“Exactly!”
“Well,” he mused, “if one thinks of you as Cinderella, then Charles would be your fairy godmother. He clothed you for the ball and settled you in a fine coach, though you lost both slippers.” They both broke into laughter.
“His scepter is a magic wand!” she cried.
“And Castlemaine an evil stepsister! Let’s hope he’s not annoyed and turns us both back into pumpkins.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourselves, my dears? He is standing right behind you. I believe you mean country bumpkin, Captain.”
Hope’s face looked almost comical in its surprise while Robert’s was merely assessing. Charles couldn’t help a grin. “Your husband is very big, Lady Nichols. One notices more when he stands behind you. Are you still angry with me for choosing him?”
“I have chosen him, Charles.” She held out her hand, proudly showing off her woven ring. “In the end that is all that matters.”
“And if I strip your handsome giant of his lands?”
“We are a talented pair, Your Majesty.” Robert stepped in. “I’ll still have my sword, and my wife will design gardens.”
“Gardens, you say!” The king barked with laughter. “Charles. Call me Charles. Od’s fish! Fairy godmother, indeed! You’ve a sharp tongue on you, Captain Nichols. Come. Sit. We’ll share some wine. To your health, my dears, and a very happy marriage.”
“You’re not angry?” Hope asked.
Charles shrugged. “I’m not known for being jealous. While some dreamed of jewels, pensions, favors, you wanted to go fishing. You wanted a possessive, glowering husband. You wanted to be in love. Apparently, you wanted shrubbery, too. If he was man enough to fight for you, you’d have your knight in shining armor. If he wasn’t, then you’d be better off with me. I’ll admit I had hopes for the latter outcome, but I’m pleased to see you happy and I’ll not deny it out of spite.”
~
Not long after they left, a moody Charles Stuart tossed back a glass of wine. A gloating spiteful mistress, a weeping homesick wife, deserted by his pretty country miss—what did her towering husband call her? Ah, yes, elf. It suited her. He had promised to see her taken care of. She was a lady by title now, with a husband who loved her. It wasn’t the usual reward but she was an unusual woman. I shall miss her. Who will I fish with? Who will I sail with? Who will come to the races and swig brandy and beer?
Castlemaine he loved the most, though it was a cold and cynical attachment. His wife Catherine he owed the most, though she’d yet to conceive and her half her dowry had not been paid. But it was Hope who he liked the most. Her husband is a lucky man indeed. He would have his gardener send her a selection of bushes and roses as well as some trees for her orangery come spring.
One of his gentlemen came to whisper in his ear and he nodded. “Yes, by all means. Send them in.” It seemed it was a day for visits. He rose from his seat, his arms outstretched to greet them. “William! Elizabeth! What a pleasant surprise. Come, sit, have some tea. It is a favorite of my wife’s and I am growing fond of it myself.”
They joined him at a table by the window.
“I am indebted to you, William. For warning us of Harris. He was caught with nearly thirty other conspirators and badly wounded while trying to escape. Will we ever see the end to these ridiculous plots? Now tell me why you came.”
“Charles, we have come to say goodbye. Lizzy and I are going home.”
“No! Everyone I trust and enjoy is going home. The place is barely recognizable anymore. I need you here.”
“We shall return to visit often, Charles,” Elizabeth said with a warm smile. “And of course you are welcome in our home anytime.”
“Et tu, Elizabeth? After all my kindness to your latest charity?”
Elizabeth rose and came around the table to kiss him. “Thank you, Charlie. I am grateful to you once again.”
The king rose, too, and kissed her back. “Do you see, de Veres? I just kissed your wife. I could take her from you anytime I want.”
“My wife let you kiss her, much like she lets her puppy do. I find it sloppy and somewhat off-putting, but she doesn’t wish to hurt its feelings.”
Charles grinned and chucked Elizabeth under her chin. “I need my poet. Particularly in these bitter times. Give us a poem, Will.”
“Our Romish bondage breaker Harry
Espoused half a dozen wives;
Charles only one resolved to marry…”
“Enough!” Charles said wearily, motioning him to stop. “I see where this goes.”
William bowed low. “I haven’t rusticated so long in the country that I warble pretty tunes, Your Majesty. Let me go, Charles. The gaiety rings false. I can’t do it anymore, unless I am drunk, and Lizzy won’t allow that. If you force me to stay, I will maul you. And I love you too well to enjoy doing that.”
Charles sighed. “I can see this is going to be one of those days. Go then, if you must. Back to milking cows and planting potatoes. I’ve had enough of leave-taking for one day. A black mood calls for the theater.”
~
Charles sat with Buckingham in his box. The curtain opened to wild applause and gasps of delight as a beautiful girl in a gold helmet with purple plumes descended from on high with golden sword and shield. She set foot on the stage in a pair of high-heeled gold boots and but for those and the shield, she was completely naked underneath. Breaking into full-throated song, she twirled around the stage revealing a pert naked bottom.
“George? Who is she?”
