Blood's Game

by Angus Donald

Holcroft was standing behind his father in the nearly capacious cell in the White Tower and taking a pair of none-too-sharp shears to the ends of his long hair, trimming them as neatly as he could. As he spoke, he noticed that his father’s locks were now mostly grey, with only a few strands of chestnut mixed in with the overall iron hue.

  ‘Does Warburton know what happened to Will and Smithy?’

  ‘If he does he’s not saying: they both disappeared on the first day, when you didn’t show up after the job. Only Parrot and Tom waited for you at the Boar. Which was their undoing.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Blood stared at the narrow, barred window, which was wide open, admitting a thick shaft of yellow and creating a warm puddle of sunlight on the wooden floor. ‘What about you, son? How’re you keeping?’

  ‘I am very well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And how is my old friend the Duke of Buckingham? Is he treating you well? Allowing you decent food, a lavish stipend, a comfy bed, all that?’

  ‘I have no complaints.’

  Blood turned in his chair and looked directly at Holcroft. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘I might be locked up tight in the Tower but I still have friends who tell me of the doings of White Hall: who’s up who’s down, who’s been summarily kicked out of their post at the Cockpit for being simple enough to try to gull their lord with a confect letter.’

  ‘If you know already, why do you ask?’

  ‘Why did you not tell me?’

  ‘You have enough to worry about, Father.’

  ‘In two days’ time, son, I’m going up in front of old Judge Morton at the Bailey. I was caught red-handed, the crown in my very pocket, jewels stuffed down my boots, I have no defence to speak of, and I doubt it will take him more than a long quarter-hour to pronounce me guilty and sentence me to the drop. A day or so after that, in less than a week, to be sure, I will be no more. And I care not a fig for that. Truly, I don’t. I’ve had a grand old life. Never a dull moment. But I do care that you and your brothers and sisters have a secure place in the world. Elizabeth and Charles, up in Lancashire with Granny Maggie, will be just fine with her. Mary is married to that dull Corbett fellow in Northampton and she seems happy enough. Edmund and William are well berthed in the King’s ships and placed to make their fortunes at sea, if they stir themselves. Tom, well, he’s clearly got no talent as a rank-rider so I pray that maybe this spell in the Tower will set him on the straight and narrow. Anyway, they’ve promised to let him go the day I make the final journey to Tyburn and I still have friends who will help him if he wants to continue his calling as a filtching-cove. But you – I had high hopes for you, Holcroft. I thought you might make something of yourself – as a clerk with Buckingham or maybe even something in the ministry, perhaps a secretary to the King. I worried about you most of all, son. You are different from all of them. You always have been. Not a fool, I don’t say that, just different. Until last week I thought that, at last, you were safely installed in a good position with Buckingham. But now, well—’

  ‘I don’t want to be a clerk or a secretary in the ministry or any cove who wields quill and ink for his bread.’

  ‘What is it that you do want?’

  ‘I want to be a soldier, Father, I want to be a gallant officer just like you were. I want a scarlet uniform, a black hat with a long white plume, a fine horse and a magnificent sword. I want to ride at the head of my company of brave men and conquer the enemies of my King and win glory . . .’

  ‘I take it back: you are a fool – if you think that is what soldiering is. Soldiering is blowing a man’s face off when he’s half a dozen yards from you. Soldiering is stabbing the other fellow in the back while it is safely turned and before he gets the chance to stab you. Soldiering is burning women and children in their homes because some titled idiot gave you an order and you are too much of a coward to defy him. Soldiering is holding your best friend in your arms as he coughs up his life’s blood and stares, weeping with terror, into the mouth of Hell. There is no glory on the battlefield, son. Not one single drop of it: but there is plenty of blood and shit and offal, and more than enough fear and pain – brave young men screaming for their mothers or just for the mercy of death, and other men looking in disbelief at their own shattered limbs and opened flesh. Headless corpses, pulverized bones, more gore than you ever thought possible . . . A battlefield looks like one gigantic butcher’s yard, son, and smells like the worst jakes you ever had to hold your nose and take a piss in. It’s not a place you want to visit twice. Trust me. My advice is stick to quill and ink. A quill never blew a man’s leg off. But I have no doubt that you will do what you wish after I’m dead and gone. And good luck to you.’

