Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  Today, even less. Whatever the opposite of ill, that’s what she was. Musicians had been trailing through the courtyards, fiddling and blowing their flutes with lively abandon. Cook and all his minions had been chopping and rolling, baking and roasting in all the kitchens for days to prepare for a great feast to be held this evening in honor of the guests.

  She watched as Mavis lifted the bowl to drink some broth. “I promise I’ll remember every detail and spin it out for you this very night,” she said. “Do not be tempted to get out of bed.”

  “Mayhap I can see a little through the window.”

  “Better to sleep, love,” Jenny said gently. “Think of poor Mrs. Needham, gone to her grave.”

  Mavis closed her eyes. “Mrs. Needham.” Tears leaked from beneath her lashes. They had often worked together repairing gowns and ironing.

  “Never mind,” Jenny said. “You must eat.”

  Mavis steeled herself, a quality Jenny liked about her—the thing that had carried her from her bad life into a better one, the thing that would see her through this malady. “What gossip do you bring?” Mavis asked, taking another sip of broth.

  “Hmm.” Jenny considered. “The queen is angry that her mother has been exiled to a convent.”

  “Bah! Not that kind of gossip.”

  Jenny chuckled. “Well, ’tis said the king still avoids his mistress in favor of his queen.”

  “That’s better. Does the lady pout?”

  “I have not seen it if she does. She’s all very gay and bright as ever.”

  “What do the ladies wear today? To meet the wild men?”

  “They’re lovely, all in their finery. Lady Castlemaine is in the red silk, you remember it.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mavis settled, her gaze on the dress in her imagination. Worn from the small act of eating, she lay back.

  Jenny conjured up descriptions of some of the other gowns, the slashed sleeves on Lady Buckingham’s velvet, the embroidered skirts of the queen.

  “You’re a good friend, Jenny.”

  “Come now. Let me tuck you in before I go.”

  Mavis nodded, still weak enough not to mind the fuss. Jenny tucked her in, covered her with another quilt, and raced back down to the kitchen, where she dropped off the dishes and then slid out beneath the reigning chaos to find a spot to watch the great parade.

  • • •

  In Catherine’s apartments, a rolling flow of laughter and animated conversation filled the rooms, ladies and servants alight with the coming events. As her woman twisted Catherine’s curled dark locks into an arrangement of braids and ribbons, she smoothed her bodice, made of indigo velvet, a blue so rich it glowed. Her full sleeves were tied at intervals with gold ribbon, that same ribbon edging her overskirts, tied back to reveal elegantly embroidered flowers and vines on the white skirts below.

  The room looked like a garden at midsummer, gowns of yellow and deep red and green, jewels winking, lace trailing from sleeves and hems. The Lady Buckingham looked particularly splendid in gold, but no one ever eclipsed the Lady Castlemaine, and no one did today. It was near impossible to avoid staring at the woman, Catherine thought without rancor. Like a bold sunset or the first wash of roses in the summer garden, her beauty was perfection, from round lips to tilted eyes to long, white hands.

  To the Duchess of York, waiting nearby, Catherine said in Spanish, “They are like butterflies and flowers.”

  “Indeed, Madam.” She smiled. “In English, mariposa is ‘butterfly.’”

  “Butterfly?” Catherine repeated. “Like butter, the butter we eat?”

  Anne laughed. “Yes. I do not know why.”

  “English es enigmático,” she said, shaking her head.

  De Mello entered, a stout little bird amid the flowers, and bowed deeply. “Alteza.”

  “Godfather,” she exclaimed, rising. “You will escort me?”

  “My pleasure, Alteza.”

  Lady Suffolk hurried forward with Catherine’s hooded cloak, to protect her from the weather as they crossed the courtyards to the Banqueting Hall. De Mello held out an arm and she slid her hand through the crook of his elbow. Behind her, the ladies swished and swirled into the long hallway, voices murmuring, rising, the music of her daily life. Ever had she been cocooned by the company of women, but clusters of nuns had carried an entirely different sort of sound. These ladies laughed lightly, their voices smooth, sharp, rolling, teasing. She had become fond of several of them. Anne, of course, but also Lady Chesterfield, who carried a motherly calm Catherine found pleasing. She was less fond of the poor, tense Lady Eleanor, who trudged alongside them, hardly as wide as a twig even in her dark cloak. Catherine wished to have more charitable thoughts, and she had genuinely tried to make her comfortable, but the woman was always grim, and it wore on her.

