Virginia Henley (15 page)

Greysteel took the stairs two at a time. He opened the door to the sitting room. “Velvet, why are you in the dark?”

“You have purposely kept me in the dark!”

He lit the lamp and stared at her, uncomprehending. He noted how pale she looked and saw that her eyes glittered with accusation. His gut knotted and his instincts told him to brace himself for her condemnation.

“You changed sides.... You are a
traitor
!ʺ She flung the words like steel-tipped arrows and they found their mark.

“You filthy coward! You betrayed Charles, you betrayed your country, and you betrayed me!” She thrust the safe-conduct at him with a look of utter contempt.

His fierce grey eyes made his face look stark. She could not call him anything he had not called himself. It was weakness, pure and simple, that had made him an ally of General Monck. Greysteel could not excuse himself to the woman he wished to marry. At the moment he was covered with self-loathing. He would not add to his disgrace by explaining the circumstances like some pathetic supplicant begging for understanding and forgiveness.
Though my intentions were honorable, my actions were not. To claim that the end justifies the means is immoral.

“How you could betray Charles is beyond my comprehension.”

Jealousy flared up in him. “Velvet—”

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, suddenly seeing him as dark, dominant and dangerous. Fear propelled her to action. She swept up her cloak and ran past him and down the stairs.

He bolted after her and grabbed her arm. “You cannot go out in the dark alone.”

She raised her chin and hissed, “Take your hand from me, sir. It makes me feel s
ick
. I shall be safer on the street than here alone with the Devil incarnate!”

He loosened his grip and watched bleakly as she ran from him. He walked after her, allowing some distance between them, but ready to sprint forward if aught threatened. She reached the corner and he watched her climb into a hackney coach. He stood silently, long after the carriage departed. Then finally, he walked back to his house with slow regretful steps.

He went into his office and lit a lamp. He looked down into the open drawer with its broken lock and was surprised to see the seals on the letter he had written to Monck were still intact. Ironically, if Velvet had read the letter, she may have realized he was trying to sway the general to throw his power behind Charles Stuart rather than Richard Cromwell.

Just one more day and we would have been married!
He slammed the drawer closed with a curse.
You would not reveal your role to Velvet even if you were married. Especially not
, his inner voice prompted.
I would never involve my wife in anything that was dangerous or tainted with dishonor.
It dawned on him that perhaps it was fortunate that they were not married.
At least not yet—not until this matter is settled, once and for all.

 

Velvet was painfully aware that she had nowhere else to go but Bishopsgate. She had left on a deceptive note and would now have to go, cap in hand, begging to be taken in and given refuge. When the hackney coach arrived at the house in Bishopsgate, Velvet gave the driver a silver half crown and did not wait for change. With trepidation she knocked on the door, uncertain what she would say to the Dowager Countess of Devonshire. She murmured a polite “thank you” to the manservant who opened the door, and hurried through the reception hall to the brightly lit sitting room.

Christian Cavendish came forward with hands outstretched in welcome. “Velvet, darling, I didn’t believe the day could get any better, but here you are, proving me wrong!”

The warm reception made Velvet feel unworthy. “My lady, I humbly beg your pardon for deceiving you. It was a wicked and ungrateful thing to do after your generous hospitality.”

“You left because of my grandson’s lewd and lascivious behavior. I soon sent him packing, back to his father.” Christian smiled coyly. “When I read your note and learned your true destination was Roehampton, I was vastly amused to think you were running straight to the arms of Greysteel. Dare I hope that you have an announcement to make?”

Velvet took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes. Lord Montgomery and I are no longer betrothed—we have severed our relationship. If you will let me come back, I will be forever in your debt.”

“Oh, tush, my dear. Where else would you come after a lovers’ quarrel? I’m sure it is nothing that cannot be straightened out. Everyone’s emotions are bubbling over the surface on this momentous day. I have written to Queen Henrietta Maria. The royal family will be overjoyed at the news of Cromwell’s death. Let us hope this will be the catalyst that sets in motion the restoration of our rightful king.”

“My thoughts exactly. I hope with all my heart that Charles will return.”
In spite of what that devil Montgomery says!
“Can we go and fetch Emma back from Roehampton tomorrow?”

“Yes, darling.” She poured them wine. “Join me in a toast.”

Velvet raised her glass. “Here’s to His Majesty Charles Stuart, King of England, Ireland and Scotland! ʺ She drained her glass and did not demur when Christian refilled it. They emptied the bottle, then climbed the staircase on unsteady legs.

 

After a sleepless night, Greysteel Montgomery arose before dawn. He spent the entire day riding about London. He visited every section of town, listening to what was being said by the wealthy, the poor and the working-class citizens. He spoke with Puritans, Quakers and Roundheads. He stopped at the Temple and spoke with the goldsmiths; he visited the markets and listened to the merchants. He traveled from Whitehall to London’s docks. He talked with women and apprentices, churchmen and coach drivers, cookshop owners and watermen navigating the Thames.

Montgomery returned home and went into his office. He removed the sealed envelope from his desk drawer and weighed it in his hand. As he sat in deep thought, he was actually weighing his role in the scheme of things. Frustration roiled inside him. He was used to taking an active part, commanding and controlling men and events around him. Scribbling furtive notes was too passive an occupation to suit his temperament.

After he thought everything through, he made up his mind decisively, and put the letter in his pocket.
That is the last missive I shall write.
He took a blank sheet of paper, folded it and placed it inside a fresh envelope. Then he sealed it with wax and waited for the courier.

