Chapter Seventeen
By a combination of coincidence and necessity, Arden and Brian wed on the Sunday prior to one of the most impor-tant events in England's history. Though Charles II had sat on his reclaimed throne for over a year now, he had not yet held his coronation. The ceremony seemed even more overdue, considering King Charles counted 1661 as the twelfth year of his reign. He counted as if his father’s 1649 execution had been a gentle sickbed passing, and neither Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell nor his hapless son Richard had ever existed. Still, the coronation would give visible proof of the monarchy's eventual triumph over the regicidal Protectorate.
Arden and Brian awoke as man and wife late on the morning of Monday, April 22. Yet they rose early enough for Arden to drag her new husband out into the crowded streets. They mingled not only with the rest of their Company, but with most of the rest of London, a good portion of England, and many foreign dignitaries as well. The coronation itself would be at Westminster Abbey on the morrow, but this day marked the traditional ride of the King upon horseback from the Tower to Whitehall. Everyone able―or not so deeply Puritan as to resent the coming of the King into his own― thronged the streets to view the pageantry.
All of the horses in the King’s procession wore richly decorated jeweled harnesses, saddles, and bridles, but the gold, pearls, and rubies bedecking the King’s magnificently huge white steed almost blinded many of the spectators. Even the beast’s mane was braided with pearls and gold. The horse’s finery, though, could not tear Arden’s gaze from its rider. The moment more of him than his tall, black, feathered hat could be discerned, she demanded of her companions: “Isn’t he the most magnificent King we’ve ever had?”
Arden heard only a small portion of Sir William’s discourse about the monarch’s martyred father and his powerful but somewhat superstitious grandfather, James I, both of whom he’d seen in his lifetime. For as Charles II rode closer, Arden thought she caught his eye. When he reached up to tip his plumed hat to her, Arden emitted a startled but delighted cry.
“Did you see that!” she gasped. “He greeted me. Me!”
“Watch out, Brian,” said Kitty, elbowing the scribbler in the ribs. “She’ll be off to Court, slipping up the King’s backstairs in the evening to seek a private audience, if you don’t have a care.”
Brian only chuckled, and put his arm around his still-astonished wife, drawing her even closer against his side than the crowd necessitated. “I trust Arden with my whole heart,” he told Kitty, pitching his voice over the noise. “Besides, Arden’s bold, but I don’t think even she’s brave enough to face the ire of Mrs. Palmer.”
“I don’t blame her there!” Kitty laughed. “Why, some say she’ll even have the King grant her a divorce, so he can make her Queen!”
The words concerning the King’s chief mistress rippled the surface of Arden’s trance. She awoke enough to doubt the Palmer woman’s success in her endeavor. Because of Lord Robert’s mission, Arden knew the future Queen would come from Portugal, no matter how many airs Barbara Palmer put on. She then returned to wondering whether Charles II had recognized her from her theater performances alone, or whether the memory of her kindness after Worcester had finally surfaced.
After several minutes of contemplation, Arden realized that as of yet, there could be no telling. She said to the Davenants: “How I envy you, having seats in Westminster Abbey for tomorrow! Of course, you deserve them, after all the loyalty you gave the King during the dark years.” On previous occasions, Arden had teased from Sir William some of his stories about the Civil War and the King’s subsequent exile.
“And there’s to be more reward than just a view of the Coronation,” Davenant crowed. “The self-same magnificent royal garments the King and the Duke of York shall wear at his crowning will be given to our company for costumes!” All of the actors present rejoiced at the news.
*****
The next morning, Arden tried to coax Brian into an attempt at actually seeing the Coronation. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked timidly. “I mean, after what Kitty said yesterday?”
Brian rolled off her, satisfied both physically and with the certainty he had well-pleasured his new wife. “I meant what I told Kitty, and if anybody understands your joy at the King’s crowning, it’s me.” Adjusting himself on his side, he smoothed her hair with his hand and added, “I know your father would have loved to see this day. You love it for him, as well as for the little girl who defied her wicked Puritan stepfather to help a hunted young King. The day makes me happy, too, you know. Things have been much easier for Catholics since King Charles returned. And neither of us would make our living without him, would we?”
“You are so kind to me, Brian,” laughed Arden. “Now, let me be kind to you.” She moved to straddle him, lightly brushing his resting part with the soft curls of her womanhood.
But Arden’s kindness to her husband killed any chance she’d had of actually seeing the coronation. By the time she and Brian had dressed and walked to Westminster, they could only join the other people thronging in the yard of the Abbey. They did see all the Dukes, Earls, and Lords pass into the main body of the ancient Gothic structure. For the most part, their Parliamentary robes fluttered majestically in the spring breeze, but Arden still thought Bucky looked ridiculous. She also got to see James, Duke of York; and, again, the King himself, resplendent in red silk, enter the holy place. But she did not attract his glance this time.
With the others, Arden and Brian heard a mighty shout raised from within the Cathedral. The joyous outcry marked the moment the heavy, jeweled Crown of England left the hands of the Archbishop and settled upon the monarch’s head. The people outside extended the shout, but when Arden had finished yelling herself hoarse, she turned to Brian and croaked: “Treadwell, wherever he is, must be very low today.”