  “What do you know of these Muscovites, Godfather?” Catherine asked, relieved to speak in her own language. “Why do they come?”

  “Trade. Before the wars, the Muscovites had a trade agreement with England, but they threw all the English out when Cromwell rose to power.”

  “Religious differences?”

  “Perhaps. They are Orthodox Christians, which is closer, Your Majesty, to our own Catholicism than to Puritanism.”

  Catherine nodded. “So now they wish to reestablish relations and trade.”

  “Yes, particularly whaling, I understand. And, too, they’ve been at war with Poland these past decades and perhaps seek alliances.”

  “But do we not have enough war to occupy us?” Catherine asked. A letter from her mother, banished to a convent, had arrived only three days ago, complaining of the Spanish advances on the borders of Portugal, and always there were murmurs about the Dutch and their powerful navy. Catherine had heard Charles and the Duke of York speak of the need for a stronger navy on several occasions.

  “Just so,” he answered. “But the Muscovites come in goodwill.”

  A servant scurried to haul open the heavy wooden doors that led to the courtyard, allowing a blast of bitter wind to sweep in. Catherine bowed her head in defense, and still it found its icy way under her cloak, around her neck, making her cough. “Oh,” she said in small despair, pulling fabric over her mouth. “I dislike this weather.”

  “You mustn’t think winter in London is always thus.” The Duchess of York tucked herself near. “I can’t remember a winter so cold! But walk close, there’s warmth in numbers.”

  Grateful, Catherine huddled between her godfather and her sister and they made their way to the Banqueting Hall, ducking inside with a sigh of relief. Anne brushed her skirts and pulled back her hood, then did the same for Catherine, taking time to adjust a curl, pat down a wisp of hair dislodged by her cloak. “There.”

  Catherine smiled up at her gratefully and took her hand. They made their way to the dais covered with a canopy in festive style. Overhead, in the gallery, a company of musicians played woodwinds and pipes, sending a merry spray of sound over the buzz of voices. She squeezed Anne’s fingers. In English she said, “Is very exciting!”

  “It is!”

  “Excuse me, Alteza,” said de Mello. “I must speak with the ambassador.”

  “Of course.”

  On the dais, Charles awaited, adorned in a coat embroidered with gold and scarlet, his hair—all his thick, lustrous, natural hair, never a wig—adding counterpoint to the finery. He was taller than any man in the room, and long of leg, and carried some powerful air in his vicinity, so that even if he were not the king, one would be compelled to look his way.

  Catherine curtsied. “Your Majesty.”

  He took her hand and carried it to his lips. “How lovely you look, Your Majesty!”

  “And you, sire.”

  He laughed, guiding her to stand nearby. “Are you prepared for the spectacle? The Muscovites are an alarming lot.”

  “The ladies are faint with delight.” She nodded at them, the bells of their skirts pressing one into the next in a soft cascade of velvets and silk
s. Lady Castlemaine stood out in red, but the king did not appear to notice. Charles seemed to have found true feeling for his queen, and he’d been in her bed more often than not of late.

  Perhaps tonight, she thought, and the image must have glittered in her eye somehow, because he lifted her hand once more and kissed her palm, a promise.

  • • •

  The courtyards were crowded with people as Jenny made her way to the Banqueting Hall. Due to the shortage of staff, she had been pressed into service for the state dinner that would be served later at York House, but for now she had slipped away to see the spectacle. Despite the cold, she had to fight her way through thick crowds outside the hall, trying to find some vantage point that offered a view of something besides hats and burly shoulders.

  A blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the Muscovites, but even though it was plain the leaders were riding horses, she could see nothing. In frustration, she pushed and moved and wove through, but could make no headway.

