The King's Courtesan

by Judith James

  He poured her a glass of wine and one for himself. “So, Elizabeth, my dear. What did you come to discuss? One or another of my ladies is always annoyed with me, though I’m such a sunny fel ow. I recognize the look. Out with it, madam.”

  “Very wel . You have taken away the holdings of my dear friend, Captain Robert Nichols, despite your general amnesty and the fact he has been living there peaceful y since your restoration. I can’t believe he has done anything to deserve it. He is a reserved and honorable man. Gal ant, kind and brave.”

  Charles held up a hand to stop her. “Robert Nichols…

  Robert Nichols. The name is familiar. Does he have property in Nottinghamshire?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “I did ask Clarendon to find some land for a fel ow whose fundraising and…other connections have been vital to the crown. He told me the man specifical y mentioned the lands in question. Does your captain have any useful relatives or connections at court? Besides you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, Charles. He was a parliamentarian soldier and country gentleman. A baronet, I believe.

  “And what concern is he to you?”

  “He intervened with Cromwel when I was arrested, and argued for me on my behalf. Without his help I would have been transported or hanged.”

  “The devil you say! You have quite the knack for landing in deep waters, haven’t you, Elizabeth? But what a pretty tale.

  Quite diverting. A modest gentleman of chivalrous character on a country estate, desperate to keep his lands.

  Is he handsome?”

  “Wel …yes. Quite,” Elizabeth answered, rather flustered.

  “But, Charles, that has nothing to do with why I’m asking.”

  “No, no. Of course not. If you were the type to be turned by a pretty face you would have surely chosen me.” They both laughed and Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with affection. “You are in truth a very attractive man, Charles Stuart, and you know it wel .”

  He grinned and raised his glass to her in salute. “But not quite as attractive as that damned impertinent poet. You’ve ruined him, you know. He’l be spouting love verses soon.” She blushed and hid her face against the spaniel’s silky coat.

  “Tel me more about him. Your captain friend. Is he married? If he’s not too proud, I might have a use for him.”

  “Wel , no, he isn’t married, but he is rather proud—”

  “Excel ent! This is good news indeed, Elizabeth. I thank you for bringing it to my attention. Now if you’l forgive me I must speak with Clarendon at once. There’s little time, you see. I look forward to seeing you and Wil iam at the bal tonight.” Charles hurried his stunned and sputtering guest from the room and cal ed for his chief minister. He was delighted.

  With Elizabeth’s help he had hit on the perfect solution. He would grant her request. The honorable captain of whom she spoke so highly would keep his lands, see his holdings doubled and be made an earl besides, provided he marry Hope Mathews. He had only to remove her to the country, treat her with al courtesy and comfort befitting a special friend of the king and return her to court when the time was right.

  The message went out shortly after the chancel or entered his chambers. Captain Robert Nichols was ordered to present himself at court at once.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cressly

  HE APPROACHEDthe manor house across a pristine field veiled by a thin dusting of snow. The air was cold and sharp to breathe, but Kate Bishop, the dairy maid, had kissed him, and he didn’t feel the cold.

  The moment his parents left to visit his uncle, he’d hurried to the village to stand vigil by her door. His patience had been rewarded. He caught her first and claimed her as his Valentine, blushing as he offered her a pretty blue paper with her name writ on it in gold. He’d labored over it for hours in secret, knowing his parents would not approve. It was well worth the effort. She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him, and it warmed him all the way home.

  He stopped in the middle of the field, as happy as he’d ever been in all his twelve years. The woods were still. The silence so deep he could hear the excited beating of his own heart. And then a distant shriek. A night owl, he thought, desperately hungry to be searching for food so late. He heard it again. A panicked scream, coming from the manor house. Caroline!

  He raced through the field and skidded across the stone-flagged courtyard, only to be brought short by the sight of five blooded horses wandering loose in front of a smashed and broken door. Heart pounding, his terror for Caroline a sick lump in his throat, he eased into the entrance hall and inched his way along the corridor. The servants must have fled or hidden and there was no sign of his father’s men at arms. As he neared the drawing room he heard Caroline sobbing, and the sound of hoarse shouts and the laughter of drunken men.

  He leaned against the doorjamb and peered around the corner. The drawing room was littered with broken furniture, shredded hangings and paintings that had been torn from the walls. A lone man at arms with a sword in his back laid sprawled across a table. Caroline huddled in a corner in a tight little ball. Her dress was ripped, her favorite blue ribbons were torn from her hair and her face was bloody, bruised and beaten. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. This wouldn’t be happening if not for him. He should have been there to protect her.

  There were five men wearing the brightly colored garb and plumed hats that marked them as His Majesty’s cavaliers, but under their elegant trappings they reeked of unwashed clothes and alcohol. He bared his teeth and bit back a feral growl. They were ignoring Caroline for now, tapping at walls with the butts of their swords and digging at the floorboards. He considered darting in, grabbing her and making a run for it, but he didn’t even know if she could walk. He wished he could give her some signal to let her know she wasn’t alone. But he couldn’t risk alerting her captors.

