Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  Arden could not let herself think about how much she missed her daughter. Or even Bonnie. She had become used to cheerful banter with her breakfast. The Lord only knew what Bonnie might now be enduring from Treadwell. Then, the thought unbidden―Just how young does he like them?

  “No!” Arden cried aloud. “No, he couldn't. Even he couldn't,” she whimpered. She forced herself to pursue a more productive line of thinking. Of course she would save Helena, she would do whatever it took. She would greatly prefer it, however, if she could save the King as well. He had always treated her with great kindness, and she could not bear the thought of that noble, animated countenance still and dead. Even aside from the personal, she had no sympathy for Puritan plots of anarchy. What the hell does Treadwell think he's going to accomplish, anyway? Arden wondered. Even if he succeeded in assassinating the King, surely he and his conspirators would not prefer government by the King's brother, suspected of being even friendlier to Papists than Charles II? Especially since said brother would promptly imprison, torture, and execute them. But perhaps they have plans for the Duke of York as well.

  Arden realized whatever little hope she had lay, at each possible stage of the process, in retarding the plot's progress. But how dare she―at least initially―with Treadwell threatening harm to Helena in a week's time? She wanted to put off writing a note pleading an audience with the King until the very end of that week. She wanted to hope that something (Robert?) would come along in the meantime and save them all. But what if not only no rescuer or lucky circumstance obliged, but her note got delayed en route? Or Charles II took his royal time in answering―and Helena suffered for it? No, she must seek the King's attentions soon.

  Her heart sank even further. Wicked to even consider it, with so many lives in peril. Once she achieved ... relations with the King, however, Arden knew she would destroy any chance for a future with Robert. She believed him when he'd said he loved her. There could be no mistaking the blissfulness of their brief reunion. So she knew her lying with the King would break his heart. She could only pray that after events fell out in whatever way fated, someday he would learn she had done it all for their daughter. Even if by some miracle both she and the King survived, Robert could never take her back. And she could not blame him. Tears returned to eyes she thought had been drained forever by the previous evening's misery, but she fought them off. What did it matter if she had no personal hope of happiness? She had to be strong for Helena.

  Arden knew what she would do when she arrived at the theater later that day. She'd walk through another Shakespeare re-write, and thank God Mary Betterton had the lead. Then she would tear a blank page from one of the folios. On it she would write:

  To His Royal Majesty,

  I have reconsidered of late a Proposition

  Your Majesty once made me.

  Forgive my presumptuous Unkindness,

  and favor me with another Opportunity.

  Please send for me at your earliest Convenience.

  Your fond Subject,

  Arden Malley

  When she had written and sealed it, she would have Sir William himself deliver it to the King. Surely from the hands of an old Cavalier ally, it would merit prompt attention.

  *****

  Fortunately, Sam had sufficiently recovered from the channel crossing to explore the great cathedral attached to the Abbaye aux Dames. Robert waited in the convent's common room. Before that, both men paid their respects at the tomb of Queen Matilde―wife of the great Norman invader who had conquered England and made it his own. Sam, however, had reacted with such awe to his surroundings that he had happily let Robert go conduct his very personal business alone. His servant hadn't even seemed to mind finding himself in a Papist cathedral in a Papist country, so Robert trusted he would not run into much misadventure.

  The common room where Robert sat held little of the sanctuary's airy grace. Vast, but low-ceilinged, its small windows gave little light. More light entered, however, in the form of a slight, pale thirteen-year old girl in a simple frock of fine green velvet. A somewhat older novice dressed in white guided her. The novice accompanied her charge up to the corner in which Robert sat, made him a rapid curtsey, then retreated the way she had come.

  “Mais non!” protested the younger girl. “Ça n'est pas approprié!”

  “Do not fear, Mademoiselle.” Standing to greet her, Robert spoke easily in French. Years of exile gave him fluency. “I mean you neither harm nor disrespect. Do you know who I am?”

  Some of the alarm left the light blue eyes, but the girl's pallor remained. Natural, thought Robert. Her fine, white-blond hair had been piled in a tight bun upon her head. He could see enough of it, though, to know it made a perfect match for her clear complexion. It would be gloriously beautiful if allowed to fall unfettered past her shoulders.

  “They told me,” said the girl, slowly. “You are my betrothed, Lord Robert Courtenay.”

  She made him a curtsey, and Robert made her a respectful bow. He gestured for her to share the hard bench he'd been sitting on. When she hesitated, he repeated, “Please, Mademoiselle, I do not bite!” She obliged him at last, and he asked, “May I please call you Lisette? And I hope you shall call me Robert.” She nodded, keeping her eyes cast downward.

  “You must be wondering why I've come, Lisette,” he began again.

  “I assume you were in the area, and thought you might as well assure yourself that I am not horribly disfigured before our marriage takes place.” Her voice sounded pleasantly crisp and clear.

  The remark surprised a loud laugh from Robert.

  “What is so funny?” Lisette protested. “Suzanne's betrothed stopped here just last month for that very reason!”

  Robert forced himself towards composure. “No, Lisette. I have taken steps that mean the dissolution of our betrothal. I thought to do you the courtesy of telling you myself.”