Brian grinned. “He’s probably back with your mother.”
“No doubt he’s making sure she has as bad a day as he does,” said Arden. “You know, I wonder how my mother feels today. Is she secretly happy for Father’s sake, or truly miserable for the mudsack she married after him? What is in her heart now, regardless of either? No matter,” she concluded. “I will let no wistfulness mar this triumphant occasion!”
A feast took place in Westminster Hall after the Coronation. Arden and Brian had no way in, but the Davenants attended. Since the Davenants’ home would not be having its own feast, Arden and Brian decided to take their celebratory meal in a tavern. Arden managed to keep her dinner down, despite the varied odors from both spirits and food. Brian, however, raised so many glasses of ale to the shout of “Long live the King!” that he leaned on his new wife’s shoulder and caused their path to weave and wander somewhat as they walked home.
Chapter Eighteen
Arden and Brian decided to remain in London until after the King’s birthday, May 29th. Command performances by both the King’s and the Duke’s Companies would take place at the Cockpit in celebration, with all of Court in attendance. When Sir William learned of the young couple’s plans, he began forming one of his own. He kept it secret until it was time for Brian to help him revamp Shakespeare’s original script, then he revealed that Arden’s last performance before their upcoming sojourn in Oxfordshire would be as Juliet.
“Oh, Sir William is so kind!” Arden exclaimed, when Brian brought the news back to their room. “He knows that’s my favorite part!”
“Well, he’s not purely unselfish, you know,” said Brian, grinning. “He wants to make your last performance memorable, both for you and his audience. So memorable you’ll want to come back as quickly as possible, and people will make a queue a mile long to see your triumphant return.”
Arden laughed. “He’s already succeeded in his first aim, then. I’m not even gone, and already I want to come back! Not that I don’t want to meet your family,” she added. “And not that I don’t look forward to actually cuddling this sweet reason for losing my luncheon.”
A
rden’s hand dropped to her abdomen. As was often his custom, Brian’s soon joined it. Only the two of them, from frequent practice, could discern the expansion so far. Arden would still be quite presentable for her first stage interpretation of Juliet. “We must be off soon after, though,” Brian confirmed. “I want you to have as much rest and quiet as possible before the bundle makes its debut.”
*****
The regular afternoon performance proved gratifying. Yet, even though Arden had longed for this role almost all of her life, playing it now also disturbed her. Beginning with the practices, and continuing even after she took the stage for the London theater audience, Arden could not help thinking of Lord Robert. After all, he had been her thought of Romeo as she auditioned for Sir William. Also, Lord Robert had pleaded the case for her deflowering in terms of her gaining experience to better portray her beloved Juliet. And damn him, he'd been right! The way Shakespeare had written the play, Brian was closer to Romeo in age than Courtenay, certainly. But though Arden loved Brian, though he kept much more than her skin warm at night, he hadn't prepared her for this role. To portray the passion―the absolutely powerful, sheer moonstruck desire of Romeo and Juliet―remembering the night and morning she had spent with Lord Robert brought her far closer to the mark. Too, Arden and Lord Robert shared with the title characters the bittersweet brevity of their affair. Little more than one night of love they’d stolen. Now, because of orders left with Peter Shire and vows she had taken with Brian, they were parted forever. Parted more surely than the dead lovers of the play.
Realizing the full measure of emotion she could now bring to the role shocked Arden. The depth of despair she actually felt holding the collapsible dagger to her chest frightened her. (She still remembered to fall carefully and gracefully, however, causing no damage to her unborn child.) Tears burned her own eyes at the first afternoon performance, and as she lay there on the stage imitating a corpse, the gasping sobs of the common people in the pit echoed her own emo-tion. Slowly, as she listened, despair became triumph. She even thought she heard, distinguished from both the sounds of sorrow and applause, the silken rustlings of at least one hundred fine ladies, seeking their pocket handkerchiefs.
“Arden, my darling!” Brian cried, hugging her after she’d returned backstage. “I knew you were talented, but this! I never dreamed you could act so brilliantly! However did you do it?”
The sadness threatened a return, but Arden managed a smile for her unsuspecting husband. “Just born with it, I guess,” she lied, laughing. I will never let him know how I did it, she silently vowed to Heaven. Never.
Arden relived all the same emotions―and more―later that evening in the Cockpit before King Charles II. When she rose from the dead to curtsey to her sovereign, she had the satisfaction of seeing his glowing black eyes locked upon her. The King stood, clapping furiously, prompting all of Court to rise along with him to honor her performance. Arden caught sight of a glimmer on Charles’ cheek, and knew it for a teardrop. That she had so moved the monarch of her country! That the only birthday gift she had to offer had met with such success! Her own tears came in sudden torrents, and she rushed from the stage.
