Margaret Moore (3 page)

“I was a soldier,” Richard reminded his fashionable friend. “I would feel myself a fool.”

“The king—”

“Knew me long ago and will not be offended by my lack of sartorial splendor.”

“It looks as if you haven’t bought new clothes since you got back from France,” Foz muttered.

“This jacket is only a year old!” Richard protested. “And it’s the best one I’ve ever had. Next thing I know, you’ll be chastising me for not wearing a feather in my hat.”

“Well…”

“Foz,” Richard warned.

His friend sighed. “Very well. I yield.”

“But I do have quite the finest baldric you’ve ever seen, have I not?”

“You do,” Foz agreed with a return to his customary good humor and an admiring glance
at the finely worked leather sword belt slung across Richard’s broad chest. Indeed, it was a baldric any man would covet, as well as the excellent sword—and the skill with which Sir Richard Blythe wielded it.

For among King Charles’s courtiers, Sir Richard Blythe was famous for many things, and writing was but one of them.

L
ater, after a gratifying response to his new play, and seated in a hackney coach, Richard and the faithful Foz passed through the ornate gatehouse of Whitehall Palace. They had been there often enough that they paid no heed to the Palladian beauty of the Banqueting House, even though its design by Iñigo Jones ensured that it stood out amid the riot of Tudor buildings that comprised the rest of Whitehall.

Inside the Banqueting House, seven attached columns created small alcoves; above these ran a gallery on the north, east, and west sides. Above all this, and the crowd of courtiers below, was a ceiling painted by Rubens.

One would never know it by the laughter of those gathered there, but it was outside this very building that a platform had been erected, and the present king’s father executed.

Trailed by his friend, Richard strode through
the gathering of well-dressed, sophisticated courtiers toward the king’s dais. He drew admiring glances from the women and envious looks from the men, for the handsome playwright exuded an arrogant confidence that even the wealthiest among them could not achieve.

Indeed, there was only one man who commanded similar attention, and that was King Charles, seated on the dais at the south end of the room, surrounded by women and playing cribbage.

The fashionably attired women looked like brightly colored birds, clad in silks and satins of lustrous crimson, sapphire blue, and bright greens and yellows instead of feathers.

Or perhaps unclad would be nearer the mark, for despite the wealth of fabric in their skirts, the low, round bodices of their gowns displayed an astonishing amount of bare flesh, and their heavily trimmed overskirts were drawn back by bows and chains to reveal even more elaborate petticoats.

As for Charles himself, he sported a beribboned jacket and full breeches of sky blue embroidered with silver thread that sparkled in the light of the many candles. Beneath the jacket was a fine shirt with frothy lace jabot at the neck and equally lacy cuffs that covered much of the sovereign’s hands.

Somewhere up in the gallery, a young man was warbling what Richard assumed was intended
to be a love song, accompanied by a small orchestra. Of course, nobody was listening. The courtiers much preferred to talk and flirt with one another, or keep their wary eye on their capricious king.

Charles glanced up from his cards as Richard and Foz approached. The monarch’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and the lips below the slender dark mustache curved up in a welcoming smile.

As always, Richard marveled that a man who had led such a difficult life could retain any bonhomie. No doubt it helped that he was at the center of a mostly admiring and amicable court and now resided in luxury, even if the Privy Purse was supposedly constantly empty.

Richard also knew that Charles had a capacity for forgiveness and overlooking the past that he himself did not possess.

Richard removed his hat and bowed low before his sovereign, then smiled at the king’s admiring audience.

“Ah, Blythe!” the king cried. “How fortuitous of you to arrive at this moment. We are losing!”

The women muttered in sympathetic protest. Despite their apparent attention to the king’s dilemma, however, more than one of them gave Richard a coy smile. He didn’t doubt that if the king was not interested in a more intimate relationship, they would not
hesitate to let Richard sample their charms, if he were so inclined.

Generally speaking, he was not. The ladies of the court were usually selfish and ambitious creatures. Any relationship with a playwright, even a famous one, would be merely another amorous adventure, an exciting and necessarily brief interlude as they sought out a more advantageous liaison.