  Visible relief swept the girl's features, and a smile spread her lips wide.

  “Well, I am glad I have not broken your heart,” Robert chuckled.

  “You must not take personal offense, Lord Robert,” said Lisette. “I wish for nothing so much as to become one of the sisters here at the Abbaye. I can only take your purpose today as a sign the Blessed Virgin has heard my prayers.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Robert, still bemused by this young girl no longer tied to him. “I can only suppose I am extremely lucky not to have met with an accident!”

  “You must not jest, m'lord!” Lisette protested.

  “Please, call me Robert,” he interrupted.

  “You must not believe I would ever hope for another's harm, just to be allowed to follow the desires of my own soul,” explained Lisette gravely. “So, to ease my conscience, you must tell me how you have come to this decision.”

  “I, too, wish to follow the desires of my own soul,” Robert replied. “I am in love with a woman, whom I wish to marry. My father finds her eminently unsuitable, so I have given up my inheritance to my brother, Edward.”

  The girl paused to digest this information. She sighed. “Then I suppose Papa will only transfer the betrothal to your brother.”

  “No,” said Robert. “You will be pleased to learn Edward is already committed elsewhere. And no doubt he'll elope with his intended before Father can change his mind. Still,” he added, feeling an odd compulsion to be honest with this serious young lady, “no doubt your father will look elsewhere for a suitable prospect. Are you sure you would not like that someday, Lisette? A husband, beautiful babies, an estate to manage?”

  “I care only for God and doing His work,” said Lisette. “I do not find the things you mention at all appealing.”

  “Then, God bless you, Lisette. As one who follows his own heart, I will pray you are allowed to follow yours.”

  “That is most kind of you—Robert,” she ventured bravely. Then she gripped the edge of his cloak. “But you can do more than pray for me. If you would, please, write to my Papa and ask that I be
allowed to become a novitiate.”

  Robert doubted Lord Braquilanges would be inclined to take his advice regarding Lisette, now he had broken the betrothal. But he would try. “If you wish,” he replied. “It is the least I can do for you.”

  “Thank you, Robert!” she cried, impulsively hugging him. “And you will do it tonight, before you leave France?”

  “Yes, yes, if you like.”

  “It's going to work, I know it! The Blessed Virgin has assured me!”

  *****

  When Robert rejoined Sam, the latter quickly voiced dismay that his employer wanted to take an inn room in Caen.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Courtenay, but I was hoping we could leave tonight. The folk in town are saying a storm's on the way, and it might be the last channel crossing for a while.”

  “You understand that much French?” asked Robert.

  “Some of them were Englishmen,” admitted Sam.

  “And most of them worked on the channel boats,” returned Robert. “They are always saying such things, trying to make sure of their fares for the day. Besides, I promised Mademoiselle Braquilanges I would write her father a letter this evening. Quite an interesting girl, really. I believe she may have a true vocation.”

  *****

  When he awoke the next morning to fiercely blowing snow, Robert felt like a fool. He sensed a deep, accompanying dread settling over him. Still, he found someone to carry the letter to Baron Braquilanges as soon as he could.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The King's alacrity in responding amazed Arden. When she arrived at the theater the next afternoon, Sir William handed her an envelope of rich, creamy paper. He looked at her coldly, but said nothing. Probably wants to say plenty, but doesn't wish to upset an actress before a performance. As if I could be further upset! Arden carefully peeled away the King's official seal, pulling out a note penned in the King's own hand. She read:

  “After today's performance, get a good nap, but be

  ready by midnight. An escort shall come to your

  lodgings and bear you to me. I am eager, sweet Arden!

  Charles Rex.”

  Arden sighed. She would worry about her sovereign’s “eagerness” when she had to. For the moment, she had to concentrate on her lines. On making the audience believe her as she delivered them. She had been without Helena for over two days now, and without Lord Robert even longer. Yet she dared not feel any of it. She realized suddenly that what she did with the play this afternoon, what she had done with it the day before―get through, line by line, and somehow make it believable―she would have to do the very same with the King. Treadwell, God rot him, had quickly passed over “stagecraft” to mock her with “whorecraft.” Yet truly she would need stagecraft above all to see her through. She left the wings for the first entrance of the afternoon.

  She avoided Sir William after the play, and went home and washed herself as best she could manage. She then followed the King's instructions. Arden continued to find sleep sinfully easy, a retreat of sorts from her situation. Nothing she could conjure in her nightmares frightened her more than reality. Indeed, she frequently dreamed of snatching Helena away from Treadwell, thrusting her into Robert's waiting arms, and running her stepfather through with a shining steel saber borrowed from the King himself.

  She had not reached that happy resolution this time when an official-sounding knock at her door awakened her. She rose, suddenly completely alert, heart racing. “Just a moment,” she said. She changed as quickly as she could into her best dress of those the King had never seen, which turned out to be a simple burgundy silk. She grabbed a light cloak as she opened the door.