She cried too hard to shout her triumph to the other actresses in the dressing room. She was washing her streaked white makeup off in a basin when Brian found her. “Arden, what’s the matter? Why the tears?” he demanded. “You’ve done beyond beautifully! You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know,” Arden whispered, steadying her voice. “He enjoyed it, Brian,” she continued. “He even wept! I have made the King of England, Scotland, and Wales weep with my performance. I have never known a moment like this before.”
“Of course, Arden,” Brian said. “Yes, love, you were brilliant. I’ve never seen an actress match you, but—”
“But what?”
“Don’t you think the lines had something to do with it?” Brian cajoled. “What about my dactylic hexameter? My rhymed couplets? My particular adjustments to the Bard― not to mention the Bard himself.”
“Oh, yes, Brian!” Arden exclaimed, mirth bubbling fast upon her former watery state. “I could never, never have done it without you, and I am so grateful!” She jumped from her stool and kissed him then, with all the fervent joy that fired her.
When the seal of their lips finally broke, Brian caught his breath before pointing out: “You couldn’t have done it without Sir William, either, but I hope you won’t kiss him like that!” The pair clung to each other, swaying with their shared laughter.
Arden had calmed herself, and changed her Juliet costume for the green apple silk she had worn to her tryst with Lord Robert. Fortunately, Brian did not remember the dress as such. She sat with him and the rest of the Duke’s Company to watch the King’s Company perform their comedy. Near the end of the first act she heard a man clear his throat behind her. She turned to find a man dressed in the uniform of the Palace Guard.
“My compliments, Mistress Malley,” he said, bowing before her. “I have been commanded to escort you to the King’s apartments. His Majesty Charles II wishes to converse with you there when this last play has finished.”
An audience with the King! Arden quickly kissed Brian on the cheek, and followed the footman. She almost did not have time to register her husband's absolutely stricken look as she allowed herself to be led away. When she did realize it, she concluded it must merely be the shock of their sudden success.
Chapter Nineteen
Arden revised her conclusion after waiting a few minutes in the grand rooms where the King’s man left her. With the King’s vast, richly-canopied bed in such a highly visible, central position, one could not keep a pure thought. Arden found it almost impossible not to entertain the idea that Charles might intend finishing his birthday celebrations by making love with the actress who had so touched his emotions. She knew now Brian had feared that very thing immediately, on Arden’s receiving the summons.
Poor dear! thought Arden. But look at his presumption―and mine―to even think such a thing! Do I think myself so attractive the King would bother with me for such a reason? Then her musings turned abruptly. Perhaps it is far more presumptuous to think I am a good enough actress he’d bother with me for any other reason!
To stop herself from trembling, Arden searched the chambers for other things to look at besides the royal bed. Her glance lighted upon two paintings in particular. One was a portrait of the King’s sister, Princess Mary, who had died last year. As the widow of the Duke of Orange, she had sheltered the King in Holland before his triumphant return to England. The ringlets bordering the Princess’s forehead appeared regular but wispy and sparse, with too much bare space in between. Arden wondered if the regal lady had already been ill when she’d sat for the artist.
A portrait of the Princess’s son also hung in the King’s apartments. William, the King’s nephew, struck Arden as a proud youngster delighted to be playing dress-up in his gleaming suit of armor. Poor child. He was the ruler of his dominions now, but still an orphan. Arden thought even better of an as-yet-unmarried King who would keep the likeness of such youthful kin near him.
Though Charles II could never be described as “bookish,” he still possessed a curious mind. Arden found a selection of volumes to browse through while she waited for the monarch to appear and put an end to all her speculations. She read the titles of more than a few tomes on navigation―the King was devoted to his Navy and had grown fond of the sea during his exile. Other treatises of a more scientific nature, such as one on the startling discoveries to be made with the microscope, stood on the shelf as well. Arden recognized Dr. Harvey’s Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus, the groundbreaking work on the circulation of the blood. A copy had graced her father’s library long ago. Arden, not stopping to think about handling one of the King’s belongings without his permission, picked it up. She carefully paged the leaves, more out of respect for books in general than from recalling its owner. The Latin di
d not particularly daunt her, but she nevertheless paid more attention to the drawings than to the text. When she replaced it, she noticed a more slender spine next to it, also adorned with Harvey’s name: De Generatione Animalium. Having never heard of this effort by the great physician, Arden took it over to a finely carved but comfortable oak chair, and began to read.
Dr. Harvey maintained, among other things, that baby chickens developed inside of eggs. He did not believe they started out fully formed in miniature and merely grew within the shell until they hatched. Arden wondered if the infant growing in her womb bore as little resemblance to the newborns she had seen as the engravings of the insides of nine-day-old eggs did to fluffy chicks.
When the chamber door opened, Arden jumped to her feet to curtsey, Dr. Harvey’s theories falling to the floor. Her heart pounded in her chest like a Bedlam patient futilely throwing herself against a barred iron door. She dared not look up, but seeing the King’s property spread open and face-down before her did nothing to calm her nerves.
“My dear Mistress Malley, I pray you, put yourself at ease. I am a King, yes, but I am not a particularly formal one. Please sit back down.”
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