Fanny (24 page)

There now ensu’d such Screaming and Pummelling, so many Blows given and taken, that had anyone been passing by the Neighbourhood, he should certainly have suspected that a Murder was in progress! I wrapp’d my shiv’ring Self in the Eider-Down, and watch’d the Fray as the two Men tore at each other for my Sake, shouting Curses, twisting Arms quite out of their Sockets, beating each other with their Fists. Why the Merry Men were not arous’d I’ll ne’er know—unless they had Experience with Lancelot’s am’rous Proclivities!

“You rotten Swine!” scream’d Horatio. “You pretend to hate Women so as to creep into their Beds the faster! You and your Robin Hood Honour! You Mountebank! You Charlatan!”

“Ye damn’d Black Prince!” screams Lancelot. “Who says yer Arse is worth so bloody much that ye’ll always keep me from it!”

“Yea! And I’ll have your Ballocks as Dumplings in my Soup before I eat your thieving Cock!”

With that, Horatio falls upon him again, holding Lancelot immobile on the Floor, pummelling him about the Head and Neck till his Nose runs with ruby Blood and he seems, for a Moment, to be upon the Point of expiring. Then, before I understood just how, the Tide of the Battle turns and Lancelot is atop Horatio, pinning him to the Floor, and the two Men are clinging, for all the World more like Lovers than like Pugilists. Before my very Eyes I see Lancelot grind his Hips against Horatio’s Hips, and Horatio at first resist, then succumb, and Lancelot undo his Breeches and stuff his flaming Member betwixt Horatio’s Lips, and Horatio at first unwilling, grow more willing, swallowing the redden’d Member as if indeed he quite savour’d it, and then the Thrust and Parry as in a Duel, the Sighs, the Grunts, the Murmurs of “I dye,” and Lancelot, like a great Fountain in some engraving of the Gardens of Versailles, shooting a Stream of white Foam high into the Air (his Cock having come unloos’d from Horatio’s Lips) and then expiring upon the Floor in Weariness whilst Horatio strok’d his Back more in Love than in Fury.

They lay there for a Time, seeming to have forgotten my very Existence, and presently Lancelot crawl’d along the Floor to press his Lips to Horatio’s Breech, and to tease his Great Black Member into its own Fury of Lust, and to cradle it in his Mouth until it, too, discharged its Fusillade of Foam.

Then the two Men lay in each other’s Arms, full of Sweat and the sticky Effusions of Love, whilst I rockt myself to sleep in my lonely Eider-Down, feeling myself to be older and uglier than Medusa herself, and more alone e’en than she.

I fell to sleep and dreamt of Lymeworth. I was walking thro’ the Long Gallery, under the fram’d Portraits of Lord Bellars’ Ancestors. My Heels echo’d upon the cold stone Floors. I lookt at the Portraits—Portraits of pale Elizabethan Ladies by William Larkin and Nicholas Hilliard, Portraits of Elegant Courtiers by Sir Anthony Van Dyck and Sir Peter Lely, Portraits of Great Ladies and Immortal Wits by Sir Godfrey Kneller—but lo! those familiar painted Faces which I had studied and Day-dreamt o’er so oft’ in my Youth were suddenly changed! I dreamt I saw Lord Bellars’ own Face in one, and the Face of Isobel the Good Witch in another, and Lancelot himself, as if painted by Kneller’s deft Brush, in still another—and then (could it be?) my own familiar Face staring down at me from a massive gilded Frame (as if I were—O strange to say!—my own Ancestor).

At once the Portraits seem’d to speak. “Forgive me,” said Lord Bellars, “I did not know the Truth about your Birth.”

“I am with you yet,” says Isobel, her blue Eyes flashing. “I love, but fear ye, Lass,” says Lancelot. “’Tis not yer Fault, but mine.” And then at last my Portrait spoke, at first so softly that I could not hear the Words; but now I read the moving Lips of my own Image: “I forgive you all,” I seem’d to say.

Suddenly I awaken’d, puzzl’d in the extream by the Visions I had seen, and yet with a great Sense of Peacefulness such as Dreams at Times provide when we are sorely troubl’d. I thought and thought, but could not puzzle out the Dream; still I had great Certitude that all would presently be well.

The two Men were gone from my Room; the Sun was rising, an orange Ball of Flame glinting thro’ the verdant Branches outside my leaded Window. The Day was fine and sunny. I rose and dress’d almost eagerly and with a Degree of Hope I had not felt in many Days; ne’ertheless, I remember’d to put on my red Garter first, for Luck.

The Journey to London by River was as fright’ning as Lancelot had promis’d. But ’tis a curious Fact that actual Danger is less troublesome to the Mind than the Threat of Danger, consider’d in Tranquillity, and indeed once we left the Mill Brook and enter’d the River Thames, I was so occupied with the Sights we pass’d (as the Men were occupied with Navigation of the Barge) that I was quite transfixt.

