Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” he said, caressing my cheek. “He’s undeserving of your attention.”

  I certainly couldn’t deny that. “May I ask who has taken it upon himself to keep you so well informed of the company I keep?” I asked.

  “Buckingham made mention of your friendship with Captain Bedloe the other day.”

  I should have known. I pulled the covers up over me. “Buckingham is, as always, your loyal servant, but on this subject he is mistaken. Captain Bedloe is no friend of mine.”

  Charles smiled wryly. “How well do you know the man then?”

  “Well enough to know I’m uninterested in spending any further time with him.”

  “But beyond that,” Charles pressed. “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Captain Bedloe met Titus Oates in Spain, and they became reacquainted when he returned to London a few weeks ago.”

  “Where was he before that?”

  “Bristol, I think.”

  “Why did he come back?”

  “He said he missed London and had been away from it too long.”

  Charles laughed. “He paints a romantic picture, doesn’t he?”

  “Indeed,” I said, frowning.

  Charles rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head. “For a man you’re only vaguely acquainted with, you know a great deal about him.”

  I shrugged. “You asked me so I told you.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard about his testimony before the Lords’ committee regarding Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death?”

  “Yes, but I know none of the details,” I said, not wanting to appear too eager.

  “Bedloe claims one of the queen’s priests approached him about assisting with the murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey.”

  I gasped. “Surely he’s not implying Queen Catherine is involved?”

  “Not directly, but he says the murder occurred at Somerset House. As you know, Catherine uses it as her residence on occasion. The priest offered him five hundred pounds to help lure Sir Edmund into the palace courtyard and kidnap him.”

  “Bedloe refused?”

  “Naturally,” Charles said, raising an eyebrow.

  “If any of this is true—” I looked at Charles and quickly corrected myself. “And it couldn’t possibly be true, of course. But let us think for a moment that it is. Why would the priest ask Bedloe of all people for assistance?”

  Charles braced himself up using his elbows. “He claimed not to know why he was chosen.”

  “And why did he not come forward sooner?”

  “Strange, isn’t it, that his memory of these events was not jarred until a sizable reward was offered for information on the crime.”

  “Do you think Titus Oates had anything to do with it?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t appear so,” Charles said. “Though Bedloe has obviously been coached, if not by Oates, then by Buckingham or someone else familiar with the situation.”

  “The Lords’ committee cannot be taking his story seriously,” I said, shaking my head. “It makes no sense.”

  “It matters not that his tale is implausible.” Charles sighed. “The Lords’ committee has their witness. The English people are shouting for blood and someone must be sacrificed.”

  “I warned you from the beginning this would happen if you allowed Buckingham and his allies to run this investigation.”

  Charles raised his hand and put it to my lips. “That’s of little importance now, Isabel. Bedloe has given Somerset House as the location of the murder, which is too close to the queen for my comfort. I’ll do what’s necessary to protect her, but at what cost?”

  “The queen will be safe,” I said, caressing his arm. For all of his faults as a husband, he had grown to genuinely love Catherine over the sixteen years of their marriage, a fact that both galled and touched me simultaneously. “No one would ever believe she’d involve herself in a plot to murder you or anyone else. It’s too ridiculous to even discuss.”

  “Truth has nothing to do with it, Isabel. Catherine has been a loyal queen and is now as much an English woman as if she was born here. But the fact remains she is a Catholic—and she has not borne me an heir and likely never will. Buckingham and Danby have suggested the possibility of a divorce on many occasions and I’ve steadfastly refused. How better to get rid of her now than to implicate her in a murder?”

  “They would never dare accuse the queen,” I said gravely.

  “They don’t need to. The mere suggestion of her involvement is enough. I’m beginning to think that the best course of action is to let the opposition have their way.”

  “What do you mean, Charles?”

  “Let them punish whomever Bedloe accuses of the crime, so long as it’s not the queen. They want blood and blood they shall have, but let it not be Catherine’s.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Wednesday, 30 October 1678

  As certain as I was that Captain Bedloe’s accusations against the queen and the Catholics were false, I decided to visit Edward Coleman in Newgate again. He was still the closest contact I had to the Jesuits, and I hoped he could disprove Bedloe’s statements, or at least provide some explanation for them.

  His accommodations were marginally better, but his appearance had worsened; his clothes were now so dirty it was nearly impossible to tell the original color of his breeches. He’d become painfully thin and, lice-ridden, he scratched at himself furiously. And yet for all of this, his appearance was not as troubling as his dejected and hopeless demeanor. He’d been defiant, nearly arrogant, the last time we’d met. Now, as we sat across from each other in the visitor’s room, he barely raised his eyes to meet mine.

  “If you’re here to tell me Sir Edmund is dead, I already know it,” Coleman said.

  “Have others been to see you then?” It somehow heartened me to hear he’d received another visitor, though I couldn’t say why, exactly.

  “The gaol keeper told me. How did it happen?”

  I gave him the details about Sir Edmund’s death and Coleman listened quietly, closing his eyes as I relayed the most brutal details.

  “And they haven’t yet apprehended the culprit?” he asked when I finished.