  The guilt, the terror, the boiling rage at seeing Caroline so abused, gave way to an icy calm. His breathing slowed, his heart steadied and his attention focused to a razor’s edge as he assessed his opponents. A bullet-headed man next to Caroline without his sword. A handsome black-haired man dressed finer than the rest, commanding the center of the room. A rat-faced fellow and a blond man with a split lip knocking on walls, and a bookish-looking fellow with a wickedly curved dagger poking at floorboards in the corner. He observed each in turn before slipping past the doorway and continuing down the hall.

  The longsword was mounted on the wall in his father’s study. He’d eyed it many a time, fascinated by its lethal beauty and the chilling inscription etched into the blade.

  Lex Talionis, the law of revenge.

  The blue steel blade snicked and hissed as he slid it from its mounting. Gripping the wolf’s-head pommel with both hands he laid the weapon cross-shoulder and went back for his sister. He ar rived just in time to see the bullet-headed man grab Caroline by her arm and wrench her to her feet. His fingers itched and he brought his weapon forward, silent, shifting his grip so he held it like a spear for stabbing. Not yet, though. He waited for them to turn away.

  “Come, little mistress.” The man gave Caroline a shake.

  “Tell us where it is, or what you’ve heard, and we’ll leave you in peace to play with your dollies.”

  “Speak for yourself, Harris,” the blond man said. “She’s too old for dolls, that one, and we’ve other things she can play with.”

  Bullet Head shook her again, then fisted his hand in what remained of her dress and lifted her off the ground, so her feet had to scrabble for purchase. “Is that right, pretty mistress? You want to play games?” he cooed.

  Caroline was sobbing and pleading, fighting for air as the collar of her dress cut off her breath, trying to tell them she didn’t know. She didn’t understand what they wanted.

  “Get on with it, gentlemen,” the black-haired one snapped, apparently more sober than the rest. “There’s militia in the area. We haven’t all day. It’s clear she knows nothing.

&nbs
p; Finish her, Johnny, and let’s be gone.”

  “Well, that’s a bloody waste of an evening,” Johnny Harris protested. “I’ve got a use for her if the rest of you don’t.

  Move on if you please, lads. I shan’t be long.”

  “Pah,” Golden Hair spat. “Let’s all have a go, then. ’Tis only sporting.” He joined the one named Johnny and yanked at her skirt.

  Caroline began a desperate struggle, clawing and kicking.

  “Enough, you damn fools,” the man with the curved blade shouted. “If I have to, I’ll cut her throat myself.” He rose and started in her direction and there was no more time left.

  The force that held him frozen loosened its grip. It was as if time had stopped, trapping him outside it, only allowing him to observe, then started again, so that everything came at him in a rush. He raised his sword high over his head and it was then that Caroline saw him. Their eyes locked for an instant, hers horrified, imploring, trying to give him some message, but it was lost in the commotion as he charged. He barreled forward with all his strength, screaming his fury, his target the man approaching her with the knife.

  Slow and sodden and unprepared, his target wheeled too late, his curved blade just nicking his young attacker’s cheek, and then the longsword caught him through the belly and impaled him against the wall.

  The child who’d never killed before blinked in shock. It didn’t feel real. It felt like the force of surprise and his own momentum had carried the thing, not him. But now he’d lost both, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull out the sword.

  A liquor jug hit him full force in the back of his head, knocking him off his feet.

  “Bloody hell! Poor Humboldt! Killed by a marauding child!

  And he was to marry his heiress next month.” It was the blond man.

  “Aye. A pity. And not how one wants to be remembered,” the handsome one said to sniggers all the way round.

  He scrambled backward on his elbows and heels, desperately feeling for the dropped sword he’d seen earlier. The moment he found it he jumped to his feet. He pointed it at them, holding it steady. “Let her go!”

  “Do you know what I’m going to do with that sword, boy?” the rat man whispered. “I’m going to slit you from throat to belly, and fry your entrails.”

  Caroline, still struggling in Harris’s grip, managed to loosen his chokehold on her throat. “Run, Robbie! Please run! Run!” his sister screamed.

  “I’ll let her go, lad, if you say so,” Harris said with a leer, and then he lifted her high in the air and flung her hard against the wall.

  He had always been reserved and she the merry prankster. Sister, boon companion and best friend, she was his strength, her charm and personality both larger than life. But when she hit the wall and slid to the floor in a broken heap, she was so small…so fragile. She looked at him a moment, willing something from him. He whimpered, taking one step back as they advanced toward him, and then his sword clattered to the ground and he ran. He looked back one more time before he reached the doorway, but she was gone.

  He ran and ran as they shouted behind him, out of the house and back into the night. He fell on his knees when he could go no further. People were coming, running toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl.