Our Route took many Days and Nights because of the sundry Locks we had to pass. We follow’d the River from Marlowe to Maidenhead to Windsor to Staines, thence to Walton-on-Thames, past Hampton Court, to Twickenham. I had ne’er before seen the fabl’d Hampton Court, nor e’en the mighty and beautiful River Thames, and my Eyes were quite amaz’d and delighted by the Beauty of the Banks, the Glory of innumerable Stately Buildings, Gentlemen’s and Noblemen’s Houses, sleepy Hamlets, bustling Market Towns and Villages, and withal the Profusion of Boats and Barges that grew more num’rous as we came closer to the great Metropolis.

Hampton Court lyes upon the North Bank of the Thames, close to the Water, yet not so close as to run the Risque of Flood in inclement Weather, and ’tis graced with lovely Gardens extending almost to the Bank of the River. Yet it seems to me that, more e’en than the pleasing Prospect of the Palace, I was taken up with Reveries of the Court of that wicked King Henry VIII, floating up to London in great Pleasure Barges, whilst Minstrels sang and play’d their Lutes, and that I fancied myself a Tudor Lady (with a Ruff about my Neck and a Dress studded with Pearls) chosen to be the King’s Mistress and i’faith so well-lov’d by him that he would ne’er behead me as he did those unfortunate others. O I would charm e’en Henry VIII—I who had slept alone whilst two Men clung and kiss’d ’neath my lonely Bed!

We pass’d Twickenham next (and I made a terrible Face towards what I believ’d to be the Villa of Mr. Alexander Pope, Poet and Knave). I could be there as his Mistress at this very Instant, basking in his reflected Glory, enjoying his Faery Grotto! But then I would have to endure his loathsome, Toad-like Embraces into the Bargain! ’Twas better to be here with Lancelot, who was fair to look at, and must, i’faith, love me, tho’, alas, he would not touch me!

As we came closer and closer to the Great City of London, my Heart beat faster and faster; and, in truth, ’twas easy enough to tell we were approaching the Metropolis, for the Thames became a Sea of Masts, and the whole Surface of the River was cover’d with Barges, Wherries, Boats of divers Sizes, with grizzly old Tritons rowing, and shouts of “Next Oars!” and “Skullers!” echoing in our Ears, and such a Volley of Bad Language from the Boatmen that ’twas amazing my Ears did not turn red for Shame owing to the Indignities that enter’d there! Whoe’er would ride in a hir’d Barge had no Choyce but to submit to the Language of the Rogues who rul’d the River, and I o’erheard many Arguments about Rates betwixt the Watermen and their “Bargees”—and not once but sev’ral Times did my Ears hear a Waterman shout, “Ye niggardly Sons of Bitches!” as he attempted to o’erturn his Customers into the Water because they refus’d sufficiently to grease his Palm.

What a Place was this London! The River was apparently the main Thoroughfare of the City and many substantial Citizens sat at their Ease upon Cushions in hir’d Boats whilst their rough and grizzl’d Boatmen row’d ’em skillfully, but grievously assaulted their Ears and Senses by the Curses they exchanged with their Brethren—if not, i’faith, with their Prey. There were also Picknicks and Pleasure Parties upon the River, gorgeous Barges fill’d with Fiddlers, Lutanists and Sweet Singers, Feast Tables and Bow’rs, and Fine Ladies and Gents to partake of all this Delectable Fare. As we pass’d Whitehall, my Eyes spy’d what seem’d a fine Noble Edifice, which lookt to me like a Faery Castle pois’d upon the very Surface of the River.

“Pray, what is that?” I askt Lancelot, who wore his Maltster’s Disguise, as he wore everything else—with a Swagger.

“’Tis the
Folly
, Fanny, me Love. Once, in the Time o’ Charles II, ’twas the Noble Resort o’ Gentry, but now, ’tis a floatin’ Bawdy House an’ the Lair o’ Ladies o’ the Town who drink Burnt Brandy (they
say
to defend their Stomachs from the Chill Air upon the Water) an’ lye in wait fer such poor Cunny-haunted Fellows as they can infect with the Pox. Fortunately, that ne’er included meself.”

“Then how do you know so much of it, Lancelot, my Love?” I askt. O I was beginning to wonder whether the Gentleman did not protest too much—as our own Mr. Shakespeare might say. If he truly detested Women, as he claim’d, why did he bluster of it so continually?

He eyed me coldly. “Because I have been there in the Way o’ Business, pickin’ their whorin’ Pockets!”

I lookt at him steadily—his Hair of Carrot Hue, his merry slanted Eyes of emerald green, his high and laughing Cheaks.

“Lancelot, I do love thee, tho’ it be only as a Sister loves a Brother.”

“An’ I love thee, Fanny,” says he.

Then in a true Fit of tender Affection, I reach’d to clasp his Hand, whereupon he drew it away with as great Dispatch as e’er. I sigh’d profoundly.

“’Tis not fer Lack o’ Love,” says he.

“I know,” says I. But did I truly know?

Ah, Belinda, Memory e’er falsifies the Facts, and thus to tell the History of one’s Life is e’er a perilous Business. One wishes Fidelity to Truth above all. And yet, knowing the Issue of Events, (of which one could not know the Issue when first they occurr’d), one tends to shape the Story with a Poet’s rather than a sober Historian’s Eye. But let me give away no more than that. I lov’d Lancelot and he me—and yet we could not touch!