  ‘If you think quill and ink never killed a man, then you are the fool, Father. But listen to me, they are not going to hang you this week or the next, I promise you. I have started a train of events that will bring you before the King. Once you have an audience with His Majesty you will be able to plead for your life. I know that you, Father, of all men, can make the most of that chance. If you wish to live, it will be in your own two hands.’

  Blood stared at his son. ‘What have you done, Holcroft?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, Father. Part of the arrangement is my silence. I can’t tell anyone. But trust me. I am not the fool you think me. There is hope!’

  *

  Jack Churchill looked at the cards in his hand and frowned. He held the ace and the ten of diamonds, which were trumps, and both of them were winners, and he also had the king of spades, also a winner. And God knew what his partner Captain Fellowes had – a fistful of face cards and the last two aces, probably, by the way his luck was running tonight. There seemed to be no way he could lose this game without making it entirely obvious that he was deliberately playing badly.

  Holcroft had been most insistent that he lose. Jack needed to be thoroughly beaten and to part with a significant sum of money. That was the plan. Not for the first time he wished he had his young friend’s strange facility with cards. Holcroft would have known by now exactly where every unplayed card in the pack was and how to engineer a thumping defeat. Jack was too lucky, that was his problem. Too much God-damned good luck!

  ‘Remind me, Sir Thomas,’ said Jack, fingering his ten of diamonds. ‘Why do they call this game Whisk?’

  ‘It is not generally called Whisk any more,’ said Sir Thomas Littleton testily. ‘The name of the game is Whist – with a letter T at the end. And it is so called, I have been reliably informed by expert players, because it should be played in absolute silence.’

  ‘Silence, you say? My humble apologies.’ He let go of the ten and instead pulled out the ace of diamonds.

  Littleton, who was on Jack’s immediate left, saw the card and gave a sharp and, in the quiet of the deserted music room, surprisingly loud gasp. It was almost, but not quite, a whoop of joy.

  ‘Whist!’ said Jack to Littleton, wagging an admonishing finger at him, and the fat man, recognizing his opponent’s wit, returned him a little smile and played a low diamond. Fellowes frowned at his partner across the table, obviously disapproving of Jack’s reckless play, then he laid out the lowest diamond he had – the nine. The Duke of Buckingham smiled coldly at the other three and discarded an innocuous four of clubs – and Jack gathered up the trick and added it to the four that he and Fellowes already had.

  Jack was pleased with himself. He had had no idea that Buckingham had a void in diamonds, not a single one of that suit, but even a card player as mediocre as he was able to determine that his ten must now lose to the king of diamonds, and perhaps, if he was lucky, he might be allowed to refrain from playing his king of spades until he was sure it could be beaten by the ace, which was still out there. God, he hoped Fellowes was not holding the ace.

  The Duke of Buckingham looked round the music room on the ground floor of the Foot Guards’ House: a tasteful, high-ceilinged, wood-panelled sanctum. He particularly admired the exquisite double virginal in the corner, which presumably gave the ro
om its name, a beautiful walnut instrument with its pair of keyboards fashioned from ivory and ebony and a vibrant hunting scene painted on the inside of the open lid. The Churchill boy seemed to be taking an interminably long time to lead his next card, he thought. He probably still thinks he has a chance of winning this hand, even winning the game and match. He didn’t, of course, but he might as well let this delightfully pretty young fellow work it out for himself – he really was quite extraordinarily handsome; no wonder that greedy old bitch Barbara Villiers found him so irresistible.