  A page stood waiting, accompanied by two footmen bearing a litter. Arden had never used this means of transport before. The curtains were royal purple and embroidered in large stitching with the King's emblem. As the drapery enclosed her and she felt the contraption rise, Arden allowed herself to think about the time she would spend with the King. He had expressed himself eager. How could she cope with his amorousness when she loved Robert and feared for Helena?

  And yet.... If Arden forced herself to be honest, if she could somehow separate her time with the King from every-thing else in her life, especially if she could separate it from the horror of what she was supposed to be setting him up for, she believed she could do what she needed to. He had been, after all, her girlhood ideal. His swarthiness, his strong, commanding voice, his largeness. No doubt she could enjoy this ―enjoy him, in a deep and primeval way―if she could just forget everything else.

  Despite the slow means of travel, they reached Whitehall quickly. The litter lowered, Arden stepped out into the night. She and the page stood before a secluded back entrance to the palace. Silently, the page beckoned her to follow. The passageways they paced through had only a few candles lit, providing only enough luminescence to guide their steps. The page spoke not a word to Arden until they arrived at the double doors to the King's bedchamber, which Arden had seen before. Then, as he opened one of the doors and gestured for her to slip through, he said, “Be sure to disrobe, m'lady. The King will come to you soon.”

  So much for whether or not he's seen the dress before, thought Arden, entering the room and hearing the door close behind her. The King's chamber had better lighting than the hallways, certainly, but it still qualified as dim―the kind of soft candlelight that displayed lovers' bodies to their best advantage. Yet the candlelight burned strong enough to recall the room to Arden as it had been the last time she visited it. The King had been so kind to her then. He had proved himself the long-loved idol and greater, allowing her to depart in peace with thanks and admiration, even though she'd pleaded against the physical honor he intended to bestow. Whatever else, thought Arden, folding her underclothing neatly and draping her dress over them on the simplest chair she could find, I will make him feel loved. Despite her longing for Robert, her fear for Helena, and her abhorrence for her own part in Treadwell’s plot, Arden would love the King. Maybe, if worse came to worse and she could not save him, he would know she did not betray him willingly. Naked, she stepped to the royal bed and slipped between the silken sheets to wait.

  Arden thought it an eternity, but in truth she only had time to take her hair down and shake it out fully before the door to the chamber opened again. The King stood briefly silhouetted in the doorway, then crossed to her in a few long strides. He wore dark blue breeches, white stockings, and a relatively plain white silk shirt. Informal. To her surprise, Charles knelt at the side of his own bed and caressed the side of her face with a large, warm hand.

  “Arden,” he said softly. “Always a spark between us, but why now? We all saw your scene with Lord Robert at the theater. Rumor is he has honorable intent towards you.”

  Of all the things he could have asked! Arden tried to will the tears from her eyes, looking away from the curious gaze of her King.

  “Do you think to have one last adventure before you tie yourself to him?” Charles inquired. “Oddsfish, he is my friend. But if it's adventure you want, I'm your man, and I'll never tell. Not,” he admitted, “that word doesn't tend to get out concerning my affairs.”

  She dared look up into his nearly black eyes, seeing an odd combination of apology and hunger. She could, she knew, agree to his last assumption. But Treadwell wanted more.

  “I want you for as long as it pleases Your Majesty,” she whispered, surprising herself with the huskiness of her own voice.

  “But what of Lord Robert?” the King persisted, tracing the line of her lips with a long finger. Desire shone more apparent than ever in his eyes.

  Arden surprised herself this time with how easily she found a genuine anger to vent. “He is not here, is he?” she scoffed. “He makes me promises, then disappears! I am weary of it.” Quickly, gracefully, she pulled back the sheet covering her body. The King flattered her with the gleam of his gaze and a sharp intake of breath.

  “Well, I don't think I shall be going anywhere fo
r a very long time,” Charles said, loosening the ties of his shirt. He pulled it off, revealing a strong torso well-proportioned to his magnificent height. Arden hesitated a moment. Her King stood before her, and she was but his merest subject. Dared she touch him before he touched her? Then again, he also seemed very much a man, and the proof of his need already strained against the front of his breeches. Arden moved to the side of the bed and took the drawstrings in her fingers, pausing to stroke the bulge beneath the fabric.

  “I like a bold lass,” Charles encouraged.

  “You will find me that and more,” returned Arden. “Oh, my!” she cried a moment later, when she had finally freed the object of her quest.

  “Losing your boldness?” the King chuckled.

  “No, Your Majesty,” Arden replied. “I am just very deeply—impressed.” She had heard the rumors, but the truth still managed to exceed her expectations.

  “No doubt you shall be,” quipped Charles.

  Arden bent to put her hands and lips to him, but he brought her face back up and kissed her fully, his large hands sliding over her breasts as he did so. The ripples of desire that had been lapping at her since she had revealed her nakedness to him now rose to towering waves. Arden moaned with longing as he sat down on the bed and pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him but he had not yet entered her. She could feel the length and hardness of him on her bare belly, reaching upwards towards her breasts. He moved his right hand down between them and slipped a caressing finger into her womanhood. “Good girl,” Charles breathed in her ear. “You really do want me, don't you?”