ‘Well, if we are,’ said Chloë repressively, ‘I’m sure you’ll be the one to inform us of it.’

  Apparently tired both of listening and being ignored, Lady Sarah gestured to the six oddly-robed damsels ranged behind the narrator and said, ‘Those women – what are they supposed to be?’

  Leaning back between his former mistress and his titular wife, Alex glanced from one to the other and then, choosing Chloë, said, ‘She wants to know who the six lovelies are and I don’t know. Do you?’

  ‘Well, I think,’ said Chloë cautiously, ‘that they are the Muses.’

  ‘She says they’re Muses,’ he told Sarah. And then, again to Chloë, ‘Shouldn’t there be nine of them?’

  ‘Yes. But do you really want three more?’

  ‘Like these? No.’ Mr Deveril eyed the Muses critically. ‘I wonder why the one in blue has her finger in her mouth … or no. Polyhymnia, do you think? Muse of Mimic Art?’

  ‘Very likely.’ Chloë was trying not to laugh and finding it difficult. She pointed to the five homespun-clad youths who had just come in. ‘And those?’

  ‘They’re the Penderel brothers,’ said the Earl, ‘Oh Lord – is that meant to be the King?’

  They all looked at the florid, beefy figure. Chloë stifled a giggle, Lady Falmouth hid behind her fan and Mr Deveril and his lordship dissolved into not quite silent mirth. Lady Sarah eyed them all with cold incomprehension.

  Things got worse rather than better. The famous oak tree got wedged in the doorway and finally arrived minus a branch or two … and Terpsichore executed an enthusiastic, rather than graceful dance around it while the King crouched symbolically beneath its painted boughs. The viols scraped and the noise level rose.

  ‘I don’t think I can take much more of this,’ said the Earl a little wildly.

  ‘You’ll have to,’ replied Chloë. ‘The tree’s stuck again.’

  A large soprano accompanied by Euterpe’s lute was making an ineffective attempt to be heard over the chatter. Chloë winced as the heavy voice wobbled through a flood of semi-quavers in the upper extremity of its range.

  ‘That’s Jane Lane,’ Alex told her. ‘The King posed as her groom and they rode pillion to Bristol. Those two would need an elephant. Oh good – they’ve got rid of the tree. Now the Roundheads can get in.’

  Clinging grimly to the shred of her composure, Chloë watched the soldiers blundering down the hall. Two of them became inexplicably entangled and a third ended in the Earl of Rochester’s lap. Meanwhile the Muse of History screeched verses over the din.

  ‘Oh men of iron! Oh beasts of cloven foot!

  In massy hordes come seeking blood to gloot – ‘

  ‘Gloot?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Glut,’ supplied Chloë unsteadily.

  ‘Their hungry blades; oh woe and thrice, thrice woe!’

  ‘Alas! Alack! Ah me! And thrice ditto,’ finished Mr Deveril triumphantly.

  ‘Stop,’ gasped Chloë, sorely tried. ‘They’re doing their best.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it’s a comedy but they left Thalia out. She’s wreaking her revenge. Look -they’ve got trouble with the doors again.’

  ‘It – it’s a ship!’

  Alex nodded. ‘The Surprise … what a pity they bent the mast. It looks a little limp, don’t you think?’

  It did but it trundled on towards the beckoning Muse of Astronomy and narrowly avoided running her down. The King stepped cautiously aboard and the ship turned and set sail for France. Urania, brandishing her compass, lured it from a safe distance and Calliope boomed an epic farewell.

  ‘And so adieu! Sail safe o’er waters blue

  While England to itself rests all untrue;

  For thou wert saved by God’s Celestial hand

  To rule restored once more in this fair land.’

  It was not quite the end, however. As the Surprise rolled back down the hall, she raised her hatch-covers and out of them flew a cloud of white doves. Out and up they winged their way, blurring the high, painted ceiling and startling the well-dressed noisy gathering below into silence at last.

  Mr Deveril watched them appraisingly.

  ‘I don’t think,’ he said at length, ‘that this was a good idea.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Chloë. ‘One of them is sitting on the Lord Mayor’s hat.

  ‘And that is the least of our worries. Birds have some nasty habits.’

  The words had barely left his mouth when there was a loud splat from somewhere near at hand and turning, they saw that one particular nasty habit had been delivered on the table in front of Lady Sarah who was staring at it with picturesque revulsion.

  It was too much. Their powers of endurance severely over-strained, Chloë and Alex collapsed into helpless laughter.

  *

  Later on, still hiccupping faintly, they said goodbye to Lord and Lady Falmouth and climbed into their carriage. It was a little after nine o’clock and, remembering that Mr Beckwith was supping with the Blanchards, Mr Deveril suddenly decided to visit his sister. He therefore ordered the coachman to t
ake them to Wych Street and, sweeping Chloë with him, entered Julia’s house happily chanting, ‘Oh Woe and thrice, thrice Woe!’

  One look at their faces was enough to prompt Sir Thomas into begging for a description of the evening’s glories and, nothing loth, Alex proceeded to oblige him. By the time he reached the part played by the oak tree, Julia was helpless with laughter and her husband actually crying; but Giles, who at first had been equally amused, abruptly found himself watching Chloë. And Chloë, of course, was watching Alex.

  He knew what she was seeing. He’d seen it himself countless times in the past but never in the last six years; never since they’d all returned to England and Alex had discovered that, despite his father having died for the King and he himself having spent half his life fighting to see Charles returned to his throne, his own birth-right had been handed over to Simon Deveril. Worse still, the King he still served lacked the power to set things right. And so, since then, Alex’s wit had always contained a thread of bitterness and was rarely completely free of mockery. The part of him that enjoyed the ridiculous and rejoiced in the absurd had been locked away behind impenetrable barriers … and wouldn’t have surfaced now, Giles thought, had the evening’s debacle not been floated on a glass of wine too many.

  Chloë sat very straight, her cheeks faintly flushed and a light in her eyes that Giles had no difficulty in interpreting. He felt as if a knife was twisting in his stomach. She was sensible and level-headed, yes … but that was no protection against Alex at his most magnetic. He had tried to warn her not to be blinded by the good looks and easy charm … but it was happening anyway, right now under his nose. He wondered if she realised it … or if Alex had any idea what he had done.

  Alex had just launched into a rendering of Oh Men of iron! and, though he glanced at Chloë, he didn’t appear to notice the candle lighting her gaze. Giles wanted to shake him – to break the spell and make him stop. But Julia and Tom were still laughing and Giles was too well-bred to make a scene – particularly one he’d have difficulty explaining. He looked back at Chloë and saw a change. Her back was still straight but she no longer looked at Alex. Instead, her eyes stared down at her hands, gripped so tight in her lap that the knuckles glowed white. And Giles had his answer.