  “Popular opinion is that the Jesuits murdered Sir Edmund,” I said, leveling my eyes at him. “Someone has come forward implicating one of the queen’s priests. What do you know about that?”

  “Lady Wilde, I promise I know nothing of this matter. Sir Edmund was a friend to the Catholics. Why would they kill him?” A fat louse had crawled out from under his collar and onto his neck. He picked it off, popped it between his fingers and then flicked it onto the floor.

  “Did you report what Sir Edmund told you about Titus Oates’s deposition to the Duke of York?”

  His posture stiffened. “It was my duty to report the ugly business to him,” he said defensively. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “What was York’s reaction?”

  “You’re not suggesting that York had anything to do with Sir Edmund’s murder—”

  “Did he say anything at all with regards to Sir Edmund?”

  “He only ranted about his enemies, saying ‘now they’ve gone too far’ or some such thing. He said nothing against Sir Edmund and, in fact, instructed me to thank him for the warning.”

  “Sir Edmund feared reprisal from the Catholics,” I said. “After your arrest, he assumed you’d lied about the plot, and he thought perhaps the Jesuits would want to silence him because he knew about their meeting and the conspiracy to kill the king.”

  “Sir Edmund told you this?”

  I nodded.

  Coleman looked genuinely disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear it, for I thought there was trust between us. I assured him the plot was pure fiction because that was the truth.”

  “And yet Sir Edmund has been murdered. If the Catholics aren’t responsible, I want to know who is.”

  “I swear upon my life I had nothing to do
with it, nor did the Duke of York or the queen,” he said, banging his fist on the table. “God’s blood, the queen is the most pious woman in England!”

  Mrs. Richardson glared at us. “Quiet over there,” she growled.

  “I believe you,” I said, lowering my voice. “But if you think there is the slightest chance the Jesuits or other Catholics are responsible, you must tell me.”

  He shook his head. “On my oath, I know of no reason why any Catholic would murder Sir Edmund. I’d tell you if I did—I want to know who killed my friend as badly as you do.”

  I had no reason to trust Coleman, and yet I did. Bedloe had given false testimony to the King’s Privy Council in order to implicate the queen, or at least her household, and I was certain he hadn’t come up with the story on his own. Someone, most likely Buckingham, had told him what to say, and had no doubt paid him handsomely to do it.

  It was all so convenient. Sir Edmund Godfrey died mysteriously and instead of conducting a proper investigation, the Lord’s committee, led by Buckingham, blamed the Catholics to advance their political agenda—anything to keep the king’s brother, the Duke of York, off the throne. The only thing they needed was a witness, and now they had one. If the wrong man was convicted, the real culprit might never be found, and neither would my diary.

  I left the prison, more determined than ever to find out who killed Sir Edmund Godfrey. I simply could not let Buckingham and Bedloe get away with their lies.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Thursday, 31 October 1678

  Somerset House sprawled from the Strand down to the Thames, flanked on both sides by many of London’s most splendid homes. When I arrived that afternoon, the guard at the gate summoned a royal page to escort me indoors. I waited alone in the great entry hall, which offered a view into the expansive courtyard. Bedloe said that he’d been approached by one of the queen’s priests to kidnap Sir Edmund in that very place, but it took little scrutiny to realize how absurd this was—the courtyard was the most public area of the palace, with potential witnesses everywhere. There were no less than forty courtiers, servants, and workers milling about. Even if the Jesuits had killed Sir Edmund Godfrey, there were many other places in London it could have been accomplished with far more ease.

  I’d been prepared to dislike Catherine of Braganza when she came to England from Portugal in 1662. My affair with Charles was new then and I was young. Though I wasn’t naive enough to believe that Charles could ever marry me, neither did I intend to welcome his future bride with good cheer. As it happened, however, I liked her kind demeanor and sweet shyness almost immediately and we became friends.

  I was never an official member of her household, though she often called upon me to read to her or keep her company while she sat embroidering. But as my involvement with Charles progressed, my friendship with Catherine faded. I don’t know that she ever discovered I was his lover, but I’m sure she suspected it, given his reputation. Whether motivated by guilt or charity I wasn’t certain, but I’d always felt kindly toward Catherine. Did she know about Bedloe’s accusations? Odds were that she didn’t, and I wanted to warn her.

  The page returned to tell me the queen was ready to see me in her Presence Chamber. I followed him down a long hallway, our footsteps echoing on the smooth marble floor. He stopped in front of two grand double doors, opened them, and then stepped aside so I could enter.

  Queen Catherine sat at the opposite side of the room, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. Her chair was elevated so that she looked down upon me, her loyal subject. I lowered myself into a deep curtsy, bending my head in reverence.

  “You may rise, Lady Wilde,” Catherine said. “How kind of you to visit me. It has been far too long since our last meeting.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Majesty.”

  The queen wore a modestly cut pink gown that suited her complexion, which tended to be sallow. With her large brown eyes and luxurious brown hair, she was not unattractive, but her dark skin had never appealed to the English eye and she was generally considered ugly. The last time we’d been in such close proximity was in Mistress Ruby’s room in Coal Yard Alley, nearly seven years ago, but her skin remained smooth and clear, as if not a year had gone by.