  “JESUS!” H E WOKE WITH A LOUD GASP, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

  “You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.

  THE SECOND ROYAL MESSAGE, commanding his presence at Whitehal , came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force.

  Men who saw the war and Charles the First’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth. They had once hailed Cromwel as a second Moses, leading God’s chosen people to the promised land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and forty deaths. One couldn’t blame the king for dealing with them harshly. Two of them were regicides and one a major general. His first thought upon learning his lands were forfeit was that he was suspected of being one of them.

  It couldn’t be further from the truth. His war had been a personal one. His brothers weren’t Puritans and preachers, but the loose col ection of steely eyed soldiers who kil ed who they needed to, to get the job done. They cared little for religion and had few scruples, and their honor was to their fel ows, their craft and their word.

  Even as his staff stored three generations of family heirlooms, he contemplated rejoining the fold. Provided, of course, he wasn’t arrested for treason. They were after al among the most highly prized mercenaries in Europe, and there were opportunities aplenty in Germany, the Netherlands and further afield. Though he’d thought himself weary of war, he couldn’t deny a prick of excitement. There was something about daring death head-on with only skil and luck to save you that could bring even the most jaded spirit sharply back to life.

  He’d already claimed his two thousand pounds of goods in weapons, clothing and horseflesh. He would travel to London and satisfy his curiosity, trusting to his wits should things go awry. While there he would look to finding employment for his servants and a wel -paid position with a company of mercenary for himself. He’d also check amongst old friends and acquaintances to see if he might pick up a trail grown cold.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  London

  ROBERT STALKED THE LONG stone gal ery at Whitehal with a ground-eating stride. His clothing was sober but elegant, and an oversize sword clearly meant for kil ing hung easily at his side.

  He’d been waiting most of the afternoon and his patience was at an end. Now, as the orange glow from the west sank below the horizon and somber shadows lengthened to the east, he decided it was time to find some supper and a bed. He was not a petitioner, after al . It was His Majesty who had asked to see him. If his oath-breaking, manor-stealing monarch had need of him, let him come and find him at his lodgings. Tomorrow he’d—

  “Captain Nichols!” A sonorous voice echoed through the near empty gal ery. “Captain Robert Nichols. His Majesty wil see you now.”

  He stepped into a richly furnished chamber. In the center of the room, paral el to a sculpted marble fireplace flanked by Bacchus and Cupid, a beautiful oak table cast its own lustrous glow. His monarch sat there with his sleeves rol ed up and his crimson coat thrown over the back of a chair. He played cards with an auburn-haired beauty perched on his lap. It took a few moments before he looked up.

  “Ah, Nichols! Here you are at last, and just in time. Do you play?” The king seemed to be regarding him with great curiosity.

  “My lord.” Robert removed his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, and gave him a deep bow. “My Lady Castlemaine.” He gave her a deeper one. “Yes, I do. It’s a common pastime amongst soldiers.”

  “Have we met?” the lady purred, her eyes traveling his length with obvious appreciation.

  “I s
hould have remembered if we had, madam, but tales of your beauty leave no doubt as to who you are.”

  “Handsome, wel -mannered, with a modicum of charm. If we can…” The king made a frustrated gesture with his fingers as he searched for the right words. “If we can jol y you up a little, you just might do.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His Majesty shrugged. “I dare say some women find such a military air dashing, but you don’t want to look like a country parson. Particularly not this evening.”

  “My Lord?” Robert was growing more confused by the minute. Was the man addled or drunk?

  “I assure you he doesn’t look at al like a parson, Charles.

  He looks big and powerful and a little bit frightening, and not the least bit meek or mild.” The lady held her hand to her bosom and gave a slight shudder.

  “Mmm. And that’s quite enough from you, my pet. Leave us now. I wil see you later.” The king gave his pouting mistress a pat on the rump that she returned with an angry hiss, and sent her on her way. “She has a point, though, Captain,” he said returning his attention to Robert. “You are very wel dressed for a fel ow who has just been stripped of his possessions.” He gestured toward the sword. “You came ready to do battle?”

  “I came because you summoned me.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I was curious.”

  Charles nodded. “Natural y. That’s a wicked weapon, Captain, if not terribly practical. Worth a good deal of money, I expect. Most prefer something lighter, with more flexibility. A rapier or cutlass perhaps.” Robert shrugged. “It is not meant for dueling or to impress the ladies, Your Majesty. You might cal it…a personal possession of sentimental value. It was left me by my father.”

  “Ah!” The king looked at him with a grin. “Cal me Charles.

  May I see it?”

  The moment he drew the sword four men at arms stepped from the shadows, along with two gentlemen who’d been playing cards in an alcove across the room. Robert didn’t know if it was a display meant to warn him, but as an officer he was impressed. Charles motioned them back with a negligent wave and, after Robert laid his sword on the table, gestured for him to sit.