To be sure, the actresses he generally sported with had much the same goal. They, however, were less likely to be able to affect his life or his livelihood when the liaison came to an end.

His eyes smiling, Charles glanced again at his cards and sighed mournfully. “It is true, it is true! We are losing most abominably. Someone must take our hand.”

Charles looked at the women expectantly, the grin on his face telling Richard that he was considering offering one of them something more intimate than his hand later on.

He finally gestured at a young woman whose name Richard did not know. With an eager and slyly triumphant smile, the woman took the chair vacated by the king, and as Charles handed her the cards, their hands met in a bold caress.

Richard suppressed a sigh and vaguely wondered where the woman’s husband was, if she had one, and if he was aware that if he
was not already a cuckold, he likely would be soon.

“Come with us, Blythe,” the king said in that same friendly manner, yet with an undercurrent of command in his jovial tone.

He glanced at Foz. “Lord Cheddersby may stay and play with the ladies.”

Foz flushed bright red, which seemed to amuse the king even more as he led Richard toward his private apartments. “So, Blythe, we hear you have another theatrical success on your hands.”

The gossips have been at work already, Richard thought wryly, but in this case, he could not be annoyed. “I have some cause to hope so, Majesty.”

“This actress in the main part…?”

“Minette Somerall, Majesty.”

“She is a beauty, we hear.”

Richard subdued a knowing grin. He was quite sure that the king knew all about Minette. He was also quite sure that Minette would abandon his bed for the king’s at the drop of a royal
mouchoir.
And why not? For a girl raised in the streets of London, that was the pinnacle of worldly success.

He owed it to Minette to help, he decided. “She is
very
beautiful, sire.”

The king’s sidelong glance told Richard that Charles guessed the situation exactly and was pleased.

They reached the doors to the king’s lavish
private apartments. A liveried servant opened and closed the door behind them, while another set forth food on a table inside the gilded and richly furnished suite of rooms. In the light of the candles, the gilding glowed a dull bronze, and the tapestries disappeared in shadows.

The king took his place at the table and another servant hurried to pour rich, red wine. “Sit, Blythe, and join us.”

Richard did so, then held up his crystal goblet. “Your very good health, Majesty.”

Charles nodded in acknowledgment, and together they sipped the delicious wine while Richard waited for Charles to return to the subject of Minette.

Instead, the king reached for a piece of fruit. “Have you ever had a taste of pineapple?”

“No, Majesty,” Richard replied, eyeing the bright yellow morsel in the king’s fingers. He had heard of pineapple, of course, which came from the New World.

The king placed the bit on a china plate edged with gold, then pushed it toward Richard, who put the surprisingly juicy bit of food into his mouth.

It was delicious, and Richard took the time to enjoy the novelty, pushing the succulent piece of fruit around with his tongue. He swallowed just as the king spoke.

“We have summoned you to discuss the matter of your family estate. It has long disturbed
us that we have been unable to help you regain it.”

This was certainly news to Richard. He thought the king had forgotten his former companion’s predicament, if indeed it did not suit him to feign ignorance. “I am flattered by Your Majesty’s interest and concern.”

Charles smiled graciously. “Our hands have been tied, Blythe. Well tied. However, we may have found a way to loosen the bonds.”

Richard tried not to sound too eager. “Majesty?”

“The purchaser is dead.”

“I had heard that, Majesty.”

The king’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Richard thought he might do better to let the king proceed without comment.

“William Longbourne left a young widow and son,” Charles continued.

The king paused as if waiting for Richard to speak.

“Yes, Majesty?”

“His will specified that the estate was to go to his son, with his wife to manage it until the boy comes of age.”

“I know nothing of the particulars of the man’s will, Majesty,” Richard answered truthfully.

“Do you know anything of the particulars of the widow?”

“Majesty?”

“She is but three and twenty, and reputed to be pretty.”