G
reysteel Montgomery’s intense grey eyes looked into the bulbous eyes of George Monck as the men sat facing each other across the general’s solid oak desk.

Monck opened an envelope and took out a blank page. “The courier delivered this two days ago.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Since this is my
last
report, I decided to deliver it myself.” As Montgomery handed him the sealed letter, he noted that Monck showed no anger.
He is not masking his anger—his temper is imperturbable.
Greysteel watched him read the letter and saw that the general’s expression did not change.
Unfortunately, his thought processes are impenetrable.

“So. Cromwell is dead. How was the news received? ʺ

Montgomery had always given Monck the unvarnished truth, and he did so now. “Not even the dogs wept.”

Monck nodded. “Give me your assessment of his son Richard.”

“He was quick to step into his father’s shoes and become Protector, but if a man of Oliver Cromwell’s iron resolve could not hold England together, the weak, ineffective son will see the country descend into chaos.”

“Tumble-Down Dick,” Monck murmured.

“Precisely.” Montgomery had a great fear. Did General George Monck, who had the military experience, the power of office and the better-disciplined army, covet the exalted Protectorship for himself?

Monck’s square hands rested on his desk. He steepled thick fingers and said blandly, “I shall cheerfully proclaim Richard Cromwell the new Protector in Scotland. We shall see how he performs—given enough rope.”

“You are the commander of the Protectorate forces in Scotland. If—when Richard Cromwell starts to falter, will you step in and shore him up?”

Monck was silent for a moment, then said, “The alternative would be to sweep him aside and make way for a new ruler.”

Montgomery wanted a straight answer, yet he knew Monck was too cautious to give him one. “You have the power to seize the office of Protector, but the sole responsibility for the kingdom would then rest on your shoulders. There is a way for you to attain honor and security, along with power. In a restored monarchy, your reputation in arms would fit you to command all military forces. It is not inconceivable that you also could become a valued privy councillor. Worthy goals for a man who has reached the half-century mark.”

“Though you acted as agent for me, your loyalty to Charles Stuart has never wavered.”

“It has not.”

“I suspect it was your advice that prompted Chancellor Hyde to send me a secret communiqué.”

“Did you reply, General?”

“Give me credit for some acuity.”

“I do. You’re far too cautious to commit anything to paper. But if you would consider a verbal communication, I would act as go-between and carry your words directly to Charles Stuart.”

“As I said, I shall
publicly
proclaim Richard Cromwell the new Protector in Scotland. At the same time I would
privately
urge those in exile to exercise extreme caution and do no sudden thing, if—when the new regime begins to collapse.”

Montgomery caught the subtle nuance. “The public Monck will pay lip service to another Protectorate. Could the private Monck be open to the alternative of a restored monarchy?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Yet. I do believe that a return to a freely elected Parliamentary government is essential. Another military government is doomed to failure.”

Monck’s bulbous eyes stared into Montgomery’s. “The Stuart Court could do itself some good if it moved from a conspicuously Roman Catholic city to one in a Protestant country.”

“That is shrewd advice.”
And so bloody obvious it should have occurred to all of us in the Stuart camp.
Greysteel got to his feet and held out his hand. When Monck readily shook his hand, Montgomery sensed they had an unspoken understanding. “I thank you for your time and your valuable advice, General.”

Montgomery knew he had no time to waste. Once news reached Bruges, Belgium, that Richard Cromwell had been proclaimed Protector of Scotland as well as England, desperate Royalists could set in motion any number of rash uprisings.

Since Greysteel had stopped in Nottingham to visit his father on his journey to Edinburgh, he decided another stop was not necessary on his return to London. And within twenty-four hours of arriving at Salisbury Court, he crossed the English Channel, once again disguised in the rough garb of a seaman.

When Montgomery arrived at the town of Bruges, he found everyone at the exiled Court in hopeless despair. Charles alone displayed his usual stoic self-possession.

“Your Majesty, I come to give you firsthand knowledge of what is being done and said in London and the rest of England.”

“I brace myself for your frankness. It will be a change from the reports of the fawners and flatterers.”

“The funeral arrangements for Cromwell are ostentatiously royal. A wax effigy draped with black velvet was put on display in Somerset House. People lined up to see this out of curiosity. When the black was replaced with crimson and adorned with the scepter and crown, mud was thrown at the shield bearing Cromwell’s escutcheon. He is to be buried in Westminster Abbey. Londoners love medieval pageantry, but I do not believe they will appreciate it being lavished upon the Protector. Now that Old Noll is dead, some, though not all, are whispering about
happy days approaching.”

“By that I take it they mean a restored monarchy. I would ask your personal insight regarding this matter.”

“The time is not yet ripe. Any uprisings would be crushed.”

The cynical lines on Charles’s face deepened as he smiled. “I am too well schooled in adversity to make another abortive dash for my throne. If Richard Cromwell’s Protectorate begins to falter, I might be tempted.”

“Do not be tempted, Your Majesty. His Protectorate
will
falter and it will
fail
. This must be allowed to happen. He must be given enough rope.”

“I sense you have more to tell me, Montgomery.”

“I spoke with George Monck personally. After Cromwell’s death I rode to Edinburgh to tell the general that I would no longer be his agent. He is well aware that I am your man, Sire. Though Monck has publicly proclaimed Richard Cromwell the Protector of Scotland, privately he expects him to fail. He referred to Cromwell’s son as Tumble-Down Dick.”