  On that night in 1672, Sam had come upstairs to tell me that two women were waiting to see me. When they entered, I didn’t recognize either of them, for both wore disguises. But one had the bent posture of an old woman, and when she spoke, her heavy Portuguese accent identified her immediately as Penalva, Queen Catherine’s chaperone and chief advisor.

  “We are here to seek your advice,” Penalva began. “My daughter would like to have children, but it seems she cannot.”

  My heart skipped a beat, for Penalva was childless, which meant the young woman with her could be none other than Queen Catherine herself. She stood silently behind Penalva and my sympathy surged; it was well known she had thus far been unable to bear the king’s child. This devoutly Catholic woman must indeed be desperate if she sought the services of a soothsayer to solve her problem.

  I invited them to sit on the bench, acutely aware that the meager surroundings were unfit for a queen. I sat in my own chair and began asking questions to which I already knew the answers: she had been married for ten years and had conceived on two occasions, but both ended in miscarriage.

  It seemed a monumental task—what could I do to bring about a child when even God apparently could not? I searched my mind for something practical I could tell her and came up with nothing, so I appealed to her religious beliefs. “The Lord God works in mysterious ways.”

  Penalva stood up and waved her arms at me in anger. “You think we do not know this? We did not come to you for words we hear every day in the Holy Mass. We came to you for a cure.”

  Catherine pulled at Penalva’s dress and said something to her in Portuguese in her soft voice. Penalva issued a harsh reply, but retreated.

  “Mistress Ruby,” Catherine said, “I have been told you have certain remedies you can employ to help me have a child. Please, I have nowhere else to turn.”

  I sat silent for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “I do not mean to say I cannot help you,” I said. “But we must first acknowledge that ultimately, only God holds the power to create life.”

  My business then was still in its early years and I did not have all of the knowledge I possessed today. Eventually, I gave the queen a pouch of ginseng, I held her hands and chanted a verse. Thought it pained me a little to say it, I told her she must make sure to lay with her husband as much as possible. Beyond that, I had no other advice to convey. Penalva paid me reluctantly, her scorn apparent, perhaps rightfully so since Catherine had remained barren and Charles remained without a legitimate heir, leaving his brother, the Catholic Duke of York, to inherit the throne.

  Penalva was now long dead, and I didn’t doubt the queen often wished for the unwavering protection of her beloved chaperone.

  “To what do I owe this visit?” Catherine asked.

  “I confess, Your Majesty, I come with disturbing news.”

  “Go on, Lady Wilde,” she said, frowning.

  I cleared my throat. “I have heard the rumors about a murder at your residence—”

  She raised a hand to interrupt me and turned to her ladies. “Please wait outside,” she said, and without argument the six women left the room. She waited until the doors closed behind them before speaking again. “I am thankful for your concern, Lady Wilde, but I assure you there is no reason for it.”

  “Your Majesty is aware that a witness has come forward regarding the Westminster magistrate’s murder, and he claims the deed was done here at Somerset House?”

  Her expression remained neutral but her tone was firm. “I can assure you there’s been no murder committed here, Lady Wilde. This household adheres to the laws of God and England.”

  “I am truly sorry, Your Majesty,” I said. “It seems I have spoken out of turn.”

  I’d offe
nded her. Would she demand I leave the residence immediately? If she wanted, she could even have me arrested. Instead, she leaned forward slightly and spoke in a low voice. “Tell me what they’re saying.”

  I suddenly regretted coming to see her. Charles would not be happy to learn I’d interfered once again in his affairs. “Your Majesty,” I said, helpless. “It is not my place to speak to you about such serious matters.”

  “Please, Lady Wilde,” she said. “There is no one else.”

  I had no choice but to reveal what I knew. “Have you heard the recent rumors of a Catholic plot to kill the king?”

  “I have heard these rumors, yes, but they cannot be true.”

  “Perhaps they are not true, Your Majesty, but the English people believe them and they are angry. There is a powerful movement to prevent your brother-in-law from inheriting the throne because of his religion.”

  “Charles has been very clear on this subject. If I am unable to bear him an heir, the Duke of York will be the next king.”

  “It’s still the king’s greatest desire, Your Majesty,” I reassured her. “But the matter has been complicated by the recent murder of the magistrate, Sir Edmund Godfrey.”

  “Sir Edmund Godfrey?” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him.”

  Lord, how could they keep her so uninformed? Had she not heard the crowds protesting on the London streets, screaming for Catholic blood in Sir Edmund’s name?

  She listened with rapt attention as I told her what she needed to know. When I finished, she laughed. “It is impossible that this magistrate could have been murdered here,” she said. “And I can assure you there is no Catholic plot to kill my husband. We want only to live peacefully in England.”

  “Your Majesty, whether there is a plot is of no consequence at this point. It’s not even important whether Sir Edmund was murdered here or out in a field somewhere. All of England believes in the Popish Plot, and there are powerful men exploiting this belief. This is not good for Your Majesty’s reputation, or even your safety. You must avoid attracting attention to yourself and keep silent on religious matters, even amongst those you trust.”