“That, my lord, is the newest comedic actress. Her name is Eleanor Gwynn.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire
Under a canopy of gently rustling leaves, Robert leaned against the bark of the greenwood tree, a majestic yew with wide spread arms that grew in Sherwood Forest. Hope nestled quiet in his arms. Well over one thousand years old, one could almost feel the life and warmth flowing through its ancient veins. One had but to close one’s eyes to imagine a time when ordinary men and women had done extraordinary things, defying great lords and braving great odds to keep their freedom.
What wonders had this monarch of the forest seen as it bore witness to the fleeting lives of men? It was not so much one tree as two, with roots entwined and trunks grown so close together they had, in a far distant past, melded into one. Some folk called them marriage trees. Some said Robin and his Marion had been joined beneath this very one.
Robert smiled and kissed the top of his lovely wife’s head. It certainly pleased her to think so. And so they had married again, joyfully and freely, in a place of their own choosing, for themselves this time—on this first day of May exactly one year from the day she had first stepped into his life,
Hope stirred and put a sleepy arm around his waist. Exhausted from the revelry, they watched contentedly as friends and servants and the Derbyshire pastor made merry in the distant courtyard. The sounds of flute, fiddle, laughter and song came to them in quiet bursts, carried by a dulcet breeze.
“Do you remember, Hope? When you told me that if I let go of the past, I might find what I was meant to do?”
“Mmm, yes. I remember.”
“I have discovered it, the thing I was really meant to do. I was meant to love you.”
“Of course you were, silly man. I am very wise. You should always listen.”
He tickled her and she elbowed him and shifted, settling now with her head resting in the crook of his arm.
“I love you, Hope Nichols, lady of the forest glades and my own sweet elf.”
“And I love you, Captain Nichols. I am thankful every day that you stepped out of my dreams and into my life.” Something caught her eye, a movement through the trees that drew her attention to the top of a grassy hill. She saw a beautiful young girl with sweetly rounded features and flowing golden locks who flew a brightly colored kite. The child turned to look at her with a brilliant smile, and then waved her hand. The sound of happy laughter followe
d her as she disappeared over the hill.
EPILOGUE
Gulls screeched overhead and flags snapped in the stiff breeze. The creak of straining rope and shifting wood rode atop the thunder of the waves. The boy watched from the shadows. Now the shouts of rough men, the crack of whips and the dull jangle of chains and iron shackles. A ragged line of broken men stumbled toward the fretting ship, bound for Jamaica. One of them was his father. Nothing but a slave now. If he survived the voyage. No pity stirred within his breast. He stayed, watching, as the ship left the dock, sails billowing. He didn’t turn away until it dipped below the horizon. When it was gone, he looked to the ground and spat before hefting the fat purse his father’s would-be killer had given him. He still didn’t know what to make of that, but he knew what he was going to do with the money.
* * * * *
Historical Note
An historical note provides the opportunity to share a few tidbits one finds interesting but might have slowed the pace of the story, a chance to acknowledge the contribution of other’s to one’s story and a chance to address things one might have missed. Some readers might have recognized that the character of Hope Mathews is loosely based on Nell Gwyn, the orange girl and actress who became an enduring mistress of King Charles II and who, according to Charles Beauclerk, a direct descendant and Nell’s biographer, was sometimes referred to as Cinder Wench and Cinder Whore. Charles had a penchant for actresses from Drury Lane but most of them were content to share him with Lady Castlemaine, his wife, and several lesser mistresses, something Hope Mathews would never have done. Readers who would like to know more about Nell Gwyn and Charles would enjoy Charles Beauclerk’s biography, which includes stories and private papers passed down through the family.
Many people believe stories such as Cinderella are inventions of the Brothers Grimm, but as noted in the afterword of Libertine’s Kiss, Mother Goose was well known at the time. Some say she was a real figure, the wife of a fifteenth-century monarch, but by the seventeenth century, a Mother Goose tale was a common phrase. Charles Perrault (12 January 1628–16 May 1703) was a French author whose best-known tales, derived from preexisting folk tales, include Le Petit Chaperon Rouge (Little Red Riding Hood), La Belle au Bois Dormant (Sleeping Beauty), Le Maître Chatou le Chat Botté (Puss in Boots) and Cendrillon ou la Petite Pantoufle de Verre (Cinderella and the Glass Slipper) complete with pumpkin, glass slippers and stepsisters.
May Day and Valentine’s Day were both celebrated with a good deal more passion than they are today. According to Samuel Pepys, one’s Valentine was the first person of the opposite sex one encountered that day. In his diary, he grumbles about being caught by a maid before he sees his wife. One assumes he had to give them both presents. Sam Pepys diary is a treasure trove of insight and observation on matters large and small and he knew most of the history makers of the day. He was a colleague and contemporary of General Monk. Although both Monck and Monk are considered correct by encyclopedias and historians, Sam Pepys spelled it Monk in his diaries, and as he worked, dined and corresponded with the man, I have done the same.
May Day celebrations were raunchy, uproarious and decidedly pagan. They were banned during Cromwell’s reign, but made a triumphant return with the Restoration. May Day celebrations generally included traditional Morris Dancers ( who are still present in May Day parades and celebrations today), the choosing of a May King and more importantly a Queen, dancing around the maypole and jack in the greens―men loaded with so many garlands they ended up resembling trees. Different guilds would often compete to see who could provide the most elaborate celebrations. They are still a part of May Day festivities in Britain to this day.