  Her breath hung in the air and she bit her lip, trying to think of—

  A hand captured hers. Startled, she made to run away, but then Thom tugged her hand. His nose was bright red, and it made his eyes all the darker. “Come,” he said.

  She allowed him to pull her away from the crowds and down an alley through a gate into a quiet square. A staircase led to small door. “The gallery,” he said. “Only the musicians are there.”

  “Will we get in trouble?”

  “Nay, my cousin will vouch for us. He is playing his violin.”

  “You are ever full of surprises.” She grinned. “Lead the way, Mister Hamed.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back quickly, earnestly, then they dashed up the steps. As they slid onto the high balcony overlooking the main floor, Jenny caught her breath first over the paintings on the ceiling, illuminated by large windows on either side of the building. She gave a quick, smothered gasp, and pointed upward when Thom looked around. He nodded appreciatively, and still holding her hand, made his way to the railing.

  The musicians played, bright and merry, woods and strings, the sound reverberating as the first of the Muscovites came into the room, dark and dressed in clothes the likes of which she’d never seen. A line of servants led the way, and someone banged a drum. Jenny felt her heart quicken. What a sight!

  Thom leaned close. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  She shook her head in wonder. “Never!” Her heart felt as big as the whole hall—never had she imagined she would have a life filled with such wonders.

  • • •

  Catherine stood near the king, nodding and smiling at the foreign retinue. They dressed in the Eastern fashion, in multicolored vests made of many fabrics lined with fur, and adorned with intricate embroidery. They all sported thick beards, which she supposed must be protection against their cold land, and tall fur hats.

  The row of gift bearers snaked in a seemingly endless line through the hall, bringing a rich mix of offerings—dark fur she sank her hand into, fox and sable and ermine, and some other pale fur she did not recognize. They carried rugs embroidered with bright thread, so large it took two men to hold their weight, and bows and arrows, and cloth of gold and silver. Bearers ceremoniously held up caskets of jewels and trade goods and so many other things it began to make her dizzy. She smiled and nodded.

  The animals caused the greatest stir. Three magnificent hawks of a sort Catherine had never seen, hooded against the commotion, their broad shoulders attesting to their power, feathers striped brown. Charles roared his approval and held out his arm for them, charming the hawks as easily as he charmed every other creature on earth. He stretched one palm out to signal the dogs to stay, and they eyed the birds warily but did not move.

  And more—tall, long-lashed birds called ostriches, looking around comically; horses with thick fur around their feet; and, most charming of all, birds the color of an evening sky, pale pink and graceful. “Pelicans,” their bearer explained. “Water birds, Your Majesty.”

  “Beautiful creatures,” he said with approval. “We’ll make them a lovely home in the park.”

  On it went, the procession and the presentation of gifts, for hours. Some of the men spoke with Charles for a moment, but it was, in the main, all pageantry. Catherine tired at last and sat, Anne along with her. Noise enveloped them in their own little world, and quietly they talked, dazzled by the sturdy power of the men, their strange dress and gruff voices. “The language is harsh,” Catherine commented, “or is that only my ear?”

  “To my ear, as well.”

  “Perhaps others feel that way about my language, no?”

  “Oh, no! Portuguese is . . . musical.”

  Catherine smiled. Whether or not the compliment was true, it was offered in kindness. She spied Father Patrick in the crowd, hands tucked behind his back, looking for all the world as if he were enjoying himself. “Sister,” she said quietly in Spanish, “a question. I would have your true opinion.”

  “Of course,” Anne murmured, taking her hand. “What is it?”

  “I have thought perhaps to show solidarity with my husband and my new country by attending chapel on Sunday mornings with the king. Think you it would be heretical?”

  Anne glanced toward the priest. “Have you spoken with Father Patrick about this matter?”

  “No.” She lifted a brow. “I rather suspect I know how he would advise me—he would say it is my duty to convert my husband, rather than allow myself to be converted.”

  Anne’s eyes widened. “You are the most devout lady I have ever known!”