Now we came closer to the throbbing Heart of the Town, and the Traffick upon the River thicken’d. Lancelot began to point out to me the chief Attractions of wond’rous London. O I could not have been more amaz’d if I had lookt on Troy itself or Rome in all its Glory! We pass’d Lambeth House on one side of the River and presently the Parliament Stairs and the Wool Staple upon the other. Proceeding along the Curve of the River, we came at length to the New Exchange, Somerset House, and the Inner Temple. London seem’d a Faery Land to me! The Day was summery and bright; the Sun glinted upon the River, catching, it seem’d, hundreds of tiny Mirrors; and ne’er before had I seen such enormous Structures, such clamorous Crowds of People as fill’d the Boats and Wherries on the River and press’d down the Stairs and Quays lining it!

“O I shall love London!” I cried to Lancelot like one newly fallen in Love. What a splendid City! Why, merely to breathe the Air was to sense an Excitement I had ne’er known in Wiltshire.

“Ah, Lass, wait until ye see the Gin-soakt Rabble, the Beggars, the Sewage in the Streets, an’ the muddy Current o’ the Fleet Ditch!”

“Pray, what is that?”

“’Tis the Sewer o’ Sewers, London’s own River Styx, a fetid, black Stream that rises in Hampstead an’ pours its Offal into the Thames at Blackfriars. We’ll soon come to it. Pray lookee there, ’tis the Dome o’ St. Paul’s.”

But alas, ’twas not to be my Fate just then to feast my Eyes upon St. Paul’s nor to disgust them with the Sight of the Fleet Ditch, for e’en as Lancelot spoke, a Barge came stealthily up beside our own, and suddenly a Parcel of Scurvy Rogues (dress’d as if they were Watermen) boarded us in a trice, screaming for the Blood of Lancelot Robinson!

There were a dozen Rogues in all, grizzl’d Fellows in baggy Bargemen’s Trowsers, sweaty Shirts and short-skirted Doublets, with, as well, strip’d Stocking Caps o’er their bald Noodles. Who had sent them? How did they know Lancelot’s Disguise? I duckt behind a Barrel of Swag, fearing for my very Life and Limb. O they had come so suddenly that scarce one of us was prepar’d. Yet Horatio was the first to rouse himself to Action. Pyrate that he was, he leapt upon the Foe and wrestl’d one Rogue to the Ground, whereupon he stomp’d him with his Feet. He crackt another’s Head with Pistol Butt, and another he engaged in Wrestling, but our beloved Lancelot was yet in Peril. He was the Prize they sought—he and the Booty. He was the Leg o’ Mutton they hunger’d for; the Rest of us were merely Gravy.

Presently the other Merry Men came to their Senses and also began to engage the Rogues in Combat. A Mêlée ensu’d in which poor Sotwit was the first to perish; for he dy’d a watery Death in the Thames after being hit with Musket Fire. And poor Beau Monde was stabb’d, whilst Thunder’s Head was dasht against the Barge. My Sweet Lancelot held the Foe valiantly off for a Time; still there came a Moment when he seem’d to weaken (tho’ Horatio defended him most fiercely).

“Flee!” he commanded me in the Thick of Battle. “Flee! I’ll send fer thee!”

“But where shall I flee? Whither shall I go?”

“Jump Ship, Lass,” cried Lancelot, “but flee!”

Given this Command, I froze as if my Feet were planted in the Arctick Snows.

“Flee!” he cried again, holding off the Rogues with Good Horatio’s Help.

Just then, John Littlehat commandeer’d a nearby Boat, press’d Coins into the Boatman’s Hand, said something in his Ear, then took me bodily by my Waist and lifted me across the Water to the hir’d Oars.

“I would not leave thee!” I whimper’d as the Boatman row’d away. “I love thee! O I love thee!” But the Boatman had his Orders and, despite my Pleas and Protestations, he row’d e’er faster. Screams reach’d me from Lancelot’s Barge. Now Mr. Twitch was hit and bleeding, then presently he toppl’d backward into the Thames, trailing a Scarf of Blood. Now Puck and Francis Bacon were thrown o’erboard and made Haste to swim for Shore. As my Boat row’d away, I saw Lancelot and Horatio standing yet upon the Prow of the Barge, defending their Booty, and their Lives—but how long they should hold out, no sane Body could fairly conjecture.

“God’s Speed! I love thee!” I shouted to the Figure of Lancelot, which grew e’er smaller as my Boatman row’d swiftly towards the Somerset Stairs (which we had pass’d not long before). I could see two other Barges with fresh Replacements of the Enemy row up alongside Lancelot’s Barge and essay to board. My Heart sank in my Bosom like a heavy Stone falling from the Top of a Belfry. O Lancelot was sure to be captur’d now! I hid my Face in my Hands and wept—for e’en if I were to look back, we were i’faith too far away for me to judge the Victor in the Battle that still raged betwixt Lancelot and his Betrayers upon the Watery Highway of the Thames.