The Restoration and termination of the civil war did not end all divisions in England at the time. The king did observe a general pardon and though Cromwell’s son Richard was given the unflattering nicknames of Tumbledown Dick and Queen Dick by Royalists, he died in Hertfordshire, living off the income from his estate in Hursley, more than fifty years after his brief reign as Protector at the age of 85. Nevertheless, the king was a suspected Catholic, his brother James a professed one, and there were many lingering plots to remove them both. The foolish and ill-planned treason at Farnley Wood was one of the first attempts. Undermined by the informer Joshua Greathead, it came to nothing but resulted in the arrest and charges of treason against twenty-six men.
Poetry, music, literature and plays were an integral part of seventeenth-century life. Those who read Libertine’s Kiss are already familiar with William’s penchant for conversing at times in verse, and that the words for the most part are actually those of John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, on whom the character was based. None of the poetry in Soldier of Fortune (The King’s Courtesan) is my own. Some of course belongs to Wilmot. Some include his translation of verses that were originally Ovid’s, and the Robin Hood poem comes from Robin Hood: a collection of all the ancient poems, songs and ballads, now extant, relative to that celebrated English outlaw, which was first printed in 1795. If you go to Sherwood Forest today, you can still visit the Major Oak where legend has it Robin Hood and his men often stayed.
Hope’s interest in gardening was not unusual at the time. In fact, it was quite the rage. The English loved their gardens, and during the seventeenth century, there was an explosion of exotic plants available from all over the world. John Rose, King Charles’s gardener, is credited as the first to introduce the pineapple to English gardeners, but it was the Tradescants, father and son (1570-1662), botanists, explorers, adventurers, horticulturalists and garden planners, who introduced many exotic plants to England that remain staples of English gardens to this day. Amongst many other plants and flowers, these included magnolias, yucca plants, asters and Virginia creepers.
Tea was just beginning to spread as a popular drink at the time of this story. There are records of its sale in coffee houses in liquid form in barrels from 1651. Though still expensive, by 1658, it was available in loose-leaf form from coffee houses, stores and booths in the better parts of town, and of course at the New Exchange. As women were not welcome in coffee houses, loose-leaf tea allowed them to gather in wealthier homes to have ‘tea parties.’ The king’s Portuguese wife, Catherine of Braganza is credited with popularizing the drink, which was a favorite of hers since her childhood.
From the mid 17th century on it was not uncommon to find icehouses at country estates. What is more surprising is that some smaller ones have been found in archeological digs in places such as Bristol which suggest they may have been more common than originally though.
I hope you enjoyed The King’s Courtesan. Having read it, I suspect you have a very good idea of what is coming next. The last line of this story will lead you directly to... The Highwayman. I have included a brief excerpt I hope you will enjoy.
Buy The Highwayman at Amazon.com
All the best,
Judith James
PREVIEW
Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Series Book Three
The Highwayman
A NOTE TO READERS
Although The Highwayman is a work of fiction, the character of Arabella Hamilton is based on the 17th century travel writer and journalist, Celia Fiennes. The quotes, journal entries (and spelling) at the head of some chapters and in the text are hers.
I hope you will forgive me for using Alfred Noyes’ The Highwayman to start this tale. It is one of my favorite poems and although it was published long after the events of this story, it was surely inspired by the romantic appeal of men such as Swift Nick. It is also, what first inspired me to write this tale.
If you would like to know more about Celia Fiennes, or the real-life highwayman known to history as Swift Nick, you might enjoy reading the historical note at the end of this story. Thank you for joining me on this adventure. I hope you enjoy the journey!
‘The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--riding--riding--
The hi
ghwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.’
~Alfred Noyes
CHAPTER ONE
(1680)
The Highwayman stopped his mount outside the Talbot Inn at Newark. It was one of several inns he thought of as home. Some men knew him as John Nevison, a useful name for business or when he wished to be discrete. Those who braved the Great North Road called him Gentleman Jack, a well-mannered rogue who stole their goods with courtesy and charm. The pamphleteers preferred the sobriquet Swift Nick, given him by King Charles, likening him to the devil, claiming his mount was black as pitch, a demon horse with flaming hooves that barely skimmed the ground. The only name he never used was the one left him by his aristocratic sire. He allowed no man to call him Harris, and his friends and associates called him Jack.
“Easy, Bess,” he murmured, calming his restive mare with a gentle hand to her withers. She snorted and pawed the ground. She had carried him far this day and had more than earned her oats and ale. He slid easily to the ground and surveyed his surroundings, ignoring the impatient butting of her head against his back. “I’m hungry too, lass. It’s well fed and cozy we’ll be soon enough.” His voice, pitched low and soothing, was laced with a tinge of amusement.
It was a fine late summer’s night, lit by a warm glow from the inn and a silvery quarter moon. The smell of cooked sausage drifted on the breeze and a burst of music and laughter spilled through an open ground floor window, but he clung to the shadows. He’d not survived this long without learning a little caution.
Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) Page 28