  “Others are more devout than I. But it is true I am in no danger of falling away from the True Mother Church. I could not.”

  A cry went up around them, and the women clapped over a great white horse dancing toward the king, who laughed and gestured for it to be taken to the stables.

  Catherine focused once more on Anne, and said very quietly, “The English wish for an English queen. Perhaps I can at least accept they have customs that I do not mind, as I have done in clothing and hair, no?”

  Anne tucked her lip between her teeth, brow furrowing.

  “No?” Catherine asked. “Speak freely, I beg you.”

  “Not here, Your Majesty.” She glanced over her shoulder. “When there are fewer ears about.”

  “Very well.”

  • • •

  As the party moved from the Banqueting Hall to York House, en masse like some multi-legged insect, Barbara found herself moving with it. The entire spectacle had aroused her—robust men on big horses, eyes bold and haughty, the sensuality of colors and textures, the beautiful creatures so alarmed by the crowds, the birds with their satin feathers, the ostriches with the great dark eyes. She wanted to touch everything, rub against it all like a cat, the carpets and feathers and furs.

  Charles had not lain with her in months, and she felt the lack along the crook of her elbow, rustling beneath her heavy hair, weighing her lips. Even in the cold she needed no cloak, for steam came off her skin the moment the night air touched it. Her hunger made her reckless, and as the wine flowed freely through the party, she flirted shamelessly with the sturdy Muscovite seated to her right. They had no language to share, but she had eyes and a smile. He had laughter and hands that reached for her beneath the table.

  What harm in it?

  At the head of the gathering, the king wore his state face, dark head bent close to the ambassador’s. He noticed not his wife, seated next to him, engaged in chatter with the Duchess of York, nor his neglected mistress.

  Barbara’s world had shrunk these long months, narrowed to the chatter of the ladies over their embroidery, to the small comfort of her children, smelling of milk and sweet baby sweat when she visited the nursery, to her lonely bed.

  Late this cold winter evening, she washed up on the shores of a faro table. The air smelled of spice and heat and male sweat, underscoring the musk of animals and the overt virility that came off the Muscov
ites. The mingled odors were not entirely pleasant; they were, however, entirely arousing.

  It was there, many markers down, that Rochester found her. She flirted with a barbarian on her left and the baron on her right, lifting her cup rather too often.

  “Why Barb’ry, sweet, weren’t you warned off your habit of losses only last week?”

  “Pish,” she hissed, waving him away. Charles had taken her to task as he paid her latest debts, but he knew she had to amuse herself somehow in his absence, and her second choice of pleasure was the tables. “’Tis small comfort, but comfort it does grant.”

  “Hmm.” He inserted himself between Barbara and the burly man next to her, giving the enormous man a sidelong glance. “Have you found the wolf?” he asked. “Or is he a bear? I’d be wary, dear heart—they have teeth in his part of the world.” He brushed a finger down her neck. “Teeth to tear tender ladies to nibbled bits.”

  “Am I not the wolf, dear Rochester?”

  He bent close, his hand falling against her shoulder, and whispered, “I should like your assistance with our little prince, Barb’ry.”

  “Little prince?”

  “Our Jamie lad.” His mouth brushed the ticklish skin of her earlobe. She leaned away from him, irritable and conversely hungry. Only her women had touched her in ages, and every inch of her skin longed for the caress of a man. As if he knew it, Rochester’s hand slipped over the flesh of her shoulder blade, trailed along the meeting place of skin and gown. She turned to glare up at him, order him to remove his hands, but there was something in his face, still and calculating, that made her halt.

  “What is it?”

  He touched her chin playfully. “Come along . . . and see.”

  In her reckless state, it was unwise to stay here among the wolves and bears and barons. Dragging her cloak about her, she followed Rochester’s lithe figure out of the hall and into the night, diving into the great room where splinters of courtiers and Muscovites gathered, drinking and playing games of dice. Among them was the lovely Jamie, engaged in earnest conversation with a man of great stature, his vest made of various leathers and black fox.