  Buckingham raised his eyes from the table and examined the portrait of the King by Sir Peter Lely that hung directly in his line of sight over the fireplace, which was filled not with a cheerfully crackling blaze on this warm May afternoon but with an equally incandescent display of red and orange tulips. The King wore dark steel armour, and his left hand rested on a full-face helm, as befitted a portrait in this martial residence. He had the chain of the Garter around his neck, a sword at his left side and a marshal’s baton in his right. In the background was a crown and sceptre of state, in case there should be any doubt about the subject’s identity in this unusual attire. His expression was stern and wise, no hint of frivolity save for the thin black moustache under his long nose and white lace cravat at his throat, but that was to suggest to the viewer, Buckingham suspected, that the King was a gentleman of refinement and culture as well as a mighty warrior. What nonsense, thought the duke, what comical puffery. The King was one of the least martial men he knew. Despite a de jure declaration of war against the Dutch in the Treaty of Dover – the ridiculous sham that the duke had been involved in brokering last winter, to his lasting rage and humiliation – the King had done nothing since. It wasn’t that he was a coward or lazy – far from it. The truth was he could not afford to go to war, not this year at least and possibly not the next either. His army numbered only a few thousand men – not much more than a substantial royal guard, in fact. His ships were still lying unfinished in the stocks at Chatham, the shipwrights idle or gone to seek more remunerative labour. All that was left to him was martial posturing in a portrait by a fashionable – and ironically Dutch! – painter. As for the majestic crown on the shelf behind him, that item or one very similar to it, had last been seen hammered flat and shoved into the coat pocket of one of England’s premier bunglers as he made his botched escape from the Tower of London. They were a pair, Thomas Blood and Charles Stuart: overly conceited, dyed-in-the-wool buffoons, the both of them.

  He wondered idly what Blood was doing now. Praying for salvation, he presumed, and may God have mercy on his soul for Sir William Morton certainly would have none, and in two days’ time he would face his judge in this world and shortly afterwards his judge in the next. Good riddance, thought Buckingham, he’d been nothing but a nuisance recently. He was pleased, however, that Osborne had been able to convince him to die quietly, to keep his big Irish mouth shut. The threat to his eldest son had done the trick; he’d not had a peep out of Blood since. Osborne had a gift for that sort of thing – he would go far, no doubt, with a little help from his friends.

  Churchill played the ten of trumps – a bad error, thought Buckingham, knowing that Littleton must have the king at least. The pretty young puppy had sealed his fate.

  Indeed, so it proved. For ten minutes later, Churchill had his purse out and was cheerfully counting out guineas.

  ‘Don’t fret, Fellowes, old friend, I’ll gladly cover your losses,’ he said to his thunder-browed partner. ‘I’m sure that it was entirely my fault that we lost. Damn this run of hellish bad luck.’

  Captain Fellowes was mollified by Churchill’s words. He put away his own purse with relief and began to calm down. However, the junior officer’s next utterance brought his superior’s simmering anger back to the fore.

  ‘Your Grace, Sir Thomas – I thank you for a very pleasant and most instructive afternoon. Here are your winnings’ – Jack gently shoved a stack of gold coins towards each man – ‘but I must beg you to allow Captain Fellowes and myself to have our revenge. I am twenty-two guineas out of pocket and so I hope you will accept our challenge for a return match, same stakes, perhaps on Friday afternoon? If you are both at liberty, that is.’

  Littleton chuckled and dropped the clinking pile of gold straight into his coat pocket. ‘Certainly, sir, I should be happy to oblige, that is, if His Grace is also willing to play again . . .’

  ‘Hold on there, ensign,’ said Fellowes. ‘After this display, I’m not sure I wish to be partner – that is I’m not sure I’m at liberty on Friday.’

  ‘Ah, that is a dreadful shame, sir. But I expect that I can find a card-loving friend to take your place,’ Jack waved airily towards the Foot Guards officers’ mess that lay just outside the door of the music room.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he continued, ‘I trust in your great sense of fair play: you will allow me a rematch, will you not?’

  The Duke of Buckingham looked at the handsome young officer who was smiling so beguilingly at him. He looked down at the not-inconsiderable pile of gold on the table before his place.

  ‘It will be my pleasure to relieve you of some more of your money on Friday. Shall we say two o’clock?’

  *

  The King rolled off his lover and lay on his back in the royal bed breathing heavily. Nell wiped herself with a corner of the sheet and sat up. She smiled down at Charles, who looked back at her with glazed, unfocused eyes, then she reached out a long arm for the goblet of wine on the table beside the bed. A moment later, red-lipped and refreshed, Nell slid off the bed, naked as a baby and stalked over to the stool closet on the far side of the room. Charles watched her walk, his eyes intent on her long, slim legs and round, almost boyish, buttocks. He felt a stir of lust in spite of his recent exertions. I’ll give myself half an hour, he thought, then we’ll see.