“Oh?” Again Richard kept any expression except the most bland interest from his face. However, he could well imagine what a “pretty” widow from the countryside would look like. She would have some of her teeth and hair like dry straw, and she would probably weigh something less than two hundred pounds.

A mischievous gleam appeared in the king’s eyes. “We have summoned her here tonight to see if we cannot find some compromise in this difficult situation.”

A strange combination of despair, panic, and hope filled Richard, in no small part due to that mischievous gleam.

Before he could say anything, a servant hurried toward another door and ushered in a woman.

Richard’s jaw dropped, for he recognized her the moment she walked into the room. The ungrateful woman he had rescued from Sedley and his cronies was the widow of the man who had bought his family’s ancestral home? This lovely woman dressed in a gown of plain, demure, and funereal black had control of his estate? And that sturdy, brave little chap owned what was Richard’s by ancient right, if not modern commerce?

The widow began to curtsy, then caught
sight of him and halted in confusion, as well she might.

Before the page closed the door to the other room, Richard realized the widow had not come alone. The fellow who had been waiting with her was tall, slender, with broad shoulders, not yet middle-aged—and rather good-looking, in a grim sort of way. A brother, perhaps. Or a friend of the family.

Or a suitor for the widow’s hand?

A shocking, unexpected pang of jealousy shot through Richard, which was utterly ridiculous. Had he not calmly discussed Minette with the king? Why, she had been his mistress for over a month, yet he had been prepared to bid her adieu with no more regret than if she had been a puppy who had reached sufficient age to be sold.

The king rose from his chair and went to take the woman’s hand, reminding Richard where he was. Charles’s motion seemed to have the same effect on the widow, for she finished her curtsy, remaining in the lowest position.

“Come, come, my dear, there is no need to be intimidated,” the king said kindly.

Obviously Charles assumed her expression was due to being in the king’s presence.

As the king led her to a place at the table hastily set by a servant, the other servant closed the door, shutting out the unknown man.

Richard turned his attention to the woman, forcing himself to regard her objectively, as if considering her a subject for one of his plays.

She could be as young as three and twenty. Her youthful complexion was all cream and pink, and her features exemplary. Her form would make even Minette envious. Her hair, as plainly dressed as her gown, was a rich chestnut color drawn back into a topknot. There were no little ringlets at the sides, the current fashion among ladies of the court, or tiny curls on her forehead. One natural wisp of a curl, however, had escaped and brushed her ear.

Richard suddenly felt the most outrageous urge to tuck it back, a thought that sent a jolt of excitement through his body.

Then he looked at her eyes, her most unique and unusual feature. The color alone was rare, a light hazel. However, it was the expression in their depths that made them, and her, both fascinating and formidable. It was as if she were far older and wiser than her years, and absolutely incapable of surrender.

Another aspect of that type of character occurred to him. She would not give up what she believed to be hers without a fight.

The king cleared his throat. “Mistress Longbourne, allow me to present one of the ornaments of our court and indeed London itself, Sir Richard Blythe. Sir Richard, Mistress Elissa Longbourne.”

She smiled blandly as she curtsied. “How do you do, Sir Richard?”

So, she was going to pretend they had never met. Given her rudeness that afternoon, it was not surprising.

But certainly not acceptable, either.

He bowed. “Your servant, ma’am. However, as delightful as this unexpected meeting is, should you not be abed?”

“Sir?”

The king gave Richard an equally puzzled look.

“I fear Mistress Longbourne is ill, Majesty, for it seems she has forgotten that I came to her assistance this afternoon,” he explained to the king, who raised an eyebrow as he turned to regard a blushing Mistress Longbourne. “Is this so?”

“Your Majesty, I was so upset by a most distressing situation, I did not take sufficient notice of who came to our aid.”

Richard was surprised by her ability to lie with such aplomb, and to the king, too.

Then, to Richard’s chagrin, Charles scrutinized
him.
“It would appear, Sir Richard, that you suffer from the same malady, for you did not inform us that you had already met Mistress Longbourne.”