  He became aware of a gentle knocking at the door of his chamber. ‘Enter!’ he called and a moment later the lean form of Sir John Grenville, groom of the close stool, slipped in and came to the foot of the bed.

  ‘What is it, Grenville? You know that I’m otherwise engaged.’

  ‘You have a visitor, sir, with a letter for you.’

  ‘Well, accept the letter, then, and I’ll read it in due course with the others. Do you really need to trouble me with this?’

  ‘I am afraid the lady will not give up the letter: she says she will only put it into your hand.’

  ‘I’m busy, Grenville. Tell her she can leave the letter or come back later or on another day. I care not. I merely wish to be left in peace—’

  ‘With your new whore?’ said a female voice. Barbara, Duchess of Cleveland, stalked through the open door and into the royal bedchamber and stood, magnificent in a marvellously low-cut yellow silk gown and turquoise wrap, face powdered chalk white, full lips stained bloody with cochineal, kohl underlining her sleepy violet eyes, and staring down at the half-naked monarch, who was now scrabbling to cover his modesty with a bed-sheet.

  ‘Madame, you cannot come barging into His Majesty’s chambers,’ said Grenville. ‘I distinctly told you to wait outside until summoned.’

  ‘Did you really think I would sit meekly out there while the father of my five children disports himself merrily with some cheap slut?’

  ‘Who are you calling a slut?’ Nell emerged from the closet, still without a stitch. She glared at the interloper, hands on hips.

  ‘Madame, I am afraid I must ask you to leave immediately,’ said Grenville. ‘Guards! Guards, get in here right now—’

  ‘I’m calling you a slut. Me. And you are a slut! A harlot! A whore! You think you can replace me, you trollop, you grubby little orange-seller.’

  ‘Least I got nice firm oranges to sell, Grandma, not like your floppy old dumplings. Cover those hideous wrinkled things up, for God’s sake. At your age, even if you’ve lost your bloom, do try to have some dignity at least.’

  A pair of red-coated soldiers with half-pikes in hand had a
ppeared at the door of the chamber. They stopped and stared goggle-eyed at the naked actress, the half-covered King in the bed, and the fully dressed duchess, who now stepped briskly across the room and delivered a slap across Nell’s face that sounded loud as a pistol shot.

  Grenville said: ‘Guards, the Duchess of Cleveland is to be escorted from this palace this very minute . . .’

  ‘Aaaarrhh!’ screamed Nell – it was more a war cry than an expression of pain or outrage. She swung a short, hard and surprisingly competent punch at Barbara. The duchess ducked, just in time, and the powerful blow landed in the centre of the first soldier’s face, who had just come up to take her by the elbow. He sat down hard on the carpet. Nell screeched in frustration, her long-nailed fingers raking out towards Barbara’s eyes.

  ‘Enough!’ bellowed the King, shockingly loud. ‘That’s enough! Both of you!’ Everyone froze. ‘Everybody out, right now. Get out! Get out all of you! This is a royal bedchamber not some damned Cheapside tap room.’

  ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong!’ wailed Nell.

  ‘Sire, if you will give me but a moment to restore order.’

  ‘I’m not leaving this chamber till I’ve given you this,’ said Barbara Villiers. And she pulled a crumpled letter from the sleeve of her silk dress and, walking calmly over to the bed, she handed it to the King.

  Charles accepted the letter and watched, filled with more than a little awe and respect, as Barbara turned gracefully on her heel, lifted her immaculately powdered chin and swept out of the bedchamber, stately as a ship of the line, with the two red-coated pikemen trailing in her wake.

  *

  ‘This had better be worth my fucking time,’ said Ormonde, ‘or you, Mister Pratt, will be looking for a new fucking position.’

  Aphra Behn dropped a neat curtsey and said: ‘I do not think you will be the poorer for my coming, sir. Indeed, I think I can guarantee that you will be thanking me before the hour is up.’

  The Duke of Ormonde grunted, and waved away James Pratt, whose face was now almost as green as his coat. He had known he was taking a risk by bringing the lady into the duke’s presence against his express commands but she had persuaded him that his master would be